Content Note:
This chapter includes references to violence, psychological distress, and interpersonal cruelty. While not explicit, some material may be unsettling. Readers discrection advised.
It was about a half-hour drive to reach my other safehouse. Sounders didn’t say a word during the ride, looking absently out the window, one hand on a beltline trim, the other on her lap. The streak of messy hair was hanging along her cheek, like a traveller peeling off from the group, done with the yakking guide and ready to get lost on her own terms. She looked regal – a person carrying the weight of responsibility too heavy to lift, trying to choose between what’s right and what’s easy.
I took a heavy gulp and focused on the road, wiping the picture from my consciousness. The day was winding to an end when we reached the destination. The sun was painting blood on the scarce western clouds – a dark, suffocating reminder that there was no rest for the wicked.
I pulled into the driveway of a big ranch house–the first one in line of suburban bedrooms stretching over a mile, the incubators of white picket fence American dream. There was an electronic “FOR SALE” sign posted on the perimeter. I stopped the car in front of a garage and got out. Next to the wall there was a mock fuse box. I reached into the gap between the box and the wall and pried out the remote control. Back in the car, I opened the garage door, drove in and activated the same hidden platform I had in my other house.
“You got everything covered, don’t you?” Sounders said, watching the car go down into the underground level.
“Standard protection. The subterranean area is impenetrable,” I said matter-of-factly.
We got out of the car. I took my go-bag from the boot and sent the vehicle up to the garage level.
“Is there any bathroom down here? I could use a shower,” she asked.
“Sure, just over there.” I pointed to one of the doors. “All the rooms can be reached from the garage level. If you want a change of clothes, there is a bedroom with some stuff you can use. Feel free to take a look around. I’ll be in the computer room.”
“Thanks.”
I went into the rig room, took out my laptop, connected it to a thunderbolt dock, and powered it up, together with the other two machines and all ten monitors attached to the massive rack above the desk. I signed in to the web connection and searched for the city cameras around the 21st Precinct. Once I found their addresses, I started hacking into the feed to check if there was any footage of today’s attack left. It was probably wiped out, but someone might have made a mistake and missed something.
I was right–the assailants overlooked a distant camera in the corner of 42nd Street and Northern Lane, opposite the police building. There was a small balcony above it, on the second floor of residential property, concealing the device–probably the reason why they didn’t spot it. It was a rotating camera, scanning both sides of the street in slow turns, like a sloth watching the surroundings from its tree. It managed to capture the front of one SUV parked near the station entrance–licence plate and the face of the driver inside. It wasn’t much, the plates could have been easily changed on the go, but that was all I had.
“I presume you don’t have any brush or comb?” Sounders walked into the room. She wore my winter boot socks, shorts and flannel shirt, complemented by the towel wrapped over her hair. My socks looked funny on her tiny feet.
“There are some in the armoury. I keep the disguise stuff together with weapons,” I said.
“Disguise stuff?” she asked, surprised.
“Yeah. Wigs, skin masks and so on. There should be something to comb the hair over there. Try to leave everything where it was, if you don’t mind.”
“Number Six. Cute as always.” Sounders bit her lip and turned around. I sighed. Now, I had bloodthirsty people after me and moody detective stuck to my back. Double pain, no pleasure.
I searched the driver through a facial recognition system. Tom McKinnon, former Special Ops, discharged dishonourably after serving two-year sentence for aiding and abetting weapons theft from the army’s warehouse. Before that, he had been issued with a written reprimand for inappropriate behaviour towards female subordinate. No wife, no kids. Good for them. No other hits in the databases. Typical grunt–inferiority complex, bloated ego and daddy issues in spades. Definitely not the brains, just hired muscle. Dead weight, dead end.
The licence plate was more interesting. The SUV was registered to Donna Stevens, forty five, working in a private clinic as a nurse. She was much more discoverable on the web compared to McKinnon. Single mother, divorced, raising one daughter. Off the radar, no priors. This would suggest that the car used by assassins was stolen.
“What are you looking at?” Sounders came back. Her hair was still wet–combed and tucked behind her small earlobes. I didn’t see piercing–apparently the detective wasn’t a fan of earrings.
“Footage leftover from the precinct,” I answered and looked back into the screen. Claire leaned over the desk for a closer look – the streak of her tar-black hair grazed my cheek on the way past. I ignored it and let her read the information on the display.
“Hmm… why would a nurse buy a big SUV like that? And why would they steal the car from a civilian? They needed something more robust than that,” she pondered, mirroring my thoughts.
“It’s more likely they had stolen the plates, not a car. Or copied them,” I said.
“Or, the clinic is a front for their operation. All shopping and deliveries are addressed to the doc spot. What kind of health centre is it?” Sounders got her detective mode in full swing now. It was a nice change, at least she stopped moaning about my lack of superficial kindness.
I pulled up the website. The Horizon Health & Dental was offering quite comprehensive services, including MRI, CT Scan and NGS, to name a few.
“See? Expensive equipment justifying pricey purchases. On paper it’s a cyclotron. In the crate? Enough firepower to flatten a district hospital,” she said.
“All fits, huh?” It was an assertion rather than a question. “And that’s what worries me. It’s just too neat.” I scratched my head and made a sour tut.
“Care to elaborate?” Sounders asked.
“It’s been five years since I bailed. For the first three, I was hunted furiously, forced to look over my shoulder every day. Then, they went dark. Almost nothing. My guess was that they couldn’t spare more resources for an active pursuit–I did some damage and it must have been very expensive and counterproductive in the long run. So, they backed off but must have left a lot of digital flags across the police precincts and public offices. Just in case I would resurfaced on the grid.”
“So, when I arrested you near the station, it raised a flag?” Sounders began to add two and two.
“For sure. But they had a problem: the lack of preparation. I’ve been very stealthy, almost paranoid. And when finally the alarm got set off, they were not quite ready.”
“You think that they quickly hired the nearest available private contractor?” To my surprise, I began to like Sounders–precisely following the reasoning, drawing logical conclusions. She must have been a really good detective.
“That’s exactly what I think. And the armour brokers didn’t have enough Kevlar cowboys to cover the whole building,” I said. “So, what did they do?”
“They tried to get to you, but they had a backup plan if they failed to catch you.”
“That’s right. They tapped into city surveillance cameras. But my little manoeuvre in the parking lot threw them off the scent. The surveillance system’s priority is licence plates and pictures of the drivers. It ignores the make, model and colour of vehicles–there are just too many of them on the roads these days.”
“It makes sense. But what’s next? We disappeared, their backup plan failed,” Sounders said with scepticism.
“Not really. They knew I would hack these cameras and check the footage,” I explained. “Hacking all possible computer systems was a big part of our training. My mates and I were writing exploits in all Assembly languages since we were fifteen.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m guessing you are good,” she said.
“The best,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Well, it certainly looks like a trap in this context,” Sounders admitted. “They planted the information leading us to Horizon Health & Dental. If we show up, they will be ready this time. So, what do we do? Do you have anything resembling a plan?”
“In broad strokes: we find the bosses, kill them and destroy any data about the program that made my unit. The problem is not the general idea, but the details,” I said.
“I have a problem with this general idea,” Sounders said. “Whoever is behind this should be brought to justice. I’m not joining you in some murdering spree, Six.”
“Oh, and who’s going to bring them to justice, Detective Sounders? Perhaps the same attorneys and judges that conveniently take bribes from them?” I was sarcastic again. Apparently, the detective had a talent for evoking this.
“Six, you cannot just roam the bloody country, killing people! That’s not how this works.” She almost shouted.
“Claire, there is no other way to go about this. These people want me and you dead. And they absolutely won’t stop until it’s done. Even if by some miracle, they get convicted and end up in prison, they can still order the hit from there. They will still manipulate information, creating a narrative that might get them exonerated. We are not dealing with thugs here, we are dealing with devils posing as humans.”
“It cannot be like this!” she punched the arm of her chair with her fist. “You cannot just stage an execution without a trial and proper procedure.”
“Why not? They can. And they won’t flinch before pulling the trigger. The only difference is that they have enough money and connections to add a plausible story to this murder, so it will be justified in the public eye. They might even convince everyone that they did some serious good for the society,” I said, locking my eyes with Sounders.
“So, you’re going to be like them, huh?” she said with contempt. “The easy way. Erase the problem. Shoot somebody in the head, and then you can live happily ever after.”
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I shut down the computer, turned around, looked at her and said:
“You can sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, you’re free to go whenever you want. You can take some of my guns if you wish. I’m not holding you hostage, Sounders. You can do as you please. If you want to seek justice, go on. Seek justice. Good luck.”
“So, the first moment I disagree with you, you are throwing me away? It’s like that?” She snapped.
“Don’t twist my words, Sounders. I said that you’re not my prisoner and you free to go. But if you think that somehow you will make me chase my tail, looking for evidence against people who simply want me dead, forget it. It’s not going to happen. If you cannot stomach the simple truth that these people are too powerful and corrupt to play legal against, then you can go. Take your chances with your illusion of justice,” I said firmly.
“An illusion of justice?” She looked with pity. “You know, I thought, you were spinning the urban legends. It turns out, you deluded yourself that they are true and try to live them.”
I looked at her and smiled. “Why don’t you go to my kitchen? There is a freezer over there. Open it and take out a piece.”
“What the hell does this have anything to do with justice?”
“Go and see for yourself,” I said flatly.
She got up and sauntered to the backroom. I heard her open the freezer then the rustling sound of frozen food wrapped in plastic. I got up and joined her. She was looking at the package, covered with frost. Some red substance was visible through the packaging.
“What is it?” she asked, surprised.
“Chuck it in the defrost and take a look,” I winked playfully.
Sounders opened the machine, put the item inside and started the program. It worked fast, after less than a minute the food was ready to cook. She took it out and opened the packaging revealing a piece of red meat. I approached her, took a peek and clucked my tongue with satisfaction. “Nice. Not too veiny. It will make a nice steak.”
Sounders’ eyes turned into saucers. Her jaw almost dropped with a shock.
“Is that…” she couldn’t finish the question.
“Yes, it’s beef. Nice piece–sirloin. Care for some?” I said casually.
“But, but…how? The production of beef was strictly banned over a hundred years ago? All cows were terminated. Breeding them is illegal. The penalties are crazy–they can make you go bust and end up homeless.” Her jaw came back to its place. Just the eyes were still round and bulging a little. She looked funny this way.
“Well, apparently the ban is not for everyone. I got the meat fresh, about six months ago. The cow was alive just the day before.”
“But… my God!” Sounders almost stuttered. “I mean, it’s normal that people break the law, but breeding cows is not something easy to hide. You need pastures, barn, food… How’s this possible?”
“Here it is. It’s hard to hide. In fact, it’s almost impossible to hide. But, some people like beef too much. So, for the sake of indulgence, they are fully capable of making law enforcement look another way.”
“So, why do you have it? Did you steal it, Six?”
“Oh, your prejudices shine like a galaxy. It’s a form of payment. I got the choice–two hundred thousand credits or twenty-five pieces of the sirloin steaks. That’s eight grand per piece. I chose the steaks.”
Sounders sat down on a kitchen stool, shaking her head in disbelief. I approached the wall, with a simple cupboard. There were a few cups inside. I moved them to one side and pressed the back wall. The small cover slid upwards with a gentle hiss, revealing a smaller fridge. I took out a bar wrapped in white paper, put it on the table, unwrapped it and cut a piece of creamy coloured substance.
“Here, try this. You going to love it.” I handed it to Claire. She looked at it suspiciously, then put it in her mouth.
“Mm…” She murmured, “It’s oily, but it tastes great. What is it?”
“It’s called butter. Made from cow’s milk. Another form of payment, by the way.” I smirked and changed the gears. “So, we have defrosted the beef. It cannot go back to the freezer–has to be eaten now. We are about to indulge in the most expensive lunch imaginable. I will fry it on butter, for better taste.” I winked again, grabbed a frying pan from the wall, put it on the oven and started the heat. I chucked a bit of butter on top and hid the remaining bar in the concealed fridge.
“So, how do you like it? Well made, or medium-rare perhaps?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. Beef was prohibited before I was born,” she said.
“Medium-rare. It’s the best.” I started to prep the steaks. The piece was quite thick, I cut it across into two thinner parts and chucked them on the pan. They were ready after quick cooking.
“Do me a favour and grab two plates for me, will you?” I asked Claire. She took two plates from a shelf and put them on the kitchen table.
I plated the stakes and took two glasses from a shelf. Then, I opened another strong room, rummaged through it for a while and took out the bottle of red wine–no idea what varietal it was, probably a mixture of anything that the producer could lay his hands on. I poured us a glass and sat down.
“Here we go. Full steak meal, with proper beverage.” I smiled and raised the glass. “Back to the world, Sounders!”
“Yeah, back to the world, Six! What is it, by the way?” She looked at the red liquid with suspicion.
“It’s called ‘wine’.”
“Fuck! That’s bloody illegal too.” She frowned.
“And equally hard to conceal as far as production is concerned. But, then again, there are people who cannot resist it.” I flashed a mean grin and took a sip.
We tried our first bite of meat. It was a good piece–soft, easy to chew, tasty. My client was very grateful for eliminating the local wannabe Goodfella who was trying to muscle into his turf down south. So, he did his best to pay me with gourmet quality stuff. Good man.
“Wow. That’s way better than military high-protein mash you got back there.” Claire couldn’t resist a murmur of delight. The beef could have this effect on your moral spine.
“I thought you might see the difference.” I winked to her again. I realised I was being too cheerful for the occasion. I dropped the delight from my face like a dirty, wet rag.
“So, does that steak open your eyes, Sounders? Just a little?” I asked grimly.
“Yes, it did. To the fact that it’s even more important to go by the book. Just because there are powerful people breaking the law, it doesn’t mean that we should follow suit. Where will our civilization end up if everyone starts getting dirty?” Sounders was serious. It looked like she really believed what she said. Poor woman–walking around the Earth oblivious to the fact that she was a living relic.
“Sounders, you are around one hundred fifty years too late for that. Nobody who has the might to change things plays by the rules anymore. Certainly not state authorities and law enforcement.” I was calm. There was no need to add emotional spice into the statement.
“Six, you are just a disgruntled, disillusioned hunted animal, who doesn’t trust anybody. Knowing you, I’m not surprised. But the world is not a post-apocalyptic disaster zone. We have the law, authorities, democracy. I chase criminals every day. Yes, there are powerful people who want you dead, but they are just architects of some heinous experiment. Not everyone is like this.” Her voice was almost patronizing.
I sighed, stood up and started gathering dishes. I put them into the washer, stuck the detergent capsule into a slot and got the machine going. I looked at Sounders and said, “Come, I’m going to show you something.”
I led the way to the rig room. We sat down and I opened a small text file. It contained a long web link. I moved the laptop and mouse towards Claire and said, “Copy this link and paste it in the browser.”
She did as instructed. After pressing “Enter” the alert popped up on the screen:
ATTENTION! YOU ARE ENTERING DARK WEB DIRECTLY. YOUR MACHINE MIGHT BE SUBJECTED TO SEVERE, PERSISTEN HACKING ATTACKS. IT IS RECOMMENDED TO COME BACK TO SAFETY. IF YOU STILL WANT TO PROCEED, BE CAUTIOUS!
Sounders looked at me with a question painted on her face. I nodded approvingly and she activated the link. It led to an inconspicuous, dull website with grey background and title taken straight from some self-actualization platitude:
UNLEASH YOUR INNER POWER
The Ultimate Place for Self-Development and Everlasting Happiness.
There was a small text box below, with a simple note: Please provide your unique entry code.
“Oh, do you know the code?” Sounders asked.
“I do. It took me a while to obtain it,” I said and gave her twelve-character code to unlock the content. Then I just waited. I let her watch. Claire’s face was going through different transformations, as she was browsing through the videos on the site–first her eyes went round like before, then she hid her face in her palms and whispered, “Oh my God.”
“That’s not the best part, Claire. Go the video titled: My humble abode and look carefully. Pause it when the guy enters the room and you can see the window.”
Sounders was watching intently. A masked man, dressed in a rubber apron, wearing long rubber gloves, covered in blood, was ascending the stairs from some sort of cellar, filming himself and bragging: ‘Haha, now you will see the other side of me. You will see how smart I am. Look, here is my above-ground dwelling. It’s nice, isn’t it? So many neighbours and all of them too stupid to know about my little enterprise. And they will never know, because their stupidity is only matched with my quiet genius. I’m a S/M porn prodigy and nobody will dethronize me!’
The masked man entered the room–elegant, lavish, full of expensive furniture. There was a Steinway piano in the salon, with elegant stool in front of it–styled after seventeenth-century aristocratic furniture. The top of the instrument was adorned by a golden candleholder and a Chinese porcelain vase with fresh roses. Sounders paused the feed when the outside window was clearly visible on the screen.
“Now, zoom in on that window and enhance by smoothing the pixelation,” I advised.
Claire started manipulating the image, until the address label of the house opposite was clearly visible: The Andromeda Avenue No. 73.
“It so happens that in our big country there are only two streets named after Andromeda Galaxy. One is called The Andromeda Boulevard. The second is what you see in the picture,” I said dryly.
I didn’t have to explain anything further. Sounders typed the name and address into the satellite map and quickly found the address of the house opposite No. 73. The house containing a hidden dungeon, where some sick fuck was recording extreme sadomasochistic child abuse videos, always ending with the victim’s murder. Then posting them online, so the bunch of deviant retards could masturbate to them until they lost their pulse.
The map revealed a big mansion, three storeys high, with nice purple double door, golden knocker and two columns styled in the Corinthian Order. The Andromeda Avenue No 104. The Detective continued a standard search through address database. When the result came up, she repeated her favourite word of the day:
“Fuck!”
“In short–the property belongs to Charles Rupert Kirkland, the Minister of Moral and Language Purity. His wife is a daughter of Arthur Montague–The Minister of Internal Affairs and Homeland Security. His wife’s sister is married to Hon. Frederik Inigo Courtenay–The State Chief of Police Force.”
“How did you get all this information?” Sounders whispered. It was a hushed, grim and depressive whisper. I saw a drop of sweat on her forehead.
“I advertise in a dark web, to get gigs. About a year ago I was contacted by distraught mother, whose thirteen-year-old daughter had gone missing after her school trip to Parliament. She said the police couldn’t do anything, that it was a missing person case.”
“Yeah, standard procedure…” Sounders murmured.
“Mother was sure her daughter was kidnapped. The girl was very close to her, she was a good student with dreams and purpose in life. She wanted to become an opera singer. She had talent. Loved to sing. Absolutely no reason to run away from home,” I stated the facts coldly. “Mother didn’t have much money, she could have paid me only two thousand credits. I agreed to take the job, because it was a quiet time and I had to keep my skills sharp. I didn’t care about the money, nor the daughter.”
“I’m guessing you found her in Kirkland’s dungeon?” Sounders looked at me with an empty gaze.
“Yes. I’ve found her. Still alive, but barely. She was an artist, a gentle, sensitive soul. Kirkland’s attention ruined her sanity. Permanently. I returned her to her mother. When she realised that her daughter will never be a normal person, she lost the will to live.”
“What happened to them?”
“They got shot on the street three days later. I noticed a brief note in obituary page in Daily Times. Kirkland didn’t want loose ends. Paradoxically, it was a merciful cleanup. They both were practically dead already–turned into wrecks of human beings.”
“And what did you do about it? Did you inform anybody? Anonymous tip or something?” Sounders asked.
“You still see Kirkland in an excellent shape, moulding citizens’ minds into his political correctness, don’t you?” I answered.
“So you just left it like that?” Sounders looked at me with contempt.
“Of course. I have a bunch of powerful monsters after me already. Do you think I’m stupid enough to add to the entourage? I’m good, but not good enough to handle a full VIP suite of psychopaths. I’m only human, after all. I was already risking exposure by saving the girl.”
The Detective was pale. She looked like she was going to throw up. Her tar-black hair contrasted with paper-white face making her look like Goth demon. She got up with an effort and said, “I need some time alone, Six. I’ll go to the bedroom. I will be grateful if you don’t visit for a while. Can you do that for me?”
“No problem. Take your time,” I shrugged and shut down the browser. “Just try not to throw up. It was an expensive steak, Sounders.”
“Fuck off, Six,” she snarled and walked away.
***
Major Arthur McAllister kept his lips sealed as he observed six boys standing at attention, their eyes fixed ahead. Number One and Three had vestigial smirks on their faces–apparently they didn’t regard psychological training as something serious and respectable. McAllister ignored it. He knew that very soon this faint trace of mockery would vanish forever. The fifteen-year-old boys were at the doorstep to a manhood, oblivious to the fact that they were just about to realise what they were really made of.
“Welcome to Psychology Training!” Major barked and went straight to the point. “The training comprises two elements–theory and practice. It was mutually agreed that you should start from a practical session. You might find the theory boring, so you won’t appreciate why you need this program.”
Number One couldn’t hold back a mocking curl of his mouth. McAllister continued, “You have been well trained on digital warfare and all sorts of combat. I can see that you feel like conquering the world–overly self-confident, with bloated ego and sense of your own superiority. This training won’t add to it. Quite to the contrary–the sole purpose of these sessions is to break you first, then force you to rebuild yourself. In short–the school is over. Time for a reality simulation.”
The six boys were curious now. The mocking smirk disappeared from Number One’s face. McAllister surveyed their expressions carefully. He noted the eyes of Number Six–serious, lucid and alert. He was the only boy who seemed to sense that he was about to go through some serious ordeal.
“The practical part is very simple,” McAllister continued. He pointed his hand towards six doors behind him. “Each of you will go alone to these rooms. There will be a simple puzzle inside, which you have to solve in exactly three minutes. If you don’t solve it on time, you will be punished. Is that clear?”
“Sir, yes sir!” the boys exclaimed.
“Good. Before you get to solve your first puzzle, you will get familiarized with the punishment, so you know exactly what to expect if you fail. The practice starts now. All follow me to the medical lab.” McAllister turned around and started walking. The boys followed.
Number Six didn’t like it. The whole exercise looked somewhat funny, like a twisted joke. A punishment? What the hell? Are we going to get spanked on the butts? Something tells me that we won’t.
The boys were marched into the medical lab, situated two levels below the ground floor. They had never seen this part of the facility before. The interior was creepy. The white walls, staff in aprons of the same colour, wearing face masks and rubber gloves. There were six medical recliners in the room, each with strong straps for arms and legs. They looked like dental armchairs–creamy-coloured, covered with cheap rubbery upholstery–cold and clinical. Next to each chair there was a table with ECG monitor and two IV poles. The lab reeked with a nasty mixture of sodium hypochlorite and peracetic acid.
The boys were invited to sit on the recliners. They were strapped-in tight. The lab staff attached leads to their chests and heads. The preparation was completed by inserting a wide, rubber mouthguard with a breathing hole inside, strapped to the face like a perverted masochist’s gag.
Number Six was sitting on the chair, trying to compose himself. The whole preparation procedure was chilling–he felt like he was getting primed for dissection.
The staff member approached him with a needle, swabbed his forearm with a pad and injected him with a colourless liquid. Then he looked into his eyes, with a sick fascination mixed with creepy curiosity and said, “Enjoy the ride.”
Number Six waited. At first, nothing was happening. Suddenly, he completely lost his vision. The view of the lab disappeared in an instant, giving way to complete darkness. Shortly after his hearing was gone, replaced by loud sounds, breaking into his head, mirroring his heart’s rhythm. He was sure he heard his heart, only there wasn’t a heart in his chest anymore. It was replaced by an annoying drummer, banging into a massive gong with a huge mallet, like an ancient priest summoning the congregation for a ritual sacrifice.
The gong was a prelude. The gruesome musical backup to the sensations that followed. Six started to feel tiny needles piercing his toes, the same feeling when the aesthesia comes back to a limb after temporary loss of feeling. The needles quickly transformed into small torches, burning his skin with a fierce, excruciating heat–the heat that quickly punched through the outer layers and reached the bone marrow, turning it into a boiling soup.
The heat was evolving, transforming into a dull, sickening pain of having his toes twisted and crushed with a steel pliers, warmed-up to a glowing red. The sensation was augmented ten-fold by total numbness of the rest of Six’s body–the contrast between two zones of totally opposite stimuli. He could see the border between the pain and the void, cutting through the flesh like a dull saw, dismembering him in maddening agony.
Then it got worse, much worse. The pain began to move upwards, venturing to his feet, finally reaching the ankles. His imagination kicked in–he saw his feet broken out of the joints, pulled backwards and attached flat to the back of his calves. He was sure that there was nothing there apart from the naked, bloody stumps–only remnants, leaving him with no choice but the crawl on the floor like a mutilated animal.
The pain continued upwards, leaving total emptiness behind. He had no feeling on the parts of the body through which the agony had passed. He tried to move his toes, but they were no longer there. When the pain reached his groin, he thought that he would go insane–he started seeing the faces of imaginary devil–red face with massive teeth, veiny skin covered with purulent crusts, his large mouth contorted in sadistic pleasure of tormenting the victim. Feeding in Six’s suffering, like a hungry, insatiable abyssal creature who found a dead carcass at an ocean’s bed.
The pain was passing by, leaving nothing but a desert of agony, despair and stupefying fear that Six’s body was permanently destroyed. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He wanted to wrench his hands out of the restraints, but he had no hands anymore. When the pain reached his throat, he thought he stopped breathing. Six couldn’t feel inhaling and exhaling. He was sure the process had ceased. Somehow, one lucid thought managed to pierce its way through the insanity: I’m not suffocating. I’m breathing somehow. How’s that possible?
When the pain reached his eyes, he was absolutely sure that they left the sockets, ventured outside his skull, turned around and came back to their place, staring inside his brain. For a split second, because absolutely certainly they have met the spikes, jutting out of his empty sockets, which pierced them, leaving the aqueous humour leaking inside his brain like a hot lava. His brain was full of self-replicating molecules of eye liquid, burning each synapse with ruthless fire of excruciating agony.
Just when Six was sure that he was gone, with his mind turned into an inane pulp of sickening fear, the pain stopped suddenly. He regained his vision and his hearing was back. There still was a loud gong banging his skull from inside, but it felt more like a memory rather than a real music.
Six had enough strength just to absorb the atmospheric oxygen. His head dropped sideways to his shoulder–he couldn’t lift it. He had never been so exhausted in his life, so absolutely devoid of energy. He was carried on the stretcher to the recovery wing, where he was stuffed with some medication that put him to sleep.
He woke up one day later. He tried to sit up, not sure if his body was back in place. All his parts were exactly where they should be. It must have been some kind of neurotoxin. I’m all right. Fuck, I’m all right.
All six boys met up the same day in the canteen. They didn’t talk much, in fact, no one said a word. Number One’s mocking grin vanished like a swatted fly.
In the early afternoon they were called for the Psychology session again. McAllister was silent once more, observing the six boys with hidden curiosity. It was the last stage when the final selection was allowed–one of the boys was an extra, just in case somebody broke down and couldn’t continue the program. All of them seemed to hold up. It was a good sign. Terminating one of them would mean a loss of multi-million-credit investment and possibly temporary ban on McAllister’s monthly pay bonus.
“Welcome back. I can see that you appreciated the punishment and you understand now what happens if you don’t solve the puzzle. It’s time for your first try. The rules are simple, but I will state them again, for absolute clarity– solve the puzzle and you are back to your room. Fail and you are going straight back to the med lab.”
Major saw the fear creeping over their faces–relentless, unstoppable and overwhelming. There were no smirks anymore, no ego, zero overconfidence. Number One was pale, his hands were trembling a little.
“One more thing, before we start,” McAllister said, “You will be doing this exercise as long as you are able to solve the puzzle every single time. Any questions?”
There were no questions. Major waited, maintaining silence. He took his time walking alongside the line of boys. He was sweating them, allowing the fear to brew and mature in their heads. Then he pressed the remote control and the doors to the rooms opened.
“Don’t stand here, soldiers! The countdown has begun now.” McAllister barked, tapping his wrist watch theatrically.
There wasn’t much inside the room. A table, with four cubes and a note on the paper. On the wall there was a countdown watch, ticking aloud as the minutes dwindled with cruel certainty. Bastards added the sound to the digital clock–to wreck us even more.
Number Six approached the table and read the note:
ARRANGE THE CUBES TO FORM LETTER “A”
The note was somewhat weird: the command was written in black ink, but the letter “A” was scribbled with red marker.
Six was sweating. The task seemed easy, but the fear, fuelled by unrelenting sound of the clock, was blocking his brain from thinking. He began to hyperventilate–the breathing was becoming faster and faster, like the air was saturated with some alien substance which removed the oxygen leaving only a few particles left. Six’s hippocampus was playing games with his time assessment–he was sure that the clock was rigged and the seconds were counting down too fast. He mustered all his willpower to overcome the approaching panic attack and looked at the cubes.
Each cube was black on all sides, marked with colourful fragments of a larger pattern. The colours shifted from face to face–yellow, green, blue, red, pink, orange–like shards of a broken spectrum. Six didn’t know where to start–the fear held its suffocating grip over his throat, disabling parts of the brain responsible for logical reasoning, reducing their potential to mere repetition of a revelatory conclusion: What a crap!
His focus was gone–chopped up into tiny pieces, buzzing around his head like frenzied insects. When he caught one, it was freeing itself at once, joining the frantic swarm of scattered crumbs of cognition, floating in a deep blue sea of everlasting fear.
He managed to check the watch–he had only one minute left. Suddenly, his mind clicked and produced one sensible, lucid thought: If you don’t do something NOW, you will end up in the recliner again! Think!
Somehow, it jolted him out of the stupor. Immediately he realised that there was something wrong with the note on the paper. Why someone used two different colours? He looked at the cubes, back to note again and realised it was a clue. He turned over all the cubes, making sure that only red fragments were on top. The rest was easy–they looked like parts of letter A. Arranging the four cubes took him a few seconds.
Six took a lungful breath of relief and stepped away from the table. The clock in front of him stopped, exactly 2 seconds before time. The door hissed and opened. He earned a reprieve from pain this day. Although it was a very easy task, he was exhausted almost just the same as after the visit on the submission frame in the med-lab. He walked out of the room on trembling legs. They magically got the will of their own and were refusing to obey him.
Outside, he looked around and saw the extra security staff, waiting. The other five rooms were still closed.
All remaining squad members lost the battles with their cubes.
***
Sounders walked back to the rig room after a few hours. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were bruised, like after a few sleepless nights. She sank into an armchair and propped her forehead on her palm.
I stood up, walked to a water dispenser and poured some into a plastic cup. “You okay?” I asked, handing her the drink.
“No, I’m not okay,” she sighed more than she answered. She took a sip and swallowed with difficulty. “I’m not sure if I can do this, Six.”
“What are you afraid of, Claire?” I used her first name on purpose, to create some illusion of friendly comfort. It helps people to identify their hidden fears.
“I’m not scared, Six,” she moaned.
“You must be. The logic of what has to be done is clear. Killing my makers and erasing the data is the optimal solution. It gives us the best chance of survival and clearing your name. You don’t see it, which means that fear clouds your judgement. What you are afraid of, Claire?”
“Jesus, I’m not afraid. I’m just not like you. I don’t want to be like you, Six. That’s all.” It looked like she wanted to show some disdain towards me, but she was just too knackered.
“Who says you need to be? We’ll just do what needs to be done and you can come back to your usual attitudes and beliefs. I’m not asking you to stick around with me forever.”
“What if I won’t be able to? What if I cross the line and won’t be able to come back?” She was beginning to realise what was bothering her.
“It’s a matter of choice, Sounders. We always have a choice. If you cross the line, you can come back. It all depends on what’s really important to you. When you go to the other side and don’t choose to come back, that would mean you probably were on the wrong side in the first place,” I said calmly.
“It doesn’t look like I have much choice now, does it?” Claire said, with venomous sarcasm.
“Of course you have. You can still play by the rules you have embraced your entire life. I’ll give you some guns, good ammo and you are free to go. I’m serious about that.”
“Are you stupid? Do you think I’m going to go there alone and get killed or rot in jail for the crime I didn’t commit for the sake of some principles!” Sounders almost shouted, her eyes displaying nothing but an annoyance.
“See, how easy it was?” I looked at her and winked.
“Shit!” She snarled. “You know what, I hate you, Number Six. You are the most despicable creature I’ve ever met.” If the look could kill, I would be dead in an instant. “Excellent!” I said. “I can see you are introducing some variety into your swear-words dictionary.”
Sounders stood up. I followed suit. She was about to deliver a right hook, aiming straight at my jaw. I let her hit me. It was painful–Claire was trained well indeed.
“You are insane, Six! You enjoy being hated, don’t you? Are you some sort of pervert, or something? What’s in it for you, you sick fuck?” she shouted with disgust.
“Clarity,” I answered deadpan, took her empty cup and asked, “Do you want some more?”
She slumped back into the armchair and said, “Yes please. If you don’t mind.”
I poured another round from the dispenser and fetched it for her. She took the cup from my hand, briefly touching my fingers. She had nice skin–soft like silk.
“Just promise me one thing, Six,” She gasped. “Once we eliminate your makers, we’ll go after Kirkland.”
“Deal.” I held out my hand and she shook it.
I was satisfied. My gut was telling me that even with all my training and experience, her presence was a necessary asset to pull this off.