The Suppressor by Erik Carter (best free novels .txt) 📗

on his lap. It was blue. The beer bottle it held was blue. His legs were blue. The light coming from the gap in the pod painted everything.

When his training ended in the snowy woods in Virginia, it had been another opportunity for him to fortify his new identity. Before that, when he’d seen his new face, he hadn’t felt entirely like a new man. Neither had he felt like a new person when he’d taken the new name and agreed to be an assassin. He’d thought that when training was over, then he’d be transformed.

But when Nakiri said it—lying in the snow, looking up at him with that combination of physical pain and mentor approval and maybe even a bit of pride—when she’d said Training complete, still the new identity hadn’t fully adhered to him.

He’d long ago concluded that his previous life ended when Burton killed him at the beach house, but since then he’d been in limbo. He’d consciously accepted his new name, his new identity—but somehow his subconscious hadn’t.

C.C. had taught him that to move beyond one’s troubles, one must stop thinking about oneself.

And that’s exactly what he needed to do, because his disorganized mind had drifted into selfishness when he had to focus on something extremely critical.

He had to figure out how the hell to find Burton. Failure would have consequences for the entire nation.

Silence took a diaphragmatic breath. Held it. Released.

Then a sip of beer.

Two calming techniques—one of C.C.’s, one of his own.

To figure out what to do about Burton, Silence would have to crawl into that thing in front of him, the alien-looking half-sphere he’d been staring at for several minutes. If the hype was true—and he sure hoped it was, given how much he’d paid for the thing—then a transcendental experience awaited him inside.

That’s why he’d gotten it. The ultimate way of calming the storm that was his brain. The nearest facility where he could have paid for an individual session was all the way in Atlanta, which is why he’d dropped half his startup funds on the thing.

Still, he didn’t know what to expect. He would finish the beer before he got in. One calming technique at a time.

As he straightened up in the chair, he felt the open, skeletal presence of the half-finished wall against his back—the brand-new studs, the rear side of the hallway-facing drywall, and the original structure above and below. The smell was a mixture of fresh sawdust and decades-old timber.

Another sip of beer. Almost gone. If his first couple of weeks with Mrs. Enfield were any indication, he wouldn’t be able to rely on alcohol much longer. She was going to hound him, which meant he was going to have to ditch this calming technique.

Not that he minded. In only a couple of weeks, booze had become a crutch. He thought of his father—drunk and crying, in an undershirt, curled in a recliner.

This was the last time Silence would rely on alcohol. He would kill the crutch.

He looked at the bottle.

In fact, he’d kill it right now.

The glass thunked against the hardwood floor as he put it down.

Another look at the pod. Its glowing blue mouth acknowledged him—whether it was a smile or a scowl, he couldn’t tell.

Let’s go.

He was supposed to do this naked. So he stripped.

He stuck his hand in the blue gap, and pulled open the lid. The ten inches of water before him was perfectly still.

The supplies he needed were on the little ledge at the front. First, he inserted the flanged silicone earplugs. Then he opened the jar of petroleum jelly and smeared it over the nicks on his knuckles and face. This kept the salt water from burning.

One more look at the unnaturally blue pool, then he got in.

The 93.5-degree water felt pleasant, but not out of the ordinary.

Until he reclined.

He lay back in the water and instantly bobbed. This made him grin like an idiot, despite how silly he felt, despite the seriousness of the situation he was in. Silence had never been a floater. It felt funny.

There was a moment of struggle to get his bearings and pull his big frame into an upright position. When he finally stabilized, he grabbed the lid and pulled it shut.

And he was sealed in.

All was blue. The arched ceiling created by the underside of the lid was surprisingly high.

Silence lay back in the water, and as soon as his ears submerged, there was, well, silence. The flanged design of the plugs had already cut down on almost all sound, but the combination of the plugs and the water made things unnaturally, unbelievably quiet.

The waterline fell at his chest, around his neck, halfway up his head. He bobbed, gently tapping the sides as he drifted around. He’d been told that bobbing would quickly subside when he stopped moving.

The black speakers were a few inches behind his head. Even though it could be used in a sensory deprivation manner, the pod also had options that involved the senses. The speakers could be used to play gentle music, and the light could be left on.

He reached to the buttons on the wall to his right, pressed the center, and the blue light vanished.

And it was dark. Really, really dark. Pure black.

He held perfectly still, but pushing the button had created more movement in the water, and his naked body bobbed again and touched the walls—when he’d brush one side, he’d drift to the other side, then the back, then the top.

Which frustrated him. How was he supposed to have this transcendental, sensory-free experience if his sides kept brushing the walls? The dealer had told him that Silence’s height—six-foot-three—was at the high end of the comfort scale for a standard pod. He’d gotten the XL model. Did he need the XXL? Was there an XXL?

Soon, though, the bobbing subsided, just gentle undulations. He wondered what caused these. His heartbeat, maybe. Or the movement of the Earth. Or the small, unavoidable motions he didn’t know he was