Claire 22

He remembered everything.

Remembered being awake as soon as he was fished from the shallow water. Remembered the pair of divers, and the old man in his brown pickup, asking the divers to load Walter in the truckbed. Then the small team of paramedics taking him from the divers, putting him in a stretcher, and wheeling him into their ambulance. And the pretty purple-haired woman arriving in her sedan, telling everyone to go away.

He just didn't remember her name.

***

He found out when he woke up hours later, with the same woman bending over his immobile body.

She was wearing an old gray duffel coat, which she took off now, revealing the loose white dress shirt underneath. And a name-tag, pinned to her chest. Claire 22, it read.

She pushed a fat syringe into his upper arm.

He winced. "What's this?"

"Sedative," she said. "Can't inject an eighth paralytic, or you'll die. But the sedative will wear out just as quickly."

Walter felt a sudden intense burst of lethargy. His vision spun in place.

"Who . . . who are you?" he asked.

"Your caretaker." She left his bedside and walked to a desktop unit. Walter tried to move and found out he was restrained to the bed by a single thick belt.

It wouldn't have been a problem to undo it if he wasn't half paralyzed, and under the influence of a slow-acting sedative.

Claire powered on the computer. Walter could only see the back of the monitor as it came alive, throwing bright blue light over her sharp, boxy features.

She began to type. Her hands blazed over the keyboard in an almost frenetic flurry of key presses.

"What is this?" Walter asked again, his words slurred and drawn.

Her typing never slowed. "I'm connected to you through wireless LAN." She paused in her speech, but her hands continued to blaze. "The pln was to wipe you out."

Walter didn't respond. He had a feeling she would continue talking.

He was right. "I used esxs.trace() the first time. Like I said, the plan was to wipe you out.

"Somehow, you're alive. But this gives me a chance. I use use you as a backdoor to the main server. I can kill you ALL now.

"Not just the Ashton Man. Also the men from Gainesville, Partist, Treston. The whole New Draegan Agent sector.

"I've been writing something. A function. Months of work. I'm finishing it now.

"I can shut this program down. Just need you to cooperate."

Walter relaxed into the bed. Almost imperceptibly, he felt motion returning to his limbs. "Why?"

Her response was quick. Practiced. Almost robotic. "Government has enough power. Using it wrong always. They don't need more weapons. That's what you are.

"They have many assignments for you. Bad assignments. They'll be surprised when you don't work. When none of the Agents work."

She went a long moment without saying anything. The only sound was the clacking of her keyboard.

Then: "People aren't numbers. People have value.

"I'm stopping a lotta lot of evil.

"What I will do must be done."

The dim lights blinked once. Walter watched her hands blaze over the keyboard.

Were it not for his restraints, he could kill her. Easily.

But he was a robot now. She also could easily shut him down with a button press. Like a goddamned laptop.

"You don't have to do this," Walter said. "We can find another way."

The lights blinked again, long white florescent lamps bolted to the ceiling.

This finally made Claire pause. She took a remote on the desk next to her, turned around and pointed it at an array of TVs behind her.

The TVs came on. Walter didn't have to move his head to see their contents.

Several screens displayed different views of the same scene. Walter saw a small group of men, twelve or so, dressed in black tactical gear. They held large black rifles up to their shoulders, making their way through what appeared to be a front yard.

On another group of screens, a much different team. Seven at most. They wore casual clothing. None carried anything larger than a pistol.

Walter guessed they were at the backyard.

"You have to free me, please," he said.

Claire continued to work.

"I can help you," Walter said. "I'm a killer, aren't I? Just tell me the right people."

Claire continued to work.

"Do I seem like a robot anymore?" Walter said. "I can choose."

Finally she spoke. "No." She locked eyes with him over the monitor. "You can't."

She looked away. Back at her work. "When you Agents defeat the programming, you only get worse. Depraved. Amorality is your blood. Or you wouldn't be an Agent.

"Pragmatically, I must assume that you are only pretending you will fight for me."

There was a blinding flash on several of the screens. The men with rifles had shot out the lock on the front door.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Clair cocked her head up and stared behind her at the screen. "The police, here to retrieve you." She turned back to her desktop. "I will be done before they find us."

"And the other group?" Walter asked.

"Blackfist twerlos. Here to kill you for killing their men.

"I would let them do so, but I need you alive to finish my work."

Walter paused, if only to contemplate the madness of this woman who wanted to kill him for being what he was. He wasn't even sure what that was yet.

"Fucking let me go!" he shouted. "You wanna die here?"

For another long moment the only sound was Claire typing on the keyboard.

Then the words came with immeasurable calm. "I am prepared to."

Walter bucked violently against the single restraint. He felt a weakness on the left side of the belt. Heard a small rip.

Claire looked at him and then back at her work, seemingly finding nothing wrong.

"This is bigger than anything we've ever done," the woman said, mostly to herself.

Walter kept thrashing. The belt ripped even more. A faint euphoria rushed through his head.

This belt clearly hadn't been made with a cyborg in mind.

"Slumber calls, A-213," Claire said. "Don't fight it."

The belt gave way entirely and snapped. Walter crashed to the warm tiles.

Just then, the room's door opened.

It was pure fortune that the room had a couch, nestled against the near wall, shrouded in soft shadow from a loaded bookshelf beside it. Walter crawled under the huge couch as quickly and quietly as he could. The seat was low enough that he was scared his bottom wouldn't get under. He had to struggle to get himself under it below the waist, already certain that he would be found for such a silly reason. But he was able to cram himself under just in time.

He found a small rag and used it to cover his head and neck. Then hid his hands inside his jumper, the only other distinctive aspect to him in the darkness.

He heard pounding bootsteps as the police squad streamed into the room and took their places. The floor shook under his face as they walked.

He watched the many bright lights from their rifles dart frantically over every surface. Prayed silently that none would cross his hiding spot.

"Where's the Ashton Man?" It was a disembodied male voice. Walter thought he sounded like the leader, if only because he'd spoken first.

"I am working," he heard Claire answer calmly.

"I can see that, and I don't care. We have orders to retrieve A2."

As Walter expected, Claire wouldn't be quick to give up her asset. Not until she had run her code. "He's in storage."

There was silence for a while. Then:

"My men just checked storage and they said he isn't there."

"Because he is in cold storage, officer, not General."

"Would you be kind to take us there then, miss?"

Clacking at the keyboard.

"I am working."

"Well I'm not asking. Show us cold storage, or we'll have to make you."

"Very well. Let me execute this function, and I will lead you there."

"We don't have the luxury of time here." It was a different male voice. Clearly much younger.

"Why the hurry?" Claire asked slowly. She was still typing at the keyboard.

There was a heavy silence in the room, like the cops were hesitating to answer.

The first one spoke up. "We know that a small Blackfist posse led by Yevec Blackfist are on route to this location to exterminate our target."

The younger one added. "For all we know they might be here alre--"

He was interrupted by an muffled bang that somehow still threatened to burst Walter's eardrums. A gunshot, from outside the room.

Walter flinched under the couch, fearing that the single round would be the match to light the haystack, the catalyst to an all-out gun battle.

But the policemen were levelheaded. Walter heard only the distinct sound of multiple heavy rifles being raised. And then the first officer's voice booming: "Come in with your hands up, guns down, or we aerate the door!"

Walter felt a distant thumping as the Blackfist gangmen raced away from behind the door.

He heard the cops shuffle about the room. Through the rag on his head he could almost make out a couple boots as they rearranged themselves in some tactical formation.

Everyone waited.

"Secure every room in the corridor, advance quickly," barked the first officer. "Double time, soldiers!"

"Split into groups of two men each," he added.

Walter heard him leave first. Then felt a great rumbling as the rest of the cops streamed out of the room.

The gunfire started as soon as the door closed behind the last one.

Walter heard the rhythmic thumping of automatic fire, punctuated by loud single shots from semiautomatic pistols. Much more faintly, he heard a keyboard clacking. The woman continued to work.

He brought his hands out from under his jumper, shook off the rag on his head, and was about to crawl from under his hiding when a different door opened.

The footsteps were strong, sure, and even. And they were fast.

The clacking stopped as the woman was wordlessly interrupted from her work. Walter heard a cracking punch. Felt the woman crash to the floor. Saw her body sprawl across the tiles not far from him.

Walter saw the man kneel over her form. Saw him slap her face with one gloved hand.

"Look, I'm gonna hurt you whether you help me or not. But if you make it quick, I might hurt you less."

His voice was gruff and low. Shaking with emotion, but somehow immeasurably calm.

Claire moaned.

The man took her chin and squeezed. "Now don't try lying to me. Unlike those piss-shitting cops I know you have him in this room."

Walter could hear the rage in his voice.

"This room is pretty big, and I wanna be out soon. Maybe you can save me time, show me where you stored him?" The man paused. "Please?"

The woman cried out. Walter could only guess that the man was squeezing harder.

"Pretty please?"

The man drew his fist back and slammed it down on her face. Walter heard her skull smack against the floor.

She moaned weakly. Walter was surprised she didn't pass out.

"Pretty, pretty please?" The man drew his fist again. Sent it careening down--

"Stop!"

The hand froze inches above her cheek. Walter saw the man's neck stretch as he looked up. Saw his teeth shine through his grin. "If you're here you'd better come out, or I will kill her just for fun."

Walter brought his palms under him. Exploded upwards in a pushup that threw the couch off his back and to the floor beside him.

Walter was on his feet, facing the man, who rose, smiling at him.

"You a goody-two shoes now, A2? That's even more predicable than an Agent."

Walter scanned the man's clothing, looking for a gun. White shirt underneath an open bomber jacket. Wrinkled black jeans. But nothing remotely weapon-like. Not a bulge, not even a holster.

"I know how this works." The man walked towards Walter. "Clearly you'll stay a killer. But now you'll kill to 'help' people. Like those girls on the train."

Walter clenched both hands by his sides. His new strength surprised him. More than that, it gave him confidence. Right now, he did not fear this man.

The man stopped. "I'd also say that I kill to help people. And you'd tell me that's different somehow?"

Walter brought his fists up to guard. "I'd say that you talk too much."

"Understandable." The man said.

Then he lunged at Walter.

Walter jumped aside, purely motivated by shock. The man recovered from his lunge and stood up straight. He turned his head to grin at Walter.

Then turned his body and lunged again.

Walter jumped away, sailing over the upturned couch. He landed in a roll and came up swiftly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Walter spun to face the man, who had crashed to the floor.

The man chuckled as he rose up. "What?"

His laughter intensified as he faced Walter. "You're just gonna let me stand up?"

He tripped over the couch but kept his footing, eyes trained unwaveringly on Walter. "You may have become a little too virtuous, A2. Just my advice."

Walter backed away as the man got closer.

"I'm only a little drunk," the man said. "That's why you're still alive."

Walter wondered at such bluster from a man who knew he was an Agent. Then the man came after him, and he had to go into guard.

The man swung a roundhouse at Walter's chin. Through speed more than skill, Walter was able to block it.

The next punch came so fast it seemed to be simultaneous with the last. Walter ducked through blind reflex and sent his own punch to counter.

It never connected. Instead Walter felt two fists crack his nose, one after the other. His eyes watered.

He collapsed to the floor, panting. He had literally never been punched that hard. Never had his nose broken either.

The man fished something out of his jacket pocket. Walter heard a click and saw the glint of an OTF knife as its blade flicked out.

He couldn't shout, couldn't run. The man gave him no time to as he descended, knife poised to tear through Walter's ribs.

Walter was able to grab his knife hand. He expected to be able to snatch the knife, at least knock it from the man's grasp. He settled for forcing the knife down away from his chest with agonizing difficulty.

It took so long to do this that Walter was able to contemplate the difference between this fight and the one on the train. There he'd subdued three men with unreasonable ease, surpassing them in strength and speed and marksmanship.

This man was clearly just as strong as him, and definitely faster.

Fear gripped Walter's throat as he realized.

This man was also an Agent.

Walter screamed as he felt the knife stab into his belly and shear through soft flesh just above his left hip bone.

The man laughed in his face and pushed. The knife dug deeper into Walter's stomach. The pain was horrific, and only by growling did Walter prevent himself from screaming again.

Walter kept his weakening grip on the knife hand, in an effort to prevent it from penetrating any further. He was losing, very slowly, but he was losing.

For the first time in this world he truly felt that he might die.

He just wasn't okay with that anymore.