A New Responsibility

by T. Mike McCurley

The personnel order directed the officer to a section of the department he had only seen once, during a tour of the precinct grounds in his first few days as a rookie. Set far back from the rest of the main precinct house, it was an unassuming building made of steel-reinforced concrete that had never been painted. The main door opened in response to the magnetic strip on the back of his identification badge. The logo on the door confirmed that he was in the right location.

“Tactical Response Division - Metahuman,” read the logo. Street cops called them 'The Psycho Squad'. Tasked with response to any genebooster-related incident, the division had the highest rate of injury and death of any in the city. Forcing those thoughts from his mind, the officer stepped through the door and was greeted by a flood of sound that had not passed through the doors. It was obvious that the officers assigned here were busy. Lane checked to ensure that his uniform was in perfect condition, then presented his orders to the receptionist behind the main desk. He was directed down a short hall to a synthetic oak door marked '1Lt Schmidt'. A muffled voice called for him to enter in response to his knock and he stepped through, closing the door behind him. The office noise subsided.

“Patrolman Daniel Lane reporting as ordered,” the officer said as he snapped to attention in front of the massive metal desk. Behind it, Lieutenant Hilda Schmidt looked up at him with both amusement and boredom in her blue eyes. She gestured toward a chair and he sat stiffly on it.

“Relax, Lane. This isn't a formal meeting, and you aren't in the Army anymore,” she said. Schmidt tossed a thick file folder, marked with Lane's name, onto the desk. It slid and the contents spread across the oak surface. Photographs, psychological tests, range reports, arrest records, military records and discharge papers, and dozens of other various bits of information tracking Lane throughout his four-year career stared up at him.

“I've read this all,” Schmidt told him as he examined the file. “I know all the B.S. the department wants me to know about you. What I really want to know isn't in there, though.”

“Go ahead, ma'am,” Lane invited.

“We want you here, but do you want to be here?”

Lane paused, unsure how to react. Before he could answer, there was a powerful knock on the door and Schmidt grinned as she ordered the new arrival to enter. Lane half-turned in his seat to see who had arrived.

Standing in the open doorway was a tall redhead. She wore battledress utilities in an urban camouflage pattern, the trousers bloused into scuffed combat boots. Her face was pretty enough to invite notice, but not so much that it detracted attention from her overall presence. Her hair was tied behind her head into a thick ponytail that fell beyond Lane's vision. The woman stood with a casual grace, appearing ready to move in any direction with equal ease. An autopistol of unfamiliar make was slung low on her right thigh; a department-issue badge on a carrier was clipped to the front of her belt. She looked at Lane with glittering green eyes, appraising him frankly before turning to look at Schmidt.

“This the new meat?” she asked in a husky voice.

“That's him. If he wants the job,” Schmidt added in a questioning tone.

Without waiting for any acknowledgement from Lane, the redhead nodded. “He'll take it,” she said. She turned to look at Lane once more, settling her hands on her hips. Her gaze was unsettling, and Lane looked away after a short moment. When he did, she kicked his shoes with just enough force to attract his attention.

“Come on back with me,” she ordered. “I got stuff to teach you.”

Obediently, Lane stood and followed the woman from the room. He noted as he did so that her thick ponytail reached to the middle of her back. They moved through a hallway and into a large, well-lit room that bustled with activity. Numerous television screens, each showing a different image, were constantly flashing, although the sound had been muted on each set. There were a dozen desks in orderly positions in the room, each topped with a computer. Half of the positions were occupied, with men and women in street clothes entering or examining data. He counted five people clad in BDU's that matched those worn by Sheila, each of them busy examining a computer screen or sheet of hardcopy information. A printer chattered in the background as teletypes from other agencies poured in, competing for volume with the clicking of computer keys. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, coffee, and sweat, overlaid with a painfully sharp chemical smell from disinfectant floor cleaner. Lane continued to follow the redhead until she reached a steel fire door painted in a yellow and black striped pattern reminiscent of bridge warning signs. She opened the door and motioned for Lane to precede her into the space beyond.

The room was an office, with a simple desk and three extra chairs. A television with attached video recorder occupied a corner of the room, suspended from the ceiling and upper wall by a steel frame. Imitation wood paneling covered the concrete walls, and there were framed commendations interspersed with photographs and medals on the paneling as mementoes of service. A table below the television was home to a much-abused Mr Coffee, with two porcelain mugs and a stack of Styrofoam cups battling for space with a brown glass bottle of instant creamer and a jar that had once held pickles but was now home to a vast quantity of sugar packets.

“Have a seat, Lane,” the redhead said. “I'm not going to waste time here. My name is Sheila Tarracque. Some of the boys call me Sheild. You can do the same, or Sheila's just fine. Not Detective, not Sergeant, just Sheila. No formalities, okay?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied automatically. Sheila shook her head in mock frustration, her welcoming smile dispelling the illusion.

“Didn't I just tell you 'no formalities'? Geez, kids these days... All right, here's the deal. We're all real impressed with your scores on the range, arrest records, all that crap. Keep up the good work, you're a great asset to the department, yadda yadda yadda,” she said, rolling her eyes and waving her hands to show how little she thought of the phrases she was saying. Lane found himself growing to like the way she acted, and relaxed slightly. He already felt at ease with the woman and the way she casually dismissed the status of her rank, seeming to treat him as an equal.

“We're here in case of genebooster incidents requiring police response, and that means pretty much all of them. We go where the street cops don't. No offense,” she added with a gesture toward his uniform. “Anyway, you're part of the crew now. First things first, you gotta lose that monkey suit. We'll get you some of these BDU's. They're kind of an unofficial uniform around here. You'll get trained on some heavier weapons in the next few days. Boosters come out and we gotta carry some bigger guns. You ever deal with one before? A booster, I mean?”

“Not that I know of,” Lane answered. Sheila smiled and extended her hand. As Lane shook the hand, her smile split into a wide grin.

“You have now,” she announced. “I'm a genebooster. You even know what we really are?”

“Genetically enhanced human, with abilities exceeding those of normal humanity,” Lane said, quoting in a rapid blurt of information. The words had been drilled into him since high school.

“Yeah, that's the textbook version, and it's pretty accurate. The most important thing to know, though, is that we're dangerous. That sounds kind of prejudiced, I know, maybe even racist, but to a cop, that's what you gotta know. I read somewhere once that the least among us is a match for the best among you. Remember that the most common boosters are like me. Stronger, faster than you. Those are the two most frequent boosts. Remember that, 'cause it'll be on the test,” she quipped.

“What makes it happen?” Lane asked, smiling at her joke although he recognized the seriousness of her statement.

“No one knows. Lots of science guys have come up with lots of theories, but no one knows for sure. All we do know is that sometimes, and it's usually at some point of great stress in their life, people Emerge. Most of the time it's just some little boost, but there's always the one-in-a-million shots. Those are the biggies, the guys you see on TV fighting each other and leveling cities. Bonebreaker, Annihilator, Professor Pain, FlashFire, assholes like that.”

“So what do we do if they are the suspects we're after?”

“Those guys? If it's one of them, they kill us. No chance in hell of us taking them. Let that go for now, though. What I'm supposed to teach you is the reality of the booster that they won't tell you at the Academy, and that you won't get on the street. You want coffee or something first?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine,” Lane answered as she poured a cup.

Sheila looked questioningly at Lane, then lowered the pot as he shook his head. Not waiting for the drink to cool, she lifted the mug and drank. Lane felt his eyes widen as he saw her swallow the near-boiling liquid three times. There was still steam rising from the cup as she took it away from her face, and that steam was visible as she exhaled appreciatively and smacked her lips.

“Now, then. Where were we?” she asked, setting aside the mug. “Oh, yeah. Booster history 101. Here's some of the basics for you: The first Emergence was Alicia Difford, back in '63. Twelve-year-old kid, caught in a car wreck, Emerged and flipped the car off her parents. Some news crew got the whole thing live. I'm sure you've seen it.”

“Yeah, they show it every year on Lady Justice Day,” Lane said, nodding his head.

“And they should. Alicia Difford was Lady Justice. You'll hear her name spoken from time to time. She's kind of an icon among boosters, what with being the first and all. Anyway, after her, we started to pop up all over. It wasn't long before there were booster criminals. The first big crime was in '65. Two boosters running under the names Sixgun and Twister hit a bank and an armored car at the same time. Killed four people, injured, like, twenty or so more. That was when the norms started calling for the government to take an active role in suppressing us. They did, in some ways. In 1966 the Peacekeeper Accords were signed. You know what those are?”

“That's the treaty that says geneboosters can't act in a war,” replied Lane.

“Close enough. It actually says we can't be combatants. Any booster that wants can go in for rebuilding, rescue, firefighting, things like that. It wasn't long after the Accords were signed that the Olympic Committee banned us from participating. Damn shame, too. You know how far I can throw a discus?”

Sheila followed up the question with a laugh and another drink of her coffee, then continued. “It was 1980 when someone killed Lady Justice. There was a big mess for a couple of days, with boosters all over looking for the killer. It got pretty hairy. About a week later, the President declared February thirteenth to be Lady Justice Day. It's a strange day for us, kind of a mix between Christmas and Veterans' Day. Even the bad guys take the day off out of respect. Like I said, she was important to us.”

“But wasn't it a booster that killed her?”

“Apparently so,” Sheila said with a shrug. “No one knows. They just found her in Atlanta, all busted up and very, very dead. Truth is, if anyone ever finds out who really did it, there's gonna be hell to pay. As soon as it goes out, whoever did it is already dead. Boosters all over the world have said as much. Even the bad asses want a piece of that one.”

“Were there any marks on the body to indicate what happened?” asked Lane, leaning forward in his chair. He had slipped a pen from his pocket and was fumbling with a notepad.

“Give it up, Lane,” Sheila told him with a shake of her head. “Best investigators in the world have been over it a million times. You aren't going to solve it.”

“Okay,” Lane said with a resigned tone to his voice. “So what happens here, anyway? How do we get called out, or whatever?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Well, we get an active booster incident and we respond. If it's nothing big, we try to persuade the booster to take it elsewhere. Our objective is to get them out of the city where they can't harm anyone. If they're a small timer and we can make an arrest, that's great, but our primary aim is to make them leave. Let someone else deal with them. Of course, if they're wanted, or if they've hurt or killed someone, then we do what we have to do to try to bring them in. That's why we carry the big guns,” she added, patting at the handgun strapped to her thigh.

“Which brings me to my next point,” Sheila continued. “You know how many boosters are basically bulletproof?”

“No,” Lane admitted.

“Yeah, well, no one else does, either. Resistance to damage is another common boost. Call it armor, regeneration, force fields, whatever, the fact remains that a lot of us can't be touched by normal guns. The department's got some heavy guns and AP rounds, even access to a beat-up old maser cannon from the National Guard if we call in advance. Still, it don't guarantee we can hurt them. Our basic rule here is this: If the first few rounds don't do anything, shout out and let your partners know. That happens, everybody goes for the right knee. Don't try to get flashy, just open up on the knee for all you're worth. The theory is that anyone can be brought down eventually. Once they're down, all your partners will know how to act. You'll catch on eventually.”

“What about you? Are you bulletproof?”

“Resistant,” she clarified. “Big stuff'll put me down.”

“So you don't shoot lasers or throw fireballs or things like that?”

“No, I'm what's known as low-level. Some basic boosts, nothing exotic. Anyone starts emitting energies, they're automatically called mid-level. Beyond that they get classified by how much damage they can cause.”

“Okay. So who set the classifications?” asked Lane.

“Well, the government's got some studies in place. Other than that it's just a system that's fallen into place over the past few years.”

Sheila drained her coffee and refilled the mug. Settling back in her chair, she opened a drawer and removed a remote control, then used it to turn on the television and start the VCR.

“All right,” she said. “I'm gonna show you some footage. Sit back and watch. See what can happen.”

The first image was shot from the cover of a doorway. Angled down a busy street in a major urban area, the camera shook as the wielder trembled in what Lane knew without asking was fear. Striding down the center of the street, looking as though he had no cares at all, was a man in a black duster, with blue jeans and a black t-shirt beneath the long coat. His hair was slicked back on his head, and he had a smile that left no doubt he was enjoying himself. Behind him, fires raged out of control and the street was filled with rubble. The sounds of screams and small explosions nearly drowned that of the approaching sirens. The man in black walked to the edge of the street and gripped the fender of a Chevrolet Cavalier. A quick pull and the fender came free in a screech of tortured metal. The booster reached in and grabbed the frame of the vehicle, set his feet firmly, and hoisted the car in a spinning arc, releasing it to fly through the air. The image blurred as the operator of the camera attempted to follow the flight of the car. A second later, it crashed into a storefront, spilling glass onto the sidewalk. The noise of a burglar alarm added to the already considerable din on the recording. The booster followed this by snapping off the support pole for a streetlight with a single karate-style chopping motion.

The image stopped suddenly as Sheila hit the pause button on the remote. She turned back to Lane, who was leaning forward in the chair as he examined the footage. His eyes gleamed as he examined every detail, committing the scene to memory.

“This is from '95, the first rampage of Annihilator in New York City. He killed, at best estimate, three hundred fifty-seven people that day. Over two thousand were injured. Notice that he's smiling. He kept that up the whole time, even after the cops were all dead or gone and the National Guard showed up with rockets and heavy weapons. In the end, he just flew off. Nothing they did could stop him. He killed three boosters that day, too, and I mean heavy hitters. Put probably a dozen more out of action for who knows how long.”

She fast-forwarded through a further few minutes of film which ended as the camera was dropped, the owner having decided to find a better hiding place. The next shot was from a television news camera, and was of better quality. It began with a shot into the air, where a trio of small figures danced on the thermal drafts. When the camera zoomed in, it revealed three boosters engaged in an aerial combat. Powerful blasts of energy split the air as they ruthlessly attacked one another. It appeared that all three were in competition with one another. The reporter's voice confirmed that supposition as he described the fight.

“This is Marvin Rossler, MSNBC News, with live coverage of the battle between the unknown geneboosters over the city of Boston. Witnesses said the battle broke out following a botched jewelry store robbery by two of the boosters. They became angry when the third intervened and the fight quickly escalated. At some point, the two robbers turned on one another.”

“This one continued for thirty minutes,” Sheila explained, cutting the volume as she spoke. “Fire bolts, lightning, and what we believe to be plasma discharges were used by those three. It ended with the arrival of Tamara Farve, one of Boston's municipally sponsored boosters. The three of them took off and didn't come back.”

“Is that common?”

“It can be. It depends on the boosters involved and whether or not they want to keep fighting. Those three were pretty torn up by the time she got there, so they cut their losses and ran.”

“So what chance do we have against something like that?” Lane wondered aloud, shaking his head.

“To be honest, not much. Thing is, they aren't always that big of a deal. Check these shots out.”

The next segment on the tape showed a thin woman in green pants and a fashionable top. She was on her knees in the street, head thrown back in agony and body convulsing as Taser darts pulsed electricity into her. Beside her was a bag that Lane supposed was taken from the bank behind the woman. There was a circle of nearly two dozen police officers around the woman, all with rifles or shotguns trained on her as the two men with Tasers kept up the attack.

“This one called herself Diamond,” Sheila explained. “Tried to heist the bank and got caught. She had the strength, but no real resistance to speak of. The Tasers put her down and she's doing a nickel in San Quentin for the robbery.”

The image switched to a tall white male inside a shopping mall. Rings of scarlet energy were pulsing from his hands and he swept them across the shoppers as they ran for cover. Screams of pain rent the air as, one after another, they fell to the floor and writhed in agony. The cameraman, hidden behind a planter, murmured in fear as the man advanced through the crowds. As the man passed a bookstore, a woman stepped from the doorway and seemed to be reaching for the back of his head. A moment later, there was a barking sound and the man's head simply disappeared. Through the red mist, the figure of the woman could be seen, clutching a massive chromed handgun in a two-handed grip.

“Meet the late and unlamented Jeremy Weaver,” Sheila said, tapping the image of the dead booster. Her nail made a ringing sound on the glass of the television. “He was taken down by a citizen with a .44 Magnum in her purse. Sometimes we aren't that tough.”

Lane laughed as the situation became clear to him. “So it's possible to kill a booster just like that?”

“Some, yes. At that range, that .44 would probably do some damage to me. It'd be about a week before I'd be up and jumping again. Try that on someone like Patriot, though, and all you get is a dirty look in response. Well, that and he'll probably be pretty pissed off. That lady took a hell of a chance. Lucky for her, it paid off.”

Sheila switched off the video and turned back to face Lane. “You understand what you're getting into now?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he replied, nodding his agreement.

“Good. Any questions so far?”

“Procedural questions or informational ones?” he countered.

“Ask your questions,” Sheila said with a grin.

“All the stories I've read seem to indicate that flight is a common ability. True?”

“Pretty common, yeah. Probably right under armor. Say the fifth most common boost, maybe? Fifth or sixth?”

“How do they fly? I mean, sure, some of them have wings, but not many.”

“Again, I have to say I don't know,” she answered. “Telekinesis? Gravity manipulation? You name it and there's a theory about it. It's probably different with every booster.”

Her answer seemed to satisfy Lane, and it was a moment before he asked another question. This time, his voice held less of the childlike wonder it had when he asked about flying and seemed to come more from scientific curiosity.

“You said boosters Emerge when faced with some kind of stress. Is that what causes the change?”

“In some. There are cases of people born Emerged, and they seem to be becoming more and more common. And when you talk about 'the change', bear in mind no one knows if there really is a change or if you can just access a part of you that's been there all along. Again, you run into the multiple theories problem. No one has charted what makes a booster different.”

“Why not?”

“Mostly because we don't intend to sit still and let them filet our brains,” she said with a touch of venom in her voice. “See, the government would like to make sure they had us all in a little group, playing nice with all the other groups. They can't come after us, though, because they can't afford the problems it would cause. Would you go if they said, 'Hey, Lane, come on over so we can vivisect you'? Hell, no, you wouldn't, and neither will we.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, raising his hands. “I didn't mean to touch a nerve there.”

“No, it's my fault. The Feds have tried at one point to talk just about all of us into volunteering for their studies. If you should ever Emerge, don't do it. I hear they do some pretty sick shit to you. Makes Josef Mengele look like an amateur.”

“Well, then, I'll change the subject. Why is it that some of you wear costumes? I never understood that.”

Sheila sighed and pinched at the bridge of her nose as though easing a tension there, then leaned back in her chair and laughed aloud. Her laughter was strong and full of gusto, and Lane found himself joining in after a moment. Again, he was struck by how personable the redhead was.

“I wondered when someone would finally...,”she began once she had calmed down a bit. “Everybody wonders about that, but no one seems willing to ask. I think most people want to be different. When you are, I guess you want to draw attention to it. Some of them do it for that, then there are some who were raised reading comics and, I guess, they just figure that's what they're supposed to do. There are actually quite a few tailors that make a small fortune off the booster crowd. On the other side of it, there are the ones like Patriot, Lady Justice, Uncle Sam, or any of the other government guys. They get a costume that's actually kind of a uniform for them. It's made so the public recognizes them immediately. Kind of like what you're wearing now.”

“But wouldn't it make more sense for most of them to blend in with the people around them? Get that tactical edge of surprise?”

“If you could vaporize a normal human, would you care if they saw it coming? The bad guys want you to know who they are. It's a terroristic thing,” she said. “You can't think of a criminal in normal terms, right? Same goes for a booster criminal. Everybody's got something inside them that says, 'Hey, look at me'. The costume just lets you say it to everyone at once.”

Lane nodded and sat back further in his chair, contemplating how to phrase the question that had been burning in his mind for the past few minutes. He mulled over several ways of presenting it, but none seemed to be polite. Sheila saved him the trouble.

“I've seen that look before,” she said, “on the faces of every new recruit. You want to know about me. You want to know about how I came to be where I am, how I became a cop, and how I Emerged. Am I right?”

“Look, it's none of my business, I know. I just can't help but wonder. I don't want to offend you.”

“No offense taken. A lot of people ask. I just don't answer them. A girl's got to have some mystery, you know?” she added with a teasing grin.

Relieved that he hadn't hurt her feelings and at the same time intrigued by her last comment, Lane found he had no words to express what he was thinking. He settled for a short laugh and a shake of his head, smiling back at her.

“I'll make you a deal,” she offered, leaning forward on the desk and spreading her hands wide. “You beat me at darts, you can ask me one question. Every game you win is one question. But if I win, I get to ask you a question. Either way, the loser has to answer truthfully and openly. What do you say?”

Lane pursed his lips and nodded, looking around the room for a second.

“No dartboard here, ace,” she told him. “We meet tonight at the Blue Line. Twenty-one hundred hours. Provided of course that nothing big happens.”

Lane knew of the Blue Line, a local bar frequented by police officers. He had been there a few times himself, though he could not remember ever having seen Sheila there. Quietly picturing the dozens of dart tournaments he had mastered over the past ten years, he grinned and shook the booster's hand.

“You've got a deal,” he said.

End