Discarded

by Mark A. Ciccone

  Brown Coat lashed out with his left blade. Leah dodged, right as his other weapon came up in a reaping arc, aimed at her stomach. Her stifled scream grated at Greg’s ears. Barely avoiding another swing, she dove and rolled to the right behind the car once more, one hand clutching at a gaping red tear in her clinger. Brown Coat stepped toward her, blades raised.

  Steadying his arm at last, Greg squeezed the trigger, four times. The shots rang out like cannon blasts through the garage. Brown Coat spasmed, gouts of red bursting from his back. Moving in sharp lurches, he turned to face Greg. The next four hollow-points struck him dead-centre in the chest, blasting little bloody chunks in spatters across the asphalt. He staggered, but stayed on his feet. A thin, jeering smirk crept across his face. He lifted the blades again, and began to stride towards Greg. Greg ejected the clip, pawing at his waist for another. What the fuck is this guy?Even we can’t stand after that, not so damn fast! How–

  A loud revving cut through the air. Startled, Greg spun to his right. The blue sedan was leaping in reverse, lights glaring. It slammed into Brown Coat at the waist, bending him over the trunk, knocking his blades and glasses away. Tyres screeching, the car smashed into the far wall, pinning the bulky man against the concrete. Greg winced at the sight and sound of crunching metal and bone. As abruptly as it started, the engine died, ticking loudly. Silence slammed down over the garage.

  Greg slapped in the new magazine, and hobbled toward the car, coming around to the driver’s side. Leah punched open the door, almost knocking it off its hinges. Another punch deflated the airbag. Legs wobbling, she grabbed the doorframe with one hand, and pushed herself free of the seat with the other. The jack device fell from her other hand, a mess of cuts and dislocated digits. She was covered with blood from the waist down, and more dripped from a broken nose and several facial cuts, but she seemed no worse than stunned.

  Greg grabbed her arm – gently – to steady her. She blinked hard a few times, before she finally seemed to register him. Her teeth were streaked with blood when she smiled. ‘Just needed a bigger club, huh?’ she ground out.

  Despite the receding pain, he let out a bark of laughter. ‘First one big enough to win a gun fight, anyway.’ Sober again, he looked over at Brown Coat, still jack-knifed and motionless. They’d picked the Walthers for concealment, not stopping power, but not even they could shrug off eight mushroom rounds. And he wasn’t wearing armour, or not that Greg could see—

  His analysis broke off. Through the ringing, he could suddenly hear new sounds. Sirens, and the drone of a deuce-and-a-half engine. ‘We gotta go, now.’ He moved around the front of the sedan. ‘There was a four-by-four in the outside lot. If we hurry, we can—’

  ‘Greg!’ Leah shouted. He spun around. She was pointing to the rear of the car, a half-dumbfounded, half-terrified look on her face. Looking that way, he heard a hoarse grunting, and saw Brown Coat’s arms starting to twitch. The man’s eyes flashed open in the same instant. His arms jerked and flopped, hands clenching at the sheared plastic and metal pinning him to the wall. When his fingers clawed against it, Greg could see deep gouges in the metal – and no blood. The deep cuts on his face, from flying glass or metal shrapnel, were already starting to close.

  Very slowly, Greg stepped away from the car. He picked up his bag, keeping his eyes locked on the gruesome sight before them. ‘Come on.’ The sirens were louder now, pounding at his aching head. He took Leah’s arm again. She was still staring at the other man, her face transfixed and uncomprehending. ‘He’s not going anywhere for now. And we won’t be either if we stick around.’

  That shook her loose. Nodding, she started after him, then halted, and picked up two objects: Brown Coat’s pistol and glasses, the latter now mangled and cracked. She wrapped them up in the remains of her shirt, then picked up her duffel and continued after him. Greg nodded in approval; whatever the hell this guy was, they needed intel on him, and damn quick.

  Less than a minute later, they were speeding out of the outdoor lot. Their luck held – the military hadn’t yet thrown up any roadblocks to cordon off the shoot-out area. In a matter of minutes, they were on I-90. Thanks to the traffic restrictions, it was easy going, but crowded enough that they were soon lost among the Army transports and other civilian cars.

  Changing lanes, Greg looked over at Leah. She was leaning back in the passenger seat, dabbing at the wound in her chest with bits of gauze from her bag’s aid kit. The gash was healing even as he looked; it probably wouldn’t even leave a scar. He grimaced. The blade had cut a long slit clean through the clinger suit, from the right side of her waist to just below her left breast. Another inch or two deeper, and it would have gone through her sternum into her heart, and hewed off bits of both lungs. Regeneration might still have been possible then, but no amount of ARC had ever brought a Golem back from a sure killing blow.

  The clinger, on the other hand, was taking longer to close. He could see a few of the nano-fibres lacing back together, but at a slow pace he’d never seen before. These things can turn away almost everything: bullets, knives, stun rounds– even grenades, as I know firsthand. Only our blades could cut through them,and thatwith serious effort. So what the hell was he carrying that could doiteasily– and arrest repair?

  Glancing up from her work, Leah noticed him watching her. She smiled. ‘I’m OK,’ she said softly. ‘Just making sure this is going as expected.’ The smile faded. ‘Who was that, Greg? Who the fuck was that?’

  ‘No idea.’ He looked back out at the road. His hands were starting to tremble on the wheel – from adrenal crash or remembered dread, he couldn’t tell. A tiny edge of fear crept into his voice. ‘When that bastard took so much damage, and kept standing… and that trank, whatever the fuck that was—’ He couldn’t finish. ‘That was the first time I thought that… that we wouldn’t…’

  Leah’s hand closed on his arm. Keeping one on the wheel, he clasped hers with the other. Little by little, the surge passed. He pulled himself fully upright in his seat. ‘Whatever he was, he’ll be off the field for a while – long enough for a good head start.’

  Leah nodded, all business again. ‘We’ll need to ditch the car before too long. Even if they don’t have descriptions, or count on us getting out of the city so fast, they’re bound to send out alerts for suspicious cars – or just a suspicious couple.’

  He jerked the wheel, shifting lanes again. The sign above the road now read I-94. ‘We’ve got until Glenview, or the state line, before anybody picks up on either. By then, we’ll have switched, and be off the main roads, away from the denser urban areas. The Army’s always hated moving out into the ’burbs and boonies, so they’ll rely on local cops to do the leg work, but we’ll be well out of range before any tips come in.’ He looked ahead, to the mostly deserted stretch of highway now before them. ‘Before today’s over, we’ll be at the site – and closer to the answer.’

  Leah’s smile was thin and satisfied. She leaned back in the seat once more, her hand still laced with his. Very little was said for the rest of the drive.

  Chapter 6

  Hargrove bent down and picked up a piece of debris, not much bigger than his thumb. Holding it up, he recognised it as part of a car’s taillight. He rubbed at it with thumb and forefinger, then tossed it back on the ground by the wreck. The entire rear of the car was crumpled like tinfoil, reducing its size by nearly a third. That, combined with a deep, spiderweb-crack depression in the far wall, pointed to something being slammed between it and the concrete with terrific force, like a body. The bloodstains on the car metal and the spatters of dried gore on the garage pavement all pointed to a serious firefight, and possibly hand-to-hand combat.

  ‘It’s the craziest damn thing I’ve ever seen.’ He turned, and saw an older man in Army grey with captain’s bars standing just a few paces away. A few other Army techs were packing up their CSI-gear, sending puzzled glances now and again toward the four new arrivals. Both bodyguards were in position near the entry ramp, their b
acks turned to the scene. ‘We got here inside of two minutes after the first shots were reported. But all we found was this goddamn mess – and him, half-dead on his feet.’

  The Army officer pointed to the security booth. A third brown-coated man was seated there, sans glasses, and ignoring the two nearby Army sentries who were trying and failing not to stare at his ragged, bloodstained clothes. ‘We were just bringing up the med team when the call came in about the rest of his – ops team, was it? – coming to retrieve him, and that we were ordered to wait until they did.’ He gestured again, taking in the entire garage floor. ‘We sealed off everything within two blocks of this place, and doubled our roving patrols, but nothing popped up. If we’d had satellite clearance we might’ve caught them before they cleared out of the city or went underground, but—’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Myerson,’ Hargrove interrupted, holding up a hand. ‘No need to apologise; you and your men did their best, under the circumstances.’ His gaze swept over the lot. ‘Please inform General Briggs that his assistance – and discretion – has been extremely helpful, and that we’ll be in touch if our investigation turns up anything.’

  The captain nodded, still looking confused and unnerved. Hargrove walked over to the bedraggled guard. The man looked up at him, not speaking. From the splattered gore on his shirt, coat and face, it was difficult to tell where his wounds were, or if they existed at all. That suited Hargrove fine.

  He reached into the pocket of his jacket, bringing out a fresh pair of silver spectacles. Glowering, he held them out to the guard. ‘How’re you holding up?’ he asked, his tone that of a concerned partner, or parent. The bloodied man grunted what might have been words, as he slid the glasses down over his nose and ears. ‘Yeah, thought as much,’ Hargrove said. ‘Anything you picked up on where they’re headed?’ His throat pulsed, once: Status?

  Another grunt. Text blinked at the bottom of Hargrove’s lens: Green. Target IDs confirmed. Ultimate destination still unknown. A moment’s hesitation. Suspect one target seized original MCSD.

  ‘Damn,’ Hargrove muttered; that he could say aloud. The loss was a problem – but there was another to deal with now, far more worrisome. Was the compound successful, in any way? he pulsed back.

  Unknown. When Hargrove glared at him, the guard went on. Confirmed hits on both targets, prior to entering garage.Targets appeared lethargic andnearcollapse,in keeping with compound’s anticipated effects.Upon entry, both were still active. Likeliest explanations: Suits impenetrable to compound delivery system, or compound is not as effectiveas believed.

  Blood thundered in Hargrove’s temples. Stiffly, he said, ‘Well, that’s… too bad. We’ll have to get details the hard way, then.’ Understood. Continue recovery, and rejoin main team. Await further orders. The guard nodded, still expressionless.

  Hargrove spun on his heel, and marched back toward the wrecked car. He eyed it for a time, gathering his thoughts. Finally, he punched up Costa’s number on his smartwatch. The agent’s face appeared at once. ‘What’s the situation?’ he demanded right away.

  ‘Stable, for now,’ Hargrove replied. He relayed what the third guard had said. ‘My man’s still out of it; might be a little while before he gets all the details together. Based on what he did say, and the reports we’ve gathered, it’s safe to say the hunt remains low-key, and thus off the radar for anyone else who might be watching. Won’t be hard for the Army to keep this part under wraps, and for us to maintain overall security.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Costa said, not sounding as if he believed it for a second. ‘And I’m having a hard time seeing how your man could just walk away from a firefight with two types like you described, with only a couple of flesh wounds.’ He glanced to either side of the screen, then continued in a lower voice, as if that could keep him from being overheard. ‘Considering this mess, these “Golems” were packing enough to do serious damage – bullets, knives, cars, doesn’t matter. So how exactly is one of your GI Joes supposed to have survived this, let alone given more than a scratch to the two we’re supposed to be bringing in alive?’

  Hargrove met his gaze levelly. ‘My people are prepared for any and all contingencies, Agent Costa. That includes dealing with the type of people we’re pursuing. You’ll have to be satisfied with that, unless the circumstances change.’

  He stepped closer to the car. Kneeling, he dipped the first two fingers of one hand into one of the blood spatters along the car’s side door. One of the brown-coated guards was at his side in a heartbeat, a palm-sized lab scanner in hand. Hargrove brushed the blood against the scanner’s surface, and waited. The device beeped twice. Two spiralling DNA strands appeared on the screen, along with a small scrolling column of text. He looked up at the other guard. Target origins confirmed, he pulsed. All assets be ready for departure, five minutes at most.

  The guard moved away, almost without noise. Hargrove stood up and pulled a bleach-wipe from a small packet in one of his pockets. ‘Seems that my man did give our targets more than a scratch, Mr Costa.’ He wiped the device clean, and held it up to the watch’s face for the other man to see. ‘ARC-positive blood: The scan confirms it. Based on the impact there’ – he angled the camera in the wristband at the garage column, and the crumpled trunk—‘it appears one of them took a serious hit, enough to knock them out of the fight for some time – and maybe their journey.’

  ‘That what your “asset” states happened?’ At Hargrove’s nod, Costa continued, ‘So he managed to get into the car, hotwire it, and damage one or both of the targets – all with just a few scratches.’ He let out a low whistle, in mock admiration. ‘Must be some impressive training they hand out, wherever these boys of yours come from.’

  Hargrove slipped the scanner into a coat pocket. He raised his arm, so that their faces were only a few inches apart. ‘If you have something to say, Agent, say it.’ His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the cold anger beneath it.

  Costa was equally stoic. ‘Like you said: there’re some things I – and the Agency – have to “be satisfied with”, for now. But you know that my bosses came to you solely because of your past experiences with the Golems, or so I was told. If there’s anything you’re not sharing in this operation, for whatever reasons, I can damn well guarantee they’ll be the least of your problems, in short order.’

  He gestured at the screen – past Hargrove, toward the bodyguard in the shack. ‘You said it yourself: these “Golems” are practically untouchable with clingers, and their skills. So it stands to reason that your men have something that nullifies both of those enough to let them get close, making it easier to keep everything out of the spotlight. Whatever it is, it wasn’t among the facts I was read into. I pass that along, it can make some people Upstairs nervous. Enough to take this hunt over, and pull the plug on whatever science fair shit you’ve been stuck with since the end of the Turmoil.’

  Hargrove didn’t flinch. He stared at the agent, hard. Finally, he let out a little sigh. ‘You’re right, Mr Costa. When a person spends so long out of the spotlight, like you said, it can lead to him becoming a bit paranoid about sharing anything. My apologies.’

  Costa nodded, his expression still vaguely suspicious. Hargrove straightened, putting on an appearance of briskness. ‘In the interest of cooperation, then…’ He motioned for the black-haired guard to approach. When Hargrove reached out a hand, the guard drew a silver pistol from inside his coat and laid it in Hargrove’s palm. He worked the action, popping out a single round, and held it up to the smartwatch screen. Unlike a standard bullet, this one had the appearance of a dart, sans tail or feathers. The point was elongated and looked sharper than the average syringe. There was no external casing – it was meant to be fired with compressed air, or a charge that didn’t require additional protection for the round.

  Staring at the dart, Hargrove spoke in a professorial tone. ‘When the Golem Project really got off the ground, there were, of course, security concerns. All that training, all that firepower
and all those innate abilities bestowed on several hundred individuals, from birth – let’s just say it made some people a bit nervous. But any alteration in the process, to make the batches more compliant or controllable, would’ve required months if not years of reworking, and had a greater chance of backfiring. So it was decided that in the event any of them went off the reservation – whether alone or en masse – there would be an ace in the hole, ready for use at a moment’s notice. That’s where my people at Advent came in, again.’ He held the dart out to the Agency man. ‘Thus was created the Pax Contingency.’

  Costa squinted at the dart’s point. ‘What’s its purpose, exactly? Some sort of magic bullet to turn Golems to dust, instead of a cleric’s ramblings, like the old legends?’

  Hargrove smiled thinly. ‘Something like that. The science is beyond me – a mix of tranquilisers and tailored neurotoxins; my R&D people could explain it better. But it boils down to this: the compound in this dart is strong enough to dope a full-grown elephant for two days – or a Golem, for a maximum of thirty-six hours. They’d be alive, and conscious, but effectively immobilised – like a coma patient. Combined with a prototype metal sharp enough to pierce even clinger fibres, it was supposed to be the ultimate tool in ensuring the Golems never got to the point of endangering themselves, their comrades or ordinary Americans. Only a handful of Project personnel and vetted officers were supposed to have them. Although ultimately there were no incidents that required their usage, the fear never went away. Therefore, Advent was tasked with retaining a small stockpile, at the request of President Daniels. Not enough, probably, for long-term pursuit or full-scale engagements, but certainly for the immediate future.’ Popping the clip, he slid the dart back atop the others.