“There is no room in this Entity
for Agents who defy the chain of command.
You simply don't have enough information
to act outside the scope of your assigned task.”
- Houston's Agent Handbook
It had been two days since the funeral.
Emily's parents had been flown in to view the body, giving her some dignity before the implants were hastily, and messily, removed.
All due care had been taken during insertion, but surgeons were expensive, Emily's implants more so, and a dead body could not complain. She lay in the coffin with gloves covering her hands and long sleeves covering her arms to hide the long slice running to her shoulder.
Her official cause of death was electrocution.
“As a consequence of this unexpected incident,” said the Houston Corps representative, “We will lobby to have new safety interlocks installed on all portable generators, so a tragedy like this never has to happen again.”
The liver wounds were discretely altered to appear as electric burns and her involvement in the mission was never mentioned.
The team had been given leave to pay their respects from afar. Watching a sealed box being lowered into a musty hole from two hundred meters away did not have the effect Ottavio thought it would have.
He, and his companions, had been forced to find their own way to grieve for their friend.
“It's insane! I lost a friend too, I put my ass on the line to save her, but everyone's acting like I killed her,” said Ottavio.
He was sitting in the canteen, sharing a meal with Cassandra.
“Not everyone,” said Cassandra.
“As good as. What I just don't get is why Simon insisted on getting rid of Pan, and why Ali agrees with him. If we'd held onto him, he would be safe, he wouldn't have had a chance to run into those rags, we could have quizzed him about points of access... I just don't get it.”
Cassandra poked at her meal a little more. It was something that resembled pasta, but it could easily have been a stew. She decided not to wonder.
“What is your obsession with him, anyway? He was just some kid,” she asked.
“He needed our help, Cass. And I promised to protect him. He was, I don't know, he was one of the good guys, you know? If he'd been given a chance to grow up, he'd be one of us, fighting to make a difference.”
“That's a pretty big call, Otto. You only saw him for a bit.”
Ottavio pushed his plate away, “Sorry, Cass. I thought you'd get it.”
“Otto sit down. Sit down!” she hissed.
He lowered himself back into his seat and stared at his plate.
Cassandra leaned forward, “What do you want me to say, huh? That you did the right thing? That Em's not dead because of you? Because I'm not going to say that. It's what happened, alright, and there's no getting away from it. OK, that kid might not have been one of the rags, but he could have told them about us all the same. They could have caught him, he would have blabbed.”
Ottavio brooded silently.
Cassandra continued, “That's not to say that I hold you solely responsible. Yes, I agree that keeping the kid...”
“Pan.”
“...would have been the preferred option. I also agree that if Simon ordered me to kill a kid, I would not be able to go through with it. I'm not a killer, Ottavio, and I know that neither are you. But this is hardly the occupation to exercise your moral standards. You are employed to follow orders, not make decisions.”
Ottavio slumped in his chair.
“I didn't sign up to kill innocent children, Cassandra, I signed up to save them. All this bullshit we're told about Houston's policy on humanity is getting harder and harder to swallow.”
Cassandra nibbled a little on her gruel. It tasted just as it looked.
“How can they call this 'Pasta Al Forno'? I swear they've taken yesterday's leftover Texan steak and wrapped it in soggy paper.”
Ottavio snorted a laugh, in spite of himself. Cassandra shoveled another mouthful in.
“It's not so bad, if you try not to taste it,” she said.
Norbert came over and sat down next to Ottavio, letting his tray drop noisily.
“Same old crap,” he grumbled.
“You took your time,” said Ottavio.
“Had to get my sensors tweaked.”
Ottavio glowered. Norbert's implants had been operating fine for months.
“You had to give a report, didn't you?”
Norbert said nothing. Cassandra shuffled in her chair. Ottavio looked up at her, but she suddenly found the tiled roof interesting.
Ottavio looked to her, “You too?”
Cassandra looked down, then to the side, and said, “Yeah. I told them only as much as I saw, which was you, Sim and Lucas doing your best, and when Em...”
Norbert put his spoon down and rubbed his temples. The three remained silent, each wishing their plate would somehow empty itself so they could finish up.
The clattering of knives on plates from all around continued, despite their somberness.
Norbert broke the silence.
“I found out what the Assisted Compliance Surgery entails, man,” he whispered.
“Assisted what?” asked Cassandra.
“It's pretty drastic. I read through a bit of the mumbo jumbo. Didn't understand half of it, but the bit I do understand is pretty clear. The patient has their cognitive ability unimpeded, has full motor control and all that. They pretty much look and act like anyone else.”
Ottavio shrugged, “What's so drastic about that?”
“It goes on to mention that they lose the ability to form complex decisions, to think in the abstract. Free will, man, free will is what I'm talking about. They've figured out how to take it away. The patient becomes a robot. A slave. They ask you to do something, you don't even get the option of thinking twice, you just do it.”
Cassandra held up her hand, “Just slow down a second. Who's doing this? Redden?”
“Houston!” said Norbert, looking about, “And I can see why. You know how I said all the brothers that have been marked for this ACS have been MIA or KIA? Well you only need to look at their records to find out the link. Each has been reprimanded for insubordination, or went off the rails, or went AWOL.”
“Damn,” said Ottavio.
“Yup. You don't toe the line, you disappear, you get ACS.”
“I know I shouldn't ask, but...”
“You're on the registry, under the insistence of Commander Ali-Boob, cosigned by none other than Agent Simon.”
Ottavio poked at his food. He felt like throwing up.
“I told you to watch yourself.”
Ottavio looked to Norbert, then Cassandra. Somewhere out in the kitchen a tray crashed to the ground, followed by hoots and jeers from the staff.
Norbert hurriedly finished off his plate and stood up.
“Don't say I didn't warn you. I don't mean to rub it in, but, you're damaged goods, man,” he said, “So pardon me if I keep my distance.”
Ottavio and Cassandra watched him go. She turned back. “OK, spill it. What the hell was that?”
Ottavio tried to smile it off.
“Cass...” he began.
“Don't bullshit me, Otto. He wasn't kidding around. Norbert never kids around.”
“No, he wasn't kidding. But you can't tell anyone. Alright? Alright?”
Cassandra nodded. Ottavio leaned in.
“Apparently there's only one way with Houston: their way. I didn't follow protocol. I didn't murder on command,” he explained, “Hell. You saw Simon. You saw what he's capable of. That's what they want me to be.”
Ottavio fumed a little.
He gave up avoiding what was an obvious conclusion, “And, damn it, I think I am.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she whispered, sad, confused and hurt.
“You didn't see it. The guys downstairs at the hotel. The ones that were beating... the one's before the main assault. I... I did things. Things like Simon did!” he hissed, “I butchered! I actually loved it! I-I danced in their blood!”
“I don't understand,” said Cassandra, tears welling in her eyes.
Ottavio slammed the table with his fist. Cassandra jumped back.
A few eyes looked over, then resumed their meal.
“Cass, they've screwed me up! They've put some shit software in my head, it made me do it. I never wanted to, but it turned me into Simon! I don't know how it began. I just saw Pan being tortured, and then next thing I know, I'm knee deep in body parts. I lost it. I was like a madman!”
“But you're alright now? Right?”
“No. Well, now, yes. But what if something triggers it off? I'm not safe. I'm a monster! I know what I did, I remember doing it, but it wasn't me!”
He pushed his fists into his eyes, half to hold back the tears, half to hide his shame from the world.
He breathed carefully, calming himself down. Cassandra leaned over and put her hand on his arm. Her touch melted him.
Quietly he shed hot tears for Emily, tears of grief, tears of shame. They came trickling out from under his hands.
“Dry your eyes, princess,” said Simon, marching over, muscles on show under his singlet.
“Not now, Sim,” said Cassandra. He snorted in response.
“Where'd you work last, anyway? The marshmallow factory? Shit, mate, did Jung upgrade your Pansy module?”
Ottavio lowered his hands.
“Damn you, Simon” he said, “Just give it a rest.”
He unashamedly cleared his face with his napkin.
“That's damn you sir, you whelp.”
Simon dropped his plate on the table with a clang, sat down and poked at his food. Ottavio, looked at him from under his eyebrows, while Cassandra resumed scouring her dish for anything that could pass as food.
Simon dropped his fork, “Bloody Hell, this is stuff is mushier than you, mate!”
“Relax Ottavio,” said Cassandra, “He's just trying to wind you up.”
“What, you taking orders from her now? Let's see if you can follow them better than you follow mine.”
“Killing Pan would not have stopped the attack,” said Ottavio, his face flushing red, “We were there to protect our team, not kill boys.”
Simon pointed his fork at Ottavio, “You're right about one thing, mate. We were there to protect our team, and to do that, you were supposed to follow orders. But you couldn't, because you're soft. Or stupid. I'm still trying to figure out which.”
“Just because I didn't see fit to kill an innocent child...”
“One of my team is dead, Otto! We lost the mission! We had to withdraw without getting comms up. We look like a bloody shambles, and I'm the one getting my ass chewed out by Ali,” growled Simon, “And all because you thought you knew better! You're not here to make decisions, you're here to do whatever I bloody well say!”
He resumed shoveling gruel into his mouth. Ottavio tried his best to settle his heart.
Cassandra pushed her chair back a fraction. It may have been just her intuition, or perhaps some implanted subroutine, but she had a nagging feeling about what would happen next.
She looked at Ottavio. His face was fixed like cement. His jaw muscles were locked as he fought to contain his rage.
She looked carefully at Simon. Slops of food fell to his chin. Intermittently he would wipe it on his arm without missing a beat. She could see he was not tasting what he ate, only going through the motions. He was eating only to kill a bit of time before...
“Pass the salt,” he ordered.
Ottavio remained like a statue. Only his jaw moved as the air in front of him froze to ice, “Get it yourself, Sim. We're not on a mission.”
She knew it would make no difference, but she reached out to grab the salt in a bid to appease Simon.
“Leave it,” he said, calmly, “I asked him, not you, princess.”
The remark grated on her, made her push her mouth out. She sat back in her seat and waited. This was a situation that could not be defused.
It would result only in one outcome, one that did not involve her. She moved her seat even further back.
“Pass me the damn salt,” he said again, stopping his eating and holding his fork as he would a combat knife.
Ottavio refused again, “Go to Hell.”
“You see, you're just not getting this whole taking orders business. You're an employee. I'm your boss. You don't toe the line, you get cut off. You toe the line, you get a nice little bone. Carrot and stick stuff. Pretty simple really. You understand?”
“I understand a lot more than you think.”
“Really? Do you understand what's going to happen if you don't fly straight? Of course not, otherwise Em would still be alive, and not six feet under playing a hotel to worms.”
Ottavio bit his lip. A red sheen fell across his eyes.
“What, cat got your tongue? No smart ass remark? Gonna be a good little doggy and sit when I say?” pushed Simon, “Shaking in your boots? Geez, Cass. You might want to put some distance between yourself and this cream puff, you might catch fairy disease.”
It felt as if Ottavio's heart would break out from his rib cage, reach over the table and strangle Simon.
“Just one more,” he thought, “Come on, you son of a bitch, just have one more.”
Simon obliged.
“Should be you in that hole, not her.”
Ottavio launched forward, knocking the fork out of Simon's hand while at the same time landing a solid fist square on his jaw.
Not caught completely by surprise, Simon rolled out of his chair and flipped himself to his feet.
“That's the way, you little bitch!” egged Simon, “Get it out of your system.”
Ottavio could not hear him. Enraged, he leaped over the table and rolled to the other side as Simon sent a volley of kicks in his direction.
Cassandra moved well back, knowing better than to interfere.
Ottavio sprang to his feet and came at Simon again, sending a right hook that, had it landed, would have sent Simon sprawling.
As it was, Simon grabbed the approaching fist in a millisecond, twisted it behind him and followed up with an elbow to Ottavio's chest, a palm to his chin and left hook that left him dazed.
“Come on, big boy!” yelled Simon, bouncing on his toes.
By now the guards, scientists and administration staff were standing up and watching the scene unfold, unsure of which way the action would spill.
Simon kicked out Ottavio's legs, leaped into the air and came crashing down to him. Ottavio was too fast, however, and rolled out of the way of Simon's knees.
They both hauled themselves up again and crouched, facing each other, one wanting death, the other humiliation.
“You should've passed the salt, pussy-boy,” snickered Simon.
Ottavio was too enraged to comprehend. A guttural growl emanated as he charged Simon again.
Expecting him to go high, Simon swung at his face, but Ottavio dove in and caught him about his midriff.
With the momentum, Simon lost his breath, Ottavio swung him about like a plaything and threw him up and over the crowd and onto the bain-marie.
Perturbed that they were now between the two combatants, the crowd hurriedly moved away.
Simon cursed, picked himself up and turned around to see Ottavio charging through the tables and chairs towards him.
“Alright, you bastard,” called Simon at his approach, “Let's see what you're really made of!”
He grabbed a serving knife from behind the counter and rolled it between his hands.
“Yeah, you wanna see some blood, don't ya!” he laughed, “Don't mind if it's your own?”
Ottavio, through the haze of madness, realized he was without a weapon.
He lifted his fist and brought it crashing down, like a boulder, onto the end of the table. The top flew off, revealing the stump that was firmly bolted into the concrete. Two kicks later and the stump, and the concrete to which it was attached, was leaning to one side.
Summoning his immense strength, he wrenched it with an almighty crack from its home, turning it into a rather solid, albeit makeshift, club.
The show of strength impressed the crowd, and had Simon more than a little worried. He looked at his own serving knife, and knew that it was time to call off the show.
He signaled to a waiting team of armored guards who immediately let fly with a volley of tranqburrs. Containing fast acting local tranquillizer, they were excellent in taking down targets live without running the risk of overdosing.
He ducked and weaved, running toward Simon with unbridled fury, dodging the burrs as they sailed by, but several peppered his chest, arms and legs.
He lost feeling in his hands and limbs, bit by bit, until he collapsed to the floor, unable to regain balance.
Within seconds he was writhing on the floor, snarling and cursing.
“Nice job mates,” said Simon, looking at the crowd, “I had him of course, but it's better to play it a bit safe, yeah? Get him in restraints.”
Cassandra watched on as Ottavio was lifted into a stretcher.
She went to remove a couple of burrs that were lodged in his skin, but Simon caught her hand.
“Leave 'em,” he warned, “If you know what's good for you.”
“They've already administered their dose, Sim.”
He ignored her and waved the men off. Ottavio groaned, paralyzed.
“Nothing more to see, folks, so push off,” Simon said, surveying the room, “And get someone in here to clean up this mess. It's a bloody pigsty in here.”