The Apex Associate

CHAPTER 1

Year 226 in transit

“‘Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say…’” the commissioner reads aloud the electronic transcript from across the large red-cedar table. He huskily continues “‘guess we’re about to find out...prick’”. He’s parroting back my own words, intermittently staring into my soul for emphasis.

“I don’t know who said that, but in the circumstances - of which you have kindly described - I thought that came across as, clever?” I make sure to stifle a laugh, hiding my grin behind a deliberately selected, neutral expression. I choose my words carefully, hoping not to further incriminate myself.

“Do you think that is an appropriate thing to say before fulfilling a mark, Miss Bayliss?” He’s no longer reading and is now scolding me for last week’s dodgy fulfilment. A supervision meeting was common and would usually occur once a month, but I had found my schedule brimming with them of late.

“I don’t recall saying that, was it possibly another associate? One of similar rank perhaps?” I think I’ve said this with the correct measure of aloofness and arrogance. I also don’t know the identity of any of my peers, so I was partly hopeful he'd ignorantly offer up that information.

“So… the several cameras and mic recordings that we’ve gained access to are…lying? If a man is to die of asphyxiation, I doubt he would appreciate first being jested. I believe being launched into space was enough” I see a sly smile creep into the sides of his mouth. The Commissioner and I generally have a good relationship and I have been reprimanded for far worse. A high-profile kill that was performed on an isolated part of the ship, albeit caught on surveillance, was usually considered a triumph. “I’m concerned about the new flare that you’ve introduced to your work Ms. Hollingsworth.”

“Do tell. I also think we’re at that point, Edwin, where we can drop the formalities.” I was pushing him, but I was the best-contracted associate in this damn company, I literally could get away with murder. I leaned back in my chair and put my heavy combat boots onto the table. The Commissioner gave an expression of perceived exhaustion but pressed on.

“Okay. Sidra. What the actual fuck are you up to?” I tried to suppress my surprise; I had never heard Commissioner Sligar swear before. I felt a pang of guilt for how immature I had been of late, the man was usually as stoic as they come. The Commissioner now appeared stern and looked at me with a fierceness that had not been present in any of our other 54 meetings and secondments. “July 1st - level 20 mark. Confirmed death by beheading” he reads.

“An accident really, the poor guy ran into my machete.” I slide my boots off the table and feign an interest in my manicure.

“July 27th - Level 4 mark. Confirmed death from 62 stab wounds.”

“She just wouldn’t quit squirming. So what if I missed a few times?” the Commissioner grew terser and terser. I smirked and held eye contact; we were both acutely aware, I don’t miss.

“August 8th - Level 12 mark. Confirmed death…combustion?” I shrugged, no need to delve into that mishap. He continued “August 9th - level 7. Drowned in set gelatin. August 11th - Level 1. Vacuum sealed. August 14th - Level 19. Broken heart?” He gazed up from the transcript and looked at me with raised eyebrows. That had been my more strategic mark.

“Okay, okay, I get it! But are you not entertained? Am I not the good little contracted killer? Have I not tried to pay my debts?I’m surely a welcomed break from the other bores you supervise…” I spurted. I zipped my mouth before anything more slipped out. I’m frustrated and he now knows it, I have given him too much and I am still a large amount off of making bail.

The Commissioner continued to cock a subtly groomed eyebrow. He was handsome – for an old dude at least. Tall, well-dressed with a manicured dark beard and piercing blue eyes. If I were twenty years older, who knows, maybe this would have been more than a professional relationship.

He openly smirks, and looks down over his nose at me from across the table. “Sidra, it is not about what I think. The Department is concerned that you are drawing too much attention to the Scheme. We’ve projected another 26 years of transit before we reach Novidom XI. There are 750,000 people aboard this ship and we are still nowhere near optimum capacity. You are contracted until yo-” I interrupt abruptly, my cheeks growing hot and flushed.

“You forget my liege, a contract elicits the perception that both parties are in agreement. This meeting is over, I have a mark that I’ve been grooming and it’s time to collect. You’ll receive my fulfilment log when it’s ready. I’ll be a good little inter-planetary assassin and in the meantime, you can go fuck yourself.” I gather myself and stand to leave. I flick my long raven black hair from over my shoulder and strut towards the office door. “Goodbye, Edwin.” I hear a deep sigh from behind me as I enter the sterile white corridor of the ship’s Bureaucratic quadrant.

“See you next week if not sooner, Sidra” follows me out the open door. I begin my strut towards the Hospitality sector where a kitchen hand has been assigned for extraction.

I steel myself and accept that my temper needs to be addressed before any future supervisory meetings. It was time to work.

*****

I sauntered up to the residential and hospitality quarter, intermittently using the travelators found in especially long transitory corridors. Ducking in and out of passageways that would not seem apparent to most civilians. I made myself scarce. Invisible.

Parts of the ship had been designed to resemble famous cities from Earth. The roof of the ship, in the more cavernous rooms, had large screens that honeycombed together and mimicked the sky. Pre-apocalypse, but the sky all the same.

I walked down the bustling streets of the hospitality sector. This particular aisle resembled that of a Parisian street. Cobblestones lined the ground and the streets were packed with restaurants and patrons. Fairy lights littered the terraces and strategically selected trees. The Botanics were primarily for relief on the oxygen systems of the ship, and secondarily for aesthetics. Every tree, bush and flower were precisely pruned to the millimetre and were decidedly the same species that would have been native to the cloned city. It was reminiscent of when my mother would attempt my grandmother’s recipes, very close to and almost convincing.

I took inventory of my surroundings: identifying frequenters, entryways and exits as well as potential weapons for if I was to get into a bind. The Ship time was 9:00pm and people were having their last glasses of wine and wrapping up their meals.

Just past the Ship's famous “Fried Frog”, was a doorway that led to the outward-facing wrap-around balcony of the ship. I scanned my thumbprint on the Biolock. A face and name appeared on the small screen left of the door, Faith Gibson.

Who is Faith? I’ll let you know when I do.

I slinked through the door and caught my breath at the impending galaxy looming beyond the balcony of the ship.

Stars shone in the distance and the infinity of the landscape caught in my throat, clouds of various colours resembling watercolour illustrations littered the horizon, pieces of space rock aimlessly drifting past and the occasional space litter of previous colonies.

I strode along the balcony, a thin but durable glass panel separating me from the vastness that threatened to engulf me. I’d sent plenty of people to their ends via Ship portholes and entry/exit antechambers, careful to make it seem self-initiated. I always thought it was a beautiful way to die – surrounded by stars.

I made my best attempt at appearing inconspicuous. Posing myself against the cold steel wall. I purposely positioned myself by the back exit of the Fried Frog and began to wait. For the last month or so I had made a habit of pulling up to this spot for a clove cigarette; I’d stolen a bunch of foul smelling herbs and would pretend that I had tobacco. This manouver tended to acquire back-alley allies and secrets in exchange for faux-nicotine. It had been a go to for the past few years.

The Kitchenhand, who I refused to call by name, came out for smoke breaks every hour and twenty – like clockwork. He worked six days a week and long hours, providing a wealth of opportunity to collect my target.

I stood below a bright pink neon sign that tinged the smoke I blew out with a rosy hue. I puffed and ashed, performing the role of loiterer perfectly. In two minutes my mark would appear, as he always did. How strange that I was the only soul who knew his fate. I decided then that I would let him fully enjoy his last ever cigarette.

The steel door burst open as the Kitchenhand raced past, a plume of smoke trailing him, eager to make the most of his ten minute break. Contrary to what most people believe, I only needed ten minutes.

He cursed under his breath and muttered away to himself. Something about the idiots he was working with.

His long legs made their way to the ledge of the balcony. The Kitchenhand turned and locked eyes with me, he was to be expecting me here, as I constructed.

“You’re back!” his eyes light up and he speaks hurriedly. I’d made the effort to be at this very spot – ten minutes a day for the past three weeks – taking notice of the comings and goings of the Fried Frog.

“This seems to be the spot”, I reply cooly, “good shift so far?” I had never spoken to this mark before.

He was underwhelming to look at, now that I looked closely. I took a few steps towards him –casually, evenly. The Kitchenhand was lanky, with chestnut brown hair that fell just below the ears, his nose was bright red and misshapen. The skin of his cheeks were pitted with acne scars. He had bright green eyes that were electric in the neon light – his only real redeeming feature.

“You know how it is, all hustle and bustle, never a dull moment around here.” A coy smile plays on his lips as he replies. He takes a drag of his cigarette, real tobacco by the way it smells. His gaze stiffens, the intensity with which I’m being discerned is unmissable. “A month is a long time to monitor someone” he says flatly, any politeness had evaporated.

I elect not to react. “Is it? I was almost worried you wouldn’t notice me. If I’m being completely transparent…I’ve developed a bit of a crush on you.” I bat my eyes and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ears with mock affection. I expect him to blush or become flustered, instead, he looks at me more fiercely still.

“Cut the shit” he spits. “I’ve heard the rumours. Everyone Starboard is now wary of you, the others who’re just like you. We reckon you killed my mate Stephen just last week, everyone thought he’d purposely put himself on the wrong side of an airlock, but I knew that was bullshit. He mentioned a weird chick he’d been talking to. Long black hair and scary big eyes”. He paused and took another drag, seemingly incapable of blinking. “Stephen was one of the only people who truly believed we’d ever get off this Ship” the Kitchenhand drawled on. “He carried the last bit of hope for anyone. And you snuffed him out. The way you did it too…downright evil. His legacy is ruined be-because you’re a-a-a BITCH.” His eyes welled and his voice complimented his display of grief and anger.

“Glad my efforts are being appreciated” I contend sheepishly, returning his glare. His rage intensifies and the cigarette he’d been caressing between his pointer and index finger falls to the floor and extinguishes.

“I should kill you where you stand. Put everyone at ease. Hard to get on with regular life when a viper is crawling around. Mothers holding babies closer, brothers waiting for sisters to arrive home safe, grown men walking home in packs. For everyone,--for Stephen– I’ll gut you like venison” the Kitchenhand finalises his soliloquy with absolute resolve. He squares his stance and theatrically reaches for his belt, a snarl engrossing the lower half of his face. It had occurred to me that he must have pictured this moment, fantasised about confronting me, wielding his knife and killing off one of the monsters plaguing the people of Bacchus VI.

Part of me wished he would.

“How do I know you aren’t the murderer?” I blurt. I manage to interrupt his thought processes and his hand drops from his waist, where his knife hangs from his chef’s belt. “How am I to know that you didn’t coax –what did you say his name was…Stephen?- into the antechamber. Convince him how fun and hilarious it would be to get caught fooling around in there…especially somewhere so dangerous…then while you’re kissing him…because you’re friends that kiss right?” I smirk, a jab at a man’s masculinity is always amusing. “Just best friends who spoil each other with little kisses and belly rubs – You pretend that you hear someone coming and while he’s too lovestruck to realise what you’re up to, you lock the chamber and release the airlock. You watch the life leave his eyes as he turns blue and swells right up, just like in that old human movie with the kids in the chocolate factory.” I’m no longer being satirical and the Kitchenhands’ eyes begin to well up. “You can see him screaming. A pantomime of struggle. Begging whatever source he thinks would bother– to spare a lowly serf like him – to save him. As if he, of every goddamn human being left in this godforsaken galaxy, would be the one to survive outside this Ship. We’re headed nowhere, Sebastian. You die on this Ship or I kill you, that’s it! Fortunately for you, I’ve come to spare you from the miserable and tiny life you lead. Of all 750,000 people hurtling through space, I, at this moment have dictated that you no longer deserve to exist. There is no God, other than the one that stands in front of y-...”

The Kitchenhand draws a large carving knife from his chef’s belt. Here I thought you’d been subjected to solely washing produce, looks like he knows what he’s doing with a knife. This just got interesting.

I accosted for his downward swing and casually stepped to the side. He was powerful but far too slow and predictable. The Kitchenhand, or ‘Sebastian’ as I had mistakenly spoken, ripped through the air with his knife, cutting strips through the thick air surrounding us. I allowed for five to six swings before I contemplated an offensive counter. Dodging where necessary to avoid his slashes while I contemplated.

With a horizontal cut, aimed at my throat. I duck and reach for my boot. Before the Kitchenhand could even ponder his next stab, I unsheathed a dagger.

The dagger had been an Apex induction gift, it was the length of my forearm and sharp as hell. I clicked the button at the hilt and the blade began to heat, the metal blazing molten orange within milliseconds. I swiped at the Kitchenhands’ ankles and as much to my surprise as his, perforated through his skin, tendons and bone. A knife through butter. I made a mental note to whip out Seraphim more often.

A scream escaped the man’s lips that could only be described as otherworldly and he dropped to the floor, holding the newly-formed stub in his hands. The wound instantly cauterised on impact. A wild look of disbelief washed over his face and anguish carved out his features.

Thanking my parents for the gift of a long-wiry frame, I closed the distance between us and stood over him. Mustering as much menacing energy as possible.

He temporarily releases his appendage and reaches for his weapon a meter to his left. I think quickly of kicking the butcher’s knife, sending it skidding along the metal flooring.

The Kitchenhand lifts his chin, a dismal attempt to appear dignified with tears streaming down his face.

“Do it!” he pleads “how do you plan on making this look like an accident?”

“I guess you’ll never know” I spit back. He was annoying me now. I grab a fistful of his hair. Summoning all my strength, I pull him to the railing.

Someone is going to hear him if he keeps up the banshee act, I need to get this over and done with.

With one swift heave, I smack his head into the solid metal railing. His eyes glaze over and his jaw starts to slacken. I give him two more thwacks for good measure and any resistance is gone. The Kitchenhand goes limp. The backside of his head resembles the fillings of cherry pie, nothing like what I've seen in movies.

“Now to tidy up…” I mutter to myself. I grab the lone foot and place it in a way that appears as though he cut it off himself. “This will be your Vincent Van Gogh moment, I think. Just instead of an ear, it will have to be your foot. Maybe they’ll remember you as tortured culinary artist.”

I giggle to myself, corpses did often make the best company.

I grab a lighter from my pants pocket and place it just within reach of the body. As though it had fallen from his grip during the fall.

“Okay, now to set the scene. So you’ve gone to have a smoke break. You have a history of drug use so that should be assumed as a contributing factor. In a state of rage-fueled psychosis, you cut off your own foot. Lose your balance, obviously, now with only having one foot. Then wham! Head meets hard object and you're done. I’ll just log this and Bob’s your uncle.”

I allow myself to smile. This had been unpleasant but would buy me a few days of rest and relaxation, so had proven worth it.

Now, for the final touches. I clambered over to the back door of the restaurant, I grabbed a wooden produce box to use as a step – conscious of the fact that the Kitchenhands’ work colleague was due to find him in three minutes.

I climbed up and came eye-level with the camera I’d scouted out weeks ago. It was a sleek black sphere that had been drilled into the wall. Thousands covered the Ship. This one had been her choice record-keeping instrument for today's efforts.

I aligned my left eye with the centre of the camera and the covering flipped up. With a press of my thumb on the now revealed Bioscanner, I had completed the mark and lodged the fulfilment. The central surveillance system would switch to the discretionary setting for this current site and blur my identity.

I sigh. Sometimes it just felt too easy. I gather myself and step down from the box, I hear a scuffle from where the body lay. I whip my head around to address the source of the noise. No one is within earshot of any direction. I squint and can see a glowing black tablet adjacent to the severed foot.

Noting the voices now approaching the back door of the Fried Frog, I swept up the small thin rectangle, pocketing it immediately as I darted towards the shadows of the closest alleyway.

I made my way back onto the main thoroughfare, careful to gently close the heavy door behind me.

I ducked and weaved amongst patrons and waiters, joining the throng of passengers headed to their rooms for the night.

I make my way to the heart of the Residential sector.

One hundred floors of hive style living housed a large portion of the Ship’s population. Thousands of rooms were divvied up over a hundred floors. Small shops and cafes occupy each level with a postal system suspended in the middle of the arboretum.

I tried not to look down as I approach the lift. I jumped in the next available elevator and rode down to floor number two. Riding the ninety levels down, I force myself to conceal my newfound curiosity.

Once in the privacy of my room. Well, really Faith’s room. I pulled the souvenir from my jacket pocket and powered it on.

A pang of fear shot through my stomach and up my arms. Six words glared at me from the screen and threatened my very being.

A culmination of letters made of pixels that could be my undoing. Bright green text reflected:

WE KNOW WHO YOU WORK FOR