Double Double

You’re a wisp of a person until you’re not. We touched down as two phantasms, casting no shadows just as the sun rose. A strange, sulfurous scent still lingered in the air, and the sky was a sickly, bruised purple. Even when invisible, Sheila scanned for surprises. Through experience, I knew nothing would upset our plans.

It was always like this: slip in, get the job done, and leave before anyone noticed. They’re all in mourning—my victims, that is. I would imagine them grieving, my tears completing me. How that happened, I never knew. I’m not entirely heartless. Not yet, anyway.

While Sheila occupied herself with our strike, I afforded myself the luxury of regret. I recalled a child's face. It was Dweedle, an ancient worldling boy from Earth's past, about twelve years old. My first shot at him had missed, but instead of running away, he ran towards me. Something about his freckles and ruddy hair made me speak to him. Bored and lonely, he welcomed me, my lethality hidden. He was alone, and his family was long gone, victims of tribal strife. We talked for a long time, and my translation device helped me to speak his language. He was enthralled by the technological items I used. As he was telling me a story about a child found dead in the forest, he gave me a small token of his appreciation, a fertility symbol. It was a Venus figurine, a small statuette of an obese woman with large breasts. I felt ashamed for wanting to kill him when I received his gift. Then Sheila radioed she was thirty seconds away. In a panic, I shouted at him, “Run! Leave! Or you'll be dead too!" I did this before Sheila caught sight of him. Dweedle wept as he fled, promising me he would return whenever he could.

Sparing Dweedle eases my conscience, so he's never far from my thoughts. Sheila, my wife, never questioned her actions. Much younger than I, she was in her prime, resplendent and flawless. Taut as a high-strung cable, her precision and machine-like movements inspired everyone she encountered. Opportunistic, she'd scavenge artifacts, jewelry, and diaries after each kill. I asked her why she collected the diaries of our victims. She said she wanted to know more about them. Sheila's fascination with the past wasn't just historical; it was as if she was drawn to the shadows, the darker corners of time. So then I wondered what she discovered. She said they were the diaries of remarkable people of uncanny insight and ambition—future leaders.

This morning, it was a young woman. Why kill those with so much to offer? Sheila refused to discuss this any further. I wasn't quite as in awe of her after that. The memory of Dweedle and yet another squalid killing of a defenseless woman was making me more reckless. Or perhaps it was how young our latest mark appeared. Once we left the cottage and got rid of any evidence, I set my gun to stun and shot Sheila.

It happened so quickly. The gun slid into my hand. She crumpled into a fetal position on the gravel and weeds. She resembled our mark, so innocent looking, a soft breeze ruffling her dark brown hair. I told myself I was only watching her sleep, though I grew more worried as the minutes passed. Might I suffer a similar fate and end up sprawled over a vehicle or a threshing floor, like in the barn we snuck through to reach the back door of the woman's cottage? But then she stirred and painfully rose to her feet, brushing dirt and debris off her clothing.

“What was that for, Hank!” she yelled, once fully erect.

"Sorry," I said.

"Sorry? I should shoot you! How would you like that?"

I was at a loss for words. So I didn't reply. As we began the journey back to our ship, the sun climbed, heat radiating from the desolate landscape of alder and gnarled walnut trees. I saw no people in this sparsely occupied region, making me wonder how long it would take before anyone missed the woman we killed.

As we drew near our ship, it looked like it was another part of the dejected and unremarkable landscape. Discarded tech clung to our rust-bucket, a testament to its decay. I wondered about our future when so much reminded me of the past. Sheila knew of my feelings about Command and how they were treating us. She watched me closely as we entered the hatchway.

"If we were a better team, they'd give us better hardware."

I nodded but said nothing.

"And then we'd be on track for supervisory roles and not have to do the actual killing."

While closing the hatchway, I stopped and looked at her. "You'd do this for me?"

Sheila frowned. "Hank, I know you're not cut out for this life. Now, just play along. I have a plan to set things right."

It surprised me that Sheila wanted a formal debrief on our mission. It had been so long since our last one. Twins. We killed the wrong one. Following discussions, Command declined further engagement. Another team finished the job. Being sidelined for an honest mistake was disheartening. Sheila was so distraught.

The debrief room was where we stored everything that needed repairs. I wandered in ahead of Sheila, expecting cobwebs and dust. There was a table and a few chairs, and the readers perked up, sensing and expectant. Sheila followed, a coffee in one hand and her reader in the other. Did she want a personal record of these proceedings? I stifled a laugh when we sat down. My wife was holding a meeting about my job performance.

"Debrief 11, July 12th, 1932, Earth Time 10:36 A.M," Sheila began. "Present are Sheila McWilliams, Henry McWilliams, and Colin Waters, Command Central."

"You look tired," Colin said to Sheila, speaking from a monitor.

"Oh, it's been a day!" Sheila said brightly.

"Nothing too serious, I hope?" replied Colin, looking at me.

"Nothing we can't handle."

Sheila was impatient to begin. She said I hesitated while we stalked our target, so much so that she feared we might fail. Also, the light from the hallway illuminated the mark much better than the darkness surrounding Sheila in the living room. I should have shot from the hallway into the kitchen, which had a thirty percent higher chance of success. However, that statistic came with a caveat: a second shot from either of us would have been entirely successful. There were additional references to how quickly I tracked the target and whether I had chosen the optimal time to engage. Not a good look on both counts. Sheila's expression was strained as she searched for the right words.

"Mr. Waters, please suspend my husband from duty pending review. I think I might be instrumental in his retraining…

"Does retirement interest you, Henry?" Colin asked, cutting Sheila off.

I didn't know what to say. Sheila wasn't about to retire. So, would her continued work separate us? I had reached my limit. I cleared my throat.

"Can I say something? Surely even the clueless worldlings we cull could have lived, not that they ever do. Dead is dead, after all." Colin was about to speak, but I cut him off. "And if we kill those with the most to offer, in the name of control, we diminish ourselves."

Colin looked surprised but recovered quickly. "I understand your concern," he replied in an icy tone. "Hundreds of people go missing every year. No one in any timeline we prune gives it much thought. Our goal is to have perfect knowledge of a desirable future. This work is vital for that. As for your theories..." His voice trailed off.

Sheila glared at me from across the table. "I'm sorry, Hank hasn't been himself lately..."

Colin waved his hand impatiently. "That's quite alright, Sheila. We are at an impasse. This requires an intervention to correct the flow. You are cleared to act as you see fit."

Sheila abruptly closed the proceedings and stormed out of the debriefing room. I hesitated and followed her at a distance. She went quite a way, through the main living area onto the bridge, searching for something. Something written on paper. Sheila often retreated to a corner of the ship, a worn book of Shakespeare's plays in her hands, muttering lines under her breath. She had taken a book from a strike in a twenty-first century apartment, which she held for me when I caught up to her.

"You should read this," she said simply.

I took it from her. It was a near worthless volume, cloth bound, dusty, and ancient.

"Macbeth by Shakespeare? Why should I read that?"

Her eyes glistened, her pupils darting, searching my face.

"Sheila! What's with this act?" I asked, feeling exasperated.

Her face contorted, and I could see she had difficulty controlling herself. “Don't you realize you're in trouble? How could you act like you did during a formal debrief? And what about Dweedle? Do you think they'd remain unaware?"

"There's something you're not telling me," I said, simply.

She looked away, adjusting controls, believing she could affect the ship's data stream. Neither of us spoke. Then, I realized that a viewing port window now framed her face. The Earth's distant curve, a swirl of blue and white, softened Sheila's features, despite her worry lines. She was like an angel, my very own! I drew close to her to start a back massage. She groaned, giving in, as if a weight was slipping from her grasp.

She was my sole focus. I became an assassin to be near her. I desired the impossible: to be her eternal soulmate, her confidante. Perhaps we would be resplendent, the two of us? A team more than the sum of its parts?

However, that was not quantifiable. I would need to bend reality. Something only our higher-ups could do. But they were way above us, as if we were mere worldlings to them. And so it goes. Sheila wanted to understand the misunderstood. The worldlings we killed and even me! It reminded me of that crisis. When we both knew, they knew of our love. So forbidden. So unwanted.

“I said something, didn’t I?” She glares at me now, even as I continue to give her a back massage. I am remiss. I should read her non-verbal cues, the slight arch of her chin as she turns to speak. Maybe she thinks that if she gets angry with me, it will make things easier.

"Sheila," I pleaded. "Looking at you, I see the person I wish I could be. Sure of themselves. Complete. What do you see in me?"

She reached for something that I had forgotten about. It was in her pocket, the Venus figurine that Dweedle gave me. "What do you see in this?" she asked.

But I didn't answer, so she began swaying to a beat that only she could hear. I could know exactly what she was moving to, but feeling deflated, I chose not to. The prison of perfect knowledge is not for me now. I only want to watch and hope…as she chants ancient words.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and caldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,

In the caldron boil and bake;

Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,

Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

She's in a trance now. Does the bard speak through Sheila? She often behaves like this. Her obsession with the past made the present feel futile. Dancing to the witches’ chant, I sense that something is wrong. What does this portend?

Then the moment passed, and I felt grief, like a child who, despite being stillborn, tries to breathe. A tear escapes my eye. She releases me with a single look, not followed by another.

I think again of Dweedle, who lived. What would he say to me now? Sheila weeps as Dweedle once did. She turns her head away again. How could this not have been planned? This weeping? Can she be a stranger to me? Perfection is not perfect?

Vast chasms of guilt encircle us. I reach for Dweedle's gift, which Sheila had laid aside. Why all the sacrifices?

Knowing rather than dwelling in ignorance would have been better. My love, could you at least look at me first?

I ache as her back remains turned. Sheila! I want to scream. But I cannot, with so many victims rising, their faces swimming toward me, each telling a story of a life cut short.

I chose not to understand what Sheila felt; my heart grasping for agency. What could have been, but will never be.

Both of us drew our sidearms, yet we both refrained from shooting. "You are a remarkable person, Hank," she said before she fired.

I fell, Sheila kneeling near me as my reality faded. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Sleep, dearest,” she said, her tears the last thing I see.

I held her hand and the gift Dweedle gave me and dreamed.