by Andy Remic
Volt steadied himself against the rust-smeared mass of the crumbling skip. Keenan glanced around, aware that everything was strangely fuzzy, unreal, even the corrugated wall of iron behind him, a platter of graffiti sporting illiterate hatred of race and sex, and religion. How did the world come to this? Was I blind? Or just protected? Yeah, protected by a rich step-mother and fat step-father with good jobs out of the city; and Mr. Policeman had come to play his sad little game helping the poor and the weak and the socially depraved. But look at you, just look at it: a fucking farce, a set-up, and Mr. Policeman, Mr. Richboy, Mr. Do-gooder just couldn’t do the righteous good in time and sweet little—Emily, that was her name—sweet innocent Emily became the plaything of some depraved fuck with a taste for little girls and a handy sharp razor.
Keenan reached forward; lifted the dead girl from the skip.
“What are you doing!” screamed Volt, grabbing Keenan’s arm. “Forensics need to tab her!”
Keenan shrugged off Volt’s grip with a snarl, laid Emily out on the pavement and rearranged her torn skirt. He smoothed back her hair, took a handkerchief from his pocket—fittingly, black—and tied it around her gaping throat.
“You’ll be in the shit, Keenan.”
“So I’ll be in the shit,” he said. “She deserves some dignity. I’m not leaving her like that.”
An hour later Keenan and Volt were pacing the floor outside Logistics; they had several matches on local scumbags, paedophiles with previous out on the loose in this good holy fair city of ours. One came up bright: DNA match, Jonathan Bird. The fucker hadn’t even tried to disguise his actions. Keenan’s square jaw set in a tight hard line as Volt followed him down to the Squad Shuttle.
“Let me drive,” said Volt.
“Fuck you.”
Volt didn’t argue; he’d never seen Keenan this way. He trailed behind, a limp puppy, aware that actions were running away with themselves but unable—maybe even unwilling—to halt the rollercoaster. Keenan would do what he had to do; his naivety had finally been burned to a fetid stump.
They sped through the rain-filled sky, mixed it with low clouds and smog-bursts. Keenan drove recklessly, and Volt placed his hand on his friend’s arm for the second time that night.
“I’m calm.”
Keenan met Volt’s gaze, and Volt saw a raging inferno in those eyes, like nothing he had ever seen. They landed in a quiet alley, checked weapons, headed for the apartment. A TV crackled lazily. Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman was playing one of his usual Prime-Time Tricks. Keenan led the way, kicked down the door, found the suspect lying masturbating on his bed.
“Hey, get the fuck out of here, I know my fucking rights!” he screamed as Keenan strode in, no warrant, no rights—as the scumbag pointed out—and put a bullet in the man’s abdomen. He thrashed around a lot, and there was a lot of blood. The Pazza Medics said he’d never use his cock again. Keenan had smiled at that, just before they cuffed him with Lazer Right and drove him to the SickCells.
“We’ll look after you, son,” said the Desk Sergeant. “You’re one of our own.”
Keenan nodded sombrely. And, he was only moved to solitary confinement after he’d cracked the third skull of some scumbag in on night-drill and out for police-kill.
Keenan was released, the Police Council saw to that; and the dirtbox rapist paedophile Bird went on trial, fully televised with constant updates from Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman. The trial lasted a week. For the entire proceedings, Keenan divided his animosity and open hostility between Birdy and his Barrister, a narrow man who walked with his arms pinned at his sides. Keenan could not believe how the Law protected such people: how the Law provided representation for such maggots, and how intelligent, educated, should have known betterLawmen stooped to defend the “rights” of such blatantly open sewer-rat shit.
Birdy was found guilty.
Keenan cried with relief; his brutal methods had nearly cost the Police Council the trial, but, thankfully, and for once in favour of the police, his actions had been put down to excessive emotional stress. He was allowed to walk free.
Not so Jonathan Bird.
He was sentenced to two years in Lakanek Prison: parole in ten months.
The press got some great pictures of his grinning face as he was led from court.
Keenan sat in the bar, sipping Jataxa; twenty-five year eyes stared back from rich honey depths in the back-bar mirror. He could hear the other Mr. Policemen around him.
“Bastard should have got at least six years, he was as guilty as fucking sin.”
“Yeah, but the Keenan lad didn’t do us any favours shooting the man’s dick from his body.”
[Laughter]
“Ain’t that right Keenan old boy?”
[Keenan snarled something incomprehensible]
“But still, out on parole after only ten months! Jesus wept! After what he did to that little Emily? What the hell is the world coming to?”
Those words still echoed and rattled in Keenan’s skull as he stood on the hillside, later that evening, and watched the grey van deliver Birdy into the prison’s depths. Three guards met the convicted paedophile—Keenan used military NVGs to confirm arrival—and then he checked his map. Getting into the prison would be easy. He was Skull Chipped, so the Lazy Towers would ignore his presence; he had clearance there. He also knew some of the guards, so he could probably even bluff gate entry. Keenan scowled. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. And, he smiled a nasty smile, there was always force. A bluff, of course, against his own kind, but he knew how to put on a good violent realisticshow all the same. Poker had taught him that. And, still remembering the feel of Emily’s dead stiff body in his arms, it gave him the fuel and determination he needed to see the job through.
Keenan returned to the tree-line and stepped into bleak undergrowth. Rain pattered from sculpted branches. Keenan knelt, lifted the tank, and strapped it to his back. He checked the hose, zip-tied it down his arm, then pulled a heavy rain-cape over himself. He knew from standing in front of his bathroom mirror several hours earlier that the cape disguised the slim tank on his back; square and matt black, it was a piece of decommissioned military kit, obtained illegally. But hell, in Keenan’s eyes, the whole fucking city was illegal: a haven for criminals. The only people who ever suffered were the good, the pure, the righteous. Keenan was sick to his stomach with it all.
He moved out into the rain, and it rattled on his plastic cape. He picked his way carefully down the hillside, aware of the highly dangerous and volatilecontainer he carried. Above, several Squad Shuttles swept by in close formation, and their ident.sweeps picked up his Skull Chip and they left him alone. At last! One privilege of power, he thought with a cruel sense of irony. And, here, now, was something Mr. Policeman could finally do: something that wasn’t the result of bribed police, corrupt lawyers, or judges with unrealistic fat heads up fat brandyport arses. This was something real, something right, something that Emily, ultimately, deserved... from beyond the desecrated grave.
Lightning split the sky. Thunder growled. Keenan stepped from the grassy slope, boots slick with mud, and stood on wet tarmac staring down the road. Darkness closed in. The rain increased, drumming his surroundings. He walked with long powerful strides, determination etched on the stubbled features shaded by his dripping hood. As he approached the guards—alert enough despite the late hour—they levelled weapons and scanned him; green registers flickered, and Keenan threw back his hood and gave them an easygoing smile.
“Hi guys.”
“You’re not on the list, Keenan,” said Graves, scanning the plastic document.
“I’ve got some questions for the one they’ve brought in: Bird, just committed; it’s nothing official, just something the family of the murdered girl asked me to do.”
“Yeah,” nodded Graves, “we watched the trial. Bad luck, that scumbag getting a piss trickle of time. Don’t worry, Keenan, we’ll give him hell in here.”
What, spit in his foo
d?
Take away his books?
Bend over for the soap, fat boy?
Keenan smiled. That just wasn’t good enough, but he appreciated the sentiment.
“This way, mate.” Graves nodded to the other guard and led Keenan down a narrow poorly lit hall. Keenan dripped water, which ran into long polished drainage gulleys. “I’ll have to frisk you.”
“No problem, pal.”
They turned a corner, towards a large holding cell. It was deserted. “Bird in High Sec?” asked Keenan idly.
“Yeah,” laughed Graves, “to protect him from himself, know what I mean?” He turned to wink, only didn’t get that far. Instead, he stared into the stubby barrel of a Kekra 8mm Compact.
“Sorry, Graves.”
“What the hell you doing, Keenan? You’ll lose your job! Shit, they’ll lock you awayfor this!”
Keenan shrugged, and cuffed Graves to a nearby bar. “Honest, I like you Graves, so don’t raise hell. I’m only here to do the dirty work some anally retentive judge didn’t have the balls to finish. So...” He let the words hang, shoving the Kekra tight under Graves chin. “Be a good boy. It’s been a damned long night and I’m a little twitchy.”
He gagged Graves, took the guard’s keys, and moved back into the corridor. Lakanek Prison was running Graveyard Shift with Graveyard Staff; it wasn’t just quiet, it was deserted. A reasonably high-tech prison, it had a hundred sophisticated gadgets to stop prison breaks—or the interloping of foreign bodies—but, thanks to his Skull Chip implant, Keenan bypassed the nested High-bore machine guns, the laser wires and garrottes; he even sauntered past the Anti-ankle Mines, nasty little charges designed to remove a prisoner’s—or unauthorised entrant’s—feet.
He made it as far as the High Sec internal gate; the man there, Roberts, knew Keenan well—they’d even been out drinking on occasion—so it hurt Keenan to do it, but he did it anyway. With Roberts bound and gagged, and another bunch of digital keys in his hand, Keenan strode the dark halls of Lakanek Prison like some depraved Grendel seeking retribution. He used Roberts’s PDA to find the exact location of Bird’s cell; it was on the ASM Wing—the Area for Sexual Misconduct. Yeah, he thought, brain dark and nasty, like it’s some kind of fucking minor misdemeanour; not really their fault, right? Just something naughty we really need to learn to understand. That’s it! Understanding’s the key! Rape and murder a child, sure, all we’ve got to do is discover what social complexities have made this poor, poor criminal what he is: a victim of upbringing, circumstance, poverty. Poor bastard just couldn’t help himself. In fact, why not label the fucking child the criminal? That way, the Justice System can dispense with petty imprisonments altogether and blame the victim for the crime. Keenan smiled. Keenan’s mood could easily be described as unstable.
His boots left a trail of dried mud pointing to Jonathan Bird’s cell. He accessed the door, and it slid neatly back on alloy rails. It was dark inside. “Lights,” said Keenan, and not just the cell—but the whole wing—was illuminated. He heard other, high-level sex offenders, stirring in other cells.
“Yeah?” said an arrogant snarl. “You’ve only just turned the fucking lights off, fucker!”
“I’m here about a different justice,” said Keenan gently. He stepped to the doorway, his frame a dark silhouette. He threw back his still-slick rain-cape; an awkward and confused silence descended on the scene. He pulled free the long matt-black nozzle from where it was zipped to his forearm, and he held it like a hose.
Bird squinted, sitting up on his narrow pallet bed. He rubbed his eyes, and stared at Keenan without soul. “So it’s you,” he said, and then tried to peer past Keenan, looking for the rest of the guards. “More fucking questions you’d like me to answer, eh?” He cackled. “You can shove your questions up your arse. I don’t have to cooperate no more.”
Keenan’s head tilted. “No, actually, no questions this time.”
“Tell the guards to shut the door on your way out. Some of us need our beauty sleep.”
“Funny that.” Keenan took another step forward. His face became serene, relaxed, almost... atpeace. “There aren’t any guards with me. It’s just me. Me and you; ain’t that nice, Birdy?”
Suddenly, the strangeness of the situation struck Bird. He came fully awake. Fear flared his nostrils. He scrambled back in his bed, his grey flannel prisoner’s smock riding up his legs to expose bare feet and shins.
“Let’s start there, shall we.”
Keenan discharged the Phos-Thrower, and watched with detachment as bright white sprayed over Bird’s shins and feet and immediately began to burn. Bird screamed, rubbing at his feet, and then staring down at his fingers as the white phosphor reacted with his hands.
“What are you doing?” he shrieked.
Keenan spoke slowly, calmly, as he watched Bird burn. “I have a full Can-Chamber of white phosphor, commonly held to be one of the most savage incendiary chemical weapons used in infantry warfare. In fact, there’s still debate as to classification. Some think it should be made illegal. Inhumane,you understand.”
Bird was screaming and thrashing on the bed. He jumped down, collapsed, and dragged himself to the sink. With fingers dripping flesh, he smacked the tap down, and a gush of water started to fill the basin. Bird grabbed handfuls of water, splashing them onto his legs, where the glow of the white phos flared.
“Funny thing about it,” said Keenan, still detached in his manner, “is that it reacts with oxygen.” He smiled, as if remembering a favourite family outing. “Your natural reaction is to cool a burn, so you throw water on it. And the phos reacts even more violently.”
Bird turned tortured eyes on Keenan.
“Make it stop,” he croaked, slumping to the ground. His feet and fingers continued to burn. The cell filled with the stench of cooked chemical flesh. He reached out and pleaded to Keenan for sympathy, and empathy, and compassion.
“I’m sure that’s what Emily said when you raped her.”
“Please, make it stop.”
“And then slit her belly, and her throat.”
Anger rose in Keenan; an anger so pure and hot and violent it totally consumed him. It raged through his veins as nuclear fire. It scorched heart chambers with acid. It bleached his brain as molten rock. The fury burned him to eternity.
Keenan discharged a flurry of white phos over the man, and then stepped from the cell. There was no joy in watching—even the evil—suffer.
Coolly, he cast his gaze around the nameless faceless doorways, each protecting a ripe flesh prize of human degradation. Inside, thought Keenan, are this city’s worst sex offenders: the paedophiles and child rapists, baby killers and the abusers of pregnant women. He smiled a very, very dark smile. His eyes were holes falling through the universe and shining into an evil place. He was no longer Keenan. He had been pushed backwards, into a corner, and felt his humanity stripped away like flesh under a sharp, sharp knife.
Understanding filled him. They were not human. Something had happened to these deviants, turned them into what they were: some alien virus, some genetic malfunction. They had no sorrow, no empathy for their victims. They were focused, entirely, on their own petty sexual desires, enthralled within a cocoon of spiralling depravity.
Keenan walked slowly around the ASM Wing, opening each and every door. “Come out!” he bellowed. “All prisoners onto the Wing, now!” His voice roared with authority, power: a primeval command from some deep place of primitive intuition.
Slowly, like zombies, the prisoners emerged; they gathered in a ragged huddle at the centre of the hallway, numbering perhaps forty. Keenan cast his gaze over the collection of deviants.
“Not human,” he whispered.
“No! Wait!”
The voice was Volt’s. Keenan could sense a heavy armed presence. He checked his watch. “Pretty poor response time, if you ask me.” He did not, could not, turn. His finger rested on a slick layer of sweat, the only thing between him and the trigger.
“D
on’t do it, Keenan.” Voice a lullaby. “You burned the one that mattered. You avenged that little girl.”
“But they are all like that,” said Keenan. Understanding flooded him. “The only ones punished are the victims. This isn’t murder, Volt. When a rabid dog kills a child, you destroy it. It’s no longer a dog. This is the same. Can’t you see that?”
“If you do it, they’ll shoot you.”
Keenan heard the rustling of Kevlar. He nodded.
“So be it.”
He pulled the trigger, pulled it hard and watched a spray of white phos spurt over the collection of prisoners. Screams rent the air, high-pitched, like burning pigs.
A shot sounded, then another. His Kevlar absorbed the intrusion. A bullet smashed into the back of his shoulder and he stumbled forward, but still agent poured from the fizzing nozzle in his hands, and the throng of squirming scorched prisoners writhed on the ground like something unreal. A blood red veil washed over Keenan’s eyes, and the trigger was finally wrenched from spastic-taut hands. He smiled, a cold smile, thinking how ironic it was; in burning, these sexual heteroclites were parodying the one act they had enforced on innocents.
Behind him, Volt turned and was briefly sick. The rest of the armed police stood by, grim-faced and uneasy... and watched the helpless writhe.
Emerald released Keenan’s grip. He was sweating heavily. He looked up into her eyes.
“I realise I was wrong. I should not have killed those men.”
“I am not here to judge you.”
“I was sentenced to life imprisonment. I served two years, and then Combat K came for me. General K. Steinhauer held out a hand of friendship, a lifeline, a way for me to turn my abilities to some good,a way for me to seek... forgiveness? Aye, that, or some bastard form of the same emotion.” He laughed, and rubbed tired eyes.
Emerald’s gaze swept all three members of Combat K.
“You were running away,” she said, her voice incredibly soft. Her eyes were lit with understanding, empathy. “You all needed a place to hide, to think, to compose yourselves. And Combat K gave you a Home, a Family, a Unity. Yes, you were instructed to kill for the military, but the ultimate aim was a good one: to end the Helix War. That was a noble objective. I believe you have atoned for your pasts.”