Violent Souls Read online

  © 2020 Byron Bartlett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication in print or in electronic format may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design, Interior Design and Distribution by Bublish, Inc.

  Book formatting by FormattedBooks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-64704-108-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64704-109-0 (eBook)

  This book is dedicated to Ashley. I love you.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1: MY HOME LIFE

  CHAPTER 2: PLANNING A PLANET

  CHAPTER 3: THE NEW KIDS

  CHAPTER 4: THE JOB

  CHAPTER 5: MEET RAFE FORTUNE

  CHAPTER 6: JORGE’S JOB

  CHAPTER 7: THE KIDS AND THEIR TOY

  CHAPTER 7: THE MEETING

  CHAPTER 8: I GO TO A CONCERT

  CHAPTER 9: AN ATTENTION-GRABBER

  CHAPTER 10: A NEW JOB

  CHAPTER 11: THE FOREST PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE, TOO

  CHAPTER 12: AUNTIE BELLE COMES AROUND

  CHAPTER 13: THE APPLICATION

  CHAPTER 14: TIME TO FEAST

  CHAPTER 15: THEY FINALLY MEET

  CHAPTER 16: ALVA AND JORGE

  CHAPTER 17: FIXING HIS KIDS

  CHAPTER 18: KERGAN MEETS THE CLAN

  CHAPTER 19: A DECENT PROPOSAL

  CHAPTER 20: MAKING BABIES

  CHAPTER 21: IT TAKES MORE THAN THAT

  CHAPTER 22: THE KIDS SCREW ME

  CHAPTER 23: AUNTIE BELLE’S HOUSE

  CHAPTER 24: KERGAN’S DAY OUT

  CHAPTER 25: BELLE’S SERENDIPITY

  CHAPTER 27: JORGE, THE COMPANY MAN

  CHAPTER 28: A SURGEON FALLS

  CHAPTER 29: SASHA AND ALVA

  CHAPTER 30: CATCHING A GAME

  CHAPTER 31: RAFE AND SASHA

  CHAPTER 32: GRANDMA BELLE

  CHAPTER 33: OAKWOOD

  CHAPTER 34: 1ST ATTEMPT

  CHAPTER 35: WE ARE PREGNANT

  CHAPTER 36: DRAKE BEU NYOKA

  CHAPTER 37: THE GADERIGEN FOREVER

  CHAPTER 37: I TELL SPENCER TO GO AWAY

  CHAPTER 38: THE FUNERAL

  CHAPTER 39: JORGE’S CHOICE

  CHAPTER 40: DRAKE RECRUITS

  CHAPTER 41: SASHA MOVES IN

  CHAPTER 42: WHERE IS SASHA?

  CHAPTER 43: PURIFICATION

  GLOSSARY

  PROLOGUE

  The blade from my neosiri is stuck in this guy’s rib cage. Annoying. When I finally pull it free, he falls to his knees, spitting up blood—choking on it. I point the blade at his two kids in the corner. I can’t tell their ages, but they have fresh skin and childish fat around their faces.

  “Leave,” I order.

  At first they try to help their father up. I kick one in the ribs with my shoe.

  I said, “leave.”

  The blue haired girl I kicked spits at me and says, “Cea tam wewe digna metodsceaft.”

  That means a monster like me “deserves death” or “to die.” Depends on the translation. It’s one of those phrases where the meaning has been muddled over time.

  This is a better cut—right in her stomach. She curls over at the stomach, blue hair covers her face. Unlike her father, the blade slides in and out easily. I repeat it, a little to the left. Her left, not mine. Her father is motionless and she’s soon to join him. When I turn around, I see that the other kid has run outside.

  On a desk in the corner of the workers’ space is a carving of CEO Saevus. I walk over and inspect it. Real wood. I’m surprised they could afford this. The corporation foreclosing on this town keeps an inventory on everything an employee owns, they would know someone nicked it.

  I walk back to the street and watch the workers run away while I wipe down my neosiri. I’d use my guns, but this contract specified blade weapons only.

  In the backyard across the street, Drake is chasing a little girl around a tree. She’s wearing blue pants with kittens on the legs and a yellow kitty T-shirt. She’s screaming for her mommy and he’s laughing and mocking her.

  “Mummy!” he yells, looking up to the sky. “Where are you, Mummy?”

  He could catch her, but Drake always enjoys the children, likes to draw it out.

  A drop of rain hits my left arm, as a light rain begins to fall. I spot a red flash in the corner of my eye—a weather warning from my phone.

  “Open,” I say, and a projection of a poorly rendered storm cloud pops up on the screen. The animated cloud delivers a flash flood warning for this area. “Close.”

  I look back and Drake has the girl pinned against the tree. I can only see his back, and the child’s legs kicking and thrashing about. She must be terribly afraid. I register the idea, but can’t relate to the emotion. This is how it works. If your town goes insolvent, the corporation gets to foreclose. The workers knew the deal when they came out to the suburbs.

  Foreclosures are great pay for bongers like me. (A bonger is a slang term for assassin used in our business.) A few hours of work can cover my rent for months. Unlike Drake and me, there are some bongers who can’t stomach this type of work. Auntie Belle, the assassin who trained me, never takes these jobs. Not that she’s sentimental, but Drake and I have certain advantages for some of the dirtier jobs. In my case, I had the surgery to remove my empathy. In Drake’s case…well, he’s just a kichaa woda who enjoys other people’s pain.

  The little girl’s legs have stopped thrashing. They jerk a couple of times, then go limp. When Drake steps back, I can see he’s pinned her against the tree with his beadomece—a longer, heavier version of the neosiri I use. He waves me over, like a proud child begging for Mom to come look at his drawing. I ignore him and walk deeper into the ‘burb.

  My shoes are clicking in rhythm on the concrete. The area is starting to clear out now. Behind me, I still hear screaming, but in front of me, it’s quiet. The foreclosure has been going on for half an hour now, and most workers have either escaped or are dead.

  To my right, in a white stucco house, I hear a baby shrieking. I keep walking. There’s a hint of grilled hund in the air. Hunds actually graze the fields just west of the ‘burb. The baby is still screaming…that sound where only half the scream comes out and the rest is so forced, it ends up muted. And for the first time in years, I feel a twinge.

  I stop in my tracks. No one is going to help the child. It’ll starve to death. Not really my fault, though. But still, there’s that twinge.

  I enter the house and follow the screaming. I pass a couple, slumped over each other, eyes wide open, mouths ajar…probably the parents. I open the door to reveal a bedroom painted light blue—and there, in a blue and green bassinet, is the source of the cries.

  Ugh. If I choose to save it, I’ll have to carry it all the way to safety. Looking down, I can’t really bring myself to kill it, though. I want to believe this is a rational, humane choice by me, but that would be denying what’s happening to my surgery.

  I scoop the baby up, wrap it in a blanket with the picture of a Leona sewn in, and head out. I go through the backyards so none of the other bongers see me. I’m almost home free, when— r />
  “Hey, Sa! Wha’cha got ‘ere?” Drake cries out. He starts walking over to me, leaving the woman he was doing whatever to on the ground. His lime-green metallic shirt is splashed with blood.

  “Nothing, just some stuff I’m nicking for myself.”

  Drake catches up. “Yeah, what’s…ahhhhhhh.” His yellow eyes go wide when he realizes what I have. “Can I see it?”

  Drake’s voice has gone up a notch.

  “No,” I say. “I’m taking it to a kuokua locus.”

  “Wait—wait! I didn’t find any of these! Let me have it?”

  I shake my head. Whatever this rudder is going to do with it, I don’t want to know. And I’m not letting it happen.

  He curls his lip and spits out, “Give it to me!”

  “Fuck you.”

  He points his sword at me. “Now, gods damn it!”

  His head is trembling with anger. Good. I hope it fucking explodes.

  I smile at him as a taunt. As I start to walk away, he grabs me by the shoulder—a quick flourish of my right hand provokes my brasu cnif to pop out from its holster. I stick it through the arm that’s grabbing me. Drake shrieks, maybe louder than the baby did, and falls back on his behind.

  “You rudder! Fuck you, Sa!”

  I walk away and leave him there to kick gor and cry.

  As I go, I can’t help but look down at it—and I feel that twinge again. While it’s good for this baby, it could be very bad for me.

  CHAPTER 1

  My Home Life

  I’m in the middle of a dream, standing at the bottom of a waterfall—the one from my childhood home on Riestovik. I can see my hund grazing on the lily pads. He’s grunting and swatting at flies with his tail. When I wake up, I have to pee so badly it hurts to straighten my body. Alright, I’ll pee and then get going.

  Two more hours and I’m still tired. That’s one of the side effects of the surgery: no matter how long you sleep, you’re never fully rested. I start to get up, but the mattress makes a strong case for staying in bed.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m still groggy while halfheartedly playing with myself under the covers. It’s a weak attempt but enough to wake me all the way up. I used to have a man who would do that for me. Groscek. We lived together for four years. He’s dead now. It was my fault.

  My bedroom is spartan. No pictures, no posters, no hope chest. Just the bare essentials. I rub my eyes and walk barefoot to the closet. I don’t have a lot of choices. Grey or dark blue tops. Matching pants. Most of the closet space has been taken up by my gun locker.

  I have to brag—it is high-end, a real schway piece of art. The outside is a mix of chrome and bronze—Brasu bronze, which can only be mined on Riestovik. It’s indestructible (for all intents and purposes). DNA saliva scan to open it. Ammo monitoring with auto-refill (I paid extra for that). Anti-theft weight system was standard, but I upgraded it to the osmium package, which adds 100 kilos when tripped. When you open the door, there's a gold plate with each job I’ve done marked by an X.

  A green light flashes in the corner of my left eye.

  “Answer.”

  A hologram appears in front of me. I have the low-end PIP system, so there’s a lot of lines and flickering on my images. But honestly, these things fritz out so much, it’s a waste. And that includes ones that cost ten times as much as mine. My mom called such items “mierrends,” which translates to “expensive cheapness.”

  “Lovely, Sasha.” Burgealdor Spencer greets me with a toothy grin. Spencer was elected Burgealdor a short while ago. I don’t pay attention to politics so I don’t remember when exactly. He’s the leader of the business section of Chicago. It wasn’t the best paying position in government, but it came with an immense amount of influence.

  “Burgealdor Spencer. It’s a pleasure to speak wi—”

  “Are we ready for today?”

  Gods, he interrupts me constantly. “Yes, I’ve taken all the ness—”

  “Oh, that’s just wonderful, my dear.” He puts an extra kick in wonder.

  “They seem to be gathering outside the guild hall right now.” Spencer sighs through his nose. “You know, I won the election. I really shouldn’t have to be bothered with frivolities like these.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Burgealdor.” I do not agree, but he’s paying the bill.

  I can hear Spencer speaking to one of his assistants, “Francis…oh, Francis? Would you be so kind as to put the gold plates at the head of the table yes? You can use the silver for the diplomats, but the CEOs need to have the gold plates.”

  He comes back to me. “I’m in such a fright right now—the last thing I need is a bunch of deadbeats chanting and marching and trying to block my guests tonight. Now you’re sure you’ll be enough, yes? I can afford to pay another kill…assass…I’m sorry, but I don’t have the foggiest idea what you prefer to be called.”

  I fake a chuckle. “Assassin is the term I use on my tax forms.” That’s true.

  “Well, whatever you’re called, you come highly recommended by General Williams. And if you can impress that lot, you must be fantastic.”

  I keep a disarming smile painted on my face. It seems to make my clients feel secure. “I’m professional and discrete. And most importantly, ruthless. That’s the important part, considering what you’re asking for.”

  “Yes, the General says you are distinct in your class. And you have no qualms about … dealing with a child? More machine than human, they say. Yes?”

  I ignore the slight. “Burgealdor, I beg your pardon, but I need to get fixed up for today.”

  “Right, right. Well, I have so much to attend to…I must be going.”

  “And the payment—the second half will be transferred tonight at midnight?”

  “Right, right.”

  I walk into the bathroom to get ready for the job. I brush and floss. I wash my face and arm pits. Gargle with an alcohol-free mouthwash and pick at a pimple on my neck until it bleeds. Cover the pimple with a bindele that soaks up the blood. I study my face in the mirror for any other flaws. My eyes have turned gray since the surgery, and I have black bags under them. Some crow’s feet. But other than that, I look quite valuable and trustworthy.

  As I walk down the hall, I hear the crackle of bacon. Jorge never gets up this early, which means he was up all night.

  “Sash, ‘sup? Got the bacon frying.”

  “Good morning.”

  I adore bacon cooked the old-fashioned way, in a pan. Groscek used to do that, and now, so does Jorge. Growing up, my mom red-eyed everything. It was efficient, quick, but left all the food bland with a metallic aftertaste.

  “Here ya go: eggs and bacon and a slice of vercillion, fresh from Riestovik.”

  “By fresh, you mean picked, frozen, and shipped thousands of miles?”

  “Don’t be literal,” Jorge complains. For some reason, he fills two more plates with food.

  I fake a smile and nod.

  I’d like to clarify, ‘cause it’s a misconception that annoys me to no end, that surgery doesn’t mean I can’t feel any pleasure. It just takes a lot of effort on my part, and is short-lived. The same way for grief, but why would I want to work at feeling that?

  “Any good, Sash?”

  “Yeah, it’s the best you’ve made.”

  “Nah, come off it.”

  We’re sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen table. There’s yellow waridira in a slim glass vase in the middle. You can see the petals starting to wilt. The standing microfilter fan is oscillating back and forth between us. I bought it, after much consternation, with my last paycheck. You take that out, with groceries and rent, and there’s hardly anything left over for fun. Or my approximation of fun.

  There’s a bit of stirring from Jorge’s bedroom. I hover my finger over the button on my belt that releases the sidearm. It
’s rare, but interested parties can find out who you are if they know the right people. So once in a great while, you’ll come across a widow or a son looking for revenge. Their attempt at killing is not legal. It’s extrajudicial and we live on a planet of rules and order.

  Jorge is busy with his eggs when I see a shadow cross the doorway. I pull the gun up and take aim at—

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jorge asks.

  I nod toward his bedroom and whisper, “Someone is breaking in. I told you to get the windows twimilted shut.”

  “That’s Alva,” he says, like I’m supposed to know who that is.

  I shrug, the gun still aimed.

  “She’s the woman I told you about.”

  Told me about?

  I lie. “Oh, yeah. Alva. She works in…”

  “The finance department,” Jorge finishes, brows raised. “Can you put the gun down now?”

  “You sure? I can do it and we can backdate the paperwork to say you hired me.”

  Jorge chuckles. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  From Jorge’s bedroom emerges a woman about one foot shorter than him. Her head is shaved with a bald stripe down the middle. But my focus is drawn to her eyes—a lush, emerald color.

  “So, hey, I’m Alva.” She extends her hand out to me.

  I stand up and reciprocate. “Jorge’s roommate, Sasha.”

  “Yeah, Jorge told me. You work as an assassin, right?”

  “He is really not supposed to advertise that.”

  Alva smiles. “I just thought it was cool. My dad was an assassin.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who was he?”

  “Waldofo Adsworth.”

  I squint my eyes. I know that name for some—

  Ohhhh, shit.

  “Oh.”

  The whirring of the air purifier is the only sound for a minute.

  Alva’s smile fades. “It’s okay. I’ve gone to a lot of therapy. I’m super over it now.”

  Desperate to change the subject, Jorge asks, “So this is the big day for you, eh?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I’d ask if you’re nervous but …”

  “I feel nervousness still. When it’s in regard to me. But when you hear a mother talk about being nervous for a child, that I can’t approximate.”