Discarded

by Mark A. Ciccone

  He finally halted before an opaque glass door, at one corner of the room. Stepping up to the terminal beside it, he lowered his glasses. When the retinal scanner blinked green, he punched in a five-digit code, leaned closer to murmur his name once again, and put his thumb to another scanner surface below the pad. The tiny needle below it poked his flesh, and he withdrew his hand, wiping it on his pant leg. Mildly painful, but the extra biometric security layer more than made up for the constant sampling needed whenever he was away from this floor.

  The office inside was as understated as the upstairs lobby. Grey-white walls, a glass-top desk, holo-terminal, two plain black office chairs, a wall safe and a pair of filing cabinets. Stepping behind the desk, Hargrove waved his hand over the terminal sensor. The screen and keyboard flickered on at once. He sat down and tapped at the keys. His eyes flicked over the several different windows that appeared. No reports in yet from any of his assets, here or inside the city. No noteworthy calls intercepted, and no sightings worth following up. Current assessment was the targets were sitting tight, waiting for contact, or a window to leave.

  Not much else they can do, he mused with a scowl. It’s the U.S.capital, for Christ’ssake; there’reprobably more cameras, mikes and satellite coverage than any other city on the planet. And if a contact was waiting for the canister, or for them, he doubted it was in the city, or anywhere near it. So they needed out after a maximum of twenty-four hours. Half of which they’ve probably already used to throw off any tails, and prep for departure, if they haven’t already done so.

  Either way, all he could do was wait – and prep for the Agency grilling him soon. He tapped at his keyboard again, calling up a new set of files. No better time to confirm his suspicions and knowledge, and gauge how much the Agency really knew.

  The first file was the oldest: details on the successful test of what was later termed ARC – Accelerated Regeneration Compound – that had taken place in 2023. Bottom line on that: for the first time, there existed a means of providing regeneration of lost or damaged human tissue. If a kid broke his arm falling off a bike, the compound would fix him in an hour, maybe two, without any need for a cast. If a firefighter came out of a job with third-degree burns, the compound would eliminate the damage within forty-eight hours – if applied fast enough. A year after this test, the incoming administration had sent an envoy to the two doctors overseeing the tests, and offered substantial federal backing and funding… if they agreed to continue their work under the supervision and advice of the military. Outwardly it was all about finding new treatment options for the Veterans’ Administration – but the President and the Pentagon wanted something more. Something that would give the country an edge in the crises starting up around the world, back then. Enhancements for soldiers in the field – or a completely different kind of soldier, made from practically nothing, like the Golem of myth. Hargrove allowed himself a sardonic smirk. ‘Seems nobody does learn from history,’ he muttered.

  At the time, the compound’s effects had still been only partly known, and the powers had accepted that there wouldn’t be any real progress on the ‘enhancement’ issue for years, if not decades. Also, the lead doctor on the project – Richard Garrett – had turned out to be reluctant to enter into a partnership with the Army. He’d just wanted to continue studies, learn more about its impact on the human body as a whole, before he moved on to higher-level testing. Inside of two years, though, he’d come around, in a way. By ’28 the compound was ready for use among military-age humans – and even from the start of life itself.

  ‘And thus was born Project Golem,’ Hargrove murmured. The most ambitious military and covert operation ever undertaken, by the US or any other nation. The most successful, too, by all accounts – up to a point. In the spring of ’32, Dr Garrett succeeded in implanting the ARC into a human subject. The files didn’t have much more until ’35, but they did indicate that the subject – a boy, mid to late teens – had been altered in such a way that he matured extremely rapidly in just over three years, per the Project’s estimate – and still retained the ARC. When the Colombian Intervention failed, just at the end of that period, a White House memo had come out indicating that Garrett had unveiled the subject – and at least four others of similar creation – in a private audience with the President and the Joint Chiefs. Apparently, Garrett had still had doubts about using them as soldiers, but the Pentagon and the White House were gung-ho for it. All part of the ‘Measured Response’ strategy, as they saw it – trying to appease a public sick of putting boots on the ground all over the Third World.

  The records covering the next several years were still spotty – not surprising, with the Pulse and everything else. The first confirmed Golem exploits were in Pyongyang, in ’36, not long before the DPRK went under. Then it was all over the map, literally, for the next few years: Pakistan, Ukraine, central China, right up to the real start of the Turmoil, in ’39. After that, almost total silence. Every one of them had gone dark, most right before the Pulse. A fair number – maybe as many as half – have been confirmed dead in various parts of the world, and here, but there’re still plenty unaccounted for. They were officially listed as MIA in Agency reports, but…

  ‘But we all know what those’re worth, nowadays,’ Hargrove said, smirking again. So, for all anyone knew, there could be dozens, maybe hundreds of these creations still running around loose. Two of which practically walked into the vault last night, andwalked out withthe most crucial records on the people and methods that created them.

  He leaned closer to the screen, studying the files more intently, and calling up what his team had already gleaned from the site. Even with all their talents, the intruders would’ve needed significant help in locating this place, as well as maintaining their equipment. The evidence indicated a localised EMP burst to fry the primary grid; that was a standard tactic on many Golem insertions. And judging from their reaction to the guard, it seemed they’d changed tactics – they were no longer simply disposing of obstacles. All this pointed to new developments among whatever survivors there may have been from the Project. Some form of re-grouping, perhaps around a new leader or governing body, with a new agenda – which involved what was taken from this site.

  Hargrove tapped at the holographic keys again. A single human figure appeared, with text and graphs scrolling on readouts to either side. He studied the image, nodding unconsciously as he read. All the Golem subjects had grouped together in five-person teams, with individuals bringing specific traits to the table. Some were altered and trained with speed, dexterity, and tracking prized above the rest – those were mostly women, by all accounts. Others were made with an emphasis on brute strength, and tolerance for pain – primarily men. But all of them shared a few common traits: high intelligence, excellent general athleticism, outstanding marksmanship, six-foot-plus height – and the ARC. Ideal soldiers, from the Pentagon’s standpoint. Based on Brant’s report, they’d carried their typical mission gear. The EMP burst was most likely caused by one of the experimental grenade launchers they were sometimes issued with, during more perilous actions.

  He pressed a single key. The revolving central image shifted, displaying the human figure decked out in a black all-over suit, its pattern shimmering and changing under the light. A hood of similar material seemed to grow out of the back of the garment, and extended to cover the figure’s entire head, turning it into a seamless black statue. This was the crown jewel in their skill trinity, above any gear and even the ARC: the Advanced Combat and Infiltration Garment. The Golems typically referred to it as a ‘clinger,’ based on the one or two battlefield reports he’d dug up. Designed first by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) in 2030, before it was snapped up by the Project. The exact design was still classified, but Hargrove had a vague idea of the core component.

  He pressed another key. The image zoomed in on the figure’s torso. A new window opened, showing a black multi-limbed circular object. Tiny traces of circuit
pathways shimmered at its centre. ‘Nanotechnology,’ he murmured. A tiny flare of anger rose for an instant, before he managed to tamp it down. With this, the ‘clingers’ were basically an all-in-one set-up. His people had never determined the exact makeup – the Project folk had made sure it was sealed tight. Short version, the nanotech was encased in supposedly bulletproof and blade-proof fibres, and programmed to repair damage, redirect to strengthen the armour where hits were most likely – the chest, upper arms and legs, and so forth – and coalesce at hands and feet for added force and impact in empty-hand combat. He zoomed out, showing the entire suit. Several ‘patches’ on the chest and waist, designed to wrap over weapons and tools as needed. What were supposedly called ‘field terminals’ in the left sleeve: holo-display computers, used to keep in touch with others in the field, translate any written or spoken language, and, with a few accessories, capable of hacking any computer system in existence.

  With an air of mild disgust, he punched another control. The image disappeared, reverting to the initial background. ‘The perfect tool, for the perfect weapons,’ he growled. If it was just the two Golems from last night – which he doubted – then he’d have a much easier time tracking them down, since they wouldn’t have any of the old support systems in place. But if the other three members of their original team were backing them up, then they were probably halfway across the country by now. And if there were even more of their breed, hiding out somewhere, passing on instructions and equipment…

  Text began to flash along the bottom of his left lens. He stopped, pulsing his throat several times. Hold.Send to personal terminal. A vidchat window popped open at once, filling the whole holo-screen, showing a brown-haired, serious young man in a plain tailored black suit and blue tie. His light brown eyes were calm, with outward friendliness – a look that couldn’t hide his poised, probing body language. He seemed boyish, but Hargrove could see the lines around his eyes, and the tiny trace of silver at his temples. Wherever he’d been, it had aged him fast. ‘Morning, Mr Hargrove,’ the man said. There was little trace of pleasure in his tone.

  ‘Good morning, Agent…’ Hargrove trailed off.

  ‘Ben Costa, Special Activities Centre.’ The man’s fingers tapped away below the screen, likely verifying the connection’s security for the millionth time. ‘I’ve been assigned as the primary agent for the investigation of the… incident at the records repository, and as your liaison. Given the circumstances, and your familiarity with the technology and other factors involved, you’ll be allowed to take point on any new developments in the matter, though no unilateral action will be taken without clearance from the Director.’

  ‘I see,’ Hargrove said, letting some tightness into his voice. ‘How nice to still merit such care and attention.’ Costa didn’t answer. Hargrove went on, ‘I’m assuming the Agency still considers my arrangements with them valid, then?’

  ‘When word came about the break-in, and what was taken, some of my bosses wanted the place scrubbed altogether, along with everything else related to the contents of the stolen item.’ Costa’s expression made it clear what everything else entailed. ‘Cooler heads prevailed, however, and it was ultimately agreed to maintain the Agency’s relations with your endeavours, with the goal of recovering the item before it’s delivered into the wrong hands.’

  Hargrove smiled, without humour or pleasure. ‘By any means necessary?’

  Costa nodded, with a grudging air. ‘Within reason. If we’re dealing with the sort of people the Agency suspects, some collateral damage is expected, but we don’t want bodies or buildings dropping all over the place. I’m not cleared for the specifics – yet – but obviously the Project, wherever its HQ once was, has to stay buried. The new administration may have signed off on your helping to do so, but they’re edgy enough about cleaning up the shit brought on by the last administration. One slip-up, and we’re all out – feet-first, probably, in certain cases.’

  ‘So I’ve known for some time,’ One of Hargrove’s hands opened and closed a few times, the only sign of his anger. Turmoil or not, he’d damn well had the perfect solution to the ailing Project, perfected after two decades of work, sweat and not a little blood. When the Seattle Bomb had gone off, he’d been at the peak of his power and influence. Even with the Pulse that same day, he’d managed to stay in business. Then within a matter of days, his finances, facilities and people had gone on the chopping block of the new ‘reconciliation government’, destroying any hope of expanding his work. The next batch had been decommissioned before any had been close to ready, and he was barred from government work, with the Army, the Agency or anyone else – blacklisted, in other words. Now he was being lectured by the errand boy sent to watch over him, to make sure he didn’t spit on the sidewalk.

  A soft alarm began to beep from the computer. He punched up a new window, studying the few lines of text that appeared. He tried not to smile. Saved by the bell. Meanwhile, his throat pulsed some more. Route to main surveillance team, then board and pursue to destination. Additional assets en route. He scrolled through the last line, then stood up. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, but there’s been a development. I’ll be in touch shortly.’

  He cut the connection before Costa could reply and strode out of the office. The two brown-coated guards fell in beside him. He descended the stairs, two at a time, and came to a stop before a terminal at the far end, where a woman in plain office dress was tapping at the holo-keys with one hand and swiping through multiple windows on the screen with the other. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  Not looking up, the tech answered, ‘Possible confirmed sighting of last night’s targets, based on descriptions from the security guard and information from existing files. Sighting was at Union Station, two minutes ago, boarding Capital Limited for Chicago. Report came from Asset—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Hargrove interrupted. ‘Any sign of others with them, or any incoming or outgoing calls?’

  ‘No, sir. Sole activity was the ticket purchase. Booth cameras recorded the targets’ images and hints of their equipment. These were again noted by platform devices just prior to departure.’ She typed and swiped some more. ‘Should I alert military authorities along the route, or signal for interdiction?’

  ‘No,’ Hargrove replied at once. ‘Our man in place has his orders, and will execute them at the earliest – and most discreet – opportunity.’ He squinted at the screen – best to keep up appearances. ‘Signal all other stations of this sighting and instruct them to remain on standby in the event the targets deviate from the assigned route. I’ll inform Upstairs and prep the extraction team. Take-off from Andrews the moment our operative reports having secured the targets.’

  Ignoring the tech’s murmur of assent, he spun on his heel, and marched toward the elevator. As he got in, he tapped at his smartwatch, calling up the vidchat with Costa. ‘We’ve got something,’ he said without preamble, and relayed the gist of what he’d heard.

  ‘Good,’ the agent replied when he was done, still monotone. ‘We’ll stop the train once it’s out of the District. Won’t be hard to make up an excuse – bad tracks, faulty engine, something. Then we cordon off a wide radius, and—’

  ‘Not an option,’ Hargrove replied. ‘It’d take too long to convince Amtrak, and to communicate with the train, much less avoid scrutiny for stopping a line full of civilians. If we did, our targets would be tipped off, and vanish into the sticks, for good. But once they reach the end of the line, they’ll be a lot more complacent, and we’ll be in the best position to cut them off from whatever their destination may be.’

  ‘We’ll still have to notify the Army, though,’ Costa said. Hargrove looked at him sharply. The agent elaborated. ‘The route they’re taking passes through any number of martial law zones. Chicago’s the worst headache: plenty of troops and checkpoints, but there’s any number of back ways out. The garrison’s prepped for threats, but those of the conventional bomb or other terror activity, ones that affect specific s
ites. For something like a manhunt, they need warning, advisement on checkpoint placement—’

  ‘No,’ Hargrove interrupted. ‘This isn’t a typical manhunt. These are augmented targets, with intimate knowledge of all the Army’s tactics, and the Agency’s. What’s more, we need the item they stole, intact. The Army gets involved, they’d have to level half a city block at least to bring the targets down for certain – something I’m sure your bosses would frown on.’

  Costa glowered but said nothing. Hargrove continued, softening his tone microscopically. ‘Still, we’ll need to give a heads-up to the Chicago commandant, and those in the other urban zones, with the proviso that they keep it under wraps until and unless the targets show in their areas. Once they do, we can move within minutes – and our assets’ll have plenty of advantages, when they go head-to-head.’ He smirked, reassuringly. ‘We’ll bring these two down – and we’ll do it quietly.’

  Costa’s nod was wary. ‘There’s only one thing that’s bugging me – us, I should say.’ Hargrove arched an eyebrow. The agent continued. ‘We know all this: the Project’s origins, the specifics on the Golems themselves, their operations – enough for two or three life sentences, or worse. If the break-in was to leak all this, it’d cause problems, but the Agency can handle the fallout, no matter what the White House says. There’s no evidence pointing to the Russians, any European agencies, any of the bigger terror groups, or what’s left of the Chinese. And if Golems were behind it, they’d know the whole story anyway. So: Why?’