4.
1982
Pierce spent over a year, all told, going over every single one of Zola's papers he could get his hands on, but there was no trace of the elusive algorithm, not even in the works about zebrafish.
:=:=:=:
They were on their fourth mission by the time the first fly landed on the ointment.
As soon as Pierce set foot in the vault, the team leader—Dr Atwater, Friday team—told him that they'd had some hiccups during the thawing process and the asset was agitated and mildly unstable, so at least Pierce knew to expect something, going in.
He did not expect the asset to make a fuss whenever someone touched him, or to fail to obey when Pierce commanded him to look at him.
'This may be a calibration problem,' Dr Atwater said. 'We ran the conditioning before you arrived and…'
'No,' Pierce said. The chemical smells in the room, which until now had always been faint enough not to bother him, were giving him the start of a headache. 'It's not a calibration problem. Bring me the microfilm pictures.'
The asset sat in his chair, looking like a bull about to bolt out of its stall. His hands clenched the armrests, the metal one hard enough to leave dents. The mechanical arm kept making faint clicking and whirring noises. Pierce made a mental note to ask the team about it later.
It wasn't a calibration problem. It was a discipline problem. It was an order problem. People, ordinary people, people who worked in high-rise offices or manned street stalls, who ate greasy food or overcooked rice, who complained about their mothers-in-law, craved safety. They wanted to know that tomorrow was coming and what it would bring. They wanted to know, without having to think about it, that they were a part of something bigger. They wanted to know exactly where they stood and what the rules were, and that they could rely on them.
And then there was this.
Pierce dragged over a chair so he could sit in front of the asset, eye to eye. 'Look at me when I tell you to,' he said. He didn't raise his voice, but his tone was unyielding enough that the asset obeyed almost immediately.
He couldn't help but feel a bitter spoonful of disappointment. The asset was supposed to be perfect. A mechanism of polished steel, free from all the grit and debris that made people kick walls, join mobs, throw bricks.
'I have a mission for you,' Pierce said, and explained what he expected of the asset, the target, the location, the details of the killing. The asset seemed a little less agitated as Pierce spoke, but even so Pierce could tell he was unfocused, always about to fidget. His body seemed to crackle like a severed live wire. It wasn't hard to picture him getting up from his chair and methodically slaughtering everyone in the room. It wasn't hard at all. 'Do you understand?'
The asset shook his head. His hands released the chair and twitched, then the metal hand grabbed the armrest again with a soft crunch. When he spoke, though, his voice was barely audible. 'Can't—I can't.'
'You can't,' Pierce repeated, his tone not unkind. The tech wheeled in the microfilm reels and loaded them into the reader under one of the screens. The asset's gaze drifted leftward as the tech brought the reader closer. Pierce raised his voice a fraction. 'Don't look at him. Look at me.'
The asset's head twitched once, then he looked back at Pierce.
'Why can't you?'
The asset didn't reply. His skin was taut over bunched muscles, shiny with the fluids from his most recent rebirth.
God, what next? Was Pierce going to have to ask the asset about his opinions on the Falklands? Perhaps his keen insights into the situation in Lebanon?
'Why don't you want to carry out your mission?'
The asset glanced down at his hands, still curled on the chair's arms, then his eyes turned upwards. For a split-second, Pierce was sure he saw rage burn on his face. Then his expression turned pleading, eyes wide, mouth droopy. When he spoke, though, his tone was flat. 'Is it wrong.'
A question? A statement? Pierce couldn't tell.
'Ah. Wrong.' Pierce fiddled with the microfilm reader's controls. Images darted across the screen, too fast to make out. Finally he settled on one. It drifted out of focus, then sharpened again as he adjusted it. It was black and white, but that suited it. The hollow-points' exit wounds looked like tar pits, ringed by grey-white flecks of bone.
'Look at it. Look at it. That was you.' Flicker. Another image, an open mouth, a coil of viscera half-spilling out of a slit abdomen. 'That was you.' Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. 'That was you. That was you.'
'Is this enough?' Pierce said, finally. The asset hadn't dared to look away, but his eyes were pleading again. Pierce pictured them damp with tears, but instead of the knot of revulsion he was expecting, he felt only curiosity. Could the asset cry, he wondered. Would he ever?
'You understand now? Do you see what you are? What you do?' He turned away from the screen but didn't bother turning it off. The image still displayed on it was in colour. It cast a faint red tinge on the clammy skin on the asset's chest and throat. 'You want to pretend this isn't you?'
The asset said nothing.
'Do you even know how good you are at your work?' He leaned closer to the asset, so that their faces were only two handspans apart. The warming tank smell still clung to the asset along with the sting of disinfectant. There were bruises from injections on his right arm, already fading. 'You are… unique. What you do, nobody else can. What you're willing to do, nobody else is. And that is why I need you. That is why the world needs you. To do the things no one else is capable of. So that the world can finally have the freedom it needs.'
The asset looked him in the eye, his expression sullen, defiant, even. 'I ca—'
A few moments later Pierce stood up and looked at his hand. He couldn't stop himself from shaking a little, for all his self-control.
He was not a man who yelled. He was certainly not a man who hit. He had never had to spank the girls to discipline them, and he had nothing but contempt for those pathetic men—for lack of a better word—who beat their wives.
This was something else entirely.
The asset looked subdued now, even a little contrite, head hanging down, a bead of blood on the cleft of his chin. Anger swelled inside Pierce. Had he asked for anything more than for things to stay as they'd always been, the two of them working as a perfect team, a well-oiled machine, ticking away? Had he demanded anything else? He didn't hurt for the sake of hurting like Zola had. He did only what was necessary. Less than that, even. And in return the asset had decided to be downright provocative, stubborn and petulant like someone who lazily ignored clear instructions and then got mad at the idea of owning up to the mistake. Even Pierce's patience had its limits.
His knuckles throbbed a little. He was sure he'd hurt his own hand more than he'd hurt the asset, but at least it had been successful correction. All the stubbornness seemed to have trickled out. He had craved it, Pierce understood. A sharp reminder of where he stood and what he was. The air had been cleared and they could carry on.
'Do you want to be put back on ice?' Pierce said. His heart had sped up, but his voice was as calm as ever.
The asset's lips parted but no sound came out. His eyes remained focused on the floor. 'I asked you a question,' Pierce said.
'No,' the asset whispered.
'Maybe this was all a mistake. Taking you out of the ice, letting you go on assignments. Maybe I should have let you stay asleep. You even ran away from me once.' The asset raised his head at that, without meeting Pierce's eyes, then lowered his head again. 'I should just wipe you one last time. That's exactly what something like you deserves. Then you won't have to be asked to do your work again. That'll be the best way.'
The asset ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. 'The mission.'
'Speak up,' Pierce said, and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't want the asset to think he was any less angry at him.
'The mission.' A twitch and whirr of his metal arm. When he spoke again his tone was even softer, almost too quiet to hear. 'I have my mission.'
'Yes you do,' Pierce said. 'That's what you want,' he added, and sat down again for the briefing. He glanced at the rest of the team, but they were all busy with their instruments and readings. If anyone had anything to say, they didn't say it. They didn't even meet his eyes.
Before he went home, he stopped at the executive bathroom.
One day, Pierce thought as he washed the blood off his knuckles and waited for his expression to regain its composure, the scholars of the future would discuss the end of history. They would tell their incredulous students that there had been a time when people hadn't been safe, sheltered, protected. Some of those people had talked about freedom, but there were all kinds of freedom, weren't there? Back them, those people, those few, had freedom to. These days, the teachers would say, we all had freedom from. Think about which kind should be valued more highly.
He watched the pink water swirl down the drain, and hoped the skin on his fingers wouldn't bruise.
TBC…
Author's note: The distinction between freedom to and freedom from… appears in lots of places, but the bit in this chapter was specifically inspired by similar statements made by one of the Aunts in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. Also, remember how Pierce wiped Bucky's tears away in Chapter 3? And now he's wondering if Bucky is even capable of crying? Well, that strikes me as a good segue to point out that if Zola's lies and distortions were a book of Wallies, Pierce's are a planet of Wallies.