Analog SFF, April 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “You've already met Jack,” I said, gesturing to where Jack stood by my desk. “And this is David Ressar."

  Wall flinched. His left eyebrow twitched compulsively. He knew that Jack and David being there meant something was up. “Yes. How are you, Mr. Reed? It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ressar."

  “I'm better than I was,” Jack mumbled.

  Wall frowned at this but said nothing. I gestured for him to sit, and sat myself behind my desk. David sat, but Jack did not.

  “Are those the files?” he asked, pointing at the pile of silver disks on my desk.

  “This is a copy of the files,” I said.

  “A copy?” He looked at David, then back at me.

  “A copy. And with a touch of the button,” I said, reaching over a keyboard built into my desktop, my finger hovering over the enter key, “I can email complete copies of the Enduring Security project records to respected journalists at the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Independent in London, and seven other leading newspapers in Europe. I wrote a personal e-mail explaining that in our work on bioinformatics software for military contractors we had accidentally discovered scandalous files. With my reputation on the line, they'll trust the story and run it. And they'll dig deeper."

  Wall said nothing. His left eyebrow twitched. “What is this?” he asked.

  “We want to be left alone. All of us."

  He shook his head. “That is not an option. I know what you are."

  “No, you don't. You think we're military enhanced individuals. We are not. We were modified, yes. But listen: we were modified to care more. That's it. We were modified to be able to care about the deep future as much as you care about the next ten minutes. That's all. Nothing more."

  Wall stood up. He reached into his pocket and drew out a plastic gun, the kind you can get past security. David and I stood, but Wall pointed the gun at David's chest.

  “Is that what Marrion told you?” he spat. “I believe you don't know what you are—that's why I came directly to you. But I know my work.” Then he punctuated every word with an angry jab of the gun toward David: "I ... know ... my ... work."

  “No. He's...” I hesitated.

  Wall looked at me, still holding the gun on David. “You two are something different, maybe. It's better hidden in you. But this one is a final-run killer. The best. He's mine. I—I—made him."

  “No,” David whispered. His face turned red with despair and rage. “No."

  “Yes,” Wall said to him emphatically. Then he looked back at me. “I saw that article in the Journal, and there you were, two orphans of Marrion's, in positions of power. So I did some investigating, and what did I find? Activists, writers, industry leaders, professors, inventors. Anita Trend. Anna Joy. Maya Marr. Phoebe Gillett. You three. Every Marrion orphan in a position of power, of influence. Sleepers. Warrior sleepers."

  “What do you want?” Jack asked.

  “You're coming in. Enduring Security was closed down by small-minded bureaucrats who're long gone. We're going to start again. All of you come in to my agency, and you tell me everything you know. And we get samples—tissue samples. Then maybe we can cut some kind of deal. That depends on what you are doing, what you know. Maybe we'll let you relocate and live separate lives. But that's the deal: you come in for questioning and samples, or I'll kill you myself.” He let that hang. “I won't allow freelance gene-jobs, stolen government weapons, to take positions of power for purposes we cannot know. You're a clear and present danger to our nation. I don't want to, but I'll kill you myself. I've done it before."

  “We are no threat to you,” I said. I started to walk around the desk.

  “Stay right there!” Wall shouted, turning the gun on me.

  It was over in seconds. David moved in a blur and pounced on Wall. Wall knew how to fight, and their arms snaked around each other, furiously twisting, as each sought advantage. Then the gun cracked, twice. And a third time. Jack shouted, an inarticulate cry.

  Wall fell to the floor, smoke rising from his chest. The gun hit the floor with a thud. David kicked it into the corner. We stood a long time, frozen, not breathing, listening to Wall's lungs gurgle and struggle.

  “Call an ambulance!” Jack finally said.

  “No!” David turned to us. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and his face was red with fury. “No. Wait. Let him die. There's a chance no one else will follow him."

  Jack opened his mouth, leaning forward, but then seemed unable to speak.

  David spoke through his teeth. “This is the deal. You send those files. The world learns what's there. But you get to keep your secret. Our secret.” He said it with anger, as if I had won a bitter victory over him. “You keep it. I don't want people, people to...” He didn't finish the sentence, but turned and left the room.

  I pushed the button on my desktop, e-mailing the files to the journalists. Jack grabbed the phone and called an ambulance. Then I crossed the room and crouched down close to Wall. Wall seemed unable to move, but his left eye twitched as he looked up at me. The last of his life was bleeding away.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Wall,” I whispered to him. “You've given me back my dreams, and I'm sorry we have repaid you like this."

  Looking down at him, I realized that he had been right: we were a threat. Why could a vast conspiracy never work? Because never did all the people involved care enough to keep the secrets. Why was it so hard to make the world a better place? Because so few care enough to do what needs to be done, the long, slow, hard work, decade after decade, even century after century. Every evil, every weakness of the human race can be traced back to the inability to just care enough. But we care. And that is an awesome power. Our kind will run the planet in another hundred years. No one will know, but we will run it, and we will run it for the better. Wall's spook factory will be a forgotten illegal bureaucracy, military might will come and go, nations will rise and fall, but our people and our plans will endure and come to fruition.

  I said it aloud, the last words Wall would hear: "Amor vincit omnia."

  Wall stopped breathing. I closed his eyes.

  It was going to be easy to create the headlines: rogue spy attempts to kill executives who accidentally exposed his secret project. A clear case of self-defense. The scrutiny would end in a few months.

  And then we will get to work.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Craig DeLancy

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  * * *

  Short Story: RIGHTEOUS BITE

  by Stephen L. Burns

  Even if a job must be done, it isn't necessarily good for those who must do it....

  Enemy territory.

  Benny and Spike never let themselves forget where they were, never let their guards down for even a single moment. One misstep would be all it took to screw the pooch. They would end up dead or captured. Dead was better than captured. Far better.

  That was the risk you took as a member of a Special Tactical Incursion Corps. Deployment meant a high-wire act deep inside enemy lines.

  The alley where they had concealed themselves looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Because one had. The part of the city they were in had seen every sort of bomb and bombing: aerial bombardment with bunker busters and ten-pound intelligent Shithead Hammers, mortars, RPGs, IEDs, car bombs, even Molotovs. The air was acrid and heavy with the reek of burnt wood and organics, scorched metal and stone, the ground strewn with rubble and debris.

  Their mission had been laid out in a series of geographic points that they were to reach within a certain window of time. Harrier Drones and Suicide Shrikes randomly buzzed zones on the edges of that route to provide a level of diversion. The alley they were in was point number three. Four more would take them to their objective.

  The area was clear enough for a quick break and a whispered consultation.

  “Still on sked,” Benny whispered.

  “Yeah.” That was Spike's way, saying as little as he could. Benny was getting used to it. Spike was a ve
teran of several of these forays, maybe that was why.

  “Getting dark.” Benny looked up at the patch of smudgy sky above. Night was falling. The moon would not rise until near dawn, long after their mission objective was completed. A pall of smoke hung over the city like a shroud. Soon the darkness would be deep and starless. How many hours had he trained in the dark? More than he could count. Would the training be enough? Would he be good enough?

  “We own the dark,” he said to reassure himself, a slogan from that training. “Right, buddy?"

  Spike stared at him a long moment, gave the ghost of a nod. “Sure."

  * * * *

  Less than three blocks from the alley their mission almost came apart when a bearded man with a Kalashnikov suddenly popped up in a bombed-out doorway and lurched in their direction. They froze, settling noiselessly into the shadows, barely breathing.

  The man was obviously drunk. He staggered closer, muttering under his breath as he fumbled with the front of his trousers.

  “He get you?” Spike whispered once the man stumbled away.

  “Yeah.” This time it was Benny's turn for a laconic reply.

  “Good soldiering."

  Praise from a veteran like Spike did much to wash away the indignity he'd just endured. “Sure,” he said. “See the world. Protect freedom. Play urinal."

  That even made Spike cough up a short, soft chuckle.

  * * * *

  The closer they got to their objective, the hairier things got. There were armed men everywhere. On foot, in cars, in pairs, and in groups. That made the mission harder, but was to be expected inside an insurgent stronghold.

  Progress was slowly gained by feet, by inches. It took all of their skill and training to evade detection, and after two harrowing hours Spike, the senior of the two, called for a break by signaling that they should crawl into a bombed-out cellar.

  Once they were deep inside and well concealed they could let their guard down for a minute. Somewhere nearby a radio blared jihad anthems, strident voices haranguing death to just about everyone over the thump of drums. The music sounded good to Benny because it would provide cover and give them a chance to talk.

  “I make us still on track,” he whispered after a slug of water to wash down a chunk of HEFR ration bar. The military-issue energy bar smelled like dog food and tasted like sugared dirt, but going hungry during a covert op like this was dangerous. A growling stomach could be a fatal giveaway, just like a cough or laugh or the clink of dog tags.

  “Yeah.” Spike bit off a chunk of his own HEFR.

  “I figure another hour to our objective."

  “Sounds right."

  “We get it done, then get on back."

  “ACAP,” Spike agreed. As Carefully As Possible.

  Benny was silent a moment, then asked, “What're you going to do when you get back to base?"

  Spike shrugged and took another bite of HEFR.

  “Me, I want a steak. A steak and fries. Cold milk."

  “Hate milk,” Spike muttered.

  “Not me. I want a hot meal and a hot bath to get the stink of this place off me."

  “I hear that."

  “I should shut up. Nerves, I guess. This is my first real mission."

  “I know, kid."

  “I want to do it right. Make my unit proud, make my country proud. Help fight the war on terror."

  Spike climbed to his feet. “We better get on the hump."

  Benny nodded and stood. “I'm ready."

  “I know you are,” Spike said, for some reason sounding sad.

  * * * *

  They safely made it into the deepest part of the insurgent stronghold. Midnight had come and gone. There were fewer patrols on the ruined streets, but the ones that were out seemed more inclined to shoot at the slightest provocation. One patrol had poured a deadly hail of bullets into a nest of rats just a few dozen yards behind them. They stuck to the shadows, stuck to the rubble.

  Benny was glad for all the training he'd endured. At times he'd thought it would break him, other times he'd been convinced it would kill him. But now it was helping keep him alive.

  One part of that training paid off when they had finally drawn within a few blocks of their objective. Spike had point, but was looking in the wrong direction to see what Benny did: a faint gleam of light on a curved surface, a piece of a shape that sent up red flags in his head.

  He grabbed Spike from behind, stopping him. Spike froze in place, then turned back with a question in his eyes.

  Benny indicated the potential danger with a movement of his head.

  Spike looked where Benny directed. What he saw had him backing up until the two of them were side by side.

  Bomb, Spike signaled silently. Benny nodded.

  We go around.

  Benny nodded again.

  They began working their way backward, crawling on their bellies. Once they were clear, and before starting out on a path that would skirt the ordnance, Spike moved up close and whispered into Benny's ear so softly that no one else could hear. “Good spotting, kid. I never saw it."

  “Thanks,” Benny whispered back. “I was lucky."

  Spike stared at him a long moment, then looked away. He sighed, then with a jerk of his head signaled that they should get back in motion.

  Together they moved deeper into the dark and broken buildings.

  * * * *

  Less than a hundred yards to their objective.

  This was, the mission planners had judged, the best time for such a strike. Now a bit past 0300, most of the locals were in their beds. Small bands of armed men still roamed the streets, but they made so much noise they weren't that hard to avoid.

  Benny's excitement cranked higher as the distance to their goal grew shorter. The man they were after was on several international most-wanted lists; Omar Parque, the man known to many as the Packager because he specialized in small, easily concealable, and extremely deadly bombs.

  Parque wasn't even from this part of the world. Although of Algerian descent, he'd been born and raised in Detroit. That made him a traitor. Worse than a traitor, he was what had come to be called a Boomer. Men who bombed not because they believed in some cause, no matter how twisted, but because they had become addicted to bombing, to death, to the fear they spread, hitting their blood like a shot of Hype. Parque, like his fellow Boomers, would go wherever and work for whomever gave him the most chance to kill as many people as possible in the ugliest manner he could devise. For money and pleasure.

  The intel that had put Parque in this city and in the house he and Spike were headed for had been dearly purchased.

  Benny intended to see that the price paid was not wasted.

  * * * *

  They finally reached the house where Parque was supposed to be staying that night.

  The building was in better shape than many of the others nearby. The windows were mostly intact, and though its facade was stitched with bullet holes, it seemed to have somehow escaped any major strikes.

  The upper floor was dark. Only a couple small lights showed downstairs.

  Benny and Spike ghosted along the side of the house, keeping to the shadows. Odds were that there were guards at both the front and back doors; the insurgency would be making sure its deadly asset was kept safe. The back door offered more privacy since it opened onto a walled yard, and that entry point had one other tactical advantage.

  Not far from the house a small generator chugged away, providing power for the house through a heavy extension cord. They had been told to expect this. Another piece of intel proved true.

  They exchanged a glance. Spike motioned that Benny should take the generator.

  They split up, Spike merging with the shadows near the doorway. Benny went to the generator. He studied the machine a moment, considering his options, then pushed the button that tripped the safety breaker.

  The lights in the house snuffed out. Inside, someone cursed. There was a muffled exchange as what to do was decid
ed. Two voices.

  Spike caught the man who came out to see what was wrong with his MITTA, a military issue Taser that poured so much juice into the guard that he died instantly, unable to make any sound other than that of dead meat hitting the ground.

  As Spike ejected the spent wire cartridges and reloaded, Benny gave it a ten count, then restored power to make anyone in the house think everything was okay. That task accomplished, he hustled across the yard to join Spike.

  Together they slipped inside to find and neutralize any other guards.

  * * * *

  Up the stairs they went, silent as death. Ready to deal death.

  Benny was scared. Excited. Eager and full of dread.

  This was one of the baddest of the bad guys, he told himself. His death would mean countless innocent people might escape death and disfigurement. That was a good thing.

  His superiors told him this was right.

  His instincts told him this had to be done.

  This was a righteous bite, taking a chunk out of the enemy's ability to spread fear and death. He'd heard that a hundred times, said it a hundred times. He believed it.

  As he reached the top step, that thought helped push any lingering doubt behind him.

  * * * *

  The bedroom door was booby-trapped, but they had expected that. Spike took care of it quickly.

  Now only one door left standing in the way between Parque and the well-deserved death that had come for him.

  * * * *

  They slipped into the darkened bedroom, Benny first and Spike right behind him. They paused just inside the door. Benny looked to Spike. He nodded, then said the three words Benny had been told to expect, the three words that were his signal to go do the work he had come here for.

  The words came out softly in the quiet room, barely a whisper.

  “Sic him, Benny."

  Benny felt a momentary rush like he'd been kicked in the head because of the sudden burst of emotions and images and buried commands that swept through him in an incendiary wave.

  He bunched his muscles and leapt up onto the bed.

  The bed shuddered under his weight. The hump under the covers turned into a man sitting up, staring in confusion.