Less Than Human
A short story by Zoë Blade
© 2008 Zoë Blade. Distributed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
From the roof of the legal bookstore, I have a clear shot at my target,Jon Russell. He's sitting down at a table outside a café whereChancery Lane meets Fleet Street, sipping a cardboard cup of coffee. Ibriefly ponder how ironic it seems that he's actually bought a drink;it must be for show, although there's no way that he can tell thatright now he has a very specific audience.
Even in the sunshine, the guiding beam of my tripod mounted rifle isbrightly illuminating a thick circle of skin on his neck, just belowhis white beard, but even if any of the passersby can see infrared aswell as I can, they won't have time to do anything even if they noticeit. My eyes are already over two years old now, but they were expensiveenough at the time to still be considered detailed even by today'sstandards. With their magnification, I can see the circle of light onhis neck clearly, growing steadier with every passing second as afamiliar cocktail of drugs calms my metabolism.
I try not to let the laser's fan distract me. The guidance beam's onething, but the main laser, the one that generates the lethal pulse,gives off heat like you wouldn't believe. With the midday sun shiningstraight down on me, the laser needs all the cooling it can get, andthe fan sounds like someone's standing next to me, drying her hair.
Once I can hold the laser still enough, I brace myself. For just a fewprecious seconds, I let myself ponder the consequences of what I'mabout to do. I'm about to execute this guy, but although he's brokenthe law, I'm no sheriff. I think about the effect that what I'm aboutto do will have on people who look up to Jon Russell, and that makes menervous. I have nothing against them; if anything, I actuallysympathise with their cause.
I put the thought out of my mind. It's unprofessional, a pause at bestand a hindrance at worst. It's far too late to start developingemotions at this stage of my career, after months of training andalmost three years of missions.
I pull the trigger, just for half a second, my eyes momentarilyshielding themselves from the visible end of the beam on his neck.There's no recoil on my weapon, giving it the eerie feel of asimulation. The only sign that it's firing is a loud popping noiselike someone squashing a bag of crisps. It's over in an instant. Ican almost convince myself that I haven't done anything wrong, but notquite.
The bright circle is instantly replaced with a gushing stream of blood,pumping out in rhythmical bursts. His cardboard cup drops to thefloor, and I unscrew the rifle from the tripod, duck below the top ofthe brick wall of the bookstore, fold up the tripod and put everythingin my holdall, hidden beneath a pair of jogging bottoms.
In a fleece, t-shirt and designer jeans, I hopefully pass for someoneon her way to one of the gyms scattered around the legal district,where people who help corporations sue their customers for a livingwould feel far too inconvenienced by taking a detour on their way homejust to stay in shape. I put on a pair of designer sunglasses to coverup my designer eyes