by Jeremy Flagg
A darkness descends upon the world and soldiers will be needed to fight against the dying light. While there will be many soldiers, only you have the heart of a warrior, and only you can bridge a gap between humanity and the Children of Nostradamus.
What you call a weakness is your greatest strength, and there will be a time when you doubt yourself. This doubt is not rooted in your own insecurities, but in the role you play in a grander scheme. To this point, you have played by the rules set forth by your position. Today is the day you begin to feel the doubt consume you. There will be a single moment where you question the beliefs that have allowed you to survive.
I cannot challenge your beliefs, as I cannot see into the soul of an individual. I can, however, give you a path that will allow you to begin atoning for your past. The moment you ask yourself if what you’re doing is right, simply pause. In that moment’s hesitation you will find yourself set free.
Be at peace.
With Regards,
Eleanor P. Valentine
May 2, 2028
“Just because we’re Paladins doesn’t mean we have to like it.”
She eyed the man. Vlad had been her first recruit choice, known for his tenacity in the field. He resisted initially, stating he wouldn’t serve under a freak, but time in the brig changed the man’s attitude.
“You like what I order you to like.”
Vlad leaned forward as if he was going to say something. He eyed her up and down, lingering for a moment on her face. The scars along his own face and neck reminded her of his dossier—the frequent “anger management,” and “volatile,” came to mind. He tested authority within an inch of being court marshaled, a statement many of his peers echoed during her candidacy review. She treated him like any other grunt, her orders serving as law.
At one point in the history of the armed forces, being a female in charge had been a struggle. Earning the respect of men had been an uphill battle. Mysterious beatings, rape, even murder became standard for women wishing to move up in the ranks. Now, gender provided little issue to the Corps. More often than not, they spent time discussing the increased use of synthetic soldiers instead.
Robots—they all equally hated the machines.
The military of the United States dissolved at the turn of the century and reformed into the Corps, a versatile and astounding fighting force. However, since she became involved, it seemed more resources were spent putting out domestic fires than in combat overseas.
In 2012 the world changed; now they struggled to change with it.
“We’re nearing our destination.”
She caught Murdock rubbing his eyes. The brutish man had been blinded by a sulfur grenade serving in the Middle East. He remained one of the best sharpshooters to ever serve, and with a single misstep, his ability to serve his country had been stolen from him. When she approached the man during rehab, he had been skeptical of the offer, more so when she confessed to being a Child of Nostradamus.
“Stop rubbing your implants.”
“But Mom…”
His eyes focused tightly, examining her. Although he hadn’t had high enough rank to get fitted for optical enhancements by the Body Shop, she used her pull. They promised an improved man, and during field testing, his accuracy was frightening. He was the greatest shooter in the military.
He blinked several times and went to rub them again. She reached across and knocked his hand away. She couldn’t explain it, but she liked Murdock. The man might be a trainer soldier, but he might also be the closest thing to a friend she had known in years.
“Seriously, they’re dry.”
“Use the drops the tech gave you.”
His eyes no longer served as a window to his soul. Now, the faintest green light came from his irises, only magnified as he squeezed the liquid into his eyes. A dozen people in a control room somewhere in Washington watched everything he witnessed. The lack of privacy did not bode well with her, nor did the receptors wired directly into his brain. He had sold away a part of himself to enlist again. Her offer, his choice.
Jasmine reached down under the bench, pulling open a drawer. Inside, a small headset and earpiece rested, snuggly packed. She slid the device on, one small glass piece over her left eye and the ear piece into her right. Familiar tones pulsed into her ear as a controller adjusted the volume.
“Control is live.”
“Reading you loud and clear,” she said. With her gun clipped around her neck, she stood. The two men followed suit, taking up space behind her. The rear of the jet opened, lowering a ramp to the ground. She paused for a moment. If she failed her first mission, the small explosive at the base of her skull would sever her spine from her brain. She didn’t need to reach back and feel its presence; she could always sense a finger hovering over a button ready to terminate her.
“Captain Gentile, are you ready?”
The voice was deep, not loud, but resonated in her ear. The General alone revitalized the Paladin program. She researched his involvement, but every file she got her hands on was above her classification or redacted. He had a tie, and given time, she would discover it.
“Yes, sir.”
She breached the exit, padding down the walkway in a well-rehearsed manner. She dropped to her knee and scoured the area. They had arrived at a factory in the Midwest, a producer of farm equipment. Inside, a group of domestic terrorists attempted to infiltrate military files. She understood, if the Paladins were requested, it meant they believed a Child of Nostradamus was involved.
They passed through the tall grass separating the transport from the industrial buildings. As clouds crossed in front of the moon, the world around her vanished into black. The small readout on her eye switched to night vision, giving her some semblance of where she was headed. Coordinates blinked off and on, telling her how far she needed to travel before she reached the mark. Combat had reached a level where human beings were almost removed from the occupation.
“The building is dark. What do we know?”
“Currently we are detecting six hostiles. We suspect only one is a Child. We cannot detect if they are armed, but they are drawing power from the grid.”
Jasmine kneeled down on the edge of the field at a giant chain-link fence. Murdock moved into place, pulled out bolt cutters from his backpack, and snapped through the links. Jasmine paused when the fence pressed against her face as she squeezed through the opening. Adrenaline pulsed through her brain and her skin craved the touch of the metal, trying to lure her into using her abilities.
“Visual.”
She focused on a window on the third story of the massive concrete warehouse. Her naked eye couldn’t see it, but the infrared of her headset kicked on and revealed the heat signature of a man walking back and forth in front of a large window overlooking the field.
The building reminded her of the one her father worked in when she was a kid. During his stint as a mechanic for the Marines, he worked on the large convoys. The warehouse style construction had the same industrial feel, to the point where she could almost smell the oil pans resting under the trucks.
Jasmine stowed away with her dad at work, learning his trade, differing between metric and imperial wrenches and discovering that a foot-pound measured neither distance nor weight. When he received a promotion, she celebrated with him and her mom, but his transfer meant no more motorcade and he found himself tucked away behind a desk more often than not. She missed the dirty, oil covered hands.
“Jasmine,” whispered Vlad, “either get your head in the game or quit. But if you get me killed—”
“Shut the fuck up.” The statement carried no anger, no annoyance. She found the best way to keep Vlad in check was to make each statement a cold calculated order. He may hate everything about her, but the man put rank before his opinion.
Murdock never opened his mouth. She liked Murdock’s ability to be a team player, all the efficiency, none of the lip.
They scurried along the empty parking lot, makin
g their way to a side entrance. No words passed between them as Vlad popped open a keypad and pulled at the wires. Within seconds the electronic lock turned green with a slight sound and they were inside. They waited for instructions from the command center.
Inside the warehouse, the first floor stood as a testament to simpler times. Machines once made machines to tend to the crops, controlled by farmers who spent generations perfecting the art. Through drought and blight, these small towns found themselves the backbone of society. Their mission simple: keep Americans alive. Food had never been more plentiful. However, coders replaced farmers, and programmed machines replaced the farmer. Now the majority of American crops were genetically produced, created for the highest yield.
Jasmine pondered if a farmer had been the one to pull the kill switch in the factory. Did he have options when he committed familial suicide? Or had he been robbed of his dignity and a man in a suit whose hands never touched the soil pulled the switch bring about the end of an era?
“Undetected. Stairwell ten meters to your right will bring you to the next floor. One hostile posted.”
“Copy.”
Their movements were well choreographed. These Marines had been selected for their abilities. Vlad stood two feet to her right side, ready to fire should a target make themselves visible. Murdock tailed behind, sweeping their rear, making sure no hostiles surprised them from behind. If she met these men on the street, she wouldn’t trust them, but while they wore the uniform, she allowed them to protect her life.
Nearing the top, she froze, her men halting faster than her shadow. A man with a handgun stared out a nearby window, carelessly ignoring his points of attack. She wondered who they were dealing with. The way he held the firearm as he shifted his weight back and forth made him a novice, probably not somebody with training.
“Isolated. Engage.”
The little voice in her ear spoke and she listened. They were armed with the latest technology from Genesis Division, and with a slight flip of a switch near her thumb, the silencer engaged. The man’s body made more noise as it hit the ground than the shot that killed him. As the gun rattled on the floor, they waited silently, listening for any incoming attackers.
The five-second count lasted forever, but as she finished, they proceeded up the stairs. She leaned over the hostile, careful not to touch the entry wound. Unlike her heavy munitions, the low impact bullets entered the skull and fractured, decimating the brain instead of leaving the other side and making noise. Two fingers on his neck determined the hostile had been neutralized. She noted the gun at his side, the safety still secured.
“They have no idea what they’re doing,” she breathed.
“Better for us,” Vlad said.
A thud from the end of the room caused her to spin around on her knee and bring up her weapon. Murdock held his rifle to his eye, smoke rolling off the barrel. He raised one finger, then four. One man down, four more remaining. As they passed by the body, she didn’t need to check his pulse, the small bullet hole between his eyes giving away his non-living status.
“Three just beyond the next room,” Murdock said in a hushed tone. She relied on his eyes to see what she couldn’t. She wanted to ask him if it hurt when they were installed. Did he feel less of a human with the machines functioning for him? She had a lot of questions not suitable for discussion in the field. When they returned for their victory meal she’d finally ask him if it had been worth it.
They hustled through what looked to be an old break room and toward the back where she assumed the white collared workers hid from the dirty laborers below. As she reached the door, Murdock signaled two on the right, one on the left. Her hand rested on the handle on the door while her right index finger rested on the trigger, ready to start shooting.
Her finger brushed the steel. Attack or defend. Her skin pulled that small bit of metal through her body. The outer layer tightened and she fought to keep bile from reaching her throat. The rapid banging of a gun unloading a barrage of lead sobered her stomach and kept her attention.
Vlad and Murdock wore synthetic fiber bulletproof vests. Engineered in a lab, the thread had the ability to stop an armor-piercing bullet. Unfortunately, each unit weighed the necessary protection against the need for mobility. Helmets protected their cranium, but their faces, hands, and legs remained exposed. In a spray of bullets from an untrained gunner, they were more likely to catch a loose shot to the face than to a vital organ.
Twenty three rounds hit her body. Each impact brought a hiss from her lips. Despite the lead bouncing off her steely epidermis, the stinging transferred to the muscles underneath. Twenty three bullets were blocked in an attempt to protect her unit; pain didn’t matter.
“Duck,” Murdock shouted.
She toppled over, letting her powers finish their transformation. Pain surged through her body as her muscles adapted to the new weight of her skin, which nearly crippled her. The snap of one shot, then a second above her held her tight in the moment. Vlad held tight against her back, using her legs as cover as he fired around the side.
Two more people fell to the floor, the echoing sound of gunfire radiating out of the room. She pointed her gun to the remaining woman sitting at a laptop. The woman proceeded clacking away at the keyboard, ignoring the trio entering the room.
“Freeze,” Jasmine commanded.
She didn’t acknowledge the order. Jasmine waved Vlad and Murdock to confirm the downed men. Then she eased forward, focusing on the keyboardist’s hands, making sure she didn’t have a weapon within reach. Her eyes never left the screen as she clicked and clacked. Jasmine noted her speed—obviously somebody skilled the machine.
“I’ll shoot.”
“And?”
The one word froze Jasmine. The woman’s neon pink hair made it hard to miss her in a room layered with dust. The tattoos covering her body vanished into her tank top, but the wide markings leading from her chest to her bottom lip seemed like an act of masochism.
“Shoot.” The voice in her ear had no sympathies. The General didn’t care if the woman was a civilian or if she was innocent of terrorism. The portly man never wavered from his decisions. Even if Jasmine pleaded with him, saying she may be of use to them or that she had intel, the reply would be the same.
“It’s done, Dav5d.”
The trigger eased back. Nothing. The woman slammed the laptop shut and lunged for a gun lying on the floor. Jasmine fired hers again but nothing happened.
“I’m blind,” cried Murdock.
“Shit,” she said to herself. “Down,” she yelled to Murdock. Their tech had failed them.
The end of the woman’s shotgun erupted in a burst of flame. The shot landed in her sharpshooter’s chest, sending him backward. Vlad jumped out of the way, landing behind a desk, out of the woman’s line of sight.
“Put down the gun,” Jasmine barked.
“Says the bitch who just killed my friends,” replied the woman.
The bullets hurt. The tight grouping of pellets landed just beneath her right breast. Even with a steel exterior, Jasmine would bruise, and a rib may be broken, but she lived. She barreled forward, ignoring the second punch to the gut from the weapon. The moment she reverted back to her soft flesh, she’d hurl; the pain would creep in as the adrenaline faded.
Jasmine lowered her shoulder and knocked the woman backward. She landed on the hostile, pinning her to the ground. The woman pushed the shotgun against Jasmine’s neck, pushing her back. The pink-haired woman wouldn’t be able to hold out long; Jasmine had to assume she weighed two hundred and fifty pounds by now.
Her assailant tried to move the gun in position to fire and Jasmine didn’t know if her hide could take a point blank range shot from the weapon. Reaching down to her thigh, she sat back for a moment, grabbing at the bayonet secured to her leg. With a flip of her thumb she snagged the shotgun. As the weapon centered on her face, she plunged the knife into the woman’s chest.
If the hacker hadn’t been con
cerned with her own mortality, she had ample life to pull the trigger and remove her killer’s left cheek. Jasmine huffed as she continued putting her weight down on the blade. Her fingers ached as she loosened her grip on the hilt.
Assess. Somewhere, one target remained. They would try to take the laptop, leave the bodies after they did facial scans, and head back to central command. However, somewhere in the building remained an elusive hostile. She wondered if this person had caused the electromagnetic pulse or if it had been a trap they rigged expecting enhanced soldiers.
“Mom.”
Time stopped at the new, small voice. The space between heartbeats lengthened. The terrorist beneath her twitched as her body raced toward death. The hostile, the woman, the dying human pinned under the soldier’s weight, she was a mother. Children of Nostradamus were robbed of their right to procreate, part of a government effort to snuff out a phenomenon they didn’t quite understand. Jasmine tried to ignore her gut, to compartmentalize the anguish of robbing the screaming girl of her mother. Save the child. It was the least she could do for the woman drowning in her own blood.
Pivot on the right knee. Murdock knelt on the ground, trying to get his bearings, his hand searching the floor for his weapon. Vlad. Her feet pushed, trying for maximum traction. The man already had his archaic powder-firing pistol drawn as he searched the room for the girl. Jasmine spotted her, young, perhaps six, hair back in a ponytail, face streak with tears.
“Stop,” Jasmine screamed.
He pointed the gun. He wouldn’t miss. Vlad never missed. She lunged, in midflight when the first round fired. Jasmine grabbed the child, taking her to the ground as a sharp sting vibrated through her shoulder. Three more bangs and each one burned at her backside, threatening to push through her dense hide.
