Donnie cracks his knuckles—which is impressive, because he had to design his hulking prosthetics to crack. “Don’t even think about it,” he snaps at Silvia. “I’ve analyzed the logs of your sucker-punch combat. I know how you fight. I’ll grab your dumb ass and use you to beat your mother to death.”
The energy drains from Silvia’s limbs.
I wish her Mama didn’t sigh with gratitude when Silvia slumps in surrender. Silvia’s rebellion was one of my few outs.
“So how do we do this?” Donnie asks.
“I’ll signal a countdown. When it hits zero, we both peace-tie.” Peace-tying also broadcasts a signal so anyone nearby can verify who’s peace-tied and who isn’t.
“What if you don’t peace-tie when I do?”
“Then you use those big ol’ fists to kill the hostages, and I don’t get what I want. If you don’t peace-tie when I do, I run, and you get to sleep every night knowing how badly I woulda whupped you.”
“That’s pretty well thought through.”
“I mighta been pondering the fairest way to kick your ass for a while.”
Donnie’s ugly chuckle reminds me that I do not have armaments ready to go toe-to-toe with his uber-tuned slaughter machine—I have rusted-out beaters with blinkered sensors.
“All right,” he mutters. “I’m filming this. Your death will be all over the internet when this is done.”
“If you’re alive to upload it.” Which he probably will be. “Silvia, Trish is an eight-minute walk away through the woods. I’ve marked the path for you. Do not do anything stupid. Protect your family.” Mama nods. “Donnie, if you move, all bets are off. Keep your ass planted.”
“I’m not doing that with you in cover and me exposed.”
“I’ll come out when they’re safe. Our peace-ties will expire at the same microsecond. Our duel will be down to pure optimization.”
He snorts. “You’re dead, buddy.”
I’d like to tell Silvia I love her, but she’ll get that when Trish hands her my final message.
I issue the countdown. Three, two, one …
I glow a bruised purple.
Donnie gleams like a neon sign’s wet dream.
“All right, Silvia. Head out.” Donnie unlatches the cuffs, and Silvia ushers Mama and Vala out—Mama squeezing Silvia’s arm, cooing how she’s glad her daughter is safe, Vala glaring daggers at Donnie like she’s ready to take him on single-handedly.
It takes a while to help an aging mother out of sight, and it’s a big field. Minutes pass as they trudge out of the clearing, then disappear into the woods, and happily Donnie doesn’t charge after them.
“You coming out?” he calls.
“After they’ve made it to the car. Not that I don’t trust you, but I don’t trust you.”
He takes out another cigar, lights it ostentatiously. It’s a Gurkha Black Dragon. That motherfucker wouldn’t know it from a Swisher Sweet.
Jesus, I wish I had the armaments to cap him. But it’s twelve minutes since we activated our peace-tie. With luck, Silvia’s gotten her family back to Trish.
So I creep out of the holler to interpose myself between Donnie and Silvia’s exit path, then step out into the clearing.
Donnie chokes on his cigar smoke.
“Hang on, hang on.” He collapses into laughter. “I wanna immortalize this moment. Do you have anything functional?”
“I could probably shoot you with my rifle if you did me the courtesy of standing still.”
He shakes his head. “Your legs are walking like an imbalanced dryer, your left arm’s been trash-compacted; you don’t even have body armor left. Do you have any tricks?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I was packing nukes?”
“The great Mat Webb. Showing up for a duel in trash.”
“You gonna let me go?”
“If you’re stupid enough to enter into a fight with that, you deserve whatever you get.”
I sigh. “You got two minutes left on the clock. I suppose you figured out a way to bypass the peace-tie shutdown?”
“’Course. You?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think to preload that software.”
“Shame.”
Of course I don’t hear the shot fire.
But I am alive to feel the impact as I hit the ground. My systems inform me Donnie’s severed the connections to my left leg, which even I have to admit is a helluva precise shot.
“Gonna take my time,” Donnie says; my right leg blanks as he severs that. “All that buildup, and you didn’t even give me a good duel. Might as well spend my time taking you apart before I kill you.”
“I accomplished my mission. Silvia’s family is safe.”
“Come on.” He fires again, sending shrapnel from poor Vito burning into my cheek—which seems unfair, as Vito was already toast. “You don’t think I’ve got my own escape vehicle? I’ll use my satellite surveillance to track them down and murder Trish, then strangle Silvia’s bratty sister, and then—”
“I am so glad I came back, then!”
Silvia hurtles out of the woods as Donnie’s limbs start firing.
* * *
When Silvia got to the car, Trish gave her my message:
Hey, sweetie.
So you got a choice to make. I’ll still love you either way. There’s no wrong answer here.
Your mama thinks you’re a weak woman with moments of strength.
I think you’re a strong woman who sometimes breaks down.
That matters because that’s the difference between a warrior and a civilian. It’s not about whether you’ve got a gun, or even whether you’ve been to war. When warriors break down, we get back up again because somebody needs us.
That’s it. We don’t give up until the giving’s done. I think that’s who you are, but I can’t decide for you.
If you’re a civilian, then you gotta run. Run now and run fast, because Donnie’ll be coming for you. I will be proud to sacrifice my life to protect you, because civilian or warrior, it has been my greatest pleasure to stand by your side.
But if you’re a warrior, come back to me. Because I don’t have any tricks. I just love you. That’s literally all I got right now.
Love,
Mat
P.S. In case you don’t know, the great thing about combat is that it doesn’t matter whether you’re screaming and crying and panicking as long as you’re killing motherfuckers. Just sayin’.
* * *
Silvia’s a badass.
Donnie fires wire-guided missiles, but Silvia’s staying close to the ground, not jumping towards him in her usual arcs that’d leave her vulnerable in midair. Trees burst into splinters as she hangs on them just long enough for Donnie’s targeting to commit to her direction, and then she leaps off in a zigzag pattern.
Sure enough, God bless her, she’s howling in terror and she’s still fucking coming for Donnie.
Donnie scowls as he jerks away from me: he’d planned to shoot me, but his defensive weaponry’s automatically prioritized the incoming threat. Silvia’s caught onto the idea that the best way to protect me is to come in so fast he doesn’t dare reprogram anything because dammit my girl is a warrior, she’s melded her body’s instincts with a solid head for planning and a terror of being hurt and, oh my God, I’d kiss her if she wasn’t evading gunfire.
And Donnie’s twin shotguns erupt except she’s sliding underneath them, moving faster than even his weaponry can track, squeezing his knee joint hard enough to crumple it, and sure enough Donnie’s arms are quicker than a boxer, but Silvia’s weaponizing her terror because Donnie’s what’s causing her to panic so she fights defensively, plinking at Donnie’s defenses one hit at a time—crumpling a shotgun here, staving in a shoulder joint there.
“This isn’t fair!” Donnie’s screaming. “You got a girl to fight for you!”
“Did you complain when she got a guy to fight for her?”
Donnie staggers backwards like a man swatting at a mosquito as Sil
via blurs around him as her bawling melts into nervous laughter because she’s beating him, she’s beating the bastard, and Donnie’s tears are sweet because he’s pulled out all his tricks and he still can’t beat her.
His other leg goes down.
She smashes the clip line to his last rifle.
She destroys the grenade launcher so he can’t self-immolate.
She tears his body armor off.
And Donnie’s on the ground, his faceplate shattered, a naked quadruple amputee shackled to useless metal.
Silvia’s fist draws back, aimed at Donnie’s skull. Donnie lets out a low moan.
Silvia drops her fist.
Donnie coughs laughter.
“Fucking civilians,” he sneers. “Afraid to get their hands dirty.”
“That’s why I love her.”
Donnie crooks his neck, as if surprised to find I’m still there. Where would I have gone? I’m hauling myself through the grass with my one remaining good arm—thanks, Michael—as Silvia straddles Donnie’s immobile body. She’s sobbing as she realizes she’s not ready to kill anyone—why does that feel like a weakness when she’s facing the bastard who would have killed her family?
I touch her ankle. It’s the best I can do. “That’s a strength, sweetie.”
She sniffles. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
She bends down, nuzzling her cheek against mine. She laughs nervously. “Did I do good?”
“You did great.” I ruffle her hair with my remaining hand. “Now. Do me a favor and look away.”
Her eyes widen. “Mat. You can’t.”
“His family’s got billions, and he knows about you. He’s got lawyers and money and no ethics, and he won’t care who gets killed so long as he gets to sell you off for better armaments. Tell me he should live, I’ll listen. But I don’t think that’s your argument so much as that you’re not willing to do it.”
“No.” Donnie’s denial is sudden, like he’s waking from a pleasant dream. “No! No, you can’t.”
Silvia can’t meet my gaze.
“Head back to the woods,” I say. “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
“That’s…” She shakes her head. “That’s too cowardly. I can’t bury my head in the sand. I’ll watch.”
“Good. That’s good.” I cup her cheek. “I love you.”
“You can’t!” Donnie’s thrashing, trying to free himself; he’s as effective as I was back when the IAC reduced my limbs to paperweights. “You can’t shoot someone who can’t shoot back!”
“Why not? You did.” I’m crawling with one hand, with hundreds of pounds of deadweight still attached, so it’s taking longer to get to him than I’d like.
“But … you’re a hero! A good guy!”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I’m a monster who fights monsters.”
I crawl onto him; his perfect washboard stomach flexes and curls, flexes and curls, wormlike, as he tries to flee.
I rest my rifle barrel against his forehead. My control systems are shot, so I gotta aim manually.
Donnie’s sweaty panic dissolves into a big, shit-eating grin. “You—you can’t! If you—if you shoot me, you’ll never know whether you could have beaten me in a fair fight!”
“Oh, I could have,” I allow.
I’m mean enough to give him enough time to realize what that answer means. His smile fades into a big, screaming “No!”
I pull the trigger.
I roll away from Donnie’s body, exhausted, my cheeks covered in Donnie’s blood. In the far distance, I see IAC drones coming to pick up their successful test candidate, eager to get me back to the scanning facility before I do something even more foolish.
Donnie’s body cools next to me. The IAC’s new morality will remember this last death, the one where I shot a helpless man, and they will use that as a template where a thousand men like Donnie will fall if they’ve got the drop on him.
I’m okay with that.
* * *
Onyeka does not wish to talk with me.
Ms. Njeze’s email is formal but polite; the formality is what I’d expect from a politician of her caliber, the politeness is what I’d expect from someone whose daughter I rescued. But though Onyeka’s therapy’s coming along well, thanks for asking, Onyeka’s therapybots recommend she not see anyone who would remind her of her abduction trauma.
I note how Onyeka’s mother does not encourage me to call back.
“Everything okay?” Silvia asks.
We’re walking along the street to her mother’s house, having stopped at a bodega to pick up a bottle of wine and some flowers for the table. Silvia’s dressed in a demure long-sleeve shirt and jeans to conceal her bioengineered body; I’m wearing Thelma and Louise, my show prosthetics, but somehow they feel more natural with Silvia curled up on my arm.
She must have noticed me wincing. “Sorry,” I say. “A hostage I saved once doesn’t want to see me.”
“Huh.” People pass by us as we walk—some smiling at the guy and his new girlfriend, most ignoring us. Which is delightful. “How often do you visit your old … rescue buddies?”
“I’ve never tried before.”
She relaxes. I’m not quite sure why. But my body language–AIs tell me it’s best not to press this topic, and I believe them.
Yet I’m caught up in her question: Because I never did try to visit anyone I was worried had gotten hurt. I’d lock myself in the lab and analyze mission logs instead. Now, I want to forge connections with people I’ve helped.
Oh.
That’s why she’s worried.
“Let’s not forget the best rescue buddy of them all,” I tell her. “I’ve saved a lot of people, but only one saved me back. Besides, who would I dance with?”
I switch my limbs into Fred Astaire dance mode, reach out my hand: she does a little twirl as we hum “Night and Day,” doing a brief pas de deux on New Jersey’s streets. She twirls up on tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek.
I wince, because my cheek’s still tender; five weeks, and the orbital fracture is almost healed, but I still have new and horrible migraines. Add it to my backaches and my other combat-related injuries.
There are old soldiers, and bold soldiers, and I guess I’m the old kind even though I’d be hard-pressed to call myself middle-aged.
“You okay?”
“The combat injuries still.”
“Oh.” She looks concerned. “Are you still up for dinner with Mama and Vala?”
“You realize I’d rather head into combat than have dinner with your family.”
She laughs loudly enough that a couple of kids lollygagging on the corner look over, half in love with her already. “Okay, so you’ll be fine. Remember, if they ask you about your eye, don’t tell them how it happened.”
“I remember. No talking business with your family.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “I’m still weirded out, calling it ‘business.’”
The IAC no longer exists, of course. There was a conveniently large bust that dismantled the feared criminal organization shortly after the assault on Smyrna was brought to light.
Lots of guys got shot resisting arrest. I assume they were all bad guys. The new-and-revised IAC wouldn’t have framed nice people for crimes, because I wouldn’t have.
However, an organization that is distinctly not the IAC has given us several phone calls, explaining how much work there’s left to do in ethically dismantling their organization. It’s not simple. Last week, Silvia and I rounded up some rogue Monicas because you can’t just set them free—Donnie was right, every government would pay top-tier cash to get advanced bioweapons. So we’ve been kidnapping Monicas and bringing them to deprogramming facilities where the reformed artificial intelligences can restore their sanity.
There’s other gray areas; there always are. We’re visiting Silvia’s mom and sister before trotting off to a former IAC enclave in Hong Kong. Starting tomorrow, we have to figure out a way to b
ack out of the deals the IAC has made with other shadow organizations.
I gripe about the pay, which is excellent but not Donnie-levels—I wish they’d give me one big cash-out and let me retire—but I know what the not-IAC’s doing. They’re throwing me at the knottiest moral conundrums. Studying my reactions. Not giving me time to oppose them.
It’s what I’d do.
Yet they do allow Silvia along on the missions, and we’re … finding ways to work together. I need to analyze every possibility, or I panic. Whereas Silvia still gets overwhelmed sometimes. We’ve had nasty midcombat fights, some painfully physical because she can’t always help herself when she gets wound up.
Our sanity is never a total victory but only another battle won. Sometimes I find Silvia curled up in the corner, weeping from stress. Sometimes Silvia crawls out of bed at four in the morning to find me plotting new tactics.
Both times are met with gentle hugs.
And honestly? We both feel better kicking ass for justice.
“There’s Mama’s house,” Silvia whispers reverently, as though we’re approaching a shrine. It has that shrine look: a well-tended garden, a Mother Mary statue by the porch, warm candlelights in the window.
She stops, brushes my shirt off, looking me up and down. Then: “Do I look okay?”
“You’ve never looked anything but.”
She blushes. “Flatterer.” She snatches the wine and roses out of my arms, then jams the wine back in, then switches the wine for the flowers. “You give her the flowers. I’ll give her the wine. And don’t go into the dining room until Mama gives the go-ahead. She’s got out the special plates for you.”
“Are you sure I can’t get someone to shoot me instead?”
“Oh, and if she asks, you’re Catholic.”
“What?”
She pushes open the door. “We’re here!”
“Not yet!” Vala cries from another room.
“You said six o’clock!”
“I know but NOT YET!”
“What the…” Silvia escorts me at lightning speed down a hallway filled with family photos, deposits me in on a plastic-encased couch sitting before a news monitor. She grooms herself with insect speed, then paces the room eight times in four seconds.
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