The Jigsaw

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The Machine

Three separate LCD screens projected the personal files of three people.

"These are our main candidates, after the first selection." The man in the blue shirt leaned against the chair back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Young." General Turner skimmed again through the faces. His interlocutor left this remark without a response. "Well, I’m listening," Turner added.

"Ryan Keller. Age twenty-five. Former Air Force Academy student. One of the best in his year. Expelled, though, after fourth year."

"Expelled? And you want him?"

"Well, yes. He was expelled for beating up an officer. Actually the officer was at fault, as he had been bullying one of the girls. Keller reported the incident but the case was covered up. That guy was McCarthy’s son."

"This McCarthy’s?"

"Yes. So Keller got himself into problems. One night young McCarthy, together with another bright, proud soldier, tried to teach him a lesson, as they thought. Well, it finished like it finished: the two of them were beaten to a pulp, Keller was pronounced guilty of assaulting the officer, and he got expelled.”

"Not bad." Harold Turner nodded.

"He can fight. He is honorable, enterprising, and brave. Good grades and excellent opinions. And, of course, he is a pilot."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yes. He's in. He wants to be a soldier, and this whole affair was a real blow to his ambitions and dreams. We made every effort to block his chances of transferring to another military school."
"You are bastards, aren’t you?"

"Look who’s talking. You pay for it. And don’t be overdramatic. The boy is going to get his wish. Good for him and good for us."

"Okay. I guess it’s neither the time nor the place for my hypocrisy." General smiled coldly. "Next one?"

"Sarah Blade."

"A woman."

"Yes, a woman."

"From?"

"New York Police. Twenty-seven years. After three years on West Point. She dropped the school."

"Twenty-seven years? West Point? And police? Wow, you’ve got nothing but eagles here!"

"That’s what you asked for."

"Well, this is one of those rare cases when I actually get what I ask for."

"Lucky you."

"So?"

"Her father was a policeman. Award-winning one. Remember the Great Theatre action five years ago?"

"Yes."

"That’s him."

"He got shot."

"Right. And died. She’s a textbook example of a hero’s daughter who wants to follow in her father’s footsteps. At first she wanted to join the army. She passed the West Point exams beautifully—then she got her wings clipped. West Point is still very conservative, and women there are considered as a lower caste of officers. Blade is very ambitious, so she fought for recognition. Quite successfully, I must admit. But unluckily for her, we had an eye on everything and pulled some strings to punish her for willfulness. She got transferred to Stapleton’s unit. Stapleton is the worst male chauvinist I’ve ever heard of. But she didn’t give up. I mean, they didn’t break her. She just got pissed off because they made her do stupid and unnecessary things, and she resigned and got recruited to the police. For three years now she’s been working in the field under our man. She has a reputation for being confident, tough, and resourceful. What’s more, she’s become obsessed with finding her father’s killers, as they were never arrested. That’s good, because we know who they are and we have that goal in common.”

"Is she good from the technical point of view?"

"Yes. I’ve read opinions on actions she’s taken part in. She’s disciplined, calm, determined. Killed two criminals, in self-defense they say. She trained in shooting for years—just for sport, but she has a good eye. And some time ago she won an amateur marathon race for high school students in the women’s category. And on top of everything else, she speaks two foreign languages like a native, as her family roots are in Germany and Russia."

"Huh, what a girl! A cyborg."

"And a pretty one." Agent Ramson chuckled. "That’s the last, but not the least of her weapons."

"With a character like hers, that must be troublesome and irritating for her sometimes."

"It is. And we'll make use of it." The two men smiled knowingly.

"The third one is Casey Moore, twenty-seven years." Ramson pointed at the last profile.

"He’s not a soldier?"

"Nope. He's on our team of analysts. Employed two months ago in the Internet crimes department."

"Then what’s the point? He works with his head and that's it."

"He’s been training in martial arts for fifteen years now. That’s a hell of a long time, and he’s extremely talented. If you can imagine, he almost managed to take one of our boys by surprise during the field test. And that’s really something. Born to fight, as they say. They even offered him a place on our national team, but he declined. He chose to invest in education—two technical subjects, very up to date: computer science and telecommunications. Furthermore, he has scuba diving and motorcycle racing licenses. If he weren’t so level-headed, he probably would have attended stunt school. Very high intelligence; strong, balanced character; a natural leader."

"Okay, I see. I believe you know what you're doing."

"I believe it too. Well, he knows useful things. He’s already somewhat involved in our business, and we need a field guy who can deal with technical problems but at the same time not be a burden."

"Have you talked to him yet?"

"No. There’s one more interesting thing about him. His father. He developed a company that’s doing very well. Behind such progress there’s always a fortune. How do you think a university professor could make such big money?"

"Credit, I suppose."

"Well, yes. That’s one option. Unfortunately for him, he took another way. His business partner, John Cleven, has connections in—get this—the mob! At first Moore had no idea about the real source of funds. When he found out it was too late. He got threatened and gave up. They leave him alone and in return he turns a blind eye to the money laundering going on in their company. This is the next reason we’ve chosen the kid. He’ll lead us to the nest of scorpions. Two birds with one stone.”

"So w’re going to offer the boy challenging work and training. And if he refuses?"

"Why would he? He’s young, single, likes challenges...besides, we'll organize it as an internal company transfer. He'll just be assigned to new duties."

General Turner examined the three young faces one more time. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a sense of remorse, albeit a weak one. He felt a bit sorry for these talented people. Their ideals and peace of minds were about to be destroyed. Their lives probably would end up a mess. Without anesthesia, surgery was about to be performed on the fragile flesh of their more or less innocent view of reality. The general had seen the effects many times, and they were never comforting. But there were higher goals to be considered. It was his job to lie to newcomers—to earn their trust, only to betray them when needed, and leave them in a hole full of shit. He shook his head to keep these thoughts away. He’d learned to control them a long time ago. If he couldn’t, he would break. Then they would replace him with someone who could handle sacrificing people. The machine had to work, no matter what. Although it was cruel and inhuman, he believed it was necessary. For the greater good. Always for the greater good.

"Good," he said eventually. "I leave it all in your hands."

"Thanks."

Turner stood up heavily and extended his hand. Ramson shook it, his eyes focused on the general’s face. "Harold," he said gently, "they are good. And they can take it."

"Yeah." The old man nodded, smiling sadly. He felt ten years older than he really was. "They always do, don’t they?"

---

Despite the late hour, the shooting range lights were still on. Simon looked into the simulation room. The dynamic action was displayed on an enormous powerwall and the space was filled with the sounds of battle. The man leaned against the door frame and watched silently as his partner went through the reconstructed simulation of his last and partially failed task, shooting digital enemies with the laser. That failure hadn’t been their fault. They’d got unreliable communication devices that hadn’t been tested enough. In the middle of a mess they had lost radio contact with each other and had to withdraw. But defeat was defeat, and one man was down. Thus General Turner ordered the whole force that had survived to undergo five simulated repetitions of that action, every one of them taking about six hours. They were all sick of it. There was nothing they could improve or change. It was just a radio crap-out.

In the artificial, flickering light of the visualization the man looked like a bronze statue. His gracefully craved body was still, legs wide apart, arms held straight out in front of the focused face. He had shoved his hair, black as a raven’s wing, behind his ears so as not to be distracted by strands brushing his face. Dark, observant eyes kept track of the action from under knitted brows. The only part of his body that moved was the finger pulling the trigger. A beautiful killing machine. When he took down the last target , he turned to Simon and jerked his head in acknowledgment.

Simon smiled and approached the computer console to turn off the simulation. The screen dimmed and silence reigned over the room.

"You’re not over it yet?" the blond man asked, sitting down in the swivel chair in front of the computer and switching on the small lamp.

His partner didn’t answer, concentrated on uninstalling the laser. Finally he put it into the rack. Not until then did he sit down in the chair next to Simon and fix his sharp gaze on him.

"No, I’m not over it yet," he answered, his voice calm but cold, the grudge well hidden.

"C’mon, Sam, take it easy. Turner doesn’t want people to die. That’s his one virtue, that he cares at all."

"But I don’t fucking care. Everyone knows the risk." Sam leaned backwards. His voice was still quiet, emotionless. "I train all the fucking time. Shooting the flickering wall is not going to help. It’s just a huge waste of time. AND it’s getting on my nerves."

"Stick with it."

"I know. I will."

Sam’s eyes gleamed when he glanced at Simon. They stared intently at each other for a long instant. A lecherous smirk slowly tilted Sam’s lips, his brow arched.

Simon shook his head and snorted. "Oh, give me a break, okay?"

"What, you don’t wanna play a bit?" One black eye gave him a wink.

"Actually, no. Think of me as your last resort for moments of deep depression."

"I don’t have moments of deep depression."

"Exactly. That’s why you can find someone else to play your dirty games."

"Hey, they’re honest, not dirty."

"They’re fucking freaky and dirty and I don’t want you to play them with me."

"You know I don’t.” Sam’s voice sounded serious and soft.

"I know. And I want it to stay that way." Simon sent a smile to his partner and got one in return. "So, how many revisions you have left?" He changed the subject.

"One."

"Niiice. I’ve got three."

"I just wanted to get it over with." Sam stood up and turned the lamp off. "Going home or somewhere?"

"Somewhere." Simon smiled roguishly in the darkness and followed his friend to the door.

"Behave, then. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t."

Simon burst out laughing and commented, "I don’t think I could even find something you wouldn’t do, man. And if by some miracle I did, I’m pretty sure I’d be sick just thinking about it."

"It was a joke, you know?" Sam made a sour face.

"Yeah, I know. And a really good one!" Simon was still chuckling. "You’re not going anywhere today?" he added.

"Nope. I’m gonna drink by myself today. Have a nice whatever you’re going to have." The black-haired man patted his friend’s arm.

"Thanks. See you tomorrow."

They went their separate ways and disappeared in the darkness of the warm night.

---

Monday morning came as an unpleasant surprise for Simon. The urgent need to empty his bladder woke him up and forced him to get up from the bed. He had a hell of a hangover and felt rotten. Reaching the bathroom in time was quite a challenge but he managed. After answering the call of nature he looked in the mirror. He looked exactly how he felt: pale—no, greenish face with bags under the blood-shot eyes, hair sticking out in every direction. He hadn’t even taken his clothes off before going to bed. His sweaty, stinking, crumpled shirt was additionally stained with something that looked like a cherry juice.

"Shit." Simon ran his fingers through his tousled hair and rested his hands on the counter. Usually he didn’t drink that hard. But he’d known he had it coming.

Simon smiled sadly, remembering the previous night. He had wandered to the Havana Club with no plan at all. He had a drink or two and saw Tim. Of course it wasn’t really Tim, as Tim was dead. It was just someone very similar.

He hadn’t known Tim very well. Just a casual acquaintance. A few talks, a few drinks, a few actions.... He could remember Tim’s struggles to crawl after he’d been shot in his legs that night and his desperate, choked sobs of pain. He had seen the bandits enjoying the scene, and the bullet they’d put in Tim’s head with cruel satisfaction. It wasn’t the first time Simon had seen death. Actually he was quite familiar with it. But he’d never become used to it to the extent that it didn’t bother him.

Sam was different. For him, killing or dying was just a game. In fact, life for him was full of games and only games. He didn’t care. He just played.

Simon couldn’t remember Sam having second thoughts. Even if he had, there was no sign of it. Sometimes Simon envied his partner’s adaptation skills. But only sometimes, for short moments. In fact he would never trade places with Sam. It would have meant going through all of the nightmares, breakdowns, and fatal experiences that had deeply affected Sam over the years. He wasn’t sure he could have handled everything as well as Sam had. His friend had managed to live the philosophy “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger”. Indeed, he was tough. But he’d had to pay for it, since nothing was free in this world.

Simon sighed, turned the tap on, and splashed water over his face.

Half an hour later, clean, with neat hair and clothes changed, and still with a headache, Simon walked into the director’s office. He had an appointment.

"Good morning, sir."

General Turner nodded a welcome and continued flicking through some papers. After a few moments he lifted his eyes and looked at Simon.

“We’ve finished the recruitment season," he said, omitting an introduction and not asking Simon to sit down. "This time we decided to accept two new agents and one assistant. Casey Moore. He will not be a full agent for the time being. He will have to undergo rigorous training to be able to work in a military system. The whole plan is being prepared by Colonel Ramson. You will cooperate, Mr. Tader." The general’s eyes lingered on Simon.

"Yes, sir."

"For more information, contact the colonel."

"Yes, sir."

"That’s all. You are dismissed."

Simon bowed slightly, and murmuring words of good-bye, left the office.

Casey Moore. He was the one they’d tested in Washington Park. That fight had been pretty good; the guy definitely had a gift. But so what? There were plenty of gifted guys in the army or special forces. Why would they want to employ someone so green in this field?
"We’ll find out," he mumbled to himself.

---

Sam sat at the corner table in the Canteen, sipping coffee and smoking a cigarette. In front of him a big sheet of a newspaper was spread out. The Canteen was almost empty; there were just two or three people eating a late breakfast. Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw a woman he hadn’t seen before—an attractive woman, moreover. Long, curly, copper-red hair was carelessly pinned up at her neck, some disobedient locks slipping from the knot. A golden shade of skin harmonized perfectly with the large number of freckles covering her face. The only thing that ruined the image was her awkward way of moving. There was no grace in her heavy steps. She walked negligently, with overly large strides, like a man.

She approached the counter to order breakfast. Sam’s eyes followed her with one brow arched and a predatory smirk on his lips. He didn’t even try to be discreet, so when Sarah turned around she immediately caught his provocative gaze. For a second he admired her narrow, almond-shaped, intensely blue eyes and full, tempting lips. She evaluated him in turn and her brows knitted. She ostentatiously ignored him and took her seat in the opposite corner of the room.

She felt disgusted and a bit impatient with the situation. Men often treated her like nothing but a pretty face and round butt. Mocking smiles, smacking lips, whistling—it was her everyday life. She’d tried everything—sack-like clothes, no makeup, glasses, awkward walking—but it still wasn’t enough. She’d had no choice but to get used to unpleasant attention and learn to ignore it with dignity. And she did. But it didn’t change the fact that she felt irritated and deeply offended by such an attitude. And this man, smirking cockily, was at that moment an incarnation of everything she hated.

Sarah angrily bit into her bun and fixed her gaze somewhere outside the window. She felt slightly disappointed. Maybe she’d thought it would be different here. If they chose her, they must have seen her as a good recruit, not just a damn crazy girl. But apparently men everywhere were the same.

She was afraid that the man studying her so shamelessly would approach and try to accost her, but to her relief, he didn’t. When she finished her breakfast and hesitantly looked around, he was gone, the empty cup with its cigarette butt floating in the dregs left on his table.

---

"Hello Si." Sam smiled widely, seeing Simon in the locker room changing for the training run.

"Hi, bro." Simon patted his partner’s back.

"How was your night?" Sam opened his locker and took out his sweats.

"Nothing to write home about. I got abominably drunk and I still can’t shake the hangover."

"Abreaction, huh?"

"You could say so."

Sam nodded in understanding and tied his shoelaces. "Oh, by the way, we have new meat. Did you know?"

"What meat?"

"Girl."

"Wow. I didn’t know."

"I saw her in the Canteen. Quite a chick."

"Sounds interesting." Simon leaned against the wall, waiting for Sam to put his clothes into his locker.

"Not really. Rather typical here—oversensitive and ambitious. Hates male chauvinists."

"And who likes them?" Simon laughed and folded his arms.

"Whatever. She’s too serious and frustrated, I think. Nothing cool about her."

"Have you talked to her?"

"Nooo, nothing of the kind. I just looked her up and down, suggesting that I liked what I saw and would like to see it closer."

"That trick of yours…." Simon shook his head, smirking.

"Why? Ten seconds of provocation and people are like open books."

"Yeah. We’ll see her in action. She’ll learn or she’ll break. Ready to go?"

"Yep. After you."

They left the locker room to do their five miles. Running together had become a tradition. They shared the pace and comfortably adjusted to each other’s steps. Thirty minutes of effort, heart forcefully pumping blood to the head, steady breathing, and blank mind, just draining the body and purifying the thoughts. An act of catharsis.