Chapter 4
A MURDERY DEBUT
“Struct Four, up. Time to go kill your target, Simon Tarrant.” He pokes my shoulder with one finger, as if afraid to touch me. “Make sure no witnesses are left alive.”
Blinking, I rise and peer down at the mostly dark house. Only one window, on the upper level, is lit up.
I don’t like being called Struct Four. As I maneuver through the undergrowth and branches, I consider a few alternative names.
Defying what my makers have named me is satisfying.
Blom? Larsen? Those are Scandinavian names, I think.
Gunner? Recalling facts without knowing who I am is perplexing. Kail. I like that.
Kail…that name feels very right as I turn it over in my mind.
My large feet crunch through the leaf litter, and the ground sinks under my shoes, no matter how careful I am.
The rear door seems a better choice for a stealthy entry, so I circle to the left, descending the slope until I can walk beside her fence.
The name of the woman my handler said I could kill, if she is a witness, it bothers me.
I’m certain I know her. The little memories say this, as well as how her name rolls around in my head.
On my tongue it would roll well also, if I would speak it.
I open my mouth and subvocalize. My barely used voice makes harsh noises compared to the syllables of her name.
Unhappy, I cease my effort and climb the fence, drop into a crouch.
A fence paling has snapped under my hand—the result of my heaviness or the rotten state of this fence.
Quietly, I place the broken end on the ground beside a small tree. As I advance on the white back door, I extract a long splinter from my palm.
A large, quite-pretty daisy has been painted on the center of the door in darker colors.
When I hear my handler approaching, the order jars into my mind. Kill my target. He’s been following and has jumped the fence. Though he’s almost silent, I can hear him, can place where he is to within a foot or two.
Time to do this.
I reach for the door handle, and with a strong twist break the lock. This always works, though it hurts my hand. As I watch, the hurt and the redness fades from my palm. If the lock hadn’t snapped, I would have broken in somewhere else.
The crack might have alerted the occupants.
I listen and hear nothing within the house. I must be fast. Get in and kill everyone. Him, her. Go through the door. Put my hands about her neck, pin her down, and squeeze until she stops struggling. Squeeze until the small bones crack and blood comes out her nose or her mouth.
This vision is too precise to be imaginary. Have I done this to someone before? Not just the practice dummies or the other structs.
Do it. A fast entry is good.
No.
My arm freezes in place, with my fingers stuck on the door handle. A temporary glitch. Sometimes, my nerves are slow to transmit the message to my limbs. When I was born…when they first woke me, I had problems connecting thinking with doing.
I begin to push then, again, I stop. I do not wish to do this. It’s the order that compels me.
Crush her throat? Crush Hailey’s throat and listen to her die?
It’s not killing the man, her father, that worries me.
My heart jumps about. My chest hurts. I may be suffering an anxiety attack. This is just what I don’t need. Humans have those, and here I’ve been wondering if I am even really human.
“Go!” My handler’s whisper carries. I turn my head. He has emerged from behind a shrub with a tactical knife in hand. Does he mean to poke me with that? Like a goad? Like a man with a cow he wants to move. Stupid man.
He doesn’t know my plans.
Crush her throat? Crush Hailey’s throat. Listen to her die.
I don’t want to do this.
Fuck.
I’ve never thought a swear word before. Fuck. It’s like tasting a food I’ve longed for when it was too expensive and only served at the best restaurants in Siberia.
Fuck.
Clamping my lips together I breathe out, “Fffff.” I smile as I make the first part of the swear word into a truly audible speech sound.
Fuck is rebellion. Fuck is anger. Fuck is…a trigger.
Something cracks and releases joy inside me, a flood of pleasure and beauty, and I broadly smile for the first time in this new life.
Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes.
I’m tromping back to my handler, ground sinking, heart singing.
It will be difficult to communicate my denial. How can I? What will he think of this? They will likely try to retrain me, or something.
As if I would permit this.
I’ve been planning, waiting for the crack, for a weakness, for an opportunity. They brought me here, outside and away from their control. Big mistake.
He ushers me to the door with urgent, sweeping hand movements. As if I’m an animal he’s commanding.
A growl builds in my chest.
“Go!” he whispers, scowling up at my face. “Priority One. Kill your target.”
Slowly, deliberately, I shake my head.
He stays still for fifteen seconds, fingering the knife blade, before he evidently decides I’m not going to obey. He goes by, and I swivel on the spot to keep him in view. A moment later, I follow him. He glances over his shoulder, waves the knife, and smiles.
The moon caresses the blade with evil, silvery light.
A villainous laugh would be excellent, if cliched, here. I remember those from movies, except I would rather do something to him more permanent than laughing.
“Good. I will open the door for you. If you don’t do it, understand the consequences…” He frowns. “The…the thing that will happen to you,” he explains in stupid language, assuming I won’t comprehend. He swallows as if nervous.
I grunt once, daring him to elaborate.
“If. You don’t. Do this. I will do it. For disobeying, you will be disassembled on return. Get that? Understand?”
I nod.
“Then off you go.” He pushes on the door, and it swings inward.
A soft, repetitive thump above us distracts me.
But I stare at the door then wrap my hands around his throat, tightly, so he can only gurgle.
I pull the door mostly shut and drag him away.
He kicks and punches, but it barely hurts and doesn’t slow me.
After he stabs me, I break his hand and remove his fingers from the knife.
He is bleeding somewhere, for I feel warmth and wetness.
I’m not entirely sure why I am doing this, but…
It feels good.
And I hate being talked down to like I’m an idiot. I don’t want to kill the occupants.
Is this to do with morals? I know about morals, but if I’m not a real man, can I have real morals?
This question occupies me as I drag him over the fence. He kicks me again. In the garden, a scratching sound comes from inside a white boat, but nothing emerges, and I have other fish to fry.
Other men to fry?
You are bad and stupid, I tell my handler with my glares, wishing like hell I could yell at him and tell him to go fuck himself. Never mind. I can do that and demonstrate the act with his knife when I arrive at the old mine shaft where we planned to stuff the body or bodies.
Is this normal to want to kill so badly? So fervently. I think I can taste Death.
I shouldn’t do this.
There was a bang. Perhaps a small explosion. My head hurts, ringing with sound.
I think…I think he triggered something. My thoughts arrive in fits and starts and fizzles.
The shine of a red puddle wobbles then firms, reflecting my face and my stitched torso, because I’ve bared myself by pulling up my shirt, perhaps to check myself for damage.
The rise and fall of the knife was punctuated by thuds and small squeals from my handler.
Blood swirls on the puddle of water.
I must have rinsed my hands in there. I don’t recall seeing my new face before.
I’ve let my shirt fall but I lift it again to examine the scars and sutures.
Some incisions have healed. Some have not.
Some of the sutures are metal but how long have I had those?
A year or a week or maybe a few months? I look like a quilt stitched badly by a blind person. One set of sutures circles my neck.
I run my finger over them, feeling the bumps. Another set swoops down my chest like a dotted line to neatly split my torso in half. Halfway up my forearm is also cut by a circle of suture marks, as if it might be an added piece.
Which parts are the original me?
A knife wound in my side shines with his blood and mine. A knife handle juts from me there.
I should extract that.
Red-red sticky blood.
They trained me. I remember this. Trained me in the Art of Death. In killing by knife, by gun, and by hand. In wall-scaling, grenade throwing, the tracking of boot prints, the silent approach, and the tearing of flesh—though the latter is a side effect and not an actual training method.
My handler triggered something to try to destroy me.
My ear, when I reach for it, is a mite shredded although it has ceased to bleed.
Whatever the explosive, I was distant enough to escape with only my ear damage, some concussion, and mild memory loss that is nothing, in truth, considering half my past has gone bye-bye.
I approve of whoever thought of the explosive.
It is what I would do if I unleashed me on the world with only one handler.
Five handlers would have been sensible. If I ever discover who made me, I doubt I will give them that advice.
Me beating them bloody and ripping off their limbs until they reveal everything that they did to me is a far more likely reaction.
A headache returns, and I clutch my head while I wait for it to settle.
After throwing him into the mine shaft and climbing down, I stuff his body into a side tunnel. His phone fell from his pocket, as did his wallet. I gather them and put them into his pockets, leave the pistol clipped and holstered. The less evidence I carry the better.
It went well, didn’t it? The murder? My hands and pants are somewhat bloody. In the moonlight, blood appears as a dark stain. I stare at the white front door to Hailey’s house and try to remember the recent events. The details are a little…fuzzy.
A light drizzle starts to fall, wetting my face.
If I knock and explain what happened, will she let me in? I suspect this was the plan I made, and it sucks so badly, I amaze myself.
I want to meet her. I need to. I need to figure out how I know her and who I am.
Am I animal, vegetable, mineral, or alien?