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Black on Black by Arthur Wellesley
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Black on Black: Part 1
Date: 14 November 2005, 4:03 am
It was cold. Damnably cold.
It was cold even through the dense armor plating of the Warthog and in spite of the heater that tried desperately to warm its occupants. The cold was not such that it could be overcome by the vigorous rubbing of hands or by huddling with the nearest unfortunate piece of flesh that shared the unpleasant fate. It was a biting, freezing, bone cold that sucked all energy from the body and allowed one to think of nothing else but the numb discomfort.
There was little mystery to the horrendous temperature. Outside the frosted windows of the heavy vehicle was a vast, frozen landscape that stretched out in a vast white nothingness as far as the eye could see. It was a harsh reality comprised of mountains of ice, fields of snow, and an expansive, onerous white sky. Such was the plainness of the planet that it was impossible to tell where the land ended and the sky started. It was a dead world standing in stark testament to a silence that never began and would never end.
To Lieutenant Shirley Steeves, it was the loneliest place she had ever been. Though a staunch pragmatist she could not help but feel that on this desolate surface she was not, nor any other human, welcome. Her presence on a world of ice and wind on the fringes of an unknown system seemed unbelievable, even wrong somehow. She wondered vaguely how many other planets there were like this in the galaxy, in the universe. It didn't really matter. She just felt she needed to get off this planet as soon as possible.
For besides her unusual superstitions, her more earthly senses were discomforted. Her hand shook uncontrollably and any attempt to stop it was quickly revealed to be futile. She also sensed that Colonel Anderson, sitting next to her and appearing unaffected by the cold, could sense her weakness. How long is this damn ride going to last?, she thought miserably. Any curiosity she had as to how long it had really been since they had landed at the lonely port behind them was quickly allayed by an unwillingness to raise her glove and check the time.
Finally, to take her mind off the numbness she felt her body succumbing to, she raised the question that had been on her mind since she had been assigned the mission over a week ago. "Why is it that we're here, sir?" she asked when she felt she could control her voice.
To her dismay the Colonel ignored her, and as if to make his intentional neglect even more apparent he said gruffly, "Private, ETA Goddamnit!"
"Five, sir," said the man driving the Warthog.
Satisfied, the Colonel slumped back in his seat and continued to stare steadfastly ahead with a grim expression upon his well weathered face.
Colonel James Anderson, her commanding officer and her trainer, was not a happy man. That he was angry was to be taken for granted. The only variable was the extent of his temper. While he usually directed his anger cunningly, to intimidate and even inspire, there were times when he lost control. Shirley was one of the few to have witnessed the full extent of Anderson's fury. Once, on a training mission in the jungles of Jericho VII, an insubordinate trainee had been beaten to within an inch of his life by the Colonel and he had done nothing for him but scream at the writhing figure as he died at his feet. It was the only time she had ever seen him do anything of the type, but she knew it was certainly not the first for him. She suspected that part of the Colonel always lay just beneath the outwardly collected surface.
It was because of this that she hesitated to repeat her question, but her curiosity and eagerness to strike up a conversation got the better of her. "Sir?" she managed shortly in a voice that did not quiver despite herself.
Anderson gave a throaty growl to show his displeasure at being pressed, but he did not ignore Shirley a second time. "We're here to interrogate a prisoner," he said tersely, and the tone of his voice indicated he would abide no more questioning.
Lieutenant Steeves, of course, already knew that basic aspect of the mission, though that was all she knew. In any case, her question did not strain on the why but on the here. Like most ONI personnel, she was privy to all inhabited planets, classified or otherwise, but she had never heard of Farrius V. To be sure, she was a mere lieutenant and had only very recently completed training, but she nevertheless assumed that she was only one in a handful of people who knew about a human presence here. Farrius V was beyond the range of where liquid water could exist in the system. Planetary environmental regulators kept humans from dying by mere exposure to the air as would normally be the case on such a place as this, but it nevertheless guaranteed a horribly uncomfortable environment as well as the perfect cover for anything that needed to be kept discreet.
After what she could only hope had been five minutes, Shirley peered hopefully out of the window, struggling to see over the hulking soldier in the passenger seat with a rifle on his lap. To her surprise she saw that they were very near the base that must have been their reason for coming. It was unusual, since they had been driving across a flat plane and any sort of facility should have stuck out clearly against the white horizon. It quickly became apparent why she had been so deceived: the base was made out of ice. Or rather, it was inside of ice, encapsulated in the expanse of a great column of ice pushed upwards by the tremendous pressure of the shifting glaciers. Its perimeter was also just a wall of ice, built haphazardly enough to appear natural from a distance. One would have to look very closely to find any trace of the facility, and who would look here?
As they approached the wall, a section of the ice moved aside allowing them entry. Just inside the compound were several tired looking men standing miserably in cramped checkpoint buildings with rifles cradled to the chests as if for warmth. They waved the vehicle on with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
The Warthog pulled up alongside the largest building. The soldier driving it turned the engine off and twisted around in his seat to face Shirley and Anderson. "Please pull your scarves over your faces and secure your goggles, ma'am and sir." They proceeded to put their own gear on. Shirley noticed Anderson took the request seriously and put on his own gear, so she decided to as well.
Although she had been unsure as to why such a fuss was being made over a walk of no more than ten meters, she quickly discovered her escort's reasoning. Despite her thick jacket, heated gloves, and well made face gear, the biting cold felt like it was stripping her skin with a knife. The two privates that led them towards the door moved with deliberate leisure, clearly enjoying the opportunity to torment these ONI officials used to the warm, comfortable climates of the Inner Colonies. The Colonel did not seem bothered by the cold, however, so she tried determinedly to walk with the same slow steadiness.
Inside the building must have been at least as cool as the Warthog, but she had never felt so warm in her life. After a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever God was listening she took off her fogged up goggles and examined the room she was in. It was much larger than it had appeared from outside, probably extending far into the glacier of ice. She stood at the beginning of a wide corridor that ran far into the distance. There were several smaller hallways along its length that must have led to further identical corridors. To her right was a flight of stairs and two elevators. Clearly the facility was built not just into the ice but below it as well.
The worst part of the building was its atmosphere, and it could not all be attributed to the cold nor to the bareness of the ambience. It had a crypt-like quality, the smell of death and the sense of suffering. It made Shirley feel very uncomfortable, and she felt in the pit of her stomach that she was about to be plunged into the mysterious underbelly of ONI's secrets.
Before she could ask, Colonel Anderson suddenly spoke. "Lieutenant, welcome to Juan-Rodriguez." He clapped his hands together exuberantly as if he reveled in the feeling of misery and pain. "This is ostensibly a military outpost, in reality a prison, and is the last Goddamn place in the galaxy you'd want to be."
With these less than cheerful words Anderson stepped into the elevator followed closely by their escort. Unsettled by her commander's good humor, Shirley reluctantly joined them.
The ride was short, and the doors opened to reveal a corridor identical to the one above. Indeed, were it not for the lack of a door to the exterior she would not have believed she had even left the main floor.
Shirley followed the Colonel off the lift and noticed with some concern that their two man escort, that had accompanied them since they had landed, did not pursue them. Instead, they proceeded back up to the surface, and she suddenly desperately wanted to go with them.
Colonel Anderson walked briskly down the hall for a short time passing a seemingly unending series of non-descript, identical doors and equally similar guards who stood lazily at intervals along the hallway. Struggling to keep up with his long stride Shirley nearly walked into him when he wheeled suddenly about to face a door no different from all the others. A grim expression on his face, Anderson slipped a key card through a slit to the right of the door and it opened with a soft hiss.
Inside was a hole of a room. It was freezing, dark, and cramped, and smelled strongly of human waste. In the middle of the room was a sturdy but rotting wooden table with two metal chairs stationed at either end. On the far side sat a man, dressed in filthy rags that provided inadequate insulation against the chill. He was slightly emaciated, though he seemed to be of medium stature, and his face, covered in grime, was not handsome, but nor was it ugly. On the surface he seemed entirely forgettable, but somehow she felt awed in his presence.
The Colonel pulled out the chair nearest him and casually took a seat, though he quickly mimicked the solemn expression their guest wore on his face. Shirley was left to stand, apprehensive and confused.
The man's pained expression suddenly transformed into a smile which was markedly unpleasant in its insincerity. "Ah!" he said with feigned friendliness, as if he had just noticed their entrance. "My old friend."
"Captain," Anderson acknowledged with a nod that could not be called unfriendly itself. "Why are you here, Tom? Fell into a hole and didn't like what was at the bottom?"
"Why are you here, Anderson?" the man returned without answering. "I'm a dead man walking, so this seems to be a waste of your talents."
"But Tom!" Anderson protested with mock indignation. "This is where I am most talented."
Shirley leaned against the wall, watching this conversation in silence. She felt superfluous, like she had tagged along uninvited to this unusual meeting between old acquaintances. It was disconcerting that neither man acknowledged her presence, but it was even more frightening to see the Colonel behaving in what could only be called a cheery manner. She felt the whole time that his anger was seething underneath the surface, ready to spring forth at any moment.
"I've got nothing to say," the man called Tom said.
"Everyone's got something to say, old friend," Anderson said. "It's just a matter of getting it out of them." He placed his elbows on the table and suddenly thrust his face closer to Tom's. "Tell me what you saw, Tom. Tell me what you were told."
"I've got nothing to say," he repeated laconically.
Anderson nodded to himself as if in companionable understanding. With seeming absent-mindedness he pulled his sidearm from its holster and placed it on the table with a dramatic sigh. His index finger tapped gently against the hilt as if it moved of its own accord. "I see," he said in a light tone, as if he had done nothing.
Shirley almost smiled with relief. This was more like the Anderson she knew; intimidation was the Colonel's game.
Tom glanced cursorily at the gun on the table but did not seem to be terribly bothered by it. "You gonna shoot me, Colonel?" he asked in an expressionless voice. It was not even defiant. It was like he really no longer cared.
"What do you think, Tom?" Anderson asked, his own voice retaining its uncharacteristic lightness.
Tom seized upon the question. "I think that I'm dead no matter what I say or do," he replied quickly, a hint of anger now rising in his voice. "I think that what I saw or heard is unimportant and well known to you already. All you are looking for are those that told me." He rubbed his eyes tiredly and his voice once again became calm and cool, as if quite exhausted by his brief exertion. "You think I'm a total fucking idiot, Colonel?"
"I think you misunderstand the situation," Anderson said simply. "Think about this. All you've got now is survival. If you tell us what we want to know, you could live." He looked at Tom with what he must have thought was an imploring expression. "What do you have to lose?"
"Forgive me if my faith in the system is limited," Tom snorted derisively, "but I can't say I believe you. I refuse to condemn my contacts to the fate I must now face because of a misplaced trust in your damnable lies."
Shirley was amazed, for surely this man knew Anderson well enough, but he did not seem in the least intimidated by him. On the contrary, he was openly criticizing and speaking down to him. She knew now what she was in awe of this man: he was perhaps the bravest soul she had ever known.
In contrast to his regular response to such behavior, Anderson kept his calm quite well. "Oh, come on, Tom," he said, now twirling his gun playfully around on the table with his finger. "We're fighting a war against a vastly superior enemy and you're defending traitors to the UNSC. You do this in the name of morality? My God, ten million have died so far, and you are one man! We must make sacrifices to the greater cause, and you and the lives of the men and women you dealt with are those sacrifices."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Colonel," Tom said quietly, "but was that not the maxim of the Soviets? Of the Koslovic Regime?"
Anderson ignored the interjection. "You would do well to heed my advice, my friend," he said, dropping any pretence of true amicability. "Tell me: is this your final decision?"
Tom lowered his head and his neck shook almost imperceptibly as if he were silently mouthing a prayer. Shirley was almost convinced he might give in, but when he raised his head he bore an expression as defiant as ever. "It is." He was completely resigned to his fate.
"You always were stubborn," Anderson said with a hint of fondness in his voice. He then raised his pistol and fired.
The bullet cleaved brutally through Tom's head, spattering the dull cement wall behind him with dark red blood. The chair teetered precariously on its back two legs for a moment, then at last dropped to the ground leaving Tom's empty eyes to stare into nothingness with the same obstinate look frozen upon his pale, grimy face.
Anderson stood up wordlessly and walked out the door, saying a few words to the guard standing outside in the hall. He then said to Shirley, "Come with me."
Shirley was not in so much shock as to disobey her commander, but she did hesitate for the briefest moment. She gaped for as long as she dared at the bloody mess that had been a coherent and brave man only a moment before. She then wiped a speck of blood that stood out brightly against her unusually ashen face and hurried to follow Anderson from the room that had just changed her life forever.
They walked only a few doors down from the room where Tom had been killed and entered a second chamber, the same size as the previous one but in much better condition. He gestured for her to take a seat at an oak table that looked quite new and recently set up. She did so, and the Colonel also sat down in the seat opposite her.
For a fleeting second, Shirley had the ridiculous notion that Anderson would shoot her too. Anderson had taken her silently to this room, not twenty meters from where he had murdered Tom, and now stared at her with an odd gleam in his eyes. Maybe she had seen something she wasn't supposed to. Her instincts screamed at her to get up and run as far and as quickly as possible, but her senses kept her planted firmly to the seat of her chair.
Anderson continued to look at her, a faint smirk spreading gradually across his pallid lips. He was the master of psychological games, and right now it was working miracles on Shirley's disoriented mind. "What the hell just happened in there, sir?" she blurted out, her fear of his reprisal momentarily forgotten.
"Our dear captain back there found out something about us he shouldn't have," he replied easily. "And I will tell you exactly what it was he died for… if you're willing."
Shirley shook her head vigorously and looked accusingly at her commander. "Sir, I want some answers. I just saw you murder a man…"
Anderson slammed his fist on the table with startling strength. So sudden and forceful was this movement that it made Shirley jump back in her chair. "Don't be Goddamn naïve, Lieutenant! It pisses me off to see you rookies! You all turn out the same in the end." He scratched the stubble of his chin agitatedly and ran a hand swiftly through his hair, a gesture she recognized as the Colonel attempting to calm himself. "Okay, Lieutenant, I'll tell you everything you want to know about Tom."
"How long has he been here?" Shirley asked, this question for some reason being the foremost amongst her curiosity.
"Truth be told, I don't know exactly. The last time I saw him was three years ago during the Harvest missions. The incident happened shortly thereafter."
Three years. Three years in this freezing, barren prison. Such an experience was beyond her comprehension. She strained to understand how Tom had been so relaxed and composed.
"He was not tortured, if that's what you were thinking," Anderson added without invitation. "At least not in the way you're thinking."
Shirley did not really want to know what the Colonel meant by this so she did not venture to ask. She did, however, wish to know what would condemn a man to an icy, inhospitable world such as this one. What constituted robbing a man of his humanity, of caging him for years without chance of freedom and then shooting him like a dog? The knowledge that Anderson was prepared to tell her everything was too much for her to resist. "What did Tom know, sir?"
Anderson renewed his smirk, the manic gleam from before once again twinkling in his eyes. "Yes, there it is. That's the reason you're here. There's that itch, that insatiable lust for knowledge you crave, even though you know what it means for you." He paused at this moment to give her a chance to refute this, but she continued to stare stonily ahead, her face pale but resolved. "I would like to tell you the full extent of what he knew, but the boys upstairs are uneasy as it is, so I'll tell you what I can.
"As you know, an alien species known as the 'Covenant' has effectively declared war on humanity. Admiral Cole, of course, defeated their fleet at Harvest three years ago. I assume you know the real figures?" Shirley gave a short nod. The real numbered conflicted heavily with the propaganda reports of the media. An opponent of only a third of their numbers had destroyed over half the human fleet. "Well then, you know that it is a sensitive time for us? You know we cannot have any leaks to the general populace? It would cause a calamity in the Colonies."
"You killed that man because he knew the real statistics?" Shirley asked, appalled by the prospect. Half the Navy probably knew the real figures.
"No, for Christ's sake!" Anderson yelled, irritated at being interrupted. He wordlessly slid a datapad down the table to Shirley's waiting hands.
The datapad sported a small screen displaying a picture of seemingly no relevance. It showed a photograph of space, obviously taken from a ship or space station, the blackness spattered with a bright collection of stars. One particularly lustrous star was circled in red to show some significance but there was no text to explain it. The date at the bottom read "21st of June, 2519".
Shirley did not want to reveal her ignorance with regards to the picture's meaning, but it occurred to her that she could not possibly know what it portrayed without some clarification. "What am I supposed to be looking at, sir?" she asked, lowering her tone of stiff respect a little.
"That is a picture taken from the UNSC Glory about four and a half billion kilometers from the remote planet of Chi Cheti IV," the Colonel explained. "The figure you see circled was less than one hundred thousand kilometers away from the frigate. Unfortunately it disappeared before a closer examination could be made, but sensors from the Glory did pick up an unknown frequency emanating from the light source. Those frequencies have now been matched to the Covenant ships at Harvest."
It took a moment for Shirley to absorb all that had been said, for her mind was still swimming from her encounter with Tom. Suddenly, it all fell into place. 2519…
"You knew…" she began.
"Of course we knew, Lieutenant," Anderson said with a grunt. "You didn't think we were totally fucking incompetent? And this is only visual confirmation. We've been intercepting alien transmissions for the better part of the last century!" Anderson stood up and walked slowly around the room, choosing his words carefully. "You understand this cannot come out. If they knew that the Office of Naval Intelligence was aware of the Covenant before they attacked it may be seen as our fault that Harvest was destroyed. Such a dangerous weapon cannot fall into the hands of a blundering military man."
Shirley thought, silently, of Tom's composed, educated face, his grim resolve right up until the moment Anderson ended his life. He did not seem the blundering military type to her. But the Colonel had worked his magic on her. She offered no resistance. "I understand."
"Good," he said gruffly. Then, with a quick, sudden move, he placed his hands firmly over Shirley's forearms in the armrest of the chair and thrust his face close to hers. "Now understand this. Your life has just changed. You know a secret that could change the lives of millions, billions… and you're about to find out a lot more. But with such power comes sacrifices." If possible, he pushed his face even closer to hers. "You may no longer fraternize with anyone outside the agency without my express consent. That includes all friends and family. Shirley Steeves will cease to exist. Shirley Steeves will never have existed." He released her and stood back, but continued to hold her eyes. "Do you comply with what I have just said?"
And that is why I am here, Shirley thought dismally. I have no choice but to concede. I have seen what ONI does, I have looked into the very heart of their operations and secrets. If I refuse I will never leave this place alive.
It was then that she understood the simple brutality of Anderson's mind, the brilliance of the artlessness. But would such a Neanderthal mentality be effective on all those brought here, all those appalled by the true nature of the government they had in their serene naivety dedicated their lives to? 'Yes, that's the reason you're here,' Anderson had said. 'There's that itch, that insatiable lust for knowledge you crave, even though you know what it means for you." Was that enough? Was the Colonel's psychological profiling enough to guarantee ONI's discreetness?
For Shirley, it was. She realized that now. She realized that this was the life she chose, that she had forced the consequences upon herself. Anderson was right: her thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and her life up until now had to be sacrificed to quench that thirst. She made the decision without looking back.
"I agree to your terms, Colonel Anderson," she said coolly.
Anderson nodded to himself. There was no hint of triumph upon his hard face, but neither was there surprise. Everything had happened exactly as it should have. "Follow me, Lieutenant," he beckoned, walking briskly out of the door.
Shirley followed her commander once more. As she did, she remembered what the Colonel had said earlier. 'It pisses me off to see you rookies! You all turn out the same in the end.'
Is that my fate? Am I destined to become like Anderson, a cold killer who can view human life as nothing more than a hindrance to a greater cause, imagined or not?
More importantly, do I care?
Black on Black: Part 2
Date: 20 November 2005, 5:27 am
Shirley Steeves lay rigidly in her bed, her eyes, already adjusted to the darkness of the room, staring restlessly ahead. She had not looked at her alarm clock, but she knew it would ring in about a minute. Her sleeping patterns were more reliable than any creation of man; an hour long attempt to lull herself into rest, her mind buzzing but unable to concentrate on anything in particular, only to wake up an hour before she arbitrarily set her alarm. She was never able to get more than five hours of sleep a night, whatever her physical or mental state might be, and awoke without feeling any more refreshed. Occasionally she wondered if it was her conscience that kept her from rest or if she had always been a restless sleeper, but she could not remember if that was indeed the case. On some level she realized this should scare her, but she could not feel it.
She knew the exact second her alarm would ring, and as she did most mornings, lifted herself from the bed in tandem with its activation. "A heroic victory on Ceres III was unfortunately marred by the planet's ultimate glassing," a reporter read monotonously, "but the extraordinary efforts of our fighting Marines evacuated hundreds of thousands and gave the Covenant a bloody nose."
There was a time, not too long ago, she supposed, that she would have snorted indignantly at such a blatant lie. Ceres III had been abandoned to its fate without a shot fired, its negligible defense force pulled immediately back to the Inner Colonies before the Covenant had even left slipspace. She was no longer bothered by the propaganda that no longer had any basis in truth; she didn't even attempt to justify it to herself, either consciously or subconsciously. It was just the way it was.
She found that she had wandered into her bathroom and was now staring blankly into her mirror. She gripped the edge of her sink and pushed her face closer to the mirror, struck suddenly by the face staring back at her. She ran a hand over her cold, pale skin and tried half-heartedly to straighten the dark patches under her eyes, which themselves looked bloodshot and empty. Did I always look like this? she wondered, a rare streak of feeling washing over her. A corpse, no longer even half-alive, existing moment by moment like a hollow shell?
Shaking her head, she plunged her face into refreshingly cool water in an attempt to drown her thoughts and grudgingly swallowed whatever pills they had her on now. She left her bathroom and hastily dressed, slipping on black jeans and a dark sweater, having long ago abandoned the vanity of any accessories. She turned off her alarm on the way out and picked up her pistol from her bedside table.
Walking into the apartment's common room she saw that her partner, Jack Wilson, was, as usual, already up. He was making some strong coffee as he did every morning, eagerly wafting the invigorating aroma of the brew to help wake him up. He must have slept even less than Shirley, but he did find some small comfort in his morning cup of coffee whereas it simply made her sick.
He must have heard her come in for he greeted her without turning to face her. "Morning, sunshine," he said merrily.
If Shirley still had it in her to like anyone, it was Jack Wilson. To escape her feelings she simply retreated within herself, protecting herself in an emotionless shell sealed imperviously to the outside world. All she did was through hands connected only physically to her mind; she lived her whole life through someone else's eyes, her consciousness and her actions seemingly disconnected. Jack did the opposite, however. He pushed all his emotions to the surface in a great torrent, hiding all that lay beneath in the wild mix he projected to everyone, even, to an extent, himself. She suspected Jack's mind worked on several levels she had long ago abandoned and was a good deal more complex than her own. Both techniques were contrived for the same basic purpose, however: burying their personal atrocities below what might have been a decent soul.
For our sins, she thought.
"Good morning, Jack," she said, not without sincerity, but without any real spirit. She walked to the fridge and pulled a tasteless nutrition supplement from the nearly empty shelf, forcing the sludge into her turbulent stomach. I don't sleep and don't eat, she thought to herself. On what do I sustain myself? Am I still even human?
They leaned against the dark granite counter of the kitchen together for a while in silence, Jack contentedly sipping his coffee, Shirley swallowing her breakfast down with a business-like determination. She surveyed the apartment with distaste. Its modern blandness did nothing to improve her mood, for it was comprised of hard angles, dark colors, and chrome surfaces. That they had been here for only three days just made the place look more temporary and antiseptic, more like a hospital room than a residence. ONI rented all their rooms for them, of course. Doubtless they chose them carefully and deliberately. She wondered if that should outrage her.
As he finished the last of his generous cup of coffee he stared deliberately at Shirley from the corner of his eye, gazing at her from head to toe with obvious longing. "You look good today, Shir," he said earnestly after studying her drab, baggy outfit.
She did not look at him, merely stared ahead, but she did award him with a small smile. These moments were about the only ones she ever enjoyed in her day, the time spent with Jack in the morning. His usual playfulness and his blatant lust for her in some way kept her in touch with what remained of her humanity. Of course, his sentiments were in no way reciprocated – she had long ago ceased harboring any sexual feeling. Any such physical sociality no longer seemed possible, let alone desirable, yet such a base human drive nevertheless filled her with a warmth she could find no where else.
"Thanks, Jack," she replied, setting her empty container down on the counter to be disposed of later. "You don't look too shabby yourself."
He smiled genuinely, apparently pleased with the offhand compliment, and hurried over to the closet by the door to retrieve her coat. He held it out helpfully for her, his smile developing into a mischievous, childish grin. "It's raining out, you know. Only ten degrees last time I heard."
"Yes, well, happy holidays, I suppose," she said, slipping her arms lightly through the sleeves of the dark trench coat Jack was still holding for her, deciding to give him the sense of chivalry he was obviously so keen for.
"Mmm," he said with a small chuckle. "So, is the plan still set as it was? Kensington Park in two hours?" His voice had lost some of its frivolity as he got down to the business they both took such reluctant pride in doing well.
"As far as I know," she confirmed. She secured her pistol in the holster on her belt and readied herself to leave. "I'll of course contact you if anything goes wrong."
"See you, then," he said in parting and closed the door behind her.
It was indeed raining out, a cold, November rain that quickly drenched her long, dark hair and chilled her to the bone. She could have waited in the apartment and simply taken the subway when the time came, but she felt compelled to walk, all the greater because of the rain. It covered everything in a shiny coat of fresh water, making the cars and expansive windows of the endless skyscrapers glow with a shiny luminance from the streetlights that still lit the dark, empty streets. The occasional vehicle passed on the four-lane avenue down which she walked, but for the most part they were automated commercial trucks or police cars, and neither was a particularly warming sight. It was a cold, dark, and lonely scene, and that fit her mood perfectly.
She walked for about an hour, the traffic and amount of pedestrians increasing with each passing minute. The city of Richfield, unofficially recognized as the planetary capital of Reach, was a bustling place, and even at just past six in the morning its commuters were already out in force. The streets slowly filled with lines of slow moving cars with sleepy, impatient drivers, the sidewalks with impersonal, dreary workers shrugging the chill rain off them with grim determination. Shirley looked at them as they passed, heads bent, half-awake. One might not even guess humanity was being inexorably wiped out.
In the distance she spotted the car she and Jack had placed the day before. It was small and black, a vehicle quite like any other and attracted no attention from pedestrians that now packed the sidewalks. Shirley was glad for the crowd; no one would notice what was about to happen.
He came out of the hotel doors before the car almost the very moment she reached them. He was short with broad shoulders and wore a non-descript dark trench coat that blended in quite well with the mass of dark, slick bodies that seemed to pulsate and quiver like a great, single-minded entity. He joined the flow which gravitated almost solely to the subway station just down the street, instinctually matching the speed of everyone else.
Shirley did quite the opposite, elbowing people roughly out of her way in her attempt to catch up to the man, receiving vague but forceful reprisals for her efforts. When she was side by side with her target she shouldered him with deliberate strength, causing him to stop and stumble. He mumbled his forgiveness without waiting for an apology but found his way blocked as she twisted to get in front of him. He looked into her face and studied her curiously but his attention was drawn quickly down to where she had her pistol pressed forcefully against his gut. He looked back up, his face full of surprise.
"Don't make a scene, Brian," she whispered just quietly enough to be heard. "Now turn around."
He did so obediently and without hesitation, eager to please. They got some grumbling from the commuters as they walked together against the unrelenting tide, but no one gave so much as a glance to the weapon Shirley now had against the small of the man's back. She imagined him wishing feverishly for someone to notice, knowing at the same time the futility of the hope. She wondered if he even yet knew what this was about.
"Open the door," she commanded when the reached the car. He did so, and without waiting to receive her second order clambered into the seat. Shirley positioned her body to cover the open door so no over-curious passerby could see what was happening. She still had her pistol pointed at him with one hand and with the other she tossed him a pair of hand-cuffs. "Cuff yourself to the dash," she said, indicating a small crossbar that had been specially installed underneath the dashboard. He obeyed, looping the chain around the bar and securing them to each wrist. He tested his range of movement tentatively and found it to be uncomfortably limited.
Shirley closed the door without another word and walked to the driver's side door. She got in and was glad to see the man had not tried anything stupid but merely waited patiently in his seat, looking disconsolately at his bindings. She started the car and pulled out of her space and joined the long procession of vehicles that moved sluggishly from the residential sector to heavily commercial downtown district. At least I'll be able to avoid that little jam, she thought caustically.
"What do you want with me?" her subject asked at last, his voice admirably calm.
"No talking," was all she said. For her reticence he rattled his restraints defiantly against the bar, but after a threatening glance from the corner of her eye he ceased his efforts.
She hated these jobs. They were distasteful, cold, inhuman. They always left her with a bad taste in her mouth. This was not what I signed up for, she thought miserably.
After turning off from the bulk of traffic heading east towards downtown, she got on the highway and headed west, out of the city. The man must have recognized this, for he tensed visibly in his seat, but he must have taken her warning to heart, for he did not question their destination. This early in the morning had the highway nearly abandoned, so they quickly left the awakening city behind them, its flickering lights lost in the dense fog and driving rain.
She pulled off the highway and steered into a dark and dreary looking park. This late in the season the trees were more or less barren and dead, and the thick haze that obscured the tips of the branches did nothing to improve its forbidding appearance. The man looked understandably alarmed when they turned into this abandoned park, and when she stopped just inside he could not contain himself any longer.
"Why have you taken me here?" he asked nervously.
"I just want to ask you a few questions," Shirley answered obligingly. She pulled a small recording device from her pocket and placed it on the dashboard, then turned to the man. "Please state your full name for the record," she said.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded angrily, but eventually decided he would find out sooner if he cooperated. Sighing, he said, "My name is Brian Matthew White."
"Okay, good," Shirley said soothingly. "Now, where were you on June 2nd, 2536?"
This got an immediate reaction from him. His eyes widened in understanding, his face blanched, his body shook. At least this one is surely guilty she thought.
"I don't remember," he stammered desperately.
"I don't have a long time here, Mr. White," she said threateningly and pulled a knife from her belt. "I'll ask you again: where were you on June 2nd of last year?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered steadfastly, his eyes fixed warily on the blade that she lay across her lap.
She sighed. "Well, let's get right to it then, shall we?" Without warning she lifted the knife and plunged it up to the handle into his thigh. He screamed and arched his back, thrashing violently in his seat, desperately straining against the bar. "Where were you?" she shouted above his screams.
"I don't know!" he managed, and in response Shirley twisted the knife brutally and pulled it up towards his pelvis, cutting skin and muscle and drenching the seat in dark blood. He howled in agony, his leg shifting as much as he could move it to avoid the sharp blade, but it only made the pain worse.
"Okay, okay!" he pleaded, and she wrenched the knife brutally from his leg and set it down. She would no longer need it. What a shitty job.
"Where were you?" she asked for a final time, wiping her blood covered hand on her coat.
White was breathing heavily now and his body shook visibly. Each breath wracked his chest and came out loud and rasping. His face, already pale, was now a deathly white. The wound in his thigh continued to well blood precipitously and he tried without success to tighten the muscle to slow the bleeding.
"I was here in Richfield," he said, his head leaning back against the head rest and his eyes closed. "I was meeting with a man in my office building."
"Was his name Jia Lang?" she asked, knowing the answer.
He nodded. "Yes."
Shirley decided to take control the conversation. "And you were meeting to discuss the sale of Covenant weaponry obtained by the UNSC to the pirate group known as 'Red Dawn'. Weapons you stole. Is that correct, sir?"
Again, he nodded, his resistance having been bled out of him. "Yes."
It wasn't just the job that disgusted her. People like this, illegal profiteers from a war directed towards saving humanity from extinction, deserved all she was required to inflict upon them. What was the justification in his mind to weaken such a straightforward cause? It was self-defeating, it bit the very hand that was trying to protect it, and most of all it was irrevocably human.
Shirley turned the recorder off and put it away. It wasn't much of a confession, but it was enough, and she was doubtful that anybody would pay much attention to it. It was a formality, the tedious precursor to a job that was clear even to Shirley to be a necessity.
"What's going to happen to me?" White ventured with a wince.
"Your record at your company will be deleted, as will your registration with the Reach planetary government," she explained, carefully checking that the chamber of her pistol was loaded. "You will not be recognized. Your family will not be notified, your body will never be found. It will be as though you never existed."
He sobbed, the realization of what was about to happen filling him with a renewed, frantic energy. He strained against his handcuffs with all the strength left to him, his feet pushing as hard as they could against the floor of the car in an effort to free himself. The car was specially designed to limit movement, however, and he quickly gave up on his efforts, instead shrinking away from Shirley and pleading pitifully with her.
She in fact received some small measure of justice as she saw White squirm, and she raised her pistol with deliberate slowness, holding his eyes with her own. There was no mercy in them, and it was hopelessly that White cried, "Please, for the love of God, no!"
She pulled the trigger, blowing out his brains and the window beside him. The heavy rain and chill air blew into the car, immediately drenching his corpse and the leather interior. It washed the blood from his head down the passenger side of the car where it joined the puddles outside to cover the earth in red.
Feeling thoroughly less pleased with herself as she always did just after a kill, she pulled up a console from the driver's armrest, punched in a few commands, and set the timer for one minute. She hastily got out of the car and walked briskly through the cold rain that had, if anything, gotten fiercer, towards a pair of headlights that shone brightly through the dense fog. She turned around when she had counted sixty seconds in her head as a ball of fire lit up the murky woods. The plasma tipped explosive washed heat across her face painfully in stark contrast to the cool water that coated her pale skin. Such was the power of the bomb that investigators would be hard pressed to determine the remains had been a car at all let alone any human within.
Shirley opened the car door and stepped in, closing it quickly in her eagerness to escape the driving rain. "It's done," she said tonelessly.
Jack didn't say anything. She never wanted to talk after her missions, and he always respected that. He knew what it was like, doubtless. It was impossible not to take a life and not leave a little of your own behind. She had known that before Farrius V, before Anderson, but she had been prepared for that sacrifice as long as she knew what it was for.
Now it really didn't matter anymore.
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