There is a stone engraving that I walk by every day on my way home. Perhaps it is an excerpt of some sort from a primordial volume of ancient lore. It reads, ‘Truth is the illusion of those who seek to permute it into a tangible entity in lieu of leaving it as the ghost it is.’

The proposition of ghosts has never fit in my head, but to relate it to truth, a proposition in itself really, is an idea that rests in the clouds for all I can grasp of it. How can truth, the very accordance with fact and reality be labeled as something no more than a deception, compared to a silhouette made of mist?

The honking of a glider shakes me up from my thoughts and I jump out of the way just in time as it slides past me, the great speed causing the wind to blow up a bucketful of muck. I flinch as the cold slush drenches my jacket, trailing down the side of my cheek and dropping into the hollow of my throat. I wipe away the mud with my sleeve, trying to comb it out of my hair with my fingers before it dries there for good.

The sleek, silver vehicle, shaped a delicate V, rounds the corner and disappears into the part of London it is reserved for. My family doesn’t own one, of course, but once in a while, a bedraggled family on their way home from vacation or a businessman who has lost his way, will wander into the neighborhood wearing a sour expression, cruising through the dank streets piled with trash and loud with rats, their noses scrunched up at the unmistakable odor of uncleaned sewers.

My home is at the outer edge of the city. By the time I pull up in front of the apartment building, a heavy fog has drifted in, bringing with it a few warning raindrops.

It is not a welcoming sight. Stashed in next to ten others just like it, the whole air offers an inimical and disagreeable sense. Large, heavy gate, dirty windows, jagged pieces of glass jutting up from the windowsill of the fifth floor where a drunk man jumped from last year. The most unpleasant memory stirs up undesired images that I hurry to banish from my mind.

I drag open the front gate and slink down the hallway lit with faint yellow lamps, past the skeleton figure of the administrator with the expression of a dead crow. A sinister feeling haunts the place, complete with the smell of alcohol and the occasional inebriate, leaning against the stained parchment walls. I can hear shouting and the sound of breaking objects from one of the rooms and I wonder if the patrolmen will be here again.

I climb the stairs to our room on the third floor and insert the key that hangs around my neck into the keyhole. The door opens and closes on rusty hinges so I shut it quickly before Mama wakes, double-checking that the latch is in its place. There have been drunk murders in the building next to ours.

Mama is sprawled on the couch snoring her head off, the reek of whiskey tainting her breath. There is a glass dangerously close to her hands on a nightstand, wet with the dregs of some spirit. I place it in the sink but don’t turn on the faucet to wash it, fearing that Mama might awaken. When she’s been intoxicated, she needs her rest.

But it’s a futile prayer that she stays asleep because just as I’m inching into my corner of the room, Mama staggers to her feet.

“You,” she rasps in a voice hoarse from smoke and drink. “Come back here.”

“It’s me, Mama,” I say, swiveling to face her.

She gives a grated chuckle. “Well, who else would it be? Now be a good girl and bring me my pills.”

Long accustomed to her crotchets, I comply, selecting a dull yellow pill from a pharmacy bottle. I also pour a glass of watered-down wine and bring both to her. Mama pops the pill in her mouth, washes it down with the wine, and lies back down on the couch. In a minute she’s passed out again. I free an old blanket from between the couch and wall and tuck it under her chin.

My father left four years ago when I was six and it was around that time that Mama started taking the quarter-mile trek to the pharmacy every week or so for the little yellow pills. They work fast, faster even than the small packets of white powder that it was substituted for. 

Maru, Niki, and Neel have long since moved out, blaming impending college, new acquaintances, and most of all, their ungainly little sister. They called their departure a respite from all that, though it’s been months since I’ve seen them and even I know that a respite is to be temporary. Meager amounts of money come in every month through wired transactions but no siblings.

There are no pictures of my father, either. I’ve watched Mama hold the tips of aged photographs into the flame of a candle, watching the paper curl up and burn into black ash, or rip them to shreds and toss the snippets into the garburator. I’ve just about forgotten his face. Even when he technically lived with us, he was absent most of the time. Mama says he is a man of yore. I haven’t figured it out yet.

The window is stuck so I have to pry the pane loose from the sill with a knife blade. I stick my nose out, taking a deep breath of fresh air. Or as fresh as the air of an industrial district can be. It is filled with smoke and soot, the wind carrying sounds of puffing factories and railway machines. The imminent shower will surely drown out the cacophony but will do nothing with the smell, at best add a little polluted rainwater to the redolence.

I close the window as the drops turn into a light sprinkle which will soon accumulate into an all-out storm judging by the ominous clouds gathering overhead. Wading through a pile of wrappers, bottles, and rat droppings that I leave for later to clean up, I sit on the only article of furniture above the whole mess — a synthetic cotton mattress exactly five inches above the floor. It is there that I settle, cross-legged, hugging a stained pillow, looking about my little world between the four walls until I trade it for a book depicting more amiable circumstances.

Time is a beguilement, but I judge it two hours subsequent to my entering the building when a fist pounds on the door, the sound echoing into the silent corridor. As there is no answer, the fist strikes the door again, harder and longer this time. Mama has not moved from her position on the couch, so I creep to the door.

It is not the first time I have wished that our outdated apartment building be renovated with door screens, handy little devices that allow one inside a house to surveil the outside world through a tiny camera whose live footage is rerouted to a larger monitor on the door. I turn the deadbolt but keep the latch done to prevent whoever is outside from entering by force.

A lean woman stands next to the door. She looks to be in her early thirties with ivory skin, dark blonde hair, and black eyes. She sports casual wear — tight jeans, trainers, and a camo jacket slung carelessly over her shoulders that looks a couple sizes too big for her sleek, narrow frame.

It crosses my mind that she looks like someone cut out from a fashion magazine but I bury the thought when I catch a glimpse of a holster on her belt.

The woman smiles. “Astra Hal. May I come in?” Her voice is like a razor dipped in honey. Not in a baleful sort of way, just in the manner adults speak with young children. It rubs me the wrong way.

I set my shoulders back and stand up straighter to appear at my tallest height, which is not very impressive at ten years old.

“Depends on who's asking,” I say in an ostentatious voice.

The woman’s smile widens. “It said you might be difficult,” she replies and places a hand on the door frame. I recoil in alarm but she doesn’t try to go further. “It’s all right. I’m here to help.”

My hand is on the doorknob now, just in case she’s lying, which is very probable. “Help with what?”

“Everything.”

‘Everything’ is a peculiar phrase because it encompasses all things and absolutely nothing at the same time. It leaves one feeling befuddled and miffed and with a notion that one’s whole plan to appear cool and tranquil is all to pot.

At the same time, I have an urge to let her in. It has been a blue moon since I spoke to anyone other than Mama. Besides, she doesn’t look like a drunk maniac.

I carefully undo the latch and step back to let the woman enter. Her eyes go to Mama on the couch and she raises her index finger to her lips, her eyebrows raised. I nod.

We go into the kitchen which is part of the same living space but separated from the main room by a wall that runs parallel to the counter. Shoved against it are two plastic chairs and a small, rickety table. The woman sits down but I stay standing, my back pressed against the wall on the opposite side of the table.

“You must be wondering who I am and why I’m here,” she begins. “I don’t have much time to elaborate. We must get moving as fast as possible. That will require you to trust me. Can you do that?”

I force myself to shake my head because the softness of her voice would automatically lull me to comply.

“I thought not,” she says. “My name is Agent Cips. I’m here to take you away to a place where you can grow into your full potential.”

“What place?”

“Our base. You will be trained to become a Ruffian, a member of a top-secret organization founded by the Sigma as a last resort to human kind if they cross any of the very fine lines necessary to maintain peace and balance in the world.”

The Sigma. That’s a name that I haven’t heard in a while. ‘An artificial intelligence designed to be humanity’s last hope’ according to its slogan. The similarity is unlikely to be a coincidence.

It was a government pet project until it had extended its reach beyond official networks into undefined zones where it could not be found. Because it was created to assist the daily life of ordinary people, the law required everyone to have a tiny microchip implant placed inside the cochlea before the age of three. A fairly easy solution to kidnappings and other business that resulted in dropping off the radar.

But the Sigma preferred not to involve itself in mortal affairs. Naturally, this apathy caused some to question the purpose behind the artificial intelligence, but these mundane minds were stifled by the scientific innovation of those that created it. Nothing matters as long as the experiment is a success, the news channel screams about it day and night, and excessive funding is granted for further projects.

Or was. The Sigma has long since dropped off the radar itself. No connection to the human race whatsoever. So after a while, it fell into disuse and four years ago, the implants were abandoned completely.

Agent Cips starts speaking again. “The tracking devices weren’t placed in the part of the ear responsible for sound by accident. They are earpieces by which the Sigma communicates with its Ruffians.”

I place a hand behind my ear unconsciously, probing the little scar left by the syringe and scalpel. “It talks to you?”

“It can talk to you too,” she says. “Would you like to see?”

I find myself nodding impulsively.

I hold my breath. And then I hear a voice, not from the speakers in the house but from inside my own skull. “Hello Astra. Can you hear me?”

***

“Are you ready, Astra?” Agent Cips asks.

I don’t answer her. She means to go.

“We must hurry,” she says. “The Sigma is at this moment deleting all of your records.”

“Why?” I ask though I have no particular interest in knowing.

“Many reasons. The government doesn’t know of our existence and we would like that to stay this way.” Agent Cips glances at the silver watch on her wrist. “We scarcely have time.”

I look at Mama sleeping on the couch, fingering the fuzz on the blanket. She looks almost peaceful, the lines on her forehead smoothed out, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth not so prominent. Her breaths are raspy but even. “What if I don’t want to go?”

Agent Cips’s voice is not soft anymore. “I suggest you get over it and with speed.”

I have no idea what she means but I have no intention of finding out. I make haste from the kitchen and stand beside Mama.

“We have to go, Astra,” Agent Cips says.

“I don’t want to go.”

Something like sympathy flashes in her eyes. “It’s hard to let go. But the people we take are the most resourceful, resilient people — qualities that show only when in plight. You won’t last much longer here. Come with me. The longer you resist the harder it will be.” 

I don’t cry often because Mama doesn’t like it when I cry but I can’t stop a tear from dripping down my mud-stained cheek.  

“Don’t cry.” It is the Sigma. “Sometimes it helps to release your emotions. But it doesn’t help with delaying the inevitable.” 

“I don’t want to go!” My voice is heavy with barely held back tears.  

“But you will,” the Sigma says, almost gently. “You will because there is no other choice. You are a smart girl. You will go with my agent. You will leave everything behind.” 

“Will I see her again?” 

Agent Cips is the one who answers, something between a grimace and a sad smile on her face. “Perhaps.” She steps over to the couch and leans over Mama. “Mrs. Hal, I’m going to have to ask you to sign this.” She fishes out a tablet the size of my hand from her jacket and hands it to Mama. “We’re taking your daughter someplace safe.” 

Mama peels her eyes open. They are very hazy and she has trouble focusing on Agent Cips. “Where are you taking her?” she asks in her raspy voice. 

Agent Cips glances at me, then looks back at Mama. “She’s been chosen to join a program for gifted children. We’ll take care of her.” 

She thrusts the tablet under Mama’s nose and hands her a stylus. Mama takes it between her shaking fingers and scribbles something illegible on the screen, then collapses back on the couch, her eyes closing immediately.  

I sit down beside her. “I have to go now, Mama. But they promised I could see you again.” 

I look at Agent Cips for confirmation but she’s turned away, rubbing her temples as if she’s getting a headache.  

“I love you, Mama.” She stirs at the sound of my urgent voice but her eyes remain closed. I start to shake her shoulder. “Mama, please get up. You have to say goodbye.” 

But Agent Cips grabs my hand and gently pulls me away. “Leave her be, Astra. Let’s go.” 

“But —” 

“Let’s go,” she repeats, grabbing her jacket from the backrest of the kitchen chair. Her firm grip imprisons my arm but I don’t attempt to escape. It is not an overbearing grip, just insistent.  

I follow Agent Cips out the door, turning back to look at Mama one last time. But again, Agent Cips stops me, taking my chin between her nimble fingers. “Don’t look back, Astra. Never look back.” 

So I turn my head away, toward the dark, dank hallway. I don’t see the door close but I hear it click into place, the old wood yielding to the stronger force. 

Agent Cips takes my hand and leads me outside.  

Parked just beside our apartment is a glider, so out of place next to the grimy buildings and filthy streets. It is smooth and silver, the graceful nose housing a driver. The door lifts up as Agent Cips presses her palm to an invisible fingerprint sensor. She motions for me to get inside and I obey, ducking my head under the scissor doors and taking a seat in the plush compartment inside, separated from the driver by a soundproof sliding panel. Agent Cips knocks on the panel and says something to the driver. He nods and we take off. 

I press my nose to the thin strip of window to watch a foreign part of the city zoom by. Even with the rain obscuring most of the view, I catch glimpses of magnificent infrastructure — smooth pavement, arching bridges, monstrous towers, and there, just past the lush avenue perimetered by green trees, is the representative mansion, the home of the European Nation’s representative of the United Republic of Global Welfare, the ruling body of the world.  

“This is kidnapping,” I suddenly say to Agent Cips. I said it perfectly seriously but she laughs as if it were a joke.  

“You’ll thank me someday.” 

“Did you thank the person who took you?” I ask.  

“As a matter of fact, I did,” she responds, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “I was in no hurry to remain where I was. When I was your age, I was living in an orphanage. My parents had died in an accident when I was four and I had no relatives who offered to take care of me. But I can’t say I was alone. The orphanage gave me plenty of brothers and sisters. The caretakers weren’t so kind, however. I was grateful to be taken from there.” 

“Are all Ruffians from here?” I ask.  

“From London? No. We’re an international organization.” 

“Where are you from?” 

She smiles. “A child’s mind is truly fascinating. So many questions one can hardly keep up.” 

I cross my arms rather sullenly. “I’m no child!” 

“Of course not. But you are full of questions.” 

“Which you still haven’t answered,” I point out. 

“My, my, it seems the Sigma was right again. You’ve got your wits about you. To answer your question, I’m from the States. Oregon.” 

“What is it like there?” I ask. 

“Green,” she replies. “Very green. Not like this place.” 

“I’d very much like to see it,” I say.  

Agent Cips is very pretty when she smiles. “Maybe you will. Once you graduate.” 

“When will that be?” 

“Only a couple short years.” 

I stay silent for a few minutes to mull over everything she said. But I can’t keep quiet very long. “And what is it I will be doing?” 

“A Ruffian’s greatest strength is versatility,” Agent Cips says. “You will be trained in combat, advanced studies, first-aid, and colloquy.” 

“What’s colloquy?” I ask.  

“The art of conversation,” she says. “In some of the circles you will be attending, people speak in a certain manner. You will master them all.” 

I don’t get it but I don’t prod further. “And where exactly are we going?” 

“Russia,” she answers. “That’s where our base is.” 

“Russia!” I exclaim. “Why, that’s on the other side of the world!” 

“Oh yes. Very far, indeed. That is why we will be taking one of those.” 

She points out the window and that’s when I notice that we have reached London’s international airport, where beautiful, wondrous planes are rolling down the runway and lifting into the air. But we’re not stopping here — the glider zooms off toward the area reserved for private jets, prepossessing creatures that I’ve only seen on television.  

“Are we really going to fly in one of those?” I ask, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. 

Agent Cips is watching my reaction with a smile playing in her eyes. “Yes. Let’s board, shall we?” 

The glider slows down to a halt and she opens the door. I hop out, straining my neck to look at the gigantic private plane, mostly white with tinges of red and a series of silver numbers on its belly.  

I stand off to the side, the enormous jet and the Ruffian idea and the woman next to me making me a little shy.  

“What’s going to happen now?” I ask.  

Agent Cips looks at me encouragingly. Her voice is warm. “We’re going to fly on a plane.” 

We walk toward the jet together. 

 *** 

We are standing in front of a low, round building. The sky is dark, the stars blurred by clouds. The cold wind cuts right to my bones, the snow soaking my shoes. I shiver in the biting weather, watching as Agent Cips approaches the Ruffian base and holds her wrist under a scanner. It flashes a discreet green and the metal entrance splits open, revealing a dark chamber inside. 

“Most of it is underground,” Agent Cips says as she leads me down a stairwell illuminated by green lights on the ground so we don’t trip over our own feet. 

I follow her to an oval-shaped room. An orange glow floods from a large, flower-shaped light on the ceiling, bathing us in color. On a white counter is a complicated-looking machine. A metal chair that looks much like something you’d see at a dentist occupies the middle of the room.  

Agent Cips motions toward it. “Take a seat.” 

I comply, and a man steps into the room. He gives me a smile that doesn’t put me at ease and steps over to the machine on the counter. “This will hurt, but only for a moment.” 

“What is it?” I ask, squirming in my seat.  

“Initiation,” Agent Cips says.  

I’m about to open my mouth to ask what kind of initiation includes a machine, a dentist chair, and pain but decide against it.  

The man unravels a cord wound around a hook on the machine and hands it to me, the other end still attached. He takes out a black pad, a faint design etched on one side, and attaches it to the side of the cord I am holding.  

“Are you going to give me a tattoo?” I ask.  

Agent Cips smiles. “Sort of.” She shows me the bare skin of the inside of her right wrist. An intricate pattern of black swirls forming the letter R curl around her veins.  

“R for Ruffian?” I guess.  

Agent Cips nods. “We all have one. It’s how we have access to everything inside the base.” 

The man attaches the pad to the inside of my wrist, the design on my skin. He pushes a few buttons on the machine and it whirs to life, glowing blue lights appearing on the complicated panel. Black liquid — ink, probably — starts flowing through the cord toward me.  

“Ready?” The man asks.  

“Yes,” I say.  

He presses something on the machine. A sharp pain zaps my wrist, like an electric current. I cry out, jerking in the chair, but the pain is gone in an instant. When the man pulls the pad off, a black R is visible on my wrist, just like Agent Cips’s.  

I whimper, more from shock than from pain. “What’s going to happen to me now…Agent Cips?” 

She crouches on the floor next to me. The man who did the tattoo has gone.  

“Astra,” she says, taking my hand in both of hers. “You can call me Gemini.”