Supersymmetry, a series of Dead or Alive short stories by RelentlessRecusant
About the Author: The author was a former undergraduate at the Harvard Stem Cell Institute, where he researched pluripotent stem cells and reprogramming.
About the Story: In the most disparate of foes, startling symmetries emerge. From an encounter between a Central Intelligence Agency operator and a forlorn, particular silver-haired assassin in Africa, we learn of the textured past of one Christie Allen. Work in progress.
"[This] postulates a more extensive symmetry ... which is manifest in this world."
-Wilczek, F. "In Search of Symmetry Lost". Nature (433): 239-247.
Dramatis Personae
Christie Allen: Female, 24 years old. British national. Currently residing in the African continent.
"Noble-Six": Male, 40 years old. American national. Central Intelligence Agency, Special Activities Division. Formerly 1st SFOD-D, U.S. Army.
Johannesburg, South Africa
March 2017, eight years in the future
"The British: British intelligence."
The keen aim of his handgun's barrel was still centered on her forehead: his fingers did not wave against the rubberized hilt of the weapon. His voice was cool, and something pounded in his head—of all the coincidences that had brought an American CIA operator to the footstep of a British intelligence agent in a forsaken land in South Africa—
Yet, he had to know. Had to justify what had compelled him to murder such a beautiful creature: to bring moral basis and justification to the crime he was about to prosecute, to wrest this human woman of her life.
His forehead was throbbing with hurt from his circumlocutions. What had been a single insertion and prosecution had become convoluted into a far more complex and internecine conflict—first, defeated by this woman who had just awoken, and then, besting her and seeing the terror in her eyes—
He had not bargained for this. And he was certain that Langley had not expected that one of their clandestine operators was faltering, on the edge of a successful kill.
Yet, her skill and tenacity had been unnerving: how she had attacked him from behind, assaulted him with such powerful force—it was winningly admirable. He, the Special Activities Division operator, had been poised on the cusp of death: only a few cunning words and the thankful nearby distraction of gunfire had reversed their positions. This was a woman of talent and cunning.
Her talent was troubling—or conversely, how he had been sufficiently weak to be defeated by her. Yet, her accent, her svelte body and couture—supported this. This was not an inelegant Arab terrorist fantasizing on how to attack America. Here was a feminine tool of great skill and sophistication—she was outstanding amongst the cadre of terrorists he had murdered in the Middle East, Africa, and Southeast Asia.
Complexed with her distinctive and proper British accent, and her refined elegance and body—this bespoke of an origin far more worthy and distinctive than any Arabic or African terrorist.
He frowned heavily: though nothing was overtly astray, her hesitation before killing him—the elegance of her form, her white skin and British accent—together, they suggested that this target was abberant: and something inexplicably was holding his index finger from transforming her into one of the millions of languid corpses that decorated this forsaken continent.
"British intelligence? British intelligence officers I doubt would have a need to meet with arms dealers in Freetown or rebel spies in Johannesburg."
Tears adorned her crestfallen face: her silvery hair was astray, her cheeks inflamed and her breaths were fast as she trembled underneath the visage of his firearm.
"No—former MI6."
While he laughed sardonically at her words, her words perfectly fit what he was thinking. What could be the origin for a creature of such skill and beauty?
A frown flitted across his face. Obviously she's using me. Trying to dissuade me from killing her—like I did to her earlier. But this time, she'll kill me before allowing me to get the upper hand again.
"You will have to excuse me if I don't believe you", he said mockingly, even as his fingers tremored on his handgun, sensing that something disparate was far amiss—he was on the verge of losing control; he knew he was on the cusp of discovering something that he instinctively sensed was terrible. "Brothers from Langley such as I would hardly ever target one of our brothers from Her Majesty's MI6."
"Former MI6", she repeated quietly.
"Very well. What's your name?"
"Allen. Christie Allen", she said, in the military tradition of answering with her last name first.
Something impulsive within him reared—at how easily he was being manipulated. This woman, with her beauty and inveigled words, was dissuading him from Langley's simplistic directive. She was playing him was extraordinary skill, generating doubts, and massaging and feeding those doubts until she could undoubtedly exploit one of his weaknesses and kill him—
His voice carried inchoate rage. "You're not British intelligence! Tell me, what business does a former British intelligence agent have with South African terrorists—tell me!"
She looked up at him: tears rolled like prismatic raindrops down the crevices of her flushed face. She did not make any movement towards her handgun on the floor nor to attack him—her figure was petite and small, choked with emotion and tears, and self-pity.
"I—I was an orphan. My home was an orphanage in—"
Despite the anguished twist of her face, he bellowed, "Does it look like I give a shit? There's a limit to how far I'm going to take your bullshit—how were you related to MI6?"
Her voice fluttered with fear as she raised his eyes to him again: and saw the unerring aim of his handgun as he interrogated her.
"I graduated from Cambridge—without parents nor family, I focused my life on my studies. My life was school: when I graduated Cambridge with a concentration in political science, I was immediately recruited by the Secret Intelligence Service."
The close partnership between the American and British intelligence services meant he was well-familiarized with the recruiting tactics of MI6, which closely paralleled those of the American CIA and NSA—how the intelligence agencies recruited analysts and operators from the most exceptional of undergraduate students. Even as a daemon nagged in his mind, reminding him of her beguiling talent, compelling him to kill her—there was something he had to know. His hand trembled, unable to depress the lethal trigger without learning how such a sophisticated killing machine had ended up in this destitute South African slum—she was no crude terroristic tool. It was not mere fortuitous coincidence that he had met this refined creature in these wastelands.
"I was in the Intelligence Service for three years as a case handler for our sources in North Korea, keeping an eye on their nuclear weapon development. I was above the 38th Parallel when State Security turned one of my contacts and compromised the entire cell. All of our agents in North Korea were exposed."
Realization flitted across his face: he had heard of that infamous debacle. It had been a well-preserved secret, how the North Koreans had compromised British intelligence-gathering within their country—this was real. Her talent, her beauty, her accent, her sophistication: acquainted with a former background in MI6, it made certain sense.
"And what happened to you?" he found himself asking, a nascent curiosity arising even as his hand prepared to squeeze the handgun's trigger.
"I—I fled."
His voice snapped. "What?"
Her voice was slow, pained and anguished—every word that fell from her lips twisted, as if a blade planted in her heart dug deeper with every syllable. "In Credenhill, they thought that I had been a double agent for North Korean State Security all along—that I had betrayed them. I had no choice—my country thought that I had betrayed the lives of dozens of S.I.S. agents. I ran."
His eyes flickered with anger, and he became towering with rage—overlooming the petite and terrified, supine woman on the couch.
"You betrayed British intelligence? You're a coward—and a traitor to your country."
His words were acrid upon her aggrieved soul: the tears fell as if peals—her beautiful face was tremoring uncontrollably.
His voice was scathing as he visualized such cowardice.
"Not only did you run from your country—now you join terrorists?"
He expected her to be mute, and he steadied his weapon—but surprisingly, she spoke. She was terrified, on the verge of collapse.
"No—"
The lie overflowed him with rage. "You lie! I saw the reconnaissance photographs myself—you consort with South African terrorists, buy arms from rebels—betraying your oath—"
Her voice was shrill.
"When I escaped North Korea, I didn't know what to do. My country was hunting for me—"
"And you repay them with terrorism?" he barked.
The words brought tears to her eyes.
"No! I had no other skills besides killing—I became a freelance mercenary. I have never attacked any military or civilian targets."
His laughter was cruel and bitter. "Only you're fighting with rebels to tear down the elected government of South Africa."
Her voice was raised in terrified protest. "No—I was hired to infiltrate the terrorists and assassinate one of their leaders."
"And who hired you?"
"I can't—"
His gun barrel quivered. "Tell me!"
She remained mute, and she trembled.
"Kill me, then."
He hesitated as he realized the enormity of the act he was about to commit—
"Kill me!" she shrieked, depraved. Her hand reached for her boot—
—His eyes widened at his fatal mistake—
She drew a combat knife from her shoes, and he flinched, knowing his time was over—
When she carelessly discarded it, tossing it aside. Her face was alive with pain.
"Kill me—do me a favor. I'm on the run and am hunted as a state criminal and traitor by my native country. The closest thing to a friendship that I've had is when I told a CIA assassin trying to kill me about my secret. I'm on the run, I'm poor—end this. I never had enough courage to kill myself: help me do it."
With her words, he realized how depraved she was—the wild desperation in her eyes. When she had held a gun to his chest earlier, she hadn't fired when he said he was with American intelligence—and even now, with her knife, she hadn't killed him either.
He was stunned by her words, and then seriously considered planting a bullet in her head.
As he looked at her face, he trembled—trying to murder such a despondent, hopeless, beautiful creature. He would be ashamed.
His voice wavered.
"I—I—can't."
It was a difficult call on whether or not he was stunned by his own weakness, or if she was stunned.
"What?" she exclaimed, screaming at him.
The barrel of his gun tremored with uncertainty—it took more and more conscious effort to lift that gun, to aim it at her—he needed conviction and strength, and those had departed him—
"I can't", he said slowly, feeling his conviction, his justification ebb and die.
"But Langley—"
Her words were the very same spoken by the sorcerer of duty within his head: if she continued to prattle, he was afraid that she would compel him to murder her.
"No!" he barked, clearing her words and his doubt from his brain, desperate to silence her before she reminded him of his mission administered from the CIA.
He lowered his handgun, slotted it into his holster. Shame and humility flowed through his veins as he realized that five minutes ago, he was conceiving of torturing then murdering this creature before him: her beautiful face was fractured in mortal pain—he now felt the very hesitation she had when she had considered to kill him.
And in that thought, he found a curious symmetry—how these two highly-trained assassins, one American, one Britain, making a foreign rendezvous in hellish Africa—their hesitation to kill one another, their own weakness: victims to their own empathy and doubt.
He realized how ridiculous of a situation he had been lured into—here he was, a few seconds ago holding a gun to the forehead of a broken woman begging to die, contorted in mortal agony—here in this forsaken apartment in South Africa—what had the world devolved into?
He secured her weapons, placed them in a neat row on the table—then retrieved his own and aligned them alongside hers, keeping them well out of his own reach.
Gently, he slid alongside her on the couch, enfolding her with his arms—willing to dispel the pain in her heart, anything to relieve her face of the anguished mask it had frozen into. Such an undisturbed glade of lovely beauty—and his presence, his words, had scarred a sight of such precious beauty into the hell it was right now. And to lose something of such talent and such worth—
"It's alright", he whispered. "Everything's alright."
Her body was cold and clammy to the touch: Christie flinched as he took her in his arms.
And there, they sat, in mutual embrace—her unmoving, her gaze emptily fixated at the peeling paint of the walls, as if attempted to discern some cosmic truth from them. He felt lost—he had engaged himself in a circumstance so foreign and ludicrous he had no idea of how to proceed—but her arms clung to him tightly: tacitly, he knew that she wanted his presence here—wanted everything to end.
And for hours they were still—locked together on the sofa, her eyes vacant of spirit, body breathless as her mind was lost, transversing unknown memories and sights. And him, there too, awkwardly clinging onto the cold, still body beside him, but as he turned his face to face her—he became uncomfortably aware of how close he was to her—and with a start, realized that he was contiguous with her: as he gazed deeply at her, he was reminded of his impressions of her when he had first seen her—her svelte, shining face, how her hair had fallen to the full swell of her breasts—her provocative, seamless, flowing body. He became uncomfortably aware of how their bodies were touching, and he edged to move away—
And was surprised as her hold around him hardened, keeping him here, pulling him towards her.
"Stay here awhile", she said simply.
Somehow, he savored her words, and he injected them with meaning. "Alright."
And as they drew back together, the awkwardness began to fade slightly. As they held one another, slowly, he felt himself captivated by her sensuality: the thrill of her carmine lips playing against her pale skin, how compellingly beautiful she was. He felt a hunger and an ache within him, an uncharacteristic and uncontrollable thirst.
He didn't know why she initiated it—wordlessly, she cupped his chin with her hands, gazed into his icy eyes, and then drew her trembling lips closer to his own. Their lips brushed, coldly at first, but she drew his face closer, kissing him, holding him tight as he tried to pull away. It was longing and full of desire, and he knew that a hunger was awakening as she drew her tear-streaked face away from his own. His emotions were in turmoil, astray.
Unconsciously, his hand began caressing her, running down her back and stroking her hair.
Their faces turned to each other in silence—and he gazed longingly at her dark, lush cherry lips; slightly open, as if asking for a kiss. His pulse quickened. He could withstand his growing lust no longer—hungrily, he took her in his arms, drawing her close and kissing her passionately, longingly, and he tasted the sweet fire of her lips as she returned it with quiet desire. The kiss was long and hard—he could not breathe, for he wanted her so much. His lips were afire where hers had brushed against his.
He was undoubtedly captivated—he could not resist her charms, and a feral lust burned brightly within him.
They laid there for a long time—hours passed, the sun rose in the windowsill, and then the sky exchanged noon for night, and there was no more sunlight. And she remained fixated there, her body cold and morbid to the touch, opal eyes expressionless—gazing at the whitewashed wall as if comatose. Tears adorned her cheeks and her eyes were inflamed and swollen—her austere hair was astray and disheveled, bunched with tears and sweat.
And in cradling her protectively, he found his mind wander too—explore terra incognita where he'd never gone before. Here, on a compromised mission, finally was a respite from Langley's directives. And with his mental breath of fresh air, his mind chanced upon unfamiliar thoughts—emotions he'd long suppressed, memories of fallen teammates that he'd been too anguished by to remember—
He felt a rivulet of liquid run along his face, and instinctively, he brushed his hand over it—it was a teardrop.
Astride him, Christie said quietly, her voice no longer constricted with emotion, "So what's your story?"
He canted his face to look at her—bereft of the sun's illumination from the open window, the world was a chiaroscuro haze of grey and black, and her body was cold to the touch.
For some unimaginable reason, he felt an urge to entertain her, distract her from her own lethal thoughts.
"What do you want to know?"
Her eyes were still glazed, fixed upon the wall as her rosy lips moved silently. "Anything."
His mind strode into a catacomb of memories—memories from decades past, ones he'd shelved and never consulted again. He found himself trembling as he thought to remember them—an uncharacteristic fear of what he'd find, scared at—at what he'd been.
His own eyes became glazed as his sight moved beyond the current realm to an earlier date—the African apartment around him disintegrated and was replaced by a palisade of autumnal trees. It was in the Fall, and he was surrounded by other human beings—their faces wide, lips moving, but he couldn't make out their words—
His voice was slow.
"I was valedictorian of my graduating high school class, and earned my A.B. from—from—"
His voice tremored.
Christie susurrated emotionlessly, "Where?"
He was consumed again in his memory—his feet, clad in jogging shoes, not field boots—were rhythmically clipping against an asphalt pavement. His eyes were raised from the florid trees, and he saw scarlet buildings all around him—scarlet…
"Harvard", he said quietly, the scarlet memory passing into his mind. The buildings became sharper, increasing in resolution—scarlet buildings, with laughing faces and carefree humans—"A.B., concentration in Psychology, '97. Leverett House."
Her head mechanically nodded. Apparently, Christie's idea of everyday C.I.A. agents were Harvard graduates, it seemed.
"And how did you get involved in The Agency?"
His body relaxed slightly as he faded again from his realm, foraging primordial memories—sights, scenes, colors, all flashing back, overpowering him—
"I—I attended the Harvard John F. Kennedy School of Government", he said, wavering. "Ph.D. in Public Policy, '01."
"Ah", said Christie, sardonically. "Obviously, Langley needs Ph.D.s to pull the triggers of handguns. Guns are so complicated these days."
Even as her voice sarcastically and cruelly carried on, he could hear the throbbing hurt in her voice—her heart was broken and bleeding. Instinctively, protectively, he raised a hand to stroke her angelic hair—it was airy, of celestial constitution. The motion wafted the scent of roses to him, even as her face tremored, silvery tears rolling down the precipice of her strong jaw.
A dark memory arose from the depths like an ill plume of black ink unfurling in water—he felt himself nauseated, and a fierce rage flickered over him and his grip on her grew a little tighter as he felt the familiar fury pass over him.
"A week after I graduated from graduate school, it was September 11th."
In his mind, airlines ignited into fire—towers fell and flames rose towards the sky.
"The terrorists attacked the World Trade Center", he said numbly. He saw burning corpses—human forms caterwauling as the fires licked their flesh and consumed them whole. Of trembling Arabic faces, contorted in hatred—
"Al Qaeda attacked New York City and Washington D.C.—they shed American blood." His hands tremored slightly. Muzzles flashed—Arab men and women screamed at his sight. "I wanted to kill them—kill them all."
His skeleton was rigid, contorted in deplorable fury. In the darkness, her tear-streaked face turned to face him, and a mournful moue adorned her face. She saw the taste of anger in his eyes, how his body hardened as the hateful memories filled his eyes.
He continued, unable to stop, compelled by an emotional force as powerful and as inevitable as gravity.
"I went to the nearest Army recruiter—wanted my hands on a rifle, to fly over to Afghanistan. Passed Special Forces' Selection course at Fort Bragg, became airborne-qualified. They placed me in the 95th Civil Affairs Brigade, U.S. Army Special Operations Command."
The unusual phrase drew her mesmerizing eyes back to his face.
"Civil Affairs?" she whispered.
"They said I had a Ph.D. in Public Policy from Harvard—was too good to pass up. Instead of the Green Berets, the brass put me into Civil Affairs", he said, his voice thick with corrosive bitterness. "Instead of killing things, they wanted me to play along in the dog-and-pony show of civil-military operations. Wanted me to talk to the fuckin' villagers after the U.S. Army blew everything up, try to help 'em out. I didn't want to bandage some fucking kids—I wanted to kill Taliban."
The hate radiating through his voice coaxed a whimper from her—Christie gently caressed his shoulder, but he was beyond that now.
"Four years after Operation Enduring Freedom started, I was a Captain, in Civil Affairs—couldn't stand it anymore. We went into a n Afghan village bombed out by the USAF, and rebuilt it for them. Next day, Taliban comes in when we're gone, and slit the fuckin' throats of the homeowners whose houses we built. Day after that, the entire village signs up for Al Qaeda, says it's the fuckin' U.S.'s fault for why we bombed out their village in the first place."
On his shoulder, Christie was crying softly.
"Didn't want no more of that shit. I went right back to Bragg and demanded a transfer into the Airborne; the Green Berets. Goddamn terrorists—first, they kill three thousand American civilians, then they turn all those fuckin' Afghan and Iraqi civvies against us."
A cruel smile formed on his lips.
"I was too good. Bragg gave me better than the Green Berets—I passed Selection for the goddamn Unit. Yessir, Captain, U.S. Army 1st SFOD-D, Delta Force. I went right back into Afghanistan—if those terrorists wanted to turn an entire village against us, didn't matter no more. In Delta, we just called in an air strike on the entire goddamn village—the missiles didn't stop flying until I said so. If those pansy-ass terrorists wanted to spit in Civil Affairs' face, Special Forces and the USAF was gonna teach 'em better."
"One day, it was August 2012, I remember. Was a Major then, still in Afghanistan. Goddamn towel-heads tried to shoot down one of our Black Hawks and trap the rescue force, kill us all. I volunteered my team to rescue the Black Hawk crew in the mountains—we pulled 'em out, then I called down the Air Force. For twelve hours, we bombed that mountain nonstop. Planes flew right over our heads—USAF pulled out all the stops. F-22s, AC-130s, everything. When AFSOC did post-battle BDA, they counted nearly seven hundred bodies. Goddamn terrorists tried to kill us with seven hundred of themselves—yeah, and Delta taught them that you don't fuck around when you got a thousand-pound JDAM bomb with their name writtin' on it."
Christie, her face perched on his shoulder, was gazing at his anger-contorted face with a mute curiosity, with a terror at his towering anger: his skin was molten to the touch, incandescent with anger and patriotism—he was burning.
"Got a Silver Star for that one. Escalation—in Delta, we knew that escalation was the key. Terrorists try to pop an RPG up your ass, you call in a fuckin' thousand-pound bomb on them. They try to shoot some mortar rounds from a village, you flatten the entire goddamn town to kill that mortar team. After that Silver Star, Langley took me in. Special Activities Division was looking for field agents to track down Afghan terrorists who were running into Iran, or Asia or Africa. I wanted it, y'know? Terrorists want to run away to Somalia? I'll kill 'em there. They want to try to hide in Malaysia? Kill 'em there, too. Been in the C.I.A. for five years now."
His face teetered slightly as his memories melded to the present—he was in South Africa in a desolated apartment, the darkness all around him, and Christie on his shoulder, her tears rolling from her eyes to the fabric of the T-shirt on his neck.
The haze of rage grew pellucid, then faded—and he saw was Christie's face, eyes gleaming with tears. Her voice was choked with despondency, and he felt his heart stabbed every time her voice cracked with emotion. His rage, his rage—was breaking Christie's heart.
"The hate—the horror—"
Her voice was a whimper.
Gently, he tried to hold her precious jaw in his hands, kiss her on the cheek—but her skin was slick with tears, and she tried to draw herself away.
"It's okay", he whispered, savoring the feel of her satiny skin on his lips.
"I want it—I want it to end", she said with a stoic finalism, her eyelids closing.
She fell asleep a short time later. He did too.