The Honey Trap (Chapter 5)

       Dr. Allison Krieger stood motionless, in quiet contemplation, watching her fish as they swam gracefully within the large wall sized aquarium. There was an audible hum as the cleaner drones disposed of the uneaten food and drink, returning the table to its normal day to day state.

      The door chimed.

      “Enter,”she said, her attention still focused on the fish. A Deteis member of her research staff entered the darkened dining room. He wore a white lab coat. His sandy blonde hair was cropped close. Although he was visibly younger than her, in his early thirties, he exuded a sense of quiet professionalism that belied his youth. Allison glanced over her shoulder at him as he entered. The light from the aquarium cast an iridescent blue sheen over her face.

      “Good evening Dr. Magad,” Allison said, nodding in his direction, before turning her gaze back to the tropical underwater world.

      “Looks like the dinner went well,” he said, observing the drones cleaning the table. “Did you learn anything new about his origins?” He approached her as he spoke, coming to a stop a few feet off her left shoulder.

      “He was surprisingly forthcoming with questions that helped me form a rough personality profile.” She crossed her arms and took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “He wouldn't answer anything that would help us identify him, or the group he works for. I didn't bother to press him about it further. From our talk in interrogation it was clear he wasn't going to give that information up.”

      Dr. Magad had a look of mild surprise on his face. “Have you seen someone like him come through here?”

     “Never. Even if their records are sealed or classified to the highest levels there are always records. Someone went through a lot of trouble to make this man disappear.”

      “I see,” he said in a concerned tone. His eyes tracking one of the neon colored fish that weaved in and out of the corral rock. “Subject 11 has no personality tests or combat records on file. It should be interesting to see if he can make it through the program without a psychological breakdown.”

      “Indeed.” She glanced at him, pausing to consider his statement. “Since we can't fully account for his background, I want you to record notes and data points on him, as normal, but make sure that none of Subject Eleven's test results are included in the final statistical analysis. As far as I'm concerned he is an outlier.”

      “Understood,” he said nodding. “Shall I assign him to a random team?”

      “No...put him in Fire-team Alpha.”

      “Throwing him to the wolves from the get go?”

      She smirked mischievously. “Something like that.”

***

      “You wanted to see me, Chairman?

      “I did, Director Berkley, come in.”

      The slender gray haired man stepped through a metallic doorway into the darkened conference room. The Chairman sat alone at the head of a long table centered in the middle of the large dimly lit chamber. A few feet above the table was a holographic star-chart of the New Eden galaxy. It rotated slowly, creating an eerie blue glow that permeated the room.

      Chairman Mabius, like the director, was Deteis but a few years older. Mabius extended an open hand, motioning for the director to take a seat. The director obliged, crossing the room and seating himself to Mabius' right. Mabius removed a cigarette from a case on the desk. He extended the case toward the director.

      “No, thank you.”
      “Just as well, it's a filthy habit anyway,” he said as he lit the cigarette and took a slow drag. He exhaled upward, blowing the pungent smoke toward the star-chart. There was a slight distortion as the smoke mingled with the light. Director Berkley was about to speak when he noticed Mabius staring intently upon the star-chart above them. Berkley found his eyes searching the star-chart for the source of the chairman's apparent fixation. Clearly visible were the various stargate networks that crisscrossed New Eden.

      “It's beautiful isn't it?” Mabius asked.

      The director nodded but remained silent.

      “I sometimes find myself staring up at it with such focus I lose track of entire tracts of time. I must admit it's not an unpleasant occurrence. New Eden's beauty brings me a measure of peace, even during some of the more...turbulent times,” Mabius said, his steely gray eyes still fixed on the image above.

      “I can share the beauty sentiment, but I think that's where we part ways.” Director Berkley's eyes passed over the image as he spoke. “New Eden is as dangerous as it is beautiful. When I look at those stars I can never separate that reality from the representation. All those threats beyond our borders, all laid out clearly for us to see. I see star systems which at worst harbor our numerous enemies,” Berkley said, pointing to the general area of Gallente space, “and at best they contain the forces of lukewarm allies.” He gestured toward the systems belonging to the Amarr. “Not to mention the growing power and unpredictability of the capsuleer class. I don't honestly see how you can look up at that star-chart and derive any kind peace from it.”

      Chairman Mabius leaned back in his chair chuckling. “That's the kind of response I'd expect from a director of operations,” he said with a grin. “Always focus on the threat. With all that training and daily operational experience it becomes a mantra to live by, second nature.” He took another long drag off the cigarette and exhaled. “I was in your shoes not so long ago, I remember all too well what it was like.” His expression became more serious and he leaned forward, his blue eyes focused squarely on the director's face. “There are threats out there, director, that much is undeniable,” he said as he waved his hand in front of his face in a dismissive gesture. “It's important to never lose sight of them, but for every threat and danger that exists out there, there exist many more...opportunities. Opportunities to exploit the weaknesses of our enemies, to turn them on each other, to extend our influence, to bend our enemies to our will.” He paused to tap the cigarette ash into a nearby tray. “It is those opportunities which bring me peace.” He paused, looking back up at the image. “When I stare up at that map I know that for every threat out there, there's ten ropes to hang them with.”

      Director Berkley nodded, and sat silently for a moment. “I'm guessing you didn't summon me here to stare at the star-chart,” he said with a slight smirk.

      “No, I did not,” Mabius said, leaning back to adjust his suit slightly. “I wanted an update on the operative within the Osiris project.”

      “He was moved into place four days ago. The project team confirmed his physiological compatibility with the technology.”
      “I assume you chose an operative that is fully up to the task.”
      The director nodded in the affirmative. “Our psychoanalysts hand picked him as the best suited for the project. The man was a killer before we ever got our hands on him. He's thoroughly battle tested, one of the best operators we have. I'm told he should perform well, but there are no guarantees. Data on how the human psyche copes under that set of circumstances is highly limited.”

      “We will know soon enough,” Mabius said, toking off the cigarette.

      “Combat testing will begin within the next 24 hours. I will be receiving and monitoring performance reports from our contacts within the BPD. Information flow out of the facility will be extremely limited given the nature of the project,” the director said, his brow furrowing noticeably.

      “I know that look,” Mabius said, studying the directors face. “You have concerns you want to voice. Speak them now.”

      The director shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I still have...” he paused briefly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “reservations about your decision to intentionally compromise the security of the project. Project Osiris represents the largest leap forward in Caldari military technology since the capsule. It would provide us with a significant edge over our enemies,” Berkley cautioned. “If he gets his hands on the cloning technology it won't be long before it's up for grabs to the highest bidder, and we both know who that would be.”

      “Your concerns are understandable, but the leak is already underway. We are committed to this course of action. That being said, I still need your continued discretion regarding this operation. The success or failure of this will ride heavily upon secrecy. No one new should be brought into the loop... that includes members of the council.”

      “Keeping this a secret may prove difficult. The project is already on the radar of several members of the council. Especially after the near miss with the Amarrian spy ring. If this operation touches off a larger incident there will be an investigation, one that might lead back to us,” Berkley warned.

      Mabius' face turned determined, and he raised his voice to match. “By then it will be too late. I'll deal with them if it comes to that. Regardless of how the rest of the council would see it, the Osiris project is more useful as a necessary sacrifice to achieve a much larger objective. How long after the deployment of the technology before the other major powers catch on and make progress to reestablish parity?” The chairman paused as if waiting for the director to answer.

      Berkley remained silent.

      Mabius' voice calmed slightly. “The project, even if it could be kept a secret until it was ready for deployment, would provide a temporary edge at best.  An edge that would be offset by the current fractured nature of the State. We would never be able to use the advantage in time to do anything meaningful.” Mabius pressed a finger into the desk as if to punctuate the end of the sentence. “The speed with which capsule technology spread serves as the perfect example of how short a time such a technological advantage can be maintained. Proliferation is assured regardless of what we do.”

      Berkley nodded in agreement. “The possibility exists he might want the project destroyed if he views it as a threat to his own advances.”

      Mabius leaned forward, interlacing his hands in front of him with his elbows resting on the table. His voice lowered slightly. “Steps will be taken to ensure the technology won't be lost to us regardless of his intentions.”

      “I haven't been apprised of such plans,” the director said with a raised eyebrow.

      “They exist.”

      “You have assets in play I don't know about?” Berkley asked, noticeably irritated.

      “It will be taken care of,” Mabius said, waving his hand dismissively. “That is all you need to know for now. Despite the risks involved, the project is the perfect bait. That much is undeniable. The new cloning technology, the potential military application, and the presence of an asset of ours he could turn against us...he won't be able to resist it. It leaves us with an opportunity...an opportunity we should use to our advantage.”

The Dinner (Chapter 4)

It wasn’t long before a man in a white labcoat appeared.  He brought my clothes with him.  The thirty something Deteis gentlemen stepped out while I changed, but waited just outside the door to the interrogation cell.  It was clear my clothes had been cleaned, but upon further inspection I noticed they had been tampered with.  There were hidden compartments built into my clothing that had previously hid weapons.  Most were composite bladed weapons, fashioned in such a way that made them appear to be normal parts of the clothing.   In addition to those, was a wire built into the lining of my pants that could be used as a garrote.  My belt was missing as well, and the belt was just a belt.  
         
         Irritating.  
         
         When I was ready I stepped outside.

“If you’ll follow me please,”  the Deteis said, motioning for me to follow.

I walked a step behind him down a well lit series of grey concrete corridors.  There were many steel doors but no windows.  I could make out a faint humming noise coming from somewhere down the hall, but was unable to discern its source.  There was a faint odor of bleach in the air, as if this area had been disinfected recently.  I got the distinct impression that we were underground.     

I felt an odd mix of relief and anxiety.  On the positive side of things, I wasn’t captured or awaiting torture.  On the downside I had undergone surgery without my knowledge or consent.  Compounding the issue, there were far more questions than answers, especially when it came to the socket at the base of my skull.  To make matters worse Allison would likely continue to grill me about my past.

The unhealthy interest Dr. Krieger seemed to have in my employers was troubling.  Aside from information regarding assignments I had played a direct and incriminating role in, there wasn’t much information about the organization I could have given her, and certainly nothing that she could have acted on. 

Within the organization, I was kept on a need to know basis.  Information and assignments were compartmentalized in such a way that I was not made aware of other operatives activities, whereabouts, names of the members of other units unless it was deemed necessary.  I'm not sure how many units existed.  I wouldn't even be able to estimate that sort of thing.  
          Discretion was very important to our overall health and well-being.  A lack of discretion usually resulted in an unpleasant death.  If operators had family it wasn’t unheard of for them to share in the burden of that operator’s indiscretion.  The word burden in that last sentence being synonymous with unpleasant death.  They were secretive about many things, but went out of their way to show us the consequences of actions they didn't approve of.  Despite the plethora of reasons to keep quiet, we were all viewed as liabilities to the operation as a whole.

The mantra of compartmentalization was maintained even at Center, the training facility for operators like myself.   Units were kept separate as much as possible during training.  Active communication attempts between training units was forbidden, and violations were punished harshly.  
           Center itself, was a mystery even to the people who trained at the facility.  It's location was kept a secret to the trainees.  I suspected it was located within the belly of a large cloaked ship that moved around to avoid detection.  Some within my unit seemed to believe it was underground.  Nobody within my unit knew for sure, and handlers usually discouraged conversation on the topic.  It seemed as if nobody within the unit had ever returned to Center after the completion of training.  As a result nobody knew where it was or how to find it.  
          I had no idea who comprised the organization’s core leadership, or even how many of them there were.  As for the operation’s true purpose and goals, only the person(s) at the top knew for sure.  What I did know was that agents operated in independent cells of 4-6 operatives that were overseen by a handler.  Handlers reported to, and received assignments from someone up the chain of command.  I was never made aware of how this occurred, I just knew it did.  Operations ranged from anything from reconnaissance and espionage to sabotage and assassination.  Targets were usually foreign or domestic threats to the State.  

How pervasive and far reaching was the influence of the organization?  I couldn't say for sure, but I had seen things, done things, and gotten access to places that would not have been possible without influential forces pulling the strings.  

Early in my career, within the organization, I was a member of a small team of five other operatives.  I was told my talents drew the attention of someone further up the chain of command, and it wasn’t long before I was singled out for special training which prepared me to work alone, primarily to do wet-work.  In the beginning the missions were against targets and assets that belonged to non State factions, but as I continued to succeed I noticed that the missions became increasingly aimed toward domestic targets within the State itself.  I was often sent on assignments that would have gotten me branded as a traitor, and likely executed as one, had I been caught.  Such operations became increasingly frequent and concomitantly disturbing, and although I tried not to show my discomfort my handler eventually picked up on it.

I remember him taking me aside after a mission I wasn't comfortable with. He gave me a long metaphorical speech about how the Caldari State was a lot like a living organism, in which each of the mega-corporations played the role of an organ.  In an organism, the organs worked together seamlessly for the continued life and growth of the whole body.  Under ideal circumstances the State functioned in the same manner, but in actuality each corporation was more like an organ working toward it’s own rapacious self interest, which would have fine as long as it did not harm the organism while it did so.  The problem was that this was often not the case.  

The Caldari State theoretically had institutional as well as social checks and balances in place to help insure corporations didn’t attempt to better their positions at the expense of the State as a whole.  In practice, the checks and balances failed often.  The kind of men that typically rose to the top, within the corporate power structures, were ruthless individuals that hid in the shadows behind lies and proxy stooges.  They accumulated power for its own sake.  Some inevitably become malignant cancers within the organism of the State, requiring intervention to bring things back into balance; surgery to save the organism.  Sometimes that meant killing a director, sometimes that meant planting falsified evidence to implicate a military leader in a crime, and sometimes that meant something far more extreme.

It was a good metaphor, but I wasn’t naive.  I believed that he believed what he said was true.  Perhaps on some level it was, but I had seen first hand what ambition, deep pockets, and a lack of accountability could do.  I'd been sent to take down rogue operatives or intelligence outfits on several separate occasions in the past.  They went off the reservation fairly often, especially when they operated on the fringes of space, far from the watchful eyes of those they were held accountable to.  Even intelligence outfits that were started with the best intentions could take on a life of their own over time, eventually becoming a problem that had to be dealt with.  It wasn’t a stretch to assume we had fallen victim to the same corruption.  After all, while we were watching the State who was watching us?

In the end it was something for me to ponder while brooding over a drink at night.  There was no use losing any sleep over it, and it was a distraction from what was really important, accomplishing the mission and surviving to do it again.  Anything else was just a distraction.  Besides, most of us were raised to see the world in black in white, the brighter among us see things as they really are, shades of grey.    

“This way sir,” the Deteis said as he opened a metal door and motioned for me to step inside.  He didn’t follow.  The door slid closed behind me, as I stepped into the dining room.

It was a large brightly lit room with white walls.  To the left side of the room was a large aquarium that nearly took up the entire wall. It was filled with colorful exotic freshwater fish.  They weaved in and out of the rocks and submerged aquatic plants.  In the center of the room was a sleek looking long table with several chairs.  There were two places set at the center of the table opposite each other, and several dishes laid out under platters.  After walking through spartan hallways that looked like the inside of an underground bunker I wasn’t expecting a room so lavish in appearance.  

“Have a seat I’ll be out in a moment,” I heard Allison shout from an adjacent room.

I sat down in the chair behind the plate nearest to me.  There was the unmistakable odor of long limed roes in the air. Someone pulled out all the stops tonight.

Allison emerged from the next room wearing a grey form fitting dress with matching heels.  The dress showed a conservative amount of skin, but left little up to the imagination about the shape of the fit body below it.  It was sleeveless, showing off her thin but athletically toned arms. Her straight dark brunette hair draped down over her shoulders.  She moved for the chair opposite mine, on the other side of the table.  

“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but I had security remove some of your more...weaponized accessories.  You won’t be needing them here.  Some of them were rather creative,” she said as she sat down gracefully.  “The garrote trouser lining was an especially nice touch.”

“I’m more upset about my missing belt.”

“What was so special about the belt?”  she asked.

“It helped hold up my pants,” I said, reaching for a glass of what appeared to be water.  I passed it under my nose to confirm my assumption.  Satisfied I was correct, I took a sip.  

“I’ll see what I can do about getting it back to you,” she said with a smile.  She lifted her tray off her plate, and motioned for me to follow suit. “Help yourself.  I’m sure you’re hungry.”  

I nursed the water slowly, taking small sips.  “How long was I kept unconscious?”

“About three days,” she said, starting on her roes with her fork.     
          I watched her closely for a few moments as she ate.  She made brief eye contact and turned her attention back to her long limbed roes.  I changed my focus to my platter.  Lifting it, I discovered roes, various vegetables, and a steak.  The steak was unquestionably real, not the protein "delicacy" crap that most people throughout the galaxy ate.  The dishes were well seasoned and professionally garnished.  It was a meal worthy of a corporate CEO.

I decided to break the silence first.  “The socket seems a lot like a capsuleer neural socket.”

“Yes it does doesn’t it?” she said between bites.  She paused in thought for a few moments, before looking me directly in the eye.  “But that’s business and we have plenty of time to get to that after we finish eating.  You’re my dinner guest and I don’t know about you, but I prefer light hearted dinner conversation.”  She smirked.            
           I stared back at her blankly.  She continued to eat, but met my stare as she chewed.  An uncomfortable silence settled in.  

“You’re not much of a talker are you?” she quipped.

“Frankly, I find it a little difficult to have a casual dinner conversation when my host drilled a hole into the base of my head nature didn’t intend,”  I said, making no attempt to hide my irritation.

She smiled but said nothing, and continued to eat.  The uncomfortable silence returned.  I decided to try the roes.  They were as genuine as the steak, and very savory.  As I ate them I began to feel a little more generous.

“Okay, lets start over.  So you’re a doctor.  A doctor of what exactly?”  I asked mockingly.

“I hold a doctorate in the field of neurobiology, specializing in neuroplasticity.  I also hold doctorates in psychology, and of course medicine,” she answered happily, ignoring my tone.

“That’s pretty impressive.” I nodded in genuine approval.

“I’d like to think so.” She said, flashing a cat like smile.

“So, why choose those particular fields?  I’ve been told whenever someone wanted to study psychology it was because they were trying to figure out what was wrong with themselves,” I said with a malicious grin.

She ignored the jab.  “I’ve always been fascinated with with the human form.  Especially the human brain, the mind as well of course.  Many people consider them separate...I don’t.  On top of everything else, I like to consider myself a student of human behavior.  Why do people act the way they do?  Why do they feel the way they feel?  The psychology behind people in your line of work is particularly fascinating to me.”

“Why is that?” I asked, reaching across the table to pour more water into my glass.

“There are a lot of reasons.  Take for example, the way different individuals react to combat stress, or more specifically, the myriad of factors which go into determining why an individual performs bravely in combat while another has a complete mental break down under identical circumstances,” she said, sipping from the wine glass before continuing.  “Military psychologists have employed psychological tests and various other methods in the attempt to identify and eliminate people who are less suited to combat roles before they reach the battlefield.  They met with varying degrees of success, but despite the effort they have never really been able to find a truly accurate model for predicting an individuals predisposition to combat stressors, at least not one that didn’t involve a history that detailed past combat performance."
          I nodded, listening with mild interest as I ate.  
          "Predicting an individual's predilection to violent behavior is just as difficult. Even predictive brain scan technology hasn’t been able to crack the puzzle.  Sure, the scanners usually do a fairly good job of singling out risky individuals just before they carry out violent acts, but they can’t really predict what that same person would or wouldn’t be capable of doing down the line.”

“Wolves and sheep,”  I mused.

“Wolves and sheep?”  she repeated inquisitively.  Her eyes narrowed slightly as she cocked her head to one side.

“In my experience there are two types of people in the universe.  There are wolves, people who are the hunters, the predators.  For them aggression comes easy, it’s attractive, even natural.  Then there are the sheep, or carebears as the capsuleers so aptly name the egger equivalent.  The fearful masses.  They avoid serious conflicts that can result in bodily harm to themselves or others.  The overwhelming majority of people fall into the sheep category.”  I paused considering my next words.  Her bright green eyes watched me with an unwavering gaze.  “There are many sheep that think they are wolves, it’s some sort of coping or defense mechanism.  I suppose there are rare circumstances where a wolf thinks they are a sheep.  There really isn’t a way to know which group you fall into until you’re put to the test, I guess.”  

“I suppose you fall into the wolf category,”  she said as a mischievous grin appeared on her face.

 I nodded slowly.

 “And when did you come to that realization?”  
            She turned her knife and fork on her steak while waiting for me to respond.  I was silent for a while before finally deciding to answer.  
           “A few years ago I was on a reconnaissance patrol in a dense jungle environment.  We had seen lots of guerrilla hit and run style fighting for the better part of two days.  I went out alone looking for signs of where the enemy unit had retreated after we broke contact.  It was my first time seeing real action.  I had been out there for a few hours and was fatigued by lack of sleep...but why it happened doesn’t matter now, I suppose," I mused.  "In any case I was uncharacteristically sloppy.  I was following a trail through rough terrain when a soldier, probably the same one who’s trail I had been following, jumped out from behind a tree.  He had the drop on me, was real close...ten meters or so.”  

I shook my head slowly, and took a long sip of water before I spoke again.  
          “He had me dead to rights.  Rifle was pointed right at me.  He could have opened up on me with his eyes closed, and he’d have killed me anyway...he was that close.  I turned my head to look at him because I wanted to at least get a glimpse of the face of the person who was about to kill me... and we locked eyes.  Then something I didn’t expect happened...he just...froze up.  I was waiting for him to pull the trigger or for him to yell at me to drop my weapon and surrender, but he just stood there with the rifle pointed at me.  His eyes were open as wide as dinner plates.  I could see him shaking like a leaf.  Apparently he was alone.  I guess he had gotten separated from the rest of his unit somehow.  I can still remember his face like it was yesterday...those wide eyes.  He was roughly my same age maybe younger...just a scared kid.”  My voiced trailed off.

“What happened?”  Allison asked.

“I snapshot him in the head, no hesitation, boom.  He went limp and crumpled straight to the ground under the weight of his equipment.  He just dropped straight down.  That wasn’t the first person I had ever killed, but that was the first I time I had been so close, the first time I watched someone I killed die.  It was in that moment, as I looked down at him, at that star shaped hole in his head that used to be an eyeball, watching the life drain out of him...that’s when I knew...I had always suspected, but in that moment I was sure.”

She nodded, staring at me intently.  “How did it make you feel?”

“I remember being a little upset he got the jump on me in the first place, but other than that I was just glad it was him and not me.  I felt...satisfied, I guess.”

“Interesting,” Allison said.

 “I’ve seen people freeze up when push came to shove.  It’s pretty common.  Killing just isn’t in most people’s natures.  There's the common belief that mankind as a whole is some kind of killing machine, but for the most part it simply isn’t true.  It's just a rumor the scared sheep spread.  Those who haven’t seen wolves prefer to live as if they don’t exist, and those that have seen wolves see them everywhere, regardless of whether they are really there.”  

She nodded again.  “I’ve done research that would agree with you.  There is a strong genetic imperative amongst most mammalian species that creates a strong resistance to killing members of their own species.  It’s not easy for most to overcome even with training,” she said while cutting into a piece of meat. “Even amongst the capsuleers roughly 10% of them are responsible for 90% of the violence against other capsuleers in a given day, and they aren't even killing each other face to face.  Although they don’t seem to have an issue with turning their guns against mortals.”  She paused for a bite before continuing.  “Interestingly enough evidence shows most psychiatric casualties in warfare don’t stem from threat of death, but from the fear or guilt associated with killing.”

I gave a knowing nod. “You can train sheep to kill each other, but at the end of the day it’s against their nature.  There are consequences that come after.” 
           I inspected some of the vegetables in front of me.  There was some sort of exotic tuber I hadn’t seen before.  I took a small bite of it, and encouraged by the taste I ate the rest of it.

           “What do you think motivates people to kill?”  she asked.
           “Heh, I think the harder question is why don’t they do it more often?”
           “Well?” she insisted.
           “There are a lot of reasons to kill.  Mankind never runs out of reasons to kill.  Some kill in the name of a god, some faceless, unseen, all powerful being that apparently needs his peons to do the dirty work in his name,”  I said, sneering.
           “It’s safe to say you don’t believe in a god then?  I was always under the impression there were no atheists in foxholes.” Her tone was noticeably facetious .
           “I don’t know about you, but I don’t consider yelling god damn it repeatedly while under fire a sign of religious belief.  It’s just something you say.”
           “Ah,” she smiled, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.  Continue.”
            I took a moment to regain my train of thought.  “Some believe they kill for the greater good,” I said, making quotes in the air with my fingers, “then proceed to declare, in their arrogance, what that greater good is.  Then there are some that kill out of duty or loyalty to a cause.  It’s all basically killing in the name of something larger than oneself.  Which, I suppose,  is really not all that different from killing in the name of a god, except it’s being done for something a little more tangible.  There countless reasons to kill.  So many justifications to give, and most of it is just that...justifications.”  I paused in thought for a few moments, while cutting a few pieces from my steak. “Some do it out of necessity, self defense, or defense of friends or family.  Some simply enjoy it, but in nearly all cases people usually find a way to shift the responsibility their actions off on some sort of excuse.  Blame it on society or not being hugged enough as a child.”
           “How do you justify it?  If that’s not too personal a question to ask.”
           “I figured that question was coming," I said, wincing slightly.  "I don’t know... I don't really feel the need to.  I enjoy what I do.  There is a satisfaction that comes with seeing a target go down.  I don’t normally take much pleasure in the act of killing, itself.”
           Was that a lie?

  “There have been times though, when I felt the target really deserved it," I said.  "So, to answer your question, I never really felt the need to justify it to myself.  The existence of killing is merely confirmation of a truth about the nature of the universe playing out.”

          “And what truth is that?” she asked.
          “Life must end life in order to live.  Everyone and everything that lives does so at the expense of something else.
       "What about plants?"
       "Even with plants.  They compete for sunlight and root space without regard to anything around them.  Some of them trap other organisms for nutrients.  The law applies to them as well."
       "I see what you mean, go on."
       "It’s an intrinsic and unpleasant truth that civilization has gone through a great deal of trouble to hide.  People don’t even have to kill for a meal anymore.”  I said, while cutting my steak into additional pieces with the knife.  “The killing is done behind the closed doors of some processing plant, away from the watching eyes of those who will eventually eat it, and by the time it reaches the dinner table it doesn’t even remotely resemble the living thing it once was.”  I slowly shook a forked piece of steak in front of my face to illustrate my point.  “That would be an...unpleasant reminder that something had to pay for the cost of your meal with its life.”  I paused to examine the meat for a moment.   “Most people don’t like their meal to have a face.  They certainly don’t want to look at it while they eat.”
           She nodded.
           “But even within a civilization that basic truth of the universe plays out.  Especially when there is some sort of resource scarcity,  such as a dire shortage of food or medicine, on a colony.  The speed with which things get primal and ugly can be shocking, even to the initiated,”  I said.  
        She gave a knowing nod.  
        “Even in the best of times distribution of goods and resources never ends up even or even equitable...not really.  The wolves ultimately rise to the top in society and guide the sheep to fleecing or slaughter.  The victims of civilization are created with the boardroom instead of with the battle-axe but the end result is largely the same.  Death just comes a bit slower than it otherwise would have.  The inevitable casualties are justified in the name of progress...towards what, who can say for sure?  The wheels must keep turning.  Economic choices, goods, resources, industry...in order to keep the machine running it has to be done at the expense of someone somewhere.”  I motioned with an open hand in the direction of the aquarium.  “We can’t all live like kings. It is easy to see the truth no matter how much society tries to hide it.  In the end I’m essentially no different than someone working in a meat processing plant.  I do an ugly, but necessary, job so that others can sleep at night under the pleasant blanket of an illusion.  People like me exist so that everyone else doesn't have to stare their steaks in the face.”  I bit the steak off the end of the fork and chewed.
          “You have a rather dark conceptualization of the world around you,” she said, with a mischievous smirk.
           I shrugged.  “Hard to see the universe as sunshine and rainbows when you do what I do for a living.  Speaking of dark, if this is your idea of pleasant dinner conversation, I’d hate to see you being unpleasant.  You were all too happy to steer the conversation toward the morbid.”
           She smiled slightly.  “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
          “No, of course not,” I said shaking my head.
           She shifted around in her chair.  “So we have established the fact you don’t believe in a god,” she said, raising her hand to take a sip from her wine glass, “but I’m curious as to whether or not you believe there is anything after death.”
          “I don’t,” I replied.
           She had a look of surprise at that answer.  “You’ve had your share of close calls while on assignments have you not?  How many of those exactly?”
           I thought about it for a second.  “I’m not sure.  I don’t keep count of things like that.  I’ve had more close scrapes than I would like to admit.  What exactly are you getting at?”  I frowned.
          “I’m curious how you can hold the belief that there is nothing after this, and still put yourself in harms way, as your occupation requires.  I’m assuming you don’t have a death wish.”
           I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t usually think about dying.  I spend most of my attention on trying to stay alive and accomplish the mission.  Outside of that I’ve accepted the fact that despite my luck or skill my death is going to happen eventually.  Maybe it’s because I make a mistake, or maybe it’s because someone gets lucky.”

“Or maybe because someone is just better than you,” she interjected with a small smile.

“Well, I’d like to think it wouldn’t be because of that, but at that point I guess it wouldn’t matter would it?”  I said with a smile.  “The point is, my death is going to happen eventually it’s just a matter of when... but that’s the case no matter what my occupation.”

            She nodded, and took another sip from her glass.  Then she stared silently for a time before speaking.  The gaze from her green eyes didn’t waver an inch.  “What if I told you that didn’t have to be the case?”
           “You would have my full attention.”  I replied.
           She took a deep breath.  “You were brought here because we have developed the technology to reliably perform infomorph transfers outside of the capsule.”
           “You can transfer the consciousness of a foot-soldier to a clone body?”  As I asked I could feel my eyes widen slightly.
           “Precisely.”
           “Has it been tested?”  I asked with a raised eyebrow.
           “It has.”
           “And?”
           “The system is compatible with individuals with a certain...specific neurological and genetic make up.  One we have confirmed you possess.  You underwent procedures in the time you were unconscious so that we could interface you with the technology.  The transfers of consciousness usually go off without a hitch.”
            “Usually?”
            “Well, as with anything that has to function in an environment as unpredictable as combat, there have been the occasional equipment failures, but those which did occur in testing have been corrected.”
            “I suppose usually coming back to life beats the odds I’d have had without the technology.”
            “No doubt about that,” she said.  
            “How does it work?”
            “Without going into too much detail, we map out the physical structure of the brain of the subject down to the microscopic level.  Memories and experiences, essentially everything that makes us us, are encoded within the physical and chemical structures of the brain.  Personality has as much to do with the typical firing order of an person’s individual neurons, within their brain, as their upbringing or genetics.  There is no divine spark as some would have you believe.”  She paused to see my reaction to that last sentence, and seeing none continued.  “Using the new passive scanning technology, we are able to record the changes that are made from that base mapping, rather than having to take a flash shot of the whole brain just before death, like happens with the capsuleers.  A flash scan creates massive damage to the brain, but the passive method allows periodic updates without damage to the subject.  If a subject was killed in an explosion or shot in the head, the memories and experiences of roughly 2 minutes before that point would be downloaded and transferred to the new clone.  If the subject bled to death or was killed with by some other means that did not damage the brain, there would be a flash-scan to get everything up to the point of death.
           “Wouldn’t that make them able to remember their own deaths?”
           “There is a distinct possibility of that, yes,” she replied calmly.
            “I see.”  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

“There is a great cost in time and resources that goes into training an individual soldier that is lost when that soldier...tragically expires in combat.  Not to mention the loss of the experiences, knowledge, and understanding of war that can only be earned in combat.  An immortal soldier could take on dangerous missions, die and then rise again with all his prior memories and experiences intact, and would be afforded the opportunity to learn from and avoid future mistakes.  Such a soldier would become a very formidable weapon on the battlefield.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

           I nodded.  “I’d imagine he would.”
           “Which is why I find it so curious that this organization you work for, knew about the work being done here despite its extremely confidential nature. They even knew enough about it to send a viable candidate, one we couldn’t refuse,” she said with a cocked brow.  “They probably can’t wait to get their hands on you as soon as we are done with evaluations.”    
           “Evaluations?” I asked.
           “Yes,” she said.  She stopped to consider her next words, gently tapping the edge of her plate with her fork.  “I mentioned a physiological and a genetic compatibility with the technology.  There is a psychological one as well.  Unfortunately despite our creation of a rough personality profile that we seek out, there is only one way to evaluate for the psychological component.”
          I don’t like where this sounds like it’s going.
          “And that is?” I knew the answer before I asked.
          “Dying in combat and having one’s consciousness transferred to a new body, in many cases with intact memories of physically traumatic events, can have a profound effect on the mental stability of a soldier.  There can be emotional and psychological scars which can occur and must be endured, even if there are no lasting physical ones.  In short, not everyone can handle it.”
          “It is an unnatural thing,” I mused. I pushed what little food I had left on my plate around with my fork.  Suddenly I wasn’t feeling so hungry.
          “Yes it is.  To prepare soldiers for it we have a challenging training and orientation program to help with the transition.  The program will also serve to weed out those that can’t handle the strain.  It’s all part of the process.  You and the other soldiers have all been given numbers to use in the place of names.  For security reasons nobody will be giving their real names or be allowed to talk about which units they come from or their past operational histories.  I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you.  Yours will be number 11.”
           “How were the others selected?”
           “We screened the psychological profiles of soldiers from other State special forces teams to eliminate individuals who probably wouldn’t emerge from the program successfully, but since I have no background or psychological profile for you, we will have to assume you meet the profile of one that would.  For your sake I hope you do.”
           “I see,” I said.
           “The people you will be entering the program with are all combat veterans, all have confirmed kills under their belts, and are all highly trained.  They meet the profile of what you would consider wolves.  One thing is for certain.  By the end of your time here you are going to find out how much of a wolf you really are.”

The Interview (Chapter3)

             I awoke to find myself seated, slumped over what felt like a cold metal table.  Sitting up slowly, I opened my eyes to darkness.  My mouth and throat were bone dry.  My head hurt with a dull throbbing ache that seemed to radiate down my spine.  There was a noticeable ringing in my ears, an after effect of the sedatives, perhaps.  As I coughed to clear my throat, I noticed a slight echo implying the room was small with hard surfaces.  
            Where the fuck am I?

I rose slowly out of the chair in an attempt to stand up straight, only to find that my hands were cuffed to the table in front of me.  It wasn’t long before I discovered my feet were restrained as well.  My ankles were cuffed together through some sort of metal loop on the ground, only allowing me to pull my feet a few centimeters apart and a few centimeters off the ground.  There wasn’t much room to maneuver.  

I struggled against the restraints for a while, but they didn’t show any signs of giving way.  In testing the restraints I learned a few things.  The table was fixed firmly to the floor, trapping me in a vulnerable position I’d never be able to fight effectively from. It had become painfully obvious the room was set up specifically for interrogations. The equipment being used indicated a professional setup.  To top it off I was in a weakened state.  I felt dizzy and disoriented, and the physical exertion made it worse.  It felt like the whole room was slowly spinning around me.  I dropped back down into the chair.  

Well shit, this isn’t good.  

I’ve been in this situation before, but only in training.  Granted it was very thorough training, and it had been realistic enough to kill more than one trainee and leave me resolute to the idea that I would rather die fighting than be taken alive.  

So much for that idea.  

Touching my wrist I noticed that my watch was gone, but suspected that was the case before I had checked.  Time deprivation was a common tactic in interrogations for pretty much anyone.  Sensory deprivation was another technique that was clearly being used, judging by how dark the room was.  It would have been completely quiet, as well, had it not been for the ringing in my ears.  Luckily that was subsiding.  

Time and sensory deprivation was often used to disorient and soften up targets for interrogation.  Adding to the disorientation was the fact I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, where I was, who was holding me here, or what they wanted.

Contrary to popular belief perpetuated by popular media, interrogation relies less on torture and more on psychological manipulation to obtain accurate information. The threat of the unknown and the target’s own imagination of what might happen is usually a far more effective tool to getting accurate information than physical torture.  Beat on people all you want, but more often than not those people will just end up doing whatever it takes to make the pain stop, including lying out of their asses.

I had a quick epiphany and leaned forward, bringing my face close to my restrained hands.  I felt stubble, maybe two or three days worth.  I was clean shaven when I had left the station.

Shit, why was I out so long?

My heart beat hard in my chest.  A lump formed in my throat from the anxiety.  The thought that someone was probably going to come into the room and torture the shit out of me at some point wasn’t helping.  Neither was the lack of control.  It's never a good feeling not knowing what your future holds, especially when all of the evidence suggests it was going to be bad.  I took a little solace in the fact that I probably didn’t want to know what was to come.

Falling back on my training I focused on what little I could control, starting with my breathing.  Inhale slowly on a four count...hold for two...exhale for four, and repeat.  The breathing technique itself served to calm me, occupying and focusing my thoughts.  Keeping my head was paramount. Controlled breathing was just one option to accomplish that aim.  Focusing on learning about my surroundings was another, but basically anything other than dwelling on thoughts of how completely fucked I was would do.  That’s easier said than done when in the unfortunate position of being completely fucked, even with prior training on the subject.

I wasn’t wearing the clothes I had on before, it felt like some sort of scratchy jumper.  The fabric was rough to the touch.  It was too dark to tell, but I was betting it was brown.  For some reason they were always brown.  I wiggled my toes.  My feet felt like they were in hospital slippers.  Whatever they were they were they felt nice, so at least there was that.  

It could be worse. I’m not suspended from the ceiling by my arms and being sprayed with cold water from a hose, one of my least favorite memories from training.  I’m not being beaten with said hose either, so that was nice too.  Small blessings, although there is still plenty of time for something like that to happen later.  I shuddered as I recalled the memory in vivid detail.  I quickly pushed those thoughts out of my mind.

After some minutes had passed the lights in the room were suddenly switched on.  The illumination level was normal, but my extended time in the dark made it seem blindingly bright. I squinted hard, struggling to take in what little I could while my eyes were still adjusting to the change.  

The room was small, grey, and concrete without any notable features other than a metal door on the other side of the room. It was the only discernible route into or out of the cell.  Looking down at my torso I saw that my jumper was, indeed, brown.  

Surprise surprise.  

I turned my attention to my restraints.  They were made of a strong metal alloy and had electronic controls.  

State of the art...no way I’m getting out of these.

As I was inspecting the restraints I noticed what looked like a needle puncture mark near a vein on my right arm.  It looked as if blood had been drawn, or perhaps it was the site where an IV line had been.  I wasn’t sure which, but if it was an IV injection site it would have explained the extended unconsciousness.

The door across the room slid open.  An Achura woman wearing a grey business suit strode in, carrying some sort of PDA.  She was an attractive brunette who looked to be in her early 40’s, stood about five and a half feet tall, and carried herself with a confident, almost haughty demeanor.  She had the look of someone that was highly educated.

Interesting choice for a lead off interrogator.  

“First off let me apologize for the way you were brought in,” she said as she moved for the empty chair on the opposite side of the table, “but it was a necessary precaution to keep this facility secret, and frankly from what little I’ve been told about you, it was as much for your safety as it was our own.”

I remained silent as she took a seat across from me.  She didn’t shy away from direct eye contact. She had soul piercing green eyes and their gaze was slightly off putting. She looked me over for a few moments as if she was studying me for a reaction. I tried not to give one.  

“My name is Dr. Allison Krieger, but you can call me Allison,” she said with a polite smile.  I returned the smile and extended an open hand as far as the restraints would allow.

“Has that ever worked for you?” she asked with a sly smile, wisely declining a handshake that wouldn't have ended well for her.

It was worth a shot.

I responded with a shrug, but declined to speak.  I made up my mind to stay silent.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your name?”  she asked, seemingly unrattled.  She tilted her head to one side slightly.  A few strands of her long straight dark brown hair fell down over her shoulder.

I stayed quiet. She smirked slightly.

“Would you like me to get you anything?  Some water perhaps?”

A loaded gun and a way out would be nice, I thought to myself.  I was thirsty but stayed silent.  I wasn’t expecting the first person to come through the door to be Caldari. Who did she work for?  

There were so many different State corporations, each with their own private police or military wing.  I had worked in favor of, as well as against, the direct interests of many of them.  It was anybodies guess as to which one of them would have wanted to grab me if they somehow had knowledge of my past actions.  Of course, she might just be a traitor chosen to interrogate me because someone figured I’d be more likely talk to another Caldari.

“Are you feeling okay?” She paused awaiting a response that didn’t come. “ Have you had any strange dreams or hallucinations?”  she asked softly.  Her voice was calm and confident.

I kept silent.  She was asking innocuous yes or no questions to get me talking to build up rapport and momentum.  I wasn’t about to let her have it. Once a person starts talking in interrogation it becomes harder to stop.  Captured soldiers often repeated their name, rank, and serial number.  If I was going to talk that would be as good a way to go as any, but I don’t have a rank, or a serial number, although I did have a bunch of names I could have given her.

A look of amusement appeared on her face.  “As fun as it would be to put your resistance to interrogation to the test, that’s not why you were brought here, and it would be,” she pursed her lips as she looked for the right word, “counterproductive.  I am not your enemy.”  Her tone shifted to one of seriousness as she read off the PDA in front of her. “Your mission authentication code is phoenix red five one nine.”  She paused for a second and looked up at me.  “Your handlers code name for this assignment is Warthog.”  She slid the PDA across the table so I could view it.  “You’ve been assigned directly to me by your handler.”

I glanced suspiciously at the PDA screen.  The first thing to stand out was the seal of the Ishukone Black Projects Division on the header of the message.  The BPD, as it was often referred to by the intelligence community, was a secretive branch of the Ishukone corporation.  It was well funded and carried out discrete research projects that were out of the purview of all but the highest ranking officials of the Ishukone corporation and Caldari State.  All the information she had given checked out.  Only two people would have had access to the information she had given me, myself and my handler.  The authentication code would have been given to her to confirm that she was the client I was working for.  I allowed myself to feel the surge of relief that came with the confirmation code.

“Now that I’ve given you confirmation I trust I can have your restraints removed without you doing anything rash?” she asked while pulling the PDA back towards her.

“You can,” I replied.  

She smiled pleasantly in response to my broken silence.  “I was told once I had given you the authentication code I would have your full cooperation.  Is that correct?”

“It is,” I responded.

She bit her lower lip, perhaps wondering to herself if releasing me was really a good idea.  Making up her mind quickly, she reached into her pocket and typed something into a small device. The restraints on both my hands and my feet popped open, allowing me to remove them.  She looked down at the PDA screen.  “I have a report stating the ID found on you identified you as Aaron White.”  She glanced back up at me.”  Is that correct?”  She spoke with a calm and deliberate tone that was oddly soothing, even before I learned she wasn’t here to torture me.

I nodded.  She smirked.  She looked back down at the PDA.

“Mr. Aaron White...it would appear you have no living relatives, a job history filled with companies that no longer exist or have staff that could not be reached to confirm that you’ve worked for them.  There doesn’t seem to be any physical evidence of the existence of a Mr. Aaron White with your physical description, and there is no electronic evidence of your existence in any records that dated back before a period of about six months ago.”  Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at me for a reaction. “Furthermore a man was captured attempting to smuggle weapons off the Korama III Ishukone Watch Station using a boarding pass under the same identity.”  

I couldn’t help but crack a smile, and responded with a shrug.  Traveling identities within the State were not usually designed to stand up to such close scrutiny.

“I see you find that funny,”  she said calmly.  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her left leg over her right. “When I attempted to run facial recognition on you the computer couldn’t find a single match in any database, civilian or military.  Care to explain why this is?”

“I’m not in them.”

“Obviously.  My question is why are you not in them?” she asked in an assertive tone.

“I’m not answering that question,” I said, frowning.

She nodded slowly, glaring at me silently for a few seconds.  “I don’t suppose you would mind telling me your real name?  Your handler didn’t mention it.”

“If my handler did we would have a problem,”  I said in a matter of fact tone.

“Would we?” She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of problem?”

The kind where you end up dead.

“Let’s just leave it at that,” I said with narrowed eyes.  The only way she would have gotten my real name would have been to torture it out of my handler.  I would have known she was hostile and would have had to act accordingly, and by act accordingly I mean go on a rampage.

“I see,”  She said.  She didn’t seem shaken, but I was fairly sure she caught my drift.  “The organization you work for.  As I understand it you have carried out discrete assignments for it of a military nature. Does it have a name?”

“If you were supposed to know the answer to that question you would.”  The real answer was no, but I thought it was better I didn’t give a straight answer.

“Is this what you consider full cooperation?”  she asked, visibly displeased.

I shrugged again.

She studied my face closely.  Her right brow raised quizzically.  “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.”

“Well at least you seem to be as badly informed as I am,” she said.  A hint of frustration seeped through in the form of a sigh, but she maintained her cat like calm.

“Why was I kept unconscious for days?”

She looked surprised by the question, and hesitated for a moment before speaking.  “Ah, the facial hair growth.  Very resourceful.”  She typed a short note in the PDA, but I couldn’t see what. “We had to confirm your suitability for the project.”

That was pretty damned vague.

“Project?”  I asked.

“The reason why you were brought here.  I need to ask you a few more questions and I’ll answer whatever questions of yours I can.”

Fair enough.  

I nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty three.”

“I was told you are a highly trained operative.  Can you confirm that?”

“If that’s what you were told, I can,” I replied.

“You’re a little young for an operator aren’t you?

I shrugged.  “Some learn faster than others.”

Doesn’t hurt to have an early start either.

“Where did you do your training, with what branches?”  she asked as she leaned forward slightly.

“I can’t answer that question.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she asked.

“Both.”

There were no records of my prior service but that didn’t mean someone I had trained with in the past wouldn’t recognize my picture had they seen it.  I didn’t give her my real name for the same reason.

“Is it safe to assume you’ve seen combat?”

“It is,” I replied.

“How much action have you seen?” she asked.

“Plenty.”

“Where?”

“I can’t answer that question,”  I said firmly.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” I replied roughly.

She stared at me for some time.  “Curious,” she said.  She leaned forward in her chair, placing the PDA on the table.  “I have one of the highest security clearances there is.  Was given the green light to evaluate and pluck soldiers, from special operations units from nearly every Caldari State military branch, corporate police force, or intelligence agency.  Vetted them for the project based on psychological evaluations, personal histories, combat records.  All of it highly confidential information.”  She grew a wry smile. “Then I get an order from somewhere high up telling me to make room for one more, and that I had no choice about your inclusion.  I’ll admit at first I was irritated about the situation.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m just curious.”  Dr. Krieger paused, and looked down at her watch and then back up at me. “We should continue this somewhere less...ominous.  I’m sure you’re ready for a real meal.  I’m about to have dinner.  Would you join me?”

“Yes, if it means I can have my turn at asking the questions,”  I said, slightly annoyed.   

“I might even provide more satisfactory answers than you’ve given me,”  She said with a slight smile.  

“I’m not trying to be intentionally difficult.  Someone in your line of work can appreciate the need to compartmentalize sensitive information.”

“It’s easier to appreciate that need when you’re the one holding the information.” She stood up. “I’ll have someone come along and bring you your things, and show you to my quarters.”  She started towards the door.  “One last thing.  If you check the base of your skull you’ll notice a neural socket that wasn’t there before.  I didn’t want you finding it on your own and freaking out.  Nothing to be alarmed about, in fact quite the opposite.  You’re going to be apart of something special.”  

I touched the back of my neck, and felt the socket.  What the hell have I gotten myself into?