Rise of the Syndicate Page 2

Castor

  Anticipation.

  That was the hardest step towards accomplishing something you knew was wrong but were forced to carry out. I looked at the file one last time before stepping out of the shadows of the gala. Marada Scrimpshire, a female, thirty-seven-years-old, member of the World Council for nine years, married to Halem Scrimpshire a policeman for the Martian capital of Archea. That was the detail that pained me more than merely carrying out a simple assignment.

  I knew Halem. I knew Marada as well. It was hard not to think of them as I did in the past, before my life took a dark turn. This was the first time I was ordered to carry out a hit against someone I previously knew. The others on my list were strangers, but this touched on a part of my life that was still fragile despite my programming at the hands of the Agency. The taking of a life was the easy part, the hardest was knowing the true victim would be the one who continued breathing by night's end. Nothing could have prepared me for this assignment.

  Looking back, I was surprised it was given to me in the first place.

  Was it a test, or something else? I had no way of knowing. The only thing I was confident of was what they expected from me.

  Results.

  I draped a long coat over my arm, concealing my weapon within the folds of the fabric. I came from a long line of manufactured assassins and each of us carried out our assignments in like fashion. First, we blended into the environment as anonymous, forgettable people. The myth of hiding in shadows and striking from some hidden place was not an effective means of employing our skill set. Besides, it was much more rewarding to look your victims in the eye in the final moments of their lives. It was spiritual in a way. It was impossible to carry that sacramental moment out while lurking behind faux walls or scrambling behind shrubbery.

  We were taught to see it through and that often meant watching the light leave their eyes.

  Second, we lost ourselves in the scenery. Everyone "sees" us, but few acknowledge our existence. Hidden in plain sight, we exist, sucking up the same oxygen we later deprive our victims of. And so, the circle turns until one day someone will ultimately snuff out the flame of my existence. Truthfully, I looked forward to the day when I got to put this shell of a life in the dirt. I just wished I had the courage and willpower to pull the trigger myself.

  It was true what they say; "only cowards kill".

  For that reason, I felt shame, but with it came a sense of purpose. That dichotomy of thought was hard to reconcile. Each time I wanted to paint outside the lines of my programming, I was reminded who was in control as the sensation of a molten ice pick stabbing me behind the eye erupted in my brain. It was more noticeable now, the feeling of that retaliation always on the alert, half-expecting me to back out at the last moment before some unseen force pressed the detonation and lit my world afire. A part of me wondered if the pain would remind me of the mission if that unknown onlooker decided I took too long to do the deed.

  I hoped not. I just wanted to do my job and leave; uninhibited by my masters.

  My feet fell to a stop on the bottom step of an escalator as it lifted me towards the third floor of the gala where the assembly would be. Guardsmen surrounded the railings looking down on the floors below. It was the World Council's police force out in full display. Above them was a tier of other officials. How many of them were undercover was a mystery, but I loved surprises. Not that I planned on having to try and circumvent them later. If all went according to plan, I would be long gone before what I did was discovered.

  "Name?" a cute, dark-haired woman asked as I stood at the top of the escalator. Her red dress caressed her body, but I had a sneaking suspicion that there were thin Kevlar plates lurking beneath the padded fabric. It wasn't supposed to be obvious, but not every undercover guard could blend in when sharing the space with a monster like me. I knew what to look for and that made me dangerous in ways they might not conceive in an environment like this.

  "Tarion Dern," I said, remembering to pull the fake identification card from my left breast pocket. "Ambassador from Clenist," I finished. I spent the last few hours rehearsing the introduction a few hundred times before this moment, but it still felt stilted coming from my lips. Perhaps it was because I heard the lie and immediately rejected it in my mind. Or maybe I was not as good of an actor as I hoped.

  A smile curled her lips as she scanned the card and returned it to me. "I do hope construction in the latest Martian metropolis is going well," she said. "I've seen pictures of the designs and it will look beautiful once completed."

  I nodded. "Yes, well whether or not it will ever rival the beauty of Archea is still in question, but we are taking great strides in at least being somewhat competitive. If I may be so bold," I replied.

  "When do you expect the general public to be able to purchase real estate?" Her question caught me off guard. I could vaguely remember reading about those details in the file I received accompanying my assignment. My mind scrambled for the correct answer, not wanting to blow my cover to someone with someone more knowledgeable on the construction efforts in Clenist.

  "That's still under review right now. We've hit a few snags with the infrastructure and had a couple of setbacks. Unfortunately, it's looking to be pushed back by six or seven months at this time," I said, almost as if reciting the words from a script.

  Her smile never faded. "That's too bad. I do look forward to visiting once Clenist is up and running. I've imagined visiting another city on Mars since I was a kid. It will be nice to see that happen in my lifetime," she said. I watched her eyes examine me. Her words sounded genuine to my ear, but my skepticism knew she was trying to find a crack in my persona. The longer the conversation continued, the harder my front was to maintain.

  "Thank you," I replied. "I'm sure you will ultimately find Clenist to your liking. Please excuse me, I have someone waiting for me."

  I left the hostess to her work and stepped deeper into the gala, shoving the fake identification card back into my pocket as I took a deep breath. I tried to calm myself enough to not give myself away. The last thing I needed was to draw attention to myself by fidgeting around like a madman. It was a task I hardly struggled with before. But this time was different. This time it was personal.

  I looked around, surveying the room and paying particular attention to the posted exits. The walls surrounding me glowed in dull beige from wall-mounted lighting. The crowded room felt more alive than anything I had experienced in similar situations. I felt uneasy as I listed between shuffling bodies and falling steps. My coat, still hanging in front of me, hid my purpose as I walked the room, just a faceless dignitary of unknown origin. That was just the way I needed it to be.

  "Excuse me, sir. May I take your coat?" A young man said, startling me.

  I turned on my heels, clutching my coat defensively before I had the better judgment to settle down. "That's all right. I would like to hold onto it. Sometimes I catch a chill." My reply was stiff, and I was conscious of the fact others were staring at me. There was no way any of them knew why I was here, but the more attention I gained, the harder it would be to disappear from their memories once I completed my job.

  "Very well, sir. If you change your mind, any of the hosts in red vests will be happy to store it for you." He smiled a toothy grin. He was as fake as the rest of the dignitaries in the room, he just paled in comparison. Especially financially. Just another bottom feeder trying to suck his way up to a better station in life. I recognized his kind before I became an agent. Now, I loathed them.

  "I'll keep that in mind," I replied, turning away and stalking towards the stairway leading to the next tier. All I wanted was time to prepare in silence, away from the bustling crowd and curious stares. With each tick of the clock, I was close to doing the unthinkable. I was made to be better than the weakness of compassion. I was forged in the torturous fires of mental reconstruction. I was who they made me, but no other job set me on edge as much as this one.

  Should I abort? The questions f
elt curiously similar to me trying to talk myself out of following through. I knew what would happen if I failed to do as ordered. It was a death sentence, deserved and welcomed, but I was powerless to allow it to happen. My will was not as strong as their control over me.

  I kept the press on, diving deeper into my ritual of repeating the order over and over in my head. It kept me on course. Eventually, the job would be over, and I could have my mind wiped again. The Agency would reset the path from which I could not stray. I would comply, a willing accomplice to this death run.

  My handler told me the Agency's plan to help me overcome the lapses in the programming. They would make my world right once again. All I had to do was follow through.

  I welcomed the peace he offered.

  At least I thought I did.

  4

  Halem

  The gala was a cramped experience. Everywhere I turned brought me into contact with another human body. I hated the jolt of elbows and shoulders rubbing against me as I tried to find a hollow place just to stand for a while, as I sought a quiet existence long enough to catch my breath.

  There was no refuge, only more elbows.

  "I'm ready," Marada said as she appeared from behind the velvet curtain where she cast her vote for the evening.

  "Which vote did you go with?" I asked.

  "The one that Mars needs right now," she answered. It was a good enough answer for me.

  "Let's go inside and find our seats. I'm about to lose my temper if someone steps on my toes again."

  "You're always about to lose your temper at these events. It's a good thing you're not a politician," she joked.

  I smiled and followed Marada through a tumult of flesh and expensive fabric. The nods from dignitaries and judicial types spurred a swarm of insincere greetings from all directions, most from people beneath my wife's station, or those in opposition to her political stances. She took it in stride while I hated every second of it, grateful that this was not my event.

  "Excuse me," a man said, bumping into me with enough force to draw my attention, a black coat draped over his arm even though it was entirely too warm for such attire and he obviously missed the opportunity to check his coat at the door.

  "It's all right," I said, my eyes meeting the piercing gaze of cobalt eyes peeking from behind locks of black hair as he stepped past. There was something striking about him, recognizable, but just as the thought came to me I turned again and lost his gaze. In a mere matter of moments, he was gone, drowned in the sea of humanity flushing outward and inward like cresting waves against a battered shoreline.

  "Halem, is there something wrong?" Marada asked; her hand tight against my arm. We anchored together in these events to keep from being lost in the crowd, but it seldom lasted more than a few minutes.

  I looked at my wife and nodded, not able to find my voice in the dense noise of the gala while my mind struggled to piece together the puzzle of why the previous encounter felt so familiar. As I focused on her smile, my anxiety melted away. Returning my attention on the task, I led the way as we walked to the other side of the room, towards the assembly, and hopefully some peace and quiet.

  Once inside, the droning of apolitical rhetoric fell on deaf ears as I sat next to Marada wondering why all of "this" was necessary. The bickering between sides was practically nonexistent and even still it seemed as if members of the World Council continued to speak in circles, never fully revealing what it was they felt our world needed, or even wanted. Listening to the things left unsaid, it was clear which side pulled harder for control, using words like "lack of integrity" and "fiscally irresponsible" as their eyes fell on certain members of the Council. The same members Marada aligned herself with.

  We took our seats on the balcony overlooking the main assembly and listened. The current speaker was red-faced and passionate about nonsense. How he tied his argument together at the end simply fell flat with lackluster applause. Perhaps six people agreed with him fervently. The rest were probably happy he shut up.

  It was curious how both sides needed each other to function, yet they squabbled like bitter enemies. I knew well enough to not take it too seriously. For some, the gesturing was just an act. For others, this was a serious feud which no one would win. Least of all, the people of Archea.

  I shifted in my seat uncomfortably when the tenth member of the Council rose and greeted each presiding member, taking the time to stroke each one's ego individually before moving on to the order of business at hand. After the third minute of gerrymandering, I exhaled and leaned close to Marada. "How much longer?" I whispered, the warm air from my lips tickling Marada's neck.

  She cringed a little as she pulled her scarf over the exposed flesh I had just breathed upon. She fought back a smile when she looked at me. "I think we are an hour overtime," she said sarcastically, noting how long it had been since taking our seats. She kept her voice soft to not gain attention from those in front of us. Only one gentleman looked over his shoulder, a tired expression on his face, and nothing more. He seemed as disinterested as I felt. Probably more so since he had to waste precious moments of his life listening to these kinds of people. I pitied him, but only briefly.

  I groaned, not ashamed to show my disdain for formalities as it wound into "my" time. The noise was a noticeable distraction to other members of the World Council seated near us, but not loud enough to distract the entire assembly. I looked back at Marada and whispered, "I need to go to the bathroom."

  Through a smile she shooed me away, giving me a wink as I back-stepped out of the aisle. I nearly tripped over a foot from a person sitting that I hadn't noticed was there before.

  "I'm sorry," I said, embarrassed that I was acting unprofessionally by making light of an important government proceeding. But then again, how important was it if they never got to the point?

  My apology went unanswered as I met the eyes of the mysterious man I had bumped into earlier in the evening. Our eyes met, his somehow appearing out of place as he gave me a solemn nod. It was an odd exchange. I recognized him, but could not place where I had seen him before. Not wanting to stare too long I patted him on the shoulder and made my way out of the assembly to relieve myself. The mystery still gnawed at me as I stepped away, the sound of the council falling on deaf ears.

  Outside the assembly, bustling men and women, most in red vests, scurried about like ants. I was surprised at how many councilmembers were ignoring the assembly and simply stood in the lobby to drink and socialize. Did we waste an evening at home for this?

  "Excuse me," I said, tapping one man on the shoulder.

  He turned and pulled a device from his ear before replying. "Yes, sir. How may I help you?"

  I nodded and continued. "Can you direct me to the restroom?"

  He pointed towards the stairwell. "It's downstairs for non-dignitaries," he said, adding a bit of flavor to the tail end of the sentence. I couldn't tell if the sarcasm I heard was implied or just a figment of my imagination, but either way, it rubbed me the wrong way.

  "So, you're saying I have to go to another floor to take a piss because somehow I'm not worthy of the same urinal as one of these high-profile types?" I placed my hands on my hips, my jacket opening enough to reveal the badge I wore with honor, on and off duty. I watched as his eyes fell upon it, but his expression did not change.

  "That's exactly what I'm saying, sir. I don't mean disrespect. I'm just doing what I was told."

  I looked at him for a moment and knew I was overreacting. I was taking my boredom and anxiety over the coming meeting between Marada and Tetrim out on the host and I immediately felt embarrassed by it. "I'm sorry. I think I was locked in a room with them so long that it's affecting my thinking. You say it's just down the stairs?"

  He nodded. "Down and to the left," he replied, unapologetically neutral.

  "Thank you," I said, walking away and hoping to forget the encounter as soon as possible. It was another reason I hated attending these galas. As socially awkward as it
was for Marada, it was more so for me. I was beneath her contemporaries and stationed above the help, relatively lost in no man's land.

  I hurried down the stairs and disappeared into the restroom. Anything to get out the psychological prison I felt confined to in these events.

  "Just get it over with," I said, standing before the urinal, my face reflecting back at me in the mirrored finish on the wall. "I just want to go home."

  5

  Castor

  Every fiber of my being craved the final execution of my assignment. I had stalked, sought, and planned this kill for over a week, practiced the final moment in my mind numerous times. It was past time for the logical conclusion that Marada's heart would beat no more and whatever heinousness my benefactor intended with Halem Scrimpshire would come to pass without further necessity on my part.

  I wanted it to be over.

  No, I needed it to be over.

  This would be a sudden and tragic end for the family in more than one way. I knew it, even if I could not recognize how it might affect me. This wasn't because I wanted to. This was because I had to. The difference was a raging battle in my mind, but I knew who would win in the end.

  As I cut my eyes towards the victim, a pin of stabbing pain erupted behind my right eye, reminding me who was in control. I gripped the armrest, refusing to budge, to give in to the instinct to cry out and cover myself. The pain would pass, just as it always did, and then there would be solace as I carried out my orders.

  It was no accident I sat in the same row as my target, waiting patiently for the moment of opportunity. I sat still, sleeping like a virus until oxygenated enough to spread through the bloodstream of my host and ease in for the kill. Everything was planned, visualized, and orchestrated to serve the purpose of the Agency. I was but one cell in its cause. An agent to exact change in ways politics never could.