Crime Rave

by Sezin Koehler

  Now you have your own dedicated team who travel with you on your custom-made jet, an aerial mobile home with rooms to comfortably sleep three people. You’ve carefully curated contacts around the world of gifted law enforcement—and sometimes even talented criminals in atonement mode—should you ever need their services. You rarely do, but it’s best to stay connected.

  You’re a self-contained arm of the CIA, and one of its best-kept secrets: a one-woman crime-fighting team with government backing. You’re living a superhero’s dream, and most of the time it makes you happy.

  At least that’s what you tell yourself.

  Your work is too important, too vital to global security to think about having a normal life. A husband, two point five children, a house in the suburbs, your own family. These are the luxuries you allow yourself to dream about only one day a year, on your birthday. Your only gift to yourself. A brief dream of an alternate universe in which you’re a wife and mother, ensconced in a measure of domestic bliss. No more terrorists or serial killers or assassins. Just school plays, soccer practice, and a white picket fence. A beautiful dream that will never come true.

  10:15 AM Spruce-Musa Hospital

  Detective Red Feather feels his anxiety levels spike. Only two interviews down and more questions arise than answers. Günn acts strange, running to the bathroom every moment she can. Won’t meet his eyes. He adds this to the to-discuss list for later.

  “Last alien girl. You ready?” Günn nods and Red Feather knocks on the door.

  She calls them in.

  If the detectives didn’t know better, she looks human except for the viridescent tint to her skin, like chlorophyll, and the petal-like consistency and layering of her hair. The room smells of oleander, making Red Feather feel lethargic and Günn want to throw up.

  “I’m Secrete. You might want to open the door and windows,” she says. “I have a distressing effect that I remember being able to control, but I haven’t got my sea legs just yet.”

  Günn sets up the camera. Turns it on, but feels dizzy, ill. “I’m sorry, partner, you’re on your own. I’m gonna be—” Günn stumbles from the room. Doesn’t make it to the toilet and pukes in a bin by the nurse’s station. Gross. There is no way she’s going to deal with nine months of this. Especially not when she’s up for promotion.

  Red Feather stands by the open window and begins.

  “We’ve talked to your friends a bit about where you came from. The Roswell Institute. What can you tell me about it?”

  Her story matches that of Chamelia and NRG. The Institute is run by a madman. They perform human and other experiments, cloning, DNA mixing. Torture. Super secret.

  Red Feather can’t believe he’s feeling bored and stifles a yawn.

  “Sorry I’m not as exciting as my sisters,” Secrete shrugs.

  “No, no. I’m sorry, but I think it’s your perfume. And the fact that I’ve been up going on eighteen hours.” Red Feather blinks hard. “You mind if I smoke? That’ll help clear my head.”

  Secrete is shocked, an expression that makes her look like a child. “But this is a hospital!” She whispers.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” Red Feather stifles another yawn.

  She also points to the video camera. Red Feather waves her concern away.

  “Okay, then. It’s a free world. In theory.” She settles back in bed, the striped yellow of her hospital gown bringing out the green luminescence of her skin.

  Red Feather takes out his American Spirits and lights up, takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. He feels better.

  “So, Secrete, how did they make you?” Red Feather is getting the hang of this.

  “I started out as human, but now I’ve become a plant-human hybrid. Synthesized from poisonous flowers and human/alien DNA. Just another manufactured super-soldier.” She says it like a robot. Red Feather laughs. She’s charming if you can get past the floral, nap-inducing aroma.

  “Do you also share DNA with Chamelia? NRG mentioned she was manipulated from her genetic code.”

  “Yes, I am. It’s the only thing I’m proud of with what I’ve become.”

  Red Feather hears the same tone he heard with Chamelia for when that particular line of questioning is now closed. He accommodates. “And what do you remember about the rave last night?” Red Feather asks.

  Her story matches her comrades exactly: an attempted gang rape at the hands of security guards, spiked water at the rave, a kidnapped one-eyed girl Lily, the old man who wanted to drink Lily’s blood, pink vulval ooze that kills old man, DJ making brains explode with his music, girls with fireballs shooting down speakers, a rumble, then a big bada boom.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you three’s stories are rehearsed,” Red Feather stirs the pot for the sake of it, representing for Günn.

  “Well, we never left each other’s sight, so of course our stories match. Your partner can smell lies, right? Has she smelled anything?”

  Red Feather feels like Secrete slapped him across the face. How did she know?

  “That’s what I thought,” she says. Vindication. “And anyway, I haven’t even seen my friends since we’ve…um…whatever it was. Hey when can I see them? Chamelia could use my help.”

  “Once I’m done with all the interviews, I’ll arrange it.” Red Feather shows Secrete Polaroids of all the survivors: She recognizes Chamelia, NRG, and Lily, but nobody else. “They were in costume,” she says shrugging. “I was all messed up from the water, people’s faces were going all melty except for my friends. I really hope I never feel like that ever again.” She pauses. “You know The Institute will be coming for us, right? Me especially.”

  “Why’s that?” Red Feather asks, thinking about the ‘ultimate being’ who might be the centerpiece of a covert government agency, sitting by a window just two rooms over.

  “I’m Colonel Ransom’s daughter.”

  Red Feather picks his jaw up from the ground. “Your father did this to you?”

  Secrete nods. “He started when I was little. Injections and treatments. He said they were vitamins. My mother suspected something, but only after I turned green. She’s kind of a junkie. I mean, I would be too if my husband was an abusive bastard. He’s got the house filled with pills, plied her with them all the time. Eventually she just started taking them herself. But after one horrible night, she came into my room all bloody, and she tried to take me away from him that same evening. But, his buddies in family court declared her mentally incompetent and a drug addict, locked her away in a maximum-security psyche ward somewhere around Barstow. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.” Secrete looks at the detective, plaintive. “Can you find out for me please?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. What’s her name?” Red Feather prepares to take a note.

  “Elizabeth Ransom. Thank you.”

  “I’m very sorry for all you’ve been through.” Red Feather lights another cigarette, studies the creature chewing her nails in bed. He wonders if she can poison herself.

  She smiles. “Thank you. Really.” Pause. “So, how did I get here anyway? After the explosion, I mean.”

  Red Feather clears his throat. “We found your hand in the rubble. You, ah, grew back.”

  Her eyes widen. “For real?”

  “As real as real can be.”

  “Far out.”

  “Tell me about it.” Red Feather wonders how anyone will be able to read these reports with a straight face.

  “That’s why you’ve got the video recorder, right? Visual evidence?” She winks at Detective Red Feather.

  Secrete’s ability finally sinks in. “Wait, what? You can…” Red Feather has no clue how to finish. Not true. He does have a clue, he just can’t bear to say it aloud.

  “Read minds? I guess so.” Secrete smiles.
“You wanna see something else?”

  Red Feather nods.

  “Just give me a sec. And turn off that recorder.” Secrete bounces out of bed toward the bathroom. The shower starts running. “Okay, come in.”

  Red Feather hesitates. He’s been in this situation before. A witness thinks him doing his job is an invitation to a whole other kind of work.

  “This isn’t a pervy trick. Just come on!”

  Freaky. Red Feather walks over and peers through the crack in the door. Secrete yanks it all the way open.

  “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” The lower half of Secrete’s body has transformed into a tail, which splashes around like a dolphin in water.

  “But how…”

  “One of my moms is a shapeshifter, remember?” Secrete strokes her tail. “You wanna feel? But go this way, the other way is kind of icky and rough, like I haven’t shaved my legs.”

  He knows he shouldn’t, but does. It’s an honest to God tail. This woman is a mermaid.

  “Can you change into anything else?”

  “Nope, but here’s what I figure: My human mom loves mermaids, even named me Madison, you know, from Splash? I’ve wanted to be a mermaid since I can remember, and maybe this is my ultimate form, like Chamelia’s is that kickass lizard thing? Nobody knows except me. And now you, so keep your trap shut. It’ll be bad enough going back to The Institute. The last thing I need is for them to know about this or for your people to take me. I know what they’ll try do. I’ve seen that movie.” Secrete kicks her tail around, admiring the light glinting in iridescent viridian patches. “Okay, sideshow’s over. I’ve gotta dry off before someone else sees.”

  Red Feather stands there staring, mouth agape.

  “Hey, shouldn’t you check on your partner?” Secrete wakes him from his reverie.

  Red Feather shakes his head. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your help, Secrete. And for trusting me with your, um, ultimate form.” Red Feather clears his throat. “Call me if you think of anything else that could be of help to our investigation. OK?” Card offered over.

  “Sure thing. Can you close the window before you go? This city smells like wicked smog.”

  Far above Los Angeles, Kaleanathi, the Smog Goddess, shivers in anger. You’ll be mine soon enough, dearie, and your little tail, too.

  The detective throws his cigarette butts out the window and closes it up, listening to Secrete still splashing her tail around in the bathroom and giggling like a little girl. Red Feather gets on the horn and calls CSI Chang back on site to take new samples of the alien girls. She’s going to have to break down the evidence old school—with her own two eyes and a microscope.

  Secrete

  You can hear Chamelia stressing out. Bad. The nurses won’t let you go see her, even though you’re the only one in here with the power to soothe her nerves. You put your mind to her, hoping that your cellular connection will allow the calm to pass through. It doesn’t. She’s agitated up, and good. It scares you when she gets this angry and desperate. She does awful things, like kill from frustration. She hates herself after, but in those red states she hasn’t the control.

  You wish you could stay in your mermaid form, your true form. You wonder whether you can breathe underwater and you can’t wait until you can try it out. You worry that you’ll end up back at The Institute. They’ll find out for sure. They’ll probably try to make you breed, even though they know it doesn’t work. They like to watch women scream and beg for their lives. Your father is the worst of them. The things he’s seen them do to you and his voice over the intercom to do more, harder, faster, more blood.

  And your mother, how long she put up with him to protect you. You hope the detective will find her. Patience, pet, patience. He’s got a lot on his plate right now; it’s going to take time.

  You decide that if it’s a choice between returning to The Institute or death, you’ll take your own life, mermaid dreams aside. Hell, you’ll take your sisters with you.

  10:30 AM The Roswell Institute

  Colonel Ransom, escalating into a greater and greater rage, begins putting his extraction team together. This shit has become personal. By now those cunts have talked to the cops, told them everything. Gonna be a clusterfuck to get into that building and retrieve them.

  Julie Keaton calls and tells him LAPD and feds have got SWAT detail on the roof and possibly in the basement.

  Those blabbermouth bitches! Ransom has another urge to get into the elevator, ride it down to Julie’s office, and put a bullet right between her eyes just because. Women. Only good for one thing, and most of them aren’t even any good at that. Always crying afterward. Boo hoo, you hurt me! Shut the motherfuck up and grow a pair. Colonel Ransom fumes, throws himself on the floor for another volley of pushups until he is as calm as he gets.

  Leave that for another day. The fuzz are prepared for a two-pronged attack, well I’ll give them the fuckingest attack they’ll ever see. Colonel Ransom pulls files on his favorite human-animal hybrids, reminders all of Chamelia, the crux of his supersoldier programs and the bane of his existence. A stack of potentials grows on his desk.

  Gustave II, engineered from and named after the world’s largest recorded crocodile living in the Congo’s Ruzizi River. Ransom remembers the operation. Goal: to find and incarcerate the creature itself. It proved to be far trickier than he’d imagined, and they had to settle on gleaning DNA from the remains of a soldier, half of whom went into the beast’s belly. Gustave II, with a bite force of one thousand pounds, a tail that can slice a man in two, and scaled skin impermeable to bullets and fire. Yes, he’ll do just fine against Chamelia. In fact, when those bitches are back, we’re having regular battles. That’ll teach them. Ransom places Gustave II’s folder to the side, noting his registration code for the checkout protocol.

  Next is Spiederman, the happy accident—an exercise in teleportation gone wrong when Dr. Spiegelman overlooked a spider in the hyperbaric chamber. The photos in his file show a man with two human arms and legs, but an extra set of spider limbs with both, that now allow him to walk upright as well as up and down walls. His face, generally human but with round pupilless eyes, opens up into a fanged maw at will. Another of Spiederman’s talents is fitting into small places. He’ll take up the assault from underground, through the air vents. Ransom nods, adding his file to the checkout pile.

  Next in line is Trixter, one of Ransom’s favorites. The coyote god, known for his mischievousness, captured on Pine Ridge Reservation, drunk as a skunk and in human form. Colonel Ransom videoed Trixter’s wake up in his cell and watches it whenever he needs a pick-me-up. The god, furious! Unable to revert back to his supernatural form, then plied with a flowing cocktail of submission drugs. He’s got nothing much to offer by way of powers, but they keep him sedated anyway so he won’t escape. Ransom loves sending him out on missions for the simple humiliation factor. Definitely a yes.

  Growl. Project number seventeen. A werewolf, also from Chamelia’s synthesized DNA. He’s still not quite right, that temper is wicked. That he can shift when the moon isn’t full is unpredictable. But this is the perfect mission for a soldier who rips out throats first, asks questions later. One hundred percent go.

  Jason Mars will be useful for his weapons expertise. Maybe it’ll get him to shut up about the fact that the doctors haven’t figured out how to grow his penis back. Colonel Ransom snorts. Talk about sticking your dick in the wrong hole. Ransom feels an unexpected twinge of guilt that they didn’t do more about Jason’s Martian sex drive before releasing him into the general population. But who would have imagined a rape victim could bite off a man’s penis with her vagina like that anyway? Not me, Ransom thinks, adding Jason to the yes pile. Let’s throw him a bone. Ransom chortles. Boy, he’s a barrel of laughs today.

  Colonel Ransom hates sending women into combat, but Jekyll is only chromosom
ally female. Her massive body-builder frame and mannish looks are hardly what one thinks of when the word ‘woman’ comes to mind. When Ransom asked the scientific team for a Hulk and they brought him a dame, he’d just about had a conniption. But, she’s turned out to be quite an asset and the only subject in the Hulk Project who actually worked. The males lasted at most a month before expiring painfully.

  The last file of the hybrid members of the extraction team belongs to the shark girl, Tiburona. Ransom studies her photo—gray bulletproof skin covered in gills, a noseless face with enormous black eyes that give him the creeps. She always looks hungry. Her four rows of teeth, like Gustave II’s, pack a thousand pound wallop. She’s the one he’s most concerned about, seeing she’s never been in combat before. Green about the gills. Ransom laughs out loud again at his clever pun. Colonel Ransom picks up the phone, calling the shark girl’s handler Doctor Fleischer into his office. Immediately.

  While he waits he selects the clones: Tranq, Meat, Smash, Junk, Glock, and Bill as in Buffalo. Each are from the same genetic material, and look like bigger versions of Dolph Lundgren. But just because they are identical didn’t make their personalities the same, a fact that never ceases to amaze the generally unimpressed Ripper Ransom.

  Meat is a vegetarian, something that doesn’t affect his ability to bulk up his massive frame.

  Buffalo Bill likes to take trophies of his victims, displaying ears, noses, breasts, on the walls of his cell and wearing them around his neck into battle.

  Tranq never sleeps.

  Smash always hopes to resolve conflicts without violence, useful when the clones and their varied personalities clash.