We Dare

by Chris Kennedy

  “So, different tribes now. I see your point,” I said. “I lost my tribe when I got out of the army, left the unit.” Maybe it was something that might make sense in regard to Kruchenova. Maybe she was as lost as I had been, and I wondered what she had been doing for the last two years.

  “Yep, you’re an NYPD tribesman now.” O’Brian leaned over and punched me in the arm, then made a great show of waving his hand and muttering, “OW!”

  “There she is!” I said, catching a glimpse of a slim figure moving down the street, wearing the same hoodie as before. She kept to the shadows, but my enhanced vision easily picked her out. There was no mistaking that feline movement, either. Her scout enhancements had also made her, in addition to more than human—or less than—more of a woman, too, in the way she moved. I liked it.

  O’Brian keyed on the movement too. Being a cop for twenty years taught you a lot about urban combat, whatever he wanted to call it. He looked over to me, and I held up a hand with a wait gesture. “You sure?” he said, and I nodded.

  “If she comes back out alone, just let fly with that scattergun and call for all the backup you can get.” There was a Special Services Tactical Team, run by a buddy of mine, a block away, and they probably had eyes on her too. No one, enhanced or not, can take a .50 caliber AP round to the head and walk away, and she wasn’t THAT fast.

  We had taken a chance that she would go to Coney Island, but it really was the nearest beach, and if she had grown up here, well, people do what they know. Not much of a beach, but the pier would be the place; the boardwalks had all been wrecked by Hurricane John five years ago and had never been fixed. It was the closest thing to actually being out on the ocean there was. Waiting here had been a slim chance, but it had worked. With her main plan shot, if she even had a plan, Kruchenova, or Zivcovic, or whatever her name was, would need to think and regroup, and what better place to think? Those of us who had grown up near the ocean, even in the boroughs of the City; it never left us. Best place, the beach at night, and she needed that time.

  I waited until she had disappeared around a corner and stepped out of the car. In my hand was a barometric area denial weapon, something we just called a ‘thud,’ after the sound it made. It was basically a bean-bag gun, but the “bag” in this case was a circle of air, compressed almost to a solid, expanding out to cover a ten-foot diameter circle at twenty feet. It was non-lethal, in theory. At ten meters, optimal for crowd control, it was like getting swatted to the ground with a giant, solid pillow. Set that sucker off within a few feet, though, and it was like getting punched with a battering ram. In my left was another toy I had borrowed off the Tac guys, called a T-whip. Like a taser, is sent a jolt of energy through your body, but instead of firing it, it really was an actual whip, with contacts along ten feet of it, and I was trained to use it. I bet that I could move it in enough of an arc that I’d catch her, while a taser might miss, and once wrapped in it, the thing didn’t let go.

  I swung wide of the corner she had disappeared around, ducking down one street over and flying a microdrone a block ahead. It was clear; though a scout could mask their body heat, I had it set to pick up the electrical rhythm of heartbeats. It would have to get within a hundred feet of her, and was no good through walls, but I was sure she was out on the street. Or I hoped she was, or else there was no point. Each person that registered showed up on my screen, overlaid with the visual picture. I finally picked her up, a hundred meters ahead, and moving slowly though a scattering of people. The height parameters and body mass matched my AI evenly. The weather had turned nasty—which was good—less civilians around and probably not anyone close to the beach. As I expected, she headed toward the pier, and I followed at a distance. “You watching this, partner?” I asked, and O’Brian came back with “10-4, good buddy.” Civilians, geez.

  When I first ran into her, her head had been exposed, but this time the hood was pulled up. A tactical mistake on her part, to cover over her ears and dull her hearing. She stood, fifty meters away, back to me, leaning up on a rail that had been set up to block access to the wrecked part of the pier. The far end, what used to stick out into the ocean, was a mass of rotting pilings and broken timbers. Still, though, where she was standing was solid and a good ten feet above the Atlantic breakers as they rolled in. I stepped from the street and onto the pier, flashing my badge to a couple that stood there watching the waves, making a little shooing motion. Typical New Yorkers, minding no one’s business. They didn’t even hesitate.

  Neither did I. When I got within ten feet, the waves crashing and concealing my approach, I said nothing. Just hit her with the whip around her legs, trying to immobilize her before that lighting speed kicked in. The hundreds of micro needles penetrated through her jeans and delivered 0.75 microcoulombs of electricity to the body. She went rigid as a board and collapsed sideways, cracking her head on the rail. Shit, I didn’t mean that to happen, but what followed was even worse. Long blonde hair spilled out of the hood, and Kruchenova wore hers short and black, in a soldier’s cut.

  Both feet hit me in the left shoulder. I had turned and hunched my back against it, because I knew that attack would be instantaneous, and I caught a blurred figure flipping up from under the deck of the pier. Rolling with the hit, I continued the motion and let fly with a backhand that caught her a glancing blow on the hip. The scout flew ten feet through the air and tripped over the decoy woman, sprawling flat. I may not be fast, but when I hit something, I hit HARD, and she didn’t have the protection I did. Still, my left shoulder howled with pain, the joint damaged. My right hand dipped and came up with the Thud. She started to say something, and no fucking around, I fired.

  Kruchenova leapt straight up in the air, the bottom of the air slug catching her feet and flipping her head over heels. She landed with a crunch directly on her face, and I dove on her with my full weight. The air went out of her in a whoof of exhalation, and my arms snaked under her shoulders and behind her neck, pinning her face to the tar-stained boards. When you get held by a tank, you get held, no shit.

  “ENOUGH!” I yelled in her ear. With my augmentations, I weighed almost four hundred pounds, and she couldn’t have been pushing one thirty, even if most of it was enhanced muscle. I wrapped my legs around her waist in a scissor as she struggled, and slowly started to squeeze. Her bones were tougher than a normal human, but nothing compared to mine, and I could imagine the pain on her internal organs, which were wholly original.

  “ENOUGH!” I yelled again and started to force her head downward. A little more, and I could snap her neck. She was crying now, and still struggling.

  “DO IT! JUST FUCKING KILL ME! I AM IN HELL!” Tears were flowing down her face, onto my arms, and I felt great wracking sobs run through her body.

  I didn’t let up the pressure, because this was one sneaky broad, but I whispered in her ear. “Your father is dead. Come in from the cold. Join me. Be a cop. Be human again.”

  “Fuck you, monster,” she spat. “We’re both going to hell.” She went limp in my arms, then tried to headbutt me. I pinched my arms together and choked her out. Laying her on the boardwalk, I slipped cuffs on her wrists and ankles, then turned to check on the other woman.

  * * *

  “Can you shut her up?” asked O’Brian. Our prisoner had been steadily cursing us all the way across Brooklyn, and I almost did regret not taping her mouth.

  “No, I need to talk to her.” I slid the partition back and looked at her. Her blue eyes gazed back at me. She really was stunningly beautiful, except for a vicious burn scar across her cheek.

  “I want you to listen to me, Valentina. I’m proposing a deal. You come work with us at Special Services, and everything you did gets buried.”

  O’Brian started to protest, but I just held up my hand, not looking away from her. On her face was such a sense of loss, and a haunting hollowness that I knew all too well. The things we had done in the wars…

  “Listen, I know you. I am you. I’m a tank, you’
re a scout, but we’re both ‘borgs. There are good people here in the City, decent people, and we can protect them from the guys like your father.”

  At the mention of him, she closed her eyes. “Did he suffer?” she asked.

  “No, but he died fighting. Almost got me.”

  Tears rolled down her face, and she whispered, “I loved him, you know. Even as fucked up as he was.”

  “I know. I think he knew it too. Sometimes life makes us into people that are trapped by the choices they make. Like us, us ‘borg. But I’m offering you a chance.”

  She said nothing for a long moment, then quietly said, “I don’t want to kill anymore. Do you understand me? God, I am so tired.” Tears were flowing down her face, her laughter gone.

  I reached through the partition and touched her face. “Valentina, listen to me. Can you feel that? I can. Your skin is warm, and your tears are wet. You asked me if we’re human. Machines don’t cry, don’t feel pain, or loss. We do.”

  She lifted her head and gazed back at me, eyes so blue they looked almost white, and smiled weakly. “Is your partner always such a sappy shithead, Officer?”

  “Tim O’Brian, Ms. Kruchenova, but you can call me Tim. And yes, he is generally full of shit.”

  She did laugh then, and it was beautiful, even with the blood splattered across her face. “You know, my father originally wanted me to infiltrate the NYPD and work for him that way. I joined the army to get far away from him, but he still pulled my strings like a goddamned puppet. Yet here I am, back in the City. I would look good in blue, don’t you think?”

  She would, too. “Captain Hernandez is a hardass, but fair. If he can use you, and you’re loyal to him, he’ll go to the ends of the Earth for you.”

  “And the scum I killed? What about them?”

  I looked at O’Brian, and he stared back. “I didn’t see nothing, Tony. Saw you get your ass kicked by a little girl, but that’s about it.”

  Turning back to her, I saw the desperate hope in her eyes. “Listen, Valentina. It’s not like the Unit, it’s different. We have lives, and hopes, and we do good things. You are human, like I am.”

  She said nothing for a minute, and I thought about the wreck of her life. Then she laughed. It was a beautiful, human laugh. “OK, I will take you up on your offer, Tank. You can clear things with the army?”

  “Probably. The Special Services has to deal with the DoD a lot and has a good relationship with them.”

  * * *

  We were headed up FDR drive when they caught up to us. I don’t know who they were, exactly, since I’ve been out for more than two years, but when I called it in to Captain Hernandez, he just told us to cooperate.

  “Captain,” I said, as the four SUV’s boxed us in, “what is this shit?

  “Just play nice, Tank. They’re Feds, is all I know. Military, from the look. Be care—” Then the carrier wave went dead, and my data signal disappeared. Jammed. O’Brian looked at me, and I shook my head. He needed to stay out of this. Through the window, I saw four guys get out of the front two vehicles, big panel vans. Further down the road, all the driverless cars had disappeared, and I suspected that it was the same behind me. Googazon was deep in bed with the Feds, and pretty much did whatever they asked.

  The sides dropped down on both the vans, just enough to show two 20mm autocannon, angled to catch the squad car in a cross fire. A half a dozen troopers in full body armor, two up-armored, and two guys in business suits. I was more scared of the suits than all the hardware pointing at me. My headset crackled to life. “Officer O’Brian, step out of the car, please.”

  “Not your fight, partner. They’ll let you walk.”

  He looked at me, then back at Kruchenova. “Dinner, my house, Friday night. Lisa has another girl she wants him to meet, but I think Tony has the hots for you.”

  I laughed. “I’d rather fight these guys, honestly, than deal with another one of your wife’s ‘blind dates.’”

  “Meatloaf. Come on!”

  I sighed. “OK, but tell her I’m bringing a friend. Get outta here.” He saluted me and slid out the door. I took a deep breath and watched him walk past the Feds. They ignored him, never changing their aim.

  “Master Sergeant Corelli, please remove Sergeant First Class Kruchenova from the back seat and lay her on the ground.” Yep, it was the Army. Fuck them.

  I looked back at her, sitting up now in the back seat. “Go,” she said, with resignation in her voice. “Maybe I’ll see you after they let me out of Leavenworth. You’re a good man, Tank.” She smiled, and it was dazzling. I reached back and touched her face one more time, human contact for both of us. Then I opened the door.

  I stepped out and held up my hands. “Listen,” I said, as loud as I could. “I’ve made a life here, she can too. Let her be a cop.”

  The suits walked toward me, one white guy and one black guy, of course. Probably program managers from Weyland Corp, the contractors who had turned us into ‘borgs. I lowered my arms and stepped aside; I was taking no chances with these guys. Suits scared me more than guns. White Corporate was tapping on a device on his wrist, and the order came out. “Subject confirmed, carry out protocol.” Black Corporate raised a pistol that I knew for sure would go through the armored windows like that railgun had gone through my arm and put his hand on the squad car door. “Sergeant Kruchenova, you’re to come with us.”

  I saw the 20mm swing from their crossfire positions and line up on the squad car. She squirmed through the window between the front and back, cuffs falling off. The key that I had dropped through stood out from the metal like an engagement ring. In a flash of augmented speed, she was out the far door and running. I swear I saw her legs blur.

  They tried to track her with their fire, the cannon hammering away. As I suspected, the Tac guys opened up on me, but I squinted my eyes and shrugged off the 6mm rounds like they were sleet as I stood and watched. Both the suits were torn to shreds; I guess corporate loyalty only went so far. The cannons chewed their way through a concrete support, trying to catch her, and the scout stood behind it, looking at me and smiling. She held up three fingers, then put her hand to her head in a classic telephone gesture. I dialed in, heard her say, “See you at dinner, Tank!” over our internal combat frequency, then she turned, gave them both fingers, and shot into the air with the grace of an Olympic gymnast. Sergeant First Class Valentina Kruchenova, ne Zivcovic, disappeared into the river with hardly a splash, and I clapped my hands together. Bravo. Fucking Bra-vo.

  It got really quiet, really fast. The loudest thing there was my smile. The 20mm cannons slowly turned toward me, and I got ready to charge. Tank or not, those would surely eat me for lunch. Sirens were starting to get closer; the feds might think they’re hot shit, but you don’t go throwing heavy artillery around in my city without starting up a shit storm. The cannons swiveled down, and the panels closed, while the tactical unit guys safed their weapons and got back in. As they packed up their vans, one of them shouted to me, “Be a good boy, Master Sergeant Corelli. We’ll be watching you!”

  “That’s Officer Corelli, of the NYPD!” I shouted back. “Come back to my city, and I’ll have you arrested!” Human indeed, and the memory of ice blue eyes and a beautiful smile stayed in my mind. Dinner was going to be…interesting.

  * * * * *

  J.F. Holmes Bio

  J.F. Holmes is a retired Army Senior NCO and Iraq War veteran. He is the owner and editor of Cannon Publishing, and has 17 books of his own published. Two were 2017 Dragon Awards Finalists. Find him at www.amazon.com/author/jfholmes.

  # # # # #

  Cradle and All by Quincy J. Allen

  Part 1

  Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree tops

  When the wind blows the cradle will rock

  If the bough breaks, the cradle will fall

  And mother will catch you, cradle and all

  * * *

  Doctor Maria Magdelain Fujimoto didn’t know how she could save them, and it was kill
ing her. She wouldn’t let Paragon Savage Genetics turn the Gen3s into slaves like the others.

  She stared at the thirty rows of maturation chambers lining the south side of Lab 4, deep within the bowels of PSG headquarters. Her lab, for all intents and purposes. It was dimly lit, with the sterile, white walls a pale backdrop to what she’d always considered a work of art. Each chamber was illuminated by a potent overhead spotlight that highlighted a gurgling cocktail of blue amniotic fluid designed to promote the rapid growth of mammalian tissue. Each chamber looked like a living sapphire, with swirls of bubbles rising to the top.

  It was the humanoid shadow within, however, that was the true gem. The genies, as most people called them, looked almost like shadowy mermaids in deep blue water, dancing in syncopation with one another. The auto-programmed motions built musculature, increased flexibility, and hardwired each subject’s motor-neurons so they could emerge from the chambers capable of virtually any physical task required.

  But they would also be slaves.

  A complex web of emotions clutched at her heart—love, fear, powerlessness—and all three vied for supremacy within her. They were her creations, and she’d sold her soul to the devil to bring them into existence. She just couldn’t figure out how to break their chains of bondage, and it weighed on her. She’d planted seeds all along the way, since before she created them, but she’d been waiting for something—a catalyst—that would give her the opportunity she needed.

  “How is Selina?” Maria asked, glancing at Altra.

  The slim, distinctly feminine robot, whose white outer casing gleamed like alabaster in the dim light, turned its head toward Maria as it strode after her with a soft, precise clicking of silicon on tile. ALTRA, or Artificial Lab Technician, Researcher, and Assistant, wasn’t intelligent in any Asimovian sense of the word. It was, however, an exceedingly functional example of humanoid robotics, capable of executing a wide array of both routine and complex tasks.