GUNSLINGER GIRL

"The Lamb and The Tyger"

By

Robert Frazer

(With reference to a character created by "Danjo3")

Author's Note: the origin of the cyborg "Agapita" is explained in the story "See Naples and Die"

"Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

"What about this one? He's got an orange flag since we saw him last."

"Flag? It's a Post-It note stuck on the cover!"

"Don't be such a pedant. Something's new, so take a look."

"Alright then, let's see... he's been deployed with KFOR—"

"And there's been an incident?"

"Apparently so. He was probing out a landmine and hit the trigger plate."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah, what an incompetent foul-up. Why isn't it a red flag?"

"No, I don't mean that - I saw the same thing in Sarajevo. The Serbs'd bury some of them not flat but tipped at an angle, so that clearers' tools wouldn't tap the side of the mine but hit the trigger anyway. The trick worked."

"That's cold."

"He has to be a bit untidy after living through that. He belongs in the cyborg pile, not the handler one."

"That's just the thing, though – it didn't go off. It says here that the plate only partially engaged, and that he held the same position to prevent the circuit closing for over eight hours until he was rescued."

"Eight hours? I don't believe it. Are you serious?"

"It's what this report says, at any rate."

"Well, he's certainly got the cojones. That sounds like something worth a medal."

"Oh, that won't be happening."

"Why not?"

"Government policy. Our enlightened rulers disdain war as a method of settling disputes, and medals are a cynical tool of encouraging false affection through appeal to base patriotism and nationalism, doantcherno. Also, medals imply heroism."

"—And heroism implies danger, danger implies fighting, and fighting implies war—"

"—While Kosovo is supposed to be a signal success in the measured restraint of peacekeeping and the improving – not 'civilising', because that implies nasty old imperialism – influence of a modern, progressive, post-national united Europe. Here endeth the lesson, please stand for the profession of faith."

"Assholes."

"What a bunch of twats."

"Indeed. Anyway, move this one into the 'possibles'. Have someone run a full background check on him."

"Today's the day."

Lorenzo lifted up his tumbler and swirled the drink around, watching the light skip, dance, spin and play over the languid swirls of the rich amber fluid. As he brought the glass down to his lips, his gaze lowered to the window in front of him. It was late afternoon, but the early summer in its wakening strength was still pouring out its fresh energy, and the world outside was crisp and defined with brightness.

Lorenzo turned back to Belisario, who was sitting on the corner of the desk, with his own drink resting in his cupped hands. It was an odd posture, but he seemed comfortable enough with it. "How many does that make now?" Lorenzo asked.

Belisario tipped his head to one side and thought for a moment, before lifting his drink up and taking a sip. "Oh, I know it must be at least twenty or so." He sipped again. "A full score and more."

Lorenzo shook his shoulders in a subdued guffaw. "You're a poet."

"And don't I know it."

Belisario half-turned towards the main body of the desk and began shifting scattered papers about idly, pushing them about as though his index finger was a broom. Lorenzo raised his eyebrows in surprise – he would have thought that the experienced senior doctor, intimate with the mind through his overseeing the cyborgs' conditioning, would have had a better appreciation of discretion.

"Mind how you go, Belisario, that's all top secret."

Unwinding himself back, Belisario gave Lorenzo a pitying stare. "Chief, the form for requisitioning new office stationery is "Top Secret"."

Lorenzo masked his grin behind a sip of his drink. "Well, think of the scandal if the media could just walk into the National Archives and see, right then and there, how many taxpayer dollars were being wasted on Draghi's tendency to switch for new pencils, instead of spending effort sharpening a blunt one."

Belisario chuckled. "Still, you can't blame me, I need some stimulation. Twenty-three, twenty-four, however many more. Sort of saps the momentousness out of it all."

"Repetition grinds it down to routine?"

"Routine..." Belisario's gaze wandered for a moment as he mused. Then, with sudden decision, he put his tumbler down on the desk beside him with a loud rap, so that he could gesture more freely, snapping his fingers up to enumerate each point. "Routine. You know, Chief, thirty or forty years from now, this is all going to be public knowledge. Anybody could photocopy a hundred after-action reports and make paper aeroplanes from them if they wanted. The handlers will get a new lease of life in their retirement – they'll have book deals, signing tours. Memoirs, trashy thrillers, talking heads in documentaries."

"And the cyborgs'll all be dead."

Belisario grunted non-committally. "While in the meantime my conditioning – my grafts, my drugs, my therapies – will all be up for grabs. The government will sell off the patents as a revenue measure. Little tinkling droplets of golden solution, melting the truth of omerta'd-up Mafia men, dissolving battle-shock in soldiers... doping up kids so that the squalling brats keep quiet on long car journeys."

Belisario seized his glass with sudden forcefulness and took a full swig out of it before continuing. "It'll be in department stores. Sharpen your senses so you feel every rumble and beat on that dance floor! Acqua Di Parma will sell 'em in little round bottles – just like a bullet casing! Take a hit like the, uh... the Gunslinger Girls did! Gosh, isn't that daring? Get a revolver's worth of shots inside one of those... those daft yellow boxes." The outpouring of vexation from Belisario abruptly halted, as though some solid suspension had stopped up the spout. The energy that had animated him, no longer being topped up, petered down to his feet. He sagged back onto his perch at the edge of the desk, pinning his slack body in place with another brief tug at his drink.

"And what'll be left for me when everyone else is sucking the juice out of the fruits of my labour? Now, I'm a genius with four doctorates, a revolutionary scientist and protecting lives and public safety as a key pillar of the Italian defence policy. Then, I'm going to be old. Maybe with an emeritus position at some decent-enough medical school." Belisario flicked his gaze heavenwards briefly. "Oh, and a child molester. Politicised students will be throwing bricks through my windows, or beating an old man up in the street, and feeling good about it."

Lorenzo studied Belisario carefully. The Doctor-four-times-over was usually quite level, self-assured and openly proud of his work. This... outpouring was uncharacteristic. Whether it was just an imbalance in the humours which was making Belisario feel a little melancholy today, or whether the alcohol had penetrated his shell and exposed some genuine low morale, would warrant further investigation. For the time being, the Chief concealed his scrutiny behind a more bluff, blokey response.

"Heh, that's one thing at least which is certainly not my problem, Belisario. I'm fifty-eight, now – by the time this whole circus gets declassified, I'll be safely six feet under and thumbing my nose at you from Heaven."

Belisario smiled grimly. "You mean Purgatory."

Lorenzo frowned. "Well, I'm definitely not planning on Hell, otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"Hell, huh." Belisario swirled his drink, although the light from the window stopped short of his desk. He looked up at the Chief. "It took us absolutely ages to find a suitable subject this time around."

"I've just admitted that I'm getting on in years, but I'm not senile, Belisario. I know that much about..." Lorenzo's face abruptly reddened. "...what did he call her again?"

"Agapita," tactfully, the younger man did not press the point of Lorenzo's memory further, and smoothly continued with his original theme, "and she reminds me of something. Back when we were scouting girls for Mancini, we kept hitting walls. They were too old, or their families were too large or too well-connected and it was impractical to keep a lid on what was going on. Or their illnesses were misdiagnosed, or their injuries were exaggerated, or they had rallied miraculously and were actually on the road to recovery – which left us standing around looking like morons, with our bonesaws and retractors hanging out.

"All the time, people were getting better, and we wanted them to get worse! When Bossi handed his daughter over to us, you know what I thought?" Belisario tapped the edge of his tumbler against the side of his forehead in a mock salute. "Thank God, He's sent us a miracle!"

"Or an opportunity to ministrate." Lorenzo frowned, shifting his feet about. "We do restore and rebuild broken lives at the Agency."

"I'm not arguing that," Belisario began as he lifted himself up and walked across the room to stand beside Lorenzo at the window, "I wouldn't be here myself if I felt unsure enough to have to defend myself. But it's odd that we rely on misery and iniquity to do our little consolation bit."

They both stared out of the window.

"Funny old world."

The shadows stretching along the grass by the tree outside lengthened some inches, until the branches mingled with and infiltrated the cast of the building.

"...Gunslinger Girls?"

"I know! It sounded stupid when I said it – like some bloody comic strip!"

Lorenzo coughed. Belisario snorted. Lorenzeo guffawed. Belisario chuckled.

And then they were both laughing, slapping each other's shoulders, stamping on the carpet, hooting at the sky outside. Belisario heaved himself across to one of the couches, his body still shaking from tremors of giggles, while Lorenzo fussed about the bureau, refreshing their drinks.

"When was the first time that you killed someone?"

"That's an odd question. Aren't you supposed to start with how I feel about my mother?"

"Oh, I already know that. She's a total bitch and you hate her guts."

"Wha--? I—"

"Y'see, we started elsewhere because I thought that I'd lower you in gently. 'Subject is confrontational in conversation, seeing discussion instead as argument and a challenge to be won. He is outwardly confident but ill-prepared for the loss of initiative and perceived control'. 'Snot a good start."

"I thought that this was an interview. It feels more like an interrogation."

"They're pretty much the same, although we have coffee and biscuits in the anteroom... hey, I'm not that much of a comedian!"

"--hah - Oh, sorry, but what you just said - I think that I've just got that initiative back."

"...fair enough. Anyway, my question?"

"Somalia, Ooh-no-Somme Two. My platoon was to clear out a village of Aidid fighters, and we hammered the place with cannon fire before my footsoldiers moved in. I was manning one of the turrets."

"Who did you kill?"

"Well, in the end there was no close-in fighting – they all fled as soon as we had opened up. We found six bodies that they had left behind, though, so with four vehicles you could say that I had quarter-shares in all of them – which tallies up to about one-and-a-half kills."

"Hmm. Very well – when did you first kill someone directly?"

"Not until Kay-Four – I shot two Kosovars during a riot."

"Interesting choice of words. Do you prefer shooting Kosovars to shooting Serbs?"

"…I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"Very political of you. In any case, doesn't that incident make you a hypocrite?"

"I don't follow."

"Well, let's leave aside how a situation becoming so bad that you needed to use your weapon reflects on your competence—"

"What the fuck? Now hang on—"

"—and consider your personal philosophy, which my notes say here that people who fight set themselves apart. I can't see how angry civilians might fall in that bracket."

"They weren't there for a picnic – they were pelting us with Molotovs."

"And you had a powerful rifle which can kill someone from five hundred metres away."

"Pity they were only twenty metres away though, eh? Damnit, they started it – they had fair warning, they knew what they were getting into!"

"Did they, though? Shouldn't you be more discriminating? Isn't that one of your duties as a soldier, as opposed to some brute enforcer? Isn't greater, deeper perception how you justify being an officer?"

"…"

"Major?"

"…No. No, it's not my duty. I will act to the utmost of my powers, but I shouldn't be responsible for others' wilfulness and stupidity."

"Need a coffee."

Avise waved a hand towards the table.

"But, Avise," Priscilla protested, "You've had five cups. You'll be climbing the walls."

Avise sighed heavily, slouching in his chair as though he'd been popped and was deflating. He then threw Priscilla a pathetic, imploring look. "I'd better drink even more then, so my body can build up a tolerance and limit its effects."

"Okay then…" Priscilla tipped the urn and the dark fluid – noticeably blacker and thicker for having settled at the bottom of the pot – descended into Avise's cup. Nodding in appreciation for the service, Avise brought the cup to his lips and took a long pull at it, as though it was almost a bottle of hard liquor.

"Good shit." Avise rasped hoarsely, his throat as smooth as sandpaper as the slug of coffee had to be peeled off the sides of his gullet to make its way down to his stomach.

"Oh, you!" Priscilla flapped a despairing hand at Avise as she leaned back deeply into her own chair, smiling broadly.

That smile, however, was frozen, false, pasted-on – a muscle-movement that she mimicked out of a sense of obligation. Nervous tension strained the air – any attempt at a genuine smile became a twitching, spastic grin, before flailing out and dying altogether.

Avise was sitting in one of the round tables in waiting area of the Agency hospital. The late afternoon light became diffuse as it swam through the thick glass blocks of the space's outer wall, but the effect was less a dreamlike wall of light and more an irritating haze to flinch from. He was surrounded by other members of Section Two, there to provide moral support and see him off on his first step in to the great unknown – Avise appreciated the gesture, he really did, but in the circumstances the close cluster of comradeship felt more like walls boxing him in.

Biff had been sitting on the edge of one of the neighbouring tables, swinging his legs about idly – when the conversation flagged, he took it upon himself to revive it. He bounced into a standing position, and spent a few seconds shadow-boxing before cracking a smile towards Avise. "Hey, come on, don't slouch, I thought that you were meant to be a stern and upstanding war veteran?" Biff laughed. "This ought to be a relief. All this beating about the bush with ideas and thoughts, now you can get your hands on something proper and physical!"

Avise glanced up at the other man. Biff was an experienced handler – his comfort in the role was plain to see and Avise supposed that he knew what he was talking about, but if anything it only made it even harder for Avise to quiet his spirit. Biff was a veteran, while Avise – well, he hadn't even started.

Yet.

There was a massive gulf to cross before he could even feel remotely at ease as the Biff.

"Uh, sure. It'd be nice." Avise mumbled.

Biff had tried to condense down thefretful atmosphere of worry down into something solid and certain – but giving it form had only allowed it to be sliced apart on the quivering piano-wire of tension that was stretched taut across the room. He gave up with a sigh and retreated back to his seat.

Fingers drummed.

Feet shifted.

Throats coughed.

Ferro leaned back in her chair, pulling he arms over her lead in a long, languorous, studiedly relaxed stretch. Avise wouldn't have imagined that the businesslike Ferro would have turned up to this sort of gathering, but she'd even dressed casually, with a blouse with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and unbuttoned at the neck so as to give the barest coy hint of the curve of her breasts. That only unnerved Avise more – he couldn't tell whether Ferro really had a different and less stringent 'off-duty' character, or if her current dress and bearing was just a coldly calculated act presumed to set him at ease, and as sincere as a mask.

"Not long to go now." Ferro reassured Avise with an airy smile.

"Gee, y'think?" Avise croaked. The dwindling time clenched around his neck like a tightening vice.

Nails were picked.

Heads were itched.

Knuckles were gnawed.

All of them were listening to the tick of the clock. The second hand shook after each move, like a saw slipping down a little further with every cut. The air thrummed with the passing motion. The ticks became louder. The pitch sharper. The pace faster—

--the clack of shoes against the hard floor signalled an approaching figure. A man with a pageboy haircut and a white lab coat, his eyes hidden behind glasses whose lenses flared in the late light, came to a halt before the group.

"Is Avise Mancini here?"

Avise slowly, jerkily, raised his hand. "Uh, yeah, that, um, that'd be me."

The other man nodded, then pushed his spectacles back up his nose as his head came up. "I'm Doctor Giliani. Could you come with me, please?"

"Okay, um, well, I suppose that – this is it." Avise stumbled to his feet, his chair's legs scraping noisily against the ground as he did so, and leant down to put a satchel around his shoulders. "Ah, er, wish me luck?"

Avise slowly made his way through the group of Section Two staff, shaking hands and being patted on the shoulder. The murmurs of well-wishing and encouragement were low and subdued – you might well imagine that he was not so much being promoted into an elite as walking to a scaffold.

After filtering through the group Avise yoked himself to Giliani. There was no chance he could have gone alone. Avise had played cards with his adjutant underneath a table while mortar-bombs were knocking holes out of the roof above him, and laughed like a drain at the sight of a pack of scrawny, gangly Mahdists fleeing from an advancing armoured phalanx like rats before fire, but the prospect of a few corridors and a flight of stairs to see a teenage girl wake up was a gauntlet where angels feared to tread.

He'd almost made it out of the room when he tripped over a voice. "Mancini, aren't you forgetting something?"

Avise spun back toward the Section Two staff, his thin veneer of composure already cracking. Even after all his trauma and trepidation, he still wasn't ready? This was impossible – he'd never manage it—

Alessandro tipped his head sardonically and raised a brightly-coloured designer shopping bag. "You can't expect the poor thing to have to scamper about in the buff all evening, are you? Besides, Petrushka spent hours picking these out for her – you're the one who said you had no idea what girls liked to wear today in the first place!"

Trust Alessandro to come out of the left field with an important and incisive observation, whose outward frivolity only made it more obvious and penetrating. Avise wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream.

(Continued)