The December Protocol

by Devin Hanson

  “How are you doing?” Ruu asked him. “One of the mercenaries ran away. He might be going after Angeline now.”

  “Anton,” Min grunted. He scooped his pistol off the ground and forced himself to stand up straight with a muffled groan. “I’m well enough to take that fuck down.” He reloaded, the routine action calming. Already his hands weren’t shaking as much and he felt steadier on his feet.

  “Good.” Ruu looked at him with concern in her eyes. “I need you, Min.”

  “That’s touching, but bad timing.”

  “No, I’m serious. You’re the only one who could speak on my behalf, so I need you to live through this. No more heroics.”

  Min frowned at her. Heroics? “Look, we can talk about this later. Right now, we have a girl to rescue.”

  He turned, ignoring Ruu’s frustrated glare, and jogged across the warehouse to the far door. The short jog loosened his muscles and shook away the worst of the lingering stun effects. He reached the door at the same time as Ruu.

  “I’ll go first,” she said firmly.

  Min nodded. Just the short run had left him winded. Bravado and stubbornness could get you pretty far, but he didn’t relish getting into a gunfight with Anton. Despite his vocal certainty with Ruu, he could feel the sluggish response in his nerves. It would take hours for the rest of the stun damage to clear from his nerves. Maybe it wouldn’t clear all the way until his next treatment.

  He got into position at the door and Ruu stacked up, ready to roll around the jamb as soon as he opened the door. Her appropriated shotgun was tight against her shoulder.

  Ruu nodded to him and he hauled the door open. She flowed through and Min followed, feeling distinctly less agile.

  The hallway looked like an office corridor: ten feet wide and stretching away around forty yards. Halfway down, another hallway forked off to the right. Doors studded the hallway, presumably leading to offices or more storage space.

  Min took it all in as he stepped through the doorway. There was a man in a lab coat on the ground, propped up on his elbows, his hair and skin proclaiming him a wujin. Down the hallway near the fork, Anton held a squirming girl in one hand, that monster handgun of his pointed at her head. Min took in Angeline’s state and a cold fury gripped him.

  “Stop where you are, Marshal!” Anton cried.

  “Min!” Angeline cried. “Don’t let him take me!”

  Min raised his own gun, knowing the distance was too great for the monomol rounds to do anything but cause skin lacerations and bruising. The wujin on the ground was pushing himself away from Anton toward the door.

  “She’s dead,” he was saying, his voice high with hysteria. “I’ve killed too many and they’re coming back to haunt me! Oh God, protect me!”

  Min took a step forward and Anton pressed the barrel against Angeline’s head. “Ah, ah, Marshal. Not one more step or the girl dies.”

  “What happens after you shoot her?” Ruu asked, matching Min’s step forward. “Then you don’t have a hostage anymore and we gun you down.”

  Anton licked his lips nervously. “Don’t come any closer!” He took the gun away from Angeline’s head and aimed it at Ruu. “I’m warning you!”

  The wujin turned over and crawled toward Min on his hands and knees, moving with panicked haste. Min dropped the barrel of his gun and shot the wujin twice in the back as he passed, not breaking eye contact with Anton.

  Anton flinched. “The fuck did you do that for?” he cried out.

  Min ignored him and kept walking forward, his pistol trained once more on Anton. He had closed the distance to twenty yards. Still too far for a killing shot.

  “You have once chance,” Ruu said, advancing in lockstep with Min. “Surrender now and you can spend the rest of your life in the ice mines.”

  Anton coughed a laugh. “That’s not a chance! That’s a death sentence! I wouldn’t last a day in the mines.”

  “Or you could die here and now.” Fifteen yards. At this range, the monomol round would stay intact enough to punch through skin and shred muscle, but wouldn’t penetrate bone. Anton was holding Angeline in front of him, looking at the approaching marshals over the girl’s shoulder. It would have to be a head shot.

  “Don’t come any closer!” Anton screamed, and pressed his gun to Angeline’s head.

  But Angeline wasn’t there anymore. As Anton had swung the gun around to point at her, Angeline let her knees sag and she dropped halfway to the floor. Anton still had her arm in a white-knuckled grip, but he was exposed.

  Min squeezed the trigger and the monomol around punched Anton high in the cheek, shredding the flesh and skin and cracking the bone. Anton head was snapped backwards and he staggered, but still somehow kept on his feet.

  Angeline twisted her arm free and dived to the side. Ruu’s shotgun boomed and caught Anton full in the chest, knocking him clean off his feet. Min sprang forward into lethal range, but Ruu’s shot had ended it. Anton lay on his back, blood pooling around him.

  Min holstered his pistol and gently helped Angeline to her feet. The girl had tears streaming down her face and she flung herself into Min’s arms, sobbing against his chest.

  “You came back for me,” she choked out through her sobs.

  “Of course I did,” Min said, brushing her hair back from her face.

  Angeline couldn’t believe it. Min was alive! It felt so good to be held by someone who wasn’t trying to kill her. When Anton had grabbed her, she had fought with all her strength, but when he had pressed the gun against her head she knew she had lost again.

  It was bad enough being captured, but then Min had come through the door and Anton was holding her as a hostage. She had never felt worse in her whole life. Min had come back from the dead to save her, and he was going to die, they were all going to die, because of her.

  But all that was over now. Anton was dead! Angeline looked up at the woman at Min’s side, smiling through her tears. The wujin woman knelt down next to them, her arms open to give Angeline a hug.

  From the corner of Angeline’s eye, she caught a hint of movement. She blinked the tears from her eyes and saw, impossibly, Anton roll over and fling a hand out to grab his gun. Panic swept through Angeline. Min and his friend had their backs to Anton, neither of them saw that he was still alive.

  Without thinking, she yanked the pistol from Min’s belt and shoved him aside. Anton fired and the wujin woman spun away in a spray of blood and a cry of surprised pain. The kidnapper was sitting up, his shirt shredded by the shotgun blast, and a slick, wet-looking garment was visible underneath it.

  Angeline pulled the trigger on Min’s handgun. She had never fired a gun before, but Anton wasn’t more than five feet away. She couldn’t miss. The recoil made the gun jump in her hands. Anton jerked as the monomol round slammed into his chest, but he was swinging his gun around still, bringing it to bear on Min who was still recovering from Angeline’s shove.

  She fired again, wrestling against the punch of the gun, but she knew what to expect now and pulled the trigger as fast as she could.

  The hail of monomol rounds slammed into Anton. The ablative armor turned away the rounds, but the impacts knocked him about and threw off his next shot, which blew a crater in the wall eight inches over Min’s head.

  Then one of Angeline’s shot’s found an unarmored spot. The monomol round hit Anton at the base of his throat and deflected off his clavicle. The round fragmented and ripped upward tearing through both carotid arteries and shredded soft tissue until it pulverized against the fifth and sixth vertebrae, shattering the bone.

  Anton slumped backwards, his gun falling from nerveless fingers. Blood sprayed from his neck in surging gouts. Angeline struggled to her feet and stood over Anton. He was all but decapitated by the last round and very dead.

  Angeline felt Min leave her side and rush over to Ruu. The wujin woman was sitting up, cradling an arm and swearing.

  Somehow, hearing Ruu cursing, Angeline knew it was over. She was safe now.
She was going home.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  The December Protocol couldn’t really be called a law. The United Nations has no role in creating legislation, and while the U.N. could condemn the Womack Process and the Helix Rebuild, it could not enforce the Protocol. It didn’t need to. Human civilization was on the brink of destruction. Fear and hate boiled among the populace, more so than at any other time in history. The December Protocol, while not a law, finally gave a definite target for all that rage.

  The destruction of the Womack clinics and the wild, free-for-all slaughter of those who had received the treatment was not a legal action, nor even condoned by the U.N. and their Protocol. It was an action by the people, for the people, and it swept the world entire. Even nations that were not part of the U.N. found the Protocol taken as incontrovertible gospel.

  The U.N. penned the December Protocol, but the people enforced it.

  Marcus Truman leaned back in the leather armchair and sighed with pleasure. A tall glass sweating moisture sat on the side table next to him: double-distilled vodka from his still. The distant bass beat of music was barely audible in the isolated room.

  Grendal Crade raised her glass in a silent toast to him and he smiled and raised his own glass in response. He sipped, and the cold liquid touched off a trail of warmth down his throat. It was good. Life was good.

  In the year and a half since his disastrous ordeal with the kidnapping ring, things had settled down more or less exactly as he wanted. That final night in Acheron had been awful and still gave him nightmares, though.

  He had been locked in the room with the pile of dead bodies for nearly twelve hours before a marshal investigative unit arrived. That had been bad enough, but then the marshals started asking him all sorts of probing questions. He had told the truth, more or less, leaving out only the parts where he colluded with the kidnappers.

  To his surprise, the marshals had let him go. He suspected they didn’t buy his story about being an unwitting accomplice, but he didn’t argue when the lead investigator waved him out the door.

  Marcus had cautiously reached out to Crade through Dr. Bannister, and had received a terse acknowledgement. Months went by. His first batch of potatoes grew to maturity and were duly processed into alcohol. Crade had requested a tasting, and he had returned to the Redstone Lounge for the first time since arriving back from Acheron.

  Crade had greeted him neutrally, tasted his product and bought out his entire production run, with a standing order to purchase all the alcohol he produced in the future. The whole time in the Lounge, Marcus expected Crade to bring up the Acheron Affair, as he had taken to calling it, but she had made no mention of it.

  Business with Dr. Bannister continued on good terms. The profit margin from the vodka enabled him to increase the amount of land set aside for growing potatoes and he began discussing possible grain crops for the coming years.

  His Womack treatments continued on regular intervals. He had enough money set aside for a year’s worth of treatments, and every time he made money, he put another portion into his rainy day fund. His skin bleached out and his hair turned white. By the end of the year, he was fully wujin.

  Vastitas Orchard was progressing nicely. Marcus bought a share of the bi-yearly water harvest and added another ten thousand gallons to the Water Management Bureau’s cisterns. Dr. Bannister planted another half-dozen trees and doubled his potato plot size.

  If things kept going the way they were, Marcus knew he would become exceedingly wealthy. Another ten years, and his personal worth would likely exceed even his erstwhile fortune on Earth.

  He smiled contentedly and sipped at his vodka, lost in daydreams of the future.

  “Shall we get to business, then?” Crade asked him.

  “Certainly.” Marcus set his glass down and sat forward. “What are we discussing, anyway? My next batch of vodka won’t be ready for another week.”

  Crade smiled at him. “Why, your promise to Esteres, of course.”

  Marcus felt the floor drop out from under him. His mouth went sour and a sudden rush of blood to his head left him dizzy. With an effort, he forced his face to remain calm. “Indeed?” He meant to sound disinterested, but it came out choked and his voice cracked halfway through.

  “Oh yes. It’s been nearly eighteen months. The marshals have dropped the case and moved on to better things. Esteres has decided to create a new processing facility. You’ve demonstrated a keen eye for business and remarkable tenacity. In fact, Esteres has put your name forward in a shortlist of possible directors.”

  Marcus swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He took a sip of vodka and coughed. “Forgive me. I thought the… processing had been abandoned.”

  Crade laughed and shook her head. “Oh, Marcus. No. No, no, no! The last facility was poorly operated and directed, but it still turned quite the handsome profit. And the demand is up! Treatment costs are reaching a high of fifteen hundred credits in some clusters. You understand business. Supply and demand, Marcus.”

  “I don’t mean to offend,” Marcus said hesitantly, “but I don’t think I have the necessary… qualifications to run a, uh, processing facility.”

  “Nonsense! Esteres is quite right. You have all the necessary skills to make it work.”

  “Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. I–”

  The levity dropped away from Crade’s face and she frowned at him. “Unless you mean to say you’ve been abusing our relationship? That would hurt, Marcus. We might have to stop being friends.”

  Sweat beaded on Marcus’ forehead and he wiped it away. “I… no. No, that’s not what I want.”

  “Excellent!” Crade’s smile bloomed again, as if it had never been gone. “I’m glad. Esteres bet that you would back out anyway, but that’s one wager I’ll be more than happy to collect. Now that we’re all friends, we should have a meeting with your benefactor. You’ve met Esteres?”

  Marcus could hardly think. He felt like a great weight was crushing down on him. Just when everything was going so well! Why did Crade insist on involving him in her schemes? “Yes,” he said woodenly. “I met him over video call when I was in Acheron.”

  “Perfect.” Crade tapped on her tablet and a projection screen came down out of the ceiling, then lit up with a call overlay. After a moment, the overlay lifted and Esteres looked down on them.

  “Grendal Crade. You look more beautiful than ever. And the man of the hour! Marcus Truman.”

  “It’s a pleasure, sir,” Marcus bowed his head.

  “I must say, I’ve never been so happy to lose a bet.” Esteres looked positively cheerful, a long cry from the scowling anger of Marcus’ first call with the man.

  “I’m honored that you would choose me,” Marcus said, “but I admit, I haven’t the first idea how to start.”

  “Details, Marcus, merely details. In a few days I’ll…” Esteres turned his head and looked at something off camera. The cheer dropped off his face, making him look wary.

  Marcus glanced at Crade, but she was frowning at the screen, no more aware of what was going on than he was. There was a crack, muffled by the microphone pickups, and a sudden billow of dust swept into the room. Esteres leapt to his feet and went for a holdout gun under the desk. He had it almost free when a harsh chatter of gunfire sounded and a line of bullet holes stitched up Esteres’ chest. The camera was splashed with blood and was knocked over when Esteres collapsed across the desk.

  The camera spun around, coming to rest pointing upside down across a room crowded with booted feet, and Crade slapped her tablet, ending the call. For a moment, Marcus stared at Crade in the gloom, shocked by what he had just witnessed. Grendal was clutching the armrests of her chair, her knuckles white.

  The door to the room slammed open and something unlocked in Crade. She stood and spun, all haughty outrage. Marcus turned and saw a pair of masked men walk into the room. The Redstone Lounge was filled with smoke. Marcus saw broken glass and shattered wood paneling be
fore the door swung shut behind the two intruders.

  “Who are you, and how dare you invade my private rooms?” Crade demanded.

  The larger of the two figures pulled the mask away from his face and Marcus recognized the marshal, Min Yang. “How’s it going, Crade?” Min asked, a toothy smile on his face.

  “Marshal Yang?” Crade said in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, that’s an excellent question, isn’t it, Ruu?”

  The other figure pulled down her mask, revealing a beautiful Chinese wujin woman that Marcus didn’t recognize. “It is, it is indeed.”

  “It took me a while,” Min said thoughtfully. He started walking around the circumference of the room, the assault rifle in his hands cradled comfortably. Smoke trailed lazily from its barrel, a sign of recent use. “I had to ask myself the right question. That’s always the hardest part, you know. Once you have the right question, then finding answers becomes easy.”

  “And what was your question?” Crade asked. She stood stiffly, hands loose at her sides. Her face was drained of blood and she was slightly hunched, as if waiting for a blow to fall. She didn’t bother tracking Min as he circled around the room.

  “I’m glad you asked. See, what I couldn’t figure out was how Anton, a remarkably unimaginative individual, managed to get two unconscious girls out of the Redstone Lounge without some concerned citizen seeing him.”

  “There was only one possible solution,” Ruu added.

  “The Redstone Lounge had to be complicit!” Min spread his arms and chuckled. “I have to admit, giving me the recording of Anton drugging the girls was masterful. Put me completely off your scent. Still, I kept worrying at it. See, I knew that shutting down one of your kidnapping operations wasn’t a permanent solution. I wanted the ringleaders, the brains behind the operation. I wanted the financers, the ones who grew wealthy off the death of innocent girls.”