The Fallen Heroine E-Book

Fabienne Gschwind

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 802

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The soldiers of the Repro Security put their lives on the line every day to hunt down and kill mindless genetic reprogrammed monsters. Just like young Matthis Kembs, who has started as cadet in the best unit in France. The notoriously irascible commander of his unit, Captain Arlette, is a living legend. But all her fighting skills and strategies are of no use when the French king proclaims feudal rule and turns the soldiers into serfs. A second French revolution is needed... Set in the twenty-second century, the novel "the fallen Heroine" takes place mainly in the French city of La Rochelle. Action loaded, humour and social criticism enhance the novel.

Leseprobe

The Fallen Heroine

TitlePrefacePrologueChapter 1 Ile de RéChapter 2 AuvergneChapter 3 BordeauxChapter 4 La Rochelle 1Chapter 5 TarnChapter 6 Black ForrestChapter 7 La Rochelle 2Chapter 8: ParisChapter 9: AlpsChapter 10 MurmanskChapter 11 GruissanChapter 12 VersailleChapter 13 LouvreChapter 14 EifelChapter 15 San RemoChapter 16 BiarritzChapter 17 La CazineChapter 18 SingapurChapter 19 RomEpilogue

The Fallen Heroine

by

Fabienne Gschwind

Preface

The novel "The Fallen Heroine" is the English translation and upgraded version of the German-language novel "Reprosquad" by Fabienne Gschwind and Will Hoffman.

Prologue

Sunday, May 13, 2164

Call me Matthis Kembs, I’m 19 years old and I come from a tiny Alsacian Village in France.

I will start tomorrow as a cadet in the Repro-Security unit from the french city “La Rochelle.”

Repros are the plague of the twenty-second century. These are genetically reprogrammed creatures that have been infected by a virus. The reprogrammed animals - named repros - become mindless monsters that attack everyone. Either the attacked person or animal is torn to shreds or it is contaminated with the virus, which also turned him into a monster.

No wonder that the reprogrammed creatures are simply called "zombies". Because they are just as hard to kill as these mythical figures. Specially trained soldiers of the Repro Security - called ReS - hunt and kill these monsters.

I myself was forcibly recruited by the ReS a month ago and am now assigned to Captain Arlette's unit.

It is the most famous repro squad in France with the legendary Tamara Arlette as commander. Everyone knows her and her deeds are celebrated worldwide. So it is an honour to serve with her.

I have just arrived at my new apartment in La Rochelle. The apartment was rented for me by the Repro Security headquarters.

Fortunately, my new apartment was furnished and I only had to unpack my few belongings. Just as I finished, my multicomputer beeped. It was a video call from the Repro Security headquarters.

In the call was not only someone from Human Ressources but also the chief editor of Multichannel-1, the biggest TV station and publisher in France!

They quickly explained to me what it was about. They asked if I would be willing to keep an accurate diary and give insight into my life in the ReS Squad of La Rochelle.

And of course, more importantly, to describe exactly what the famous commander Arlette was doing, behind the scenes. They had already projected the earnings and offered me 30% of the profits. Should I die in action, it would all go to my family. I just stared at the amount I could earn and immediately agreed.

That same evening I prepared a computer file where I would describe all my experiences in detail.

Chapter 1 Ile de Ré

Friday, June 1, 2164

The last two weeks were very intense and I hardly got to write. I had to go through an intensive "boot camp" and get to know everything. Meanwhile, the equipment is already very familiar to me and I have learned many procedures and behaviors. A few more weeks and I would be ready for my first real mission! I have seen our commander only a little, because she was on a large mission in Lion. But now she is back, that means I have to write down everything what we do.

So let's start from the beginning: The way to my new workplace in La Rochelle is like something out of a travel magazine....

First a few steps on the beach boulevard, then along the marina and turn right into a small street where the barracks are.

In the north wing of this building we have six rooms on the first floor, and in the basement we have a gym, storage, the locker room and our shooting theater.

I headed for the office in the very back corner; the large office of our boss, Captain Tamara Arlette, commander of the La Rochelle ReS unit. The acronym ReS meant Repro Security and encompasses all the units and the organization that works to protect humanity against these beasts and strives to one day eradicate them altogether.

On the door sign, someone had stuck an old-fashioned Post-it note with the words 'Tartelette'. Tartelette, that was the nickname of our boss. On the one hand, because it phonetically reminded of her name, on the other hand, because she loved to eat; because 'Tartelette' meant 'tartlet' in French. And the commander was really exceedingly voracious, as I knew after a couple of days. I sat down at my makeshift workstation at the windowsill, and put on my service beret, which belonged to the fancy dark blue ReS uniform.

The apocalypse caused by the repros was only three generations ago. My great-grandfather had experienced it himself. He used to often tell how suddenly the disease broke out and reprogrammed people's genes. They became intelligence-less monsters who wanted to kill everything.

Decapitating a repro was (and still is) the only way to kill them, it is the only way to prevent further commands from the brain to the body. Well, if you shoot the repro to a pulp, you get rid of it too. Now, 75 years later, we have a good vaccine and only rarely a human is still reprogrammed by the retroviruses. But with animals it is still a problem, the mutated genes lie dormant in them, and again and again they turn into repros.

I myself actually wanted to become an animal keeper. After graduating from high school and successfully getting accepted to study in animal medicine, I got an internship at the animal hospital. Two weeks later and after three repros, which I had sensed in time, I was called to serve in the ReS. There are only a few people who are sensitive to the repro smell. And there is a big shortage of personnel in the ReS because of that.

Normally, training starts with a Backcountry ReS unit that controls the large uninhabited parts of France. From a safe distance, the repros are hunted down by simply shooting them down with bombs and rockets. The ReS soldiers are in safe Combat helicopter - called decacopters- or heavily armored robotic combat suits.

However, I was assigned directly to a city ReS, which mostly has to fight repros in close combat to avoid killing bypassers and destroying infrastructure. I don't know why, but I was stationed in La Rochelle. A small town on the Atlantic coast. And so I've been an apprentice at ReS La Rochelle for two weeks, or to be more precise a cadet because we are a military organization.

The work is extraordinarily well paid, but also tremendously dangerous.

In public, ReS soldiers are celebrated like heroes. Parades, commemorations, speeches and many many fan events show how important the ReS soldiers are so that the society can live safely. But unfortunately...The death rate is extremely high, average service time in active patrols is barely seven years.

My mother burst into tears when she saw the "job offer" from ReS headquarters. She was full of fear that I might die early. My brother and father only saw the monthly salary and were thrilled. My father comforted my mother. "No, no don't worry, Matthis is smart, they will quickly get him off front line duty and put him to work as a coordinator or strategist."

The ReS organization also promised me a lot of things to make my service palatable. After ten years of service, they would send me back and also pay for my medical studies. I would receive a pension for life and if I unfortunately died in service, the pension would go to my family and they would give the money for my studies to my sibling.

But there was a second letter. It was addressed to me and was highly confidential.

If I refused to come or violated the laws of the ReS, my family would be vilified and lose house and all property. I myself would be exiled to a colony as a traitor to the country, where I would have to toil as a kind of modern slave. The ReS laws were simple, I had to pretend that serving in the ReS was the greatest honor and play the proud soldier. Never was I allowed to talk about depression or anything like that.

I kept this letter a secret. My family was not allowed to know about it under any circumstances! I quickly replied to the ReS headquarters that I would accept the offer. I loved my family and pretended that I was looking forward to contributing to the security of the society.

My father had said encouragingly, "La Rochelle, that's where the legendary Captain Tamara Arlette is stationed, the most famous repro-hunter in France, and even world-wide. You'll really learn something there."

He and my brother would occasionally watch the live missions broadcasted on the ReS channel. The ones from ReS La Rochelle were the most popular. Only I, of all people, had always refused to watch these brutal recordings. Ironically, I was now one of them.

The commander of ReS La Rochelle, Tamara Arlette, was a living legend with superhero status not only in France but around the world. Thousands of people owed their lives directly to her and tens of thousands indirectly, as she saved entire cities from repro catastrophe with ingenious strategies and unmatched intuition. Her heroic deeds were told all over the world. Not only told, she and her troops always wore helmet cameras during missions and these films were broadcast by ReS headquarters on a dedicated channel. It was rumored that the income from these films alone covered a large part of the costs of the ReS. The other part was covered by the repro propagation softwares that the captain programmed herself.

But then there was her shadowy character: notoriously irascible, she snapped and yelled at her soldiers or anyone else who got in her way. No less often she enforced her will at gunpoint. There were more than enough videos where she threatened a restaurant owner to get free food. And she liked to mess with politicians and aristocrats. These videos gave her even more popularity. She could easily pay the fines she got and nobody dared to lock her up...

So, of course, the ReS headquarters asked me to write down exactly what this superheroine was doing all day. That meant to look exactly what Tamara Arlette does and makes the whole day and even thinks. It will be not only a Diary but a kind testament should I nevertheless perish. Even an unfinished work would bring a lot of money to my family....

Then I heard a metallic clacking. It was Thibault with his automated exoskeleton, because five years ago he had fallen under the stomp of a repro elephant. Despite the modern nerve growth boosters, there was no saving his almost completely shattered spine. He was a paraplegic from the shoulder down.

"Moussaillon, there you are. Is Tartelette there too?"

Since I was the apprentice, I was called all sorts of nicknames by my colleagues, such asMoussaillon, ship's boy namely, Junior or Kid. But that's not a problem and I've already gotten used to it. By the way, our team is great, everyone has a great sense of humor, and not a day goes by without a few jokes. Sometimes the sparks fly when it comes to a fight and Tartelette makes wild threats, but a few hours later everyone is reconciled again. So it wasn't as bad as everyone had described Tamara to me, she had even been very caring with me...at least until now.

"No, the captain hasn't arrived yet, ...but I can go to the bakery already."

When Tartelette arrived, breakfast was the first thing and I was in charge of croissants and coffee.

"That would be nice, boy."

With that, the exoskeleton turned with a jerk and Thibault stomped out of the room. I quickly threw on my fancy uniform jacket and hurried to the bakery across the street.

Two weeks earlier, Tartelette had guideded me through all the bakeries, butcher shops, traiteurs and bistros in the vicinity. This has the advantage that they all know me and the things I buy go straight to the ReS's account.

So I returned to the barracks with a dozen croissants, a baguette for Gabin, and a large thermos of the finest French coffee. Back at the barracks I collided with Tartelette, who was just stepping into the office and putting on her combat gear.

She is the only one in the troop who always wears her hightech combat armor.If I don't wear combat gear, no one will recognize me, she told me on the first day.

Tartelette is a sturdy woman in her fifties. Her grayish hair is cut short and she has the wiry, well-toned body of an athlete. During the first Training, I had already painfully learned that she is considerably stronger than she looks.

I unloaded the groceries on the table.

"Cadet, did you buy me an extra baguette? That's sweet."

Gabin patted me on the shoulders so hard my collarbone cracked. He sat down and broke his baguette into four pieces before eating them conscientiously. Gabin was our strongman, a two meter guy who had dreamed of serving in a ReS unit from a young age, just like his father, sisters, and brothers. In La Rochelle, he was called 'the hunk' and probably could have won bodybuilding contests or strongman competitions with ease. As the others had told me, he regularly demolished the weight machines in our gym because he put more weights on them than the machine could hold.

Emily now joined us. Small and chubby as she was, she sat down next to Gabin and spread an extra helping of butter on a croissant. Every now and then her wavy, dark blond hair fell in front of her eyes and she routinely wiped it back. She, too, had been forcibly recruited, but very late. She already had another profession when her talent became apparent. But she, too, had been given no choice. She was always very serious.

Thibault sat down on a chair with his exoskeleton. Tartelette helped him and sniffed the croissant. I had sat down between Thibault and Emily and poured myself a large cup of coffee while listening with half an ear to the banter of my colleagues. Tartelette, as usual, was sharing the latest gossip about the many other ReS patrols. Her favorite gossip was about how inefficient the others were, and then she vented about her favorite topic: Her vision of how the ReS system should be organized.

Then it was back to work. For me, that first meant nipping at Tartelette's heels and keeping my eyes and ears open. In addition, there were manuals with theory units that I learned by heart and the famous shooting and simulation theater, where I spent a lot of time. Plus, of course, frequent fitness training, because we had to trim our bodies for top performance like top athletes. Today was no different.

"Kid, I evaluated your shooting results, you've made good progress. That means you're coming along on the next emergency call. Now go to the shooting cellar and keep practicing."

I obediently set off for the shooting exercises, even though I felt sick with fear. After two weeks of training, I was already supposed to be fighting real repros? But there was no point in arguing, I had made the mistake on the first day of doubting some request of the commander. Then she had fetched my employment contract and read to me with pleasure the paragraph about disobeying orders.

The ReS belonged to the army and was organized militarily.

We had three main weapons: the zapper, a slender electro pulse pistol that briefly overloaded the repros' muscles and nerves, paralyzing them. Then we had a long and extremely sharp machete to decapitate the repros. And last, a kind of old-fashioned shotgun loaded with explosive ammunition. It could be used to take down whole flocks of repro birds or blow the heads off animals. Tartelette would have liked a few more weapons. But it was too expensive for ReS headquarters and they had forbidden the purchase of more weapons.

I had started the training program, zapped three simulated boars, and decapitated a dummy when my communications device, which we merely called 'radio,' beeped:

"Alert! Get your gear on!"

So I quickly sprinted to the locker room and squeezed into the tailored combat armor. The combat armor was a kind of tight-fitting state-of-the-art knight's armor that completely encased our bodies. The helmet was seamlessly screwed onto it, and a visor with an intelligent lens hermetically sealed it. The blue armor weighed quite a bit, but had light muscle enhancers, so it was easy to move around in.

A few minutes later, we were all seated in the powerful turbo car. The driver had his driving helmet on and was roaring down the highway at speed. He was linked directly to Thibault, who gave him directions.

"A repro cattle has been reported in the Marais Poitevin," Tartelette called from the passenger seat.

Emily checked to make sure my weapons were properly secured. The machete on my right hip, the zapper on my left forearm, and a short shotgun in the holster on my back.

"The Marais Poitevin is a beautiful marsh north of La Rochelle. You can rent canoes and small boats there and paddle through the many channels," Emily explained to me. "And how does a bovine get into a swamp?", I inquired, irritated.

"There are islands between the canals, and that's where the farmers like to let their Charolais cattle graze. Hmmm ... delicious cote de boeuf," Tartelette said dreamily.

"Why don't we just shoot them off using a decacopter? One good missile and the problems are solved," Gabin said in wonder. But Thibault answered on the radio: "The Marais Poitevin is a protected area and a Unesco World Heritage Site, you can't just do massive damage to property...I told you that last year".

All those helmet video shots came to mind. Big repros were even more dangerous than small repros, because even my modern combat gear would not survive a collision with a wild bovine unharmed. Like a horror movie, all these shots came to my mind of armor being crushed under repro teeth. How a deer would hit someone high up in the air, how two bulldogs tore a soldier's limbs away. And then the badger that kept hitting the visor until it broke. Then he tore away the woman's face. This footage was not shown to the public, but on the first day of work, Thibault unlocked it for me. "Extra motivation to train a lot." he had meant.

The most depressing thing: None of the recordings was older than three months. This was the brutal reality behind the shiny facade of the Repro Security. The life expectancy of soldiers in urban ReS was even lower, five years on average.

We were quickly at a parking lot. Thibault had already let prepared some canoes for us. He had tried to organize a decacopter that would fly us to the small island. But since no one's life was in danger, the ReS center had not deemed it necessary to release a copter. This meant we had to paddle the old fashioned way. Tartelette then tossed me a paddle. "You paddle and I'll watch. Allez!"

Somewhat clumsily, I climbed into the rickety boat. Fortunately, I had paddled a canoe as a child on my great-uncle's carp pond. At least I kept my direction while Gabin's and Emily's boat zigzagged behind.

"We're not at a waltzing class, put some effort into it," Tartelette snapped at the two.

I had already been warned about this: When we were hunting, the boss always turned into a drill sergeant and cursed savagely all over the place. I hadn't experienced it until now, but Gabin said she hurled insults and occasionally got physical. Everyone had advised me not to take it seriously, should she ever really snap at me. I should just be glad to get out alive. And who better to guarantee that than the captain? She was, after all, one of the best repro hunters in the world!

Or as Gabin had said. "If you can't take a good rub you will never become a polish Gemstone."

Through low hanging trees and root systems sticking out of the water, we continued. To this day, I wonder what kind of image we gave off - four heavily armed soldiers paddling along through the idyllic canal. Then I smelled it: the funny smell of a repro. Tartelette nodded appreciatively when she saw me sniffing.

Quickly, I closed my combat visor. The intelligent visor flashed additional information. But we could not see the bovine. All the green stuff obstructed the view.

I began to sweat from rowing and the summer temperatures, but my battle suit automatically cooled.

"Gabin, Emily stay there. We'll circle the island and drive the cattle to you from the other side. Cadet, paddle fast and quiet."

I strained. Thibault was tracking all our movements via satellite. With his instructions, we paddled around the island in the tangle of channels.

Then Tartelette jumped off the boat and waved at me. I shivered with nervousness and stayed close to her. She stalked through the undergrowth.

Through a bush we had a direct view of five beefy Charolais cattle. They were about to attack a sixth and crack its skull open. They still looked like normal cattle, in a few days, they would be covered in an ugly slime.

The reality was horrible, much more horrible than the footage. And here we were about to take on five of these huge beasts. My heart slipped into my pants. I looked at my little zapper. It seemed completely inadequate. Especially because repros were much stronger and faster than normal animals.

"Attack," trumpeted Tartelette, leaping toward the animals. Two immediately stomped away, but Emily and Gabin took them on. Two more glared angrily at us. But Tamara didn't flinch, in a flash she shot the one with the zapper. The third bovine raced toward me. I had no time to think. I aimed my zapper, and sure enough, the bovine fell twitching to the ground, the force carrying it to my feet.

"Hurry up, it won't last forever," Tartelette shouted as she hacked into the cattle's thick neck with her machete. As she did so she muttered various recipes to herself. Every muscle she cut, she would much rather have turned into a tidbit.

I raised the machete and struck. Never did I think it would be so easy to kill. But the fear of the beast's horns was greater. Like a berserker, I struck and zapped incessantly. Then it was over, the head dropped.

Blood ... blood everywhere, but the repro was dead and I was alive. I sat dripping in a pool of red. I felt sick as a dog and shaking like never before. An intense surge of emotion, adrenaline, fear and endomorphins washed over me and I threw up in the helmet.

Tartelette, meanwhile, had decapitated the third bovine and approached me with a blood-dripping machete.

"It's all right, kid. It happens to all of us. The trick is, with every repro you killed, you had to think of all the people you saved as a result."

I immediately felt a little better and was grateful to the captain.

We stopped briefly so I could wash my face, then paddled back. Gabin had taken a leg kick from one of the cattle full in the chest and had been thrown meters into the channel. Emily dug him out of the mud and he joked.

The rest of the morning we searched the entire area but could not find any more repro. Muddy and blood-crusted, we returned to the parking lot. It was lunchtime and many autonomous cars were parked here. People wanted to enjoy the beautiful nature. The ReS headquarters had not initiated an evaluation. After all, one could not stop public life because of every repro.

Tartelette spied a small restaurant and devoutly studied the menu. With the tip of her machete, she tapped the dishes she liked.

"Good stuff here, now for lunch," she called out cheerfully, then asked, "Thibault, are we still on the air?" Our mission had been broadcast live, as usual. I glanced at the LEDs at the edge of the screen, which were flickering red. That meant there was no broadcast.

"Go see for yourself, Tamara," Thibault said morosely, and Tartelette wanted to sit down at a table. The other customers seemed uncomfortable and cleared their seats. A waiter came running up: "Sorry, you can't eat here like that ... you can ..." Tartelette turned to him and flipped up her visor with the bare machete. "Yes?"

Her blue eyes looked icily at the waiter. Was I glad I'd never had that look directed at me before. The waiter stumbled back.

"You are Captain Arlette ... Then please sit here." More or less skillfully, he placed us at the end of the terrace.

"Tartelette is called 'the waiter's terror' in La Rochelle and the surrounding area ... but you'll see for yourself," Emily whispered to me.

Tartelette was hungry after this effort and ordered up and down the menu. She was a fan of the 'vielle cuisine française' and asked the waiter in detail about all the ingredients and cooking methods. In addition to a dozen oysters, a calf's head and a paté du chasseur, she ate a handful of ecrivisse - crayfish - and a trout. I contented myself with a steak à cheval. This is not a horse steak, but a normal hamburger covered with a fried egg. And couldn't believe at first that I was able to eat anything at all. But after all the excitement and stress, it soon seemed like the best thing I had ever eaten. Emily filled her belly at the cake buffet and Gabin just ate some snails with salad.

On this team, you became a compulsive gourmet.

"Of course, everything tastes so good. That's just because you don't know if you're not eating your last supper...", Gabin said laconically.

When we got back to the barracks, it was already close to two o'clock in the afternoon and Tartelette ordered me to have another collation - that is, a snack - together with her. The others had somehow talked their way out of it, and so the two of us sat down at "Chez Pierrot," a brasserie on the harbor of La Rochelle that serves wonderful crêpes. We were still in gear, mind you. Tartelette looked at me with motherly love, or so it seemed to me as I polished off the second crêpe. "I think it's okay for you to gain a few kilos so you can ..."

What should have become of the few extra kilos remained a mystery, because we got a new alarm.

This time from the aquarium in La Rochelle, which was conveniently located just down the street.

"Fishes can't be reprogrammed ... Every kid knows that." Tartelette was a bit grouchy about being interrupted while eating. While we were still hurrying through the street in mud-encrusted gear and weapons.

A few minutes later we found ourselves in the back of the aquarium, where visitors were not allowed to go. The curator of the aquarium was terribly upset. Apparently there had been an incident in one of the saltwater aquariums and somehow the fish had 'degenerated'.

We bent over the open tank, but nothing could be seen through the bloody water. An employee held up a display with a scientific journal and claimed that it had been proven last month that the retrovirus - which was responsible for genetic reprogramming - had mutated and could now attack fishes.

This, of course, would be a disaster....

The curator bent over the basin. A scallop jumped out of the water and bit off his nose. The man cried out. There was nothing more we could do. Everyone knew a bite was as good as a death sentence. Too many retroviruses entered the bloodstream, genes were reprogrammed too quickly. Knowing it was one thing, seeing it was another.

The curator was already standing up again and gazing at us mindlessly. My blood froze in my veins; this was the worst thing ever, a human being who had mutated.Zombie was the colloquial name for human repro. "Don't look at it little one, you're not ready for this." Tamara drew her Machete.

But just at that moment, another staff member came over in a panic. "Repro fishes, repro fishes ... in the big tank," he shouted, agitated. I ran there with him and Tamara beheaded the curator. At least I was spared to see it with my own eyes.

We rushed with him to the big basin and met Emily and Gabin there. Through the large front window we could see the carnage. Fishes were attacking their fellow fishes and the water immediately turned red. There was a dull thud as a stingray crashed against the glass. A crack formed and we heard the glass crunch telltale.

"The battle cry of the day is 'bouillabaisse'!" Even in this situation, Tartelette was still coming up with cool sayings.

We ran as fast as we could away from the pool as the glass burst. Several thousand liters of water washed us through the aisles. The combat armor kept me from breaking all my limbs as I kept banging into walls. I had lost sight of the employee; afterwards I learned that he had been killed. He had broken his neck when the mass of water hurled him against a wall.

Already two dead on my first mission!

But fortunately, the building had been evacuated in time, so there were no other fatalities.

The rest of the evening, deep into the night, was pretty messy. We waded through the knee-deep, bloody water, decapitating anything that wriggled. The large aquarium must have housed several hundred fishes. We did everything to save at least some valuable and endangered animals that were not contaminated and put them in a separate tank.

A barracuda had crushed my combat boot and I was limping. Gabin had been slammed into a wall so hard that he broke two ribs. But the pain blocker was automatically administered and he kept going. Tartelette also almost got it when she was pushed into the polar pool by a crocodile. Emily saw no other option but to shoot the still intact glass, flushing out all the aquarium inhabitants. I ran over to help. Tartelette had no weapon left and was wrestling the crocodile with her bare hands. "Get on with it, you fucking idiots!" she cursed, and I shot her and the crocodile with the zapper on maximal power. Our combat suits protected us from the discharges.

Sometime in the deep of night, I had painstakingly decapitated a whole row of clownfish with my pocket knife. Before, I had sniffed one after the other to make sure that really all were repros. The boss had stepped behind me. She had organized a coffee from somewhere and was sipping it from a paper cup. "Kid, I'm impressed. No training yet and better than a regular repro hunter..."

She picked up a passing lobster and smelled it.

"It's not infected ... it's going to come along and end up in the crock pot. That's way too expensive to waste!"

An hour later, nothing could be done; all the remaining fishes had been reprogrammed and had to be killed. Thibault, at Tartelette's behest, organized two units of army robo-infantrymen. Protected in their robot armor, the soldiers would scour the aquarium and kill everything. Bombing the aquarium was out of the question; it was centrally located in La Rochelle and the collateral damage would be too great.

So that had been my very first combat mission, and it was fierce. We all got back to the barracks at midnight and Tartelette hurried to write her report because the reprogrammed fishes were a terribly serious danger. At the same time, she ordered Emily to cook the crawfish and yapped all over us about recipes for cooking crustaceans.

I was so exhausted that Pierre, the driver, chauffeured me home. There, after all the excitement, I still couldn't fall asleep. While dozing off, I reflected on my first mission and was dismayed at how many times I had jumped from the brink of death. The average life span of seven years suddenly seemed very very long. This could not end well.

Monday, June 4, 2164

Tamara decided to have breakfast at a bistro. The host had probably already had an incident with the commander and had obviously drawn the short straw. He resignedly waved us to a table and instructed the service team to bring our orders forward. Of course, it was on the house. We piled our weapons on a neighboring table, and Tartelette signed autographs or posed for souvenir photos. She had a lot of fans, and the aquarium debacle was the main topic of the French press today. The bistro was quickly full and everyone wanted to eat there where superhero Tamara also had breakfast. In the end, the landlord had a good deal after all.

Afterwards there was training and the commander gave me a private lesson "So let's see how good you really are...".

I had a sore muscle from yesterday, but felt incredibly strong today. I had never felt such a zest for life as I did today.

The boss manually operated the controls and unleashed one repro dummy after another on me. Again and again, Tartelette made loud announcements, "Good balance." “Footwork; we need to improve." "Good reflexes." "Shoulder mobility; we need to improve significantly....", "The kid is talented."

At one point I was just lying on the ground panting heavily and had been knocked down what felt like fifty times.

"Killed 23 times in an hour," Tartelette was already correcting the number downward as well.

"Not bad." She reached out and pulled me up as if I were a feather. She looked at me with her icy stare. She patted my belly. "Bit less fat and bit more muscle. You'll turn into something. And then we just have to make sure that all the female fans don't interfere with your work. "

She laughed and then became serious: "Our second-to-last apprentice died on his second assignment, after five days! The last apprentice girl after four months. I really hope you can last longer! So in the field, you'll stay close to me..."

Tuesday, June 5, 2164

The next day I had on-call duty, where I was off but was supposed to be on call. It was a beautiful early summer day. I sat down on the beach "Plage des Minimes" very close to where I lived. Mainly I lay on my stomach and read books or kept my diary and completed it.

On the whole, everything had been a lot of fun much better than what I had expected. I liked the idea of becoming a professional reprokiller and saving hundreds of people's lives. My colleagues were great and I also really liked Tartelette's gruff manner.

I took my old-fashioned paper book on French history - history is my hobby - and started to read.

I loved reading and my favorite subject, I can only emphasize, was French history.

I had an eight-volume volume on the subject of the “Evolution of french Monarchy." After Charles Martell, Louis XIV and Napoleon came the part that excited me the most: the resurgence of the monarchy during the First Trireligious War. When the world was overrun with assassinations and no one knew who to trust anymore. Corrupt politicians? Self-appointed dictators? Gen-Manipulated policemen and soldiers who, instead of protecting the population, shot unrestrainedly into the crowd? And then there were the nobles. With their coat of arms and mottoes that pointed to the permanence of the nobility and showed that they had survived everything and would still be there.

"Permanence for Europe: monarchy proven for thousands of years", was the motto. A first popular uprising in Hungary led to the old Austro-Hungarian monarchy flourishing again.

Democracy had thus only lasted barely two hundred years. Nobles and royalty took over throughout Europe and other continents. The nobles formed the governments, took over the judiciary and occupied all politically important offices.

Wednesday, June 6, 2164

The next day nothing else was going on, Emily and Gabin were working out in our gym or reading theory sessions. I had been given the shooting room at Tartelette's request. I practiced as much as I could. My survival depended on it, as it slowly dawned on me, and that created incredible motivation.

Tartelette had put us through a rigorous program, as I now saw. The program included strength training, mobility training, relaxation exercises, shooting exercises, machete training and theory blocks. In between, long-distance ocean swimming, running, hand-to-hand combat, climbing, first aid, zoology, survival training, and all that military procedure.

"Hop, don't be lazy, Gabin 100 pushups, Emily 50, me 120! Ship's boy, you're on break!", Tartelette also commanded and everyone gathered on the floor in our gym groaning. But nothing came of my break. Thibault rumbled into the basement and grabbed me by the collar. He was wearing his headset and data goggles so he could answer emergency calls immediately.

He rushed me through all the military drill. To make matters worse, he pulled out a thick book of ranks from between the storage shelves and gave it to me to memorize. A little pissed off by this order, I returned to the others. They were standing in the small control room to the shooting cellar and evaluating the protocols.

The logs also showed that Tartelette had done several thousand hours of simulated combat, not just repro battles, but everything the software could give. She seemed to train two to four additional hours almost every night. When she slept was a mystery to me. "It may be that I'm genetically predestined ... I've always been more athletic and stronger than others. But everything else is practice, practice and practice," she told me. “During a mission you are only as good as you are in your worst training”.

In the evening we went straight on and for me shooting training was on the agenda again. I began to wonder what had happened to all the free time we had been promised during the two weeks of basic training.

After all, they had said that we would only have a four-day week. And after heavy deployments, at least three extra holidays. Maybe that was the case with regular units, but certainly not with Tamara's unit.

Tartelette also came down to the basement again after she had done her office work and gave me a telling off. For the twentieth time she stressed that I should finally take up marathon running. "Your endurance and agility are grotty. So now get out of here, I want to practice."

That must have been around ten o'clock at night. At home, my refrigerator was yawningly empty and I had gotten something to eat from a brasserie.

Thursday, June 7, 2164

"Muscles need rest to grow, it's called supercompensation," Tartelette explained to me. Emily had prepared breakfast and set out extra protein drinks for me. "So you can build muscle mass and get as big and strong as Gabin," she smiled as Gabin took off his uniform jacket and posed like a bodybuilder. Tartelette joined him and performed some ninja pressure technique on Gabin, who fell to the ground like a potatoe bag. I watched in fascination - I really had to learn that trick.

Breakfast sort of turned into brunch while Tartelette watched helmet video with us and gave us tips on what we could improve.

Someone knocked on the door. Our ReS doctor, Doctor Selger, entered. "Ah, the vampire. Well roll up your sleeves, folks." The doctor was used to these jokes, as he came by every two weeks to draw blood and do other tests that were on his long list.

Since we came in contact with repro so frequently, it was important to check us regularly for blood count changes. In addition, we were closely supervised by fitness trainers and physical therapists. After all, we had to be fit to fight again in the shortest possible time after injuries, so we received the best possible medical care. Gabin, with his broken ribs, was ready for action again after only six hours in the regeneration tank.

Tartelette rolled up her sleeve and extended her forearm to the doctor. Afterwards, Emily went to the shooting range and Gabin wedged himself behind some theory sessions, while Doctor Selger suddenly turned to Tartelette. "Commander, have you committed this boy yet? Because of paragraph 24(4)?"

I had opened the large ReS manual on my computer and looked up in amazement.

Tartelette was looking at me with a strange expression on her face. "Boy, wait in the old coffee room. Gabin, where do you keep your wonder magazines?"

Somewhat confused, I stood up and walked to the unused chamber where packaging, boxes, cleaning robots, and old combat armors piled up. What on earth was the boss planning to do with me? Suddenly, she stood behind me and pushed me roughly onto a crate while she pulled the door shut behind her. "So, you must have had biology in school?"

I was relieved. I would do well on a science exam and so I nodded in agreement. "Then you've also heard about Mendel and his peas." Immediately I affirmed, remembering the lessons on heredity and breeding.

"Wonderful, then you must have had sex education in school?"

Her icy blue eyes stared at me. I was embarrassed and felt myself blushing.

"Very well, then fill this up and get it to Doctor Selger." I looked at the plastic box she held out to me. I think my face contorted into an incredulous grimace.

"... W ... w ... what?", I then brought out.

"Lad, don't make such a fuss. You're a clever fellow, aren't you? It will be obvious to you, won't it, that the gene that allows us to smell Repros is incredibly valuable. But ReS sailors usually die before they get around to fathering children. So sooner or later, the gene would die out. Once a month, sailors donate their sperm and female sailors are forced to donate egg cells."

I fell silent as Tartelette held out a retro porn magazine to me, and the little tin with my name on it.

"You know how to do it, right?"

I think that made my face fully blush, because I felt the burn all over. Hesitantly, I nodded. "Very well, then fill up the little tin!"

"Now?"

She hefted the rolled-up magazine over my head.

“No! Tonight, on your own time! You're not getting paid to have fun here!" With that, she turned around laughing.

I didn't dare go back outside, because now I wouldn't survive a joke from Gabin or Thibault.

After what felt like an hour, I thought I was no longer blushing and stuck my head outside. Emily had just returned and a police officer was walking purposefully to Tartelette's office.

"Hey ReS!", it was the friendly policeman, Gerhard, our contact man to the police barracks. Because we shared the building with the cops. "We're going to play a round of zapper shooting later, want to join us? We could use some teammates. There's cake afterwards too!" he tried to bait Tartelette, but she was a willing participant from the start.

"We'll join in, it's good target practice. Will you bring us some game zappers ... we don't have any."

Logically, our normal zappers were much more powerful than the ones the police used. Gerhard nodded and disappeared again while Doctor Segler stowed the blood tubes and said goodbye.

"Emily are you playing?"

"No, mon Capitaine. I don't want to shoot anyone, I think that's stupid."

I dared to slip quickly into the room, for at the moment no one was paying any attention to me. It was good that everyone was distracted and Tamara was staring at Emily relentlessly.

There was a crack as Thibault came into the room with his exoskeleton just behind me. He had overheard the conversation and reared up behind Emily. "When the captain says you raise the sails, you don't argue, you do it, sailor!" Tartelette laughed and everyone joined in.

By the way, the fuss about sailors and ships was not far-fetched, because the ReS was not under the army in France, but under the navy for completely illogical reasons. I had learned that yesterday from Thibault.

After everyone had calmed down enough, Emily looked up.

"I'll do it if you order me to," she clarified, and Tartelette looked at her icily. Thibault had told me that both women regularly engaged in catfights, and I wondered if this was it. But after Emily lowered her eyes, Tartelette eased away from her.

Fortunately, no alarm came and we played round after round with the cops. To my great regret, there were only three female officers in the crew of twenty. Of those, two were maybe barely thirty, so way too old, the other already had a boyfriend... So I would have to look elsewhere for a girlfriend....

The police commander was satisfied with my shooting performance and praised me: "The boy is really good. Hey kid, aren't you going to join us?"

"No way, Colonel, Matthis is mine!" my captain countered immediately and I became quite blissful that she was using my name for the first time.

Finally, there had to be a wrestling match. A new policeman was persuaded to compete against Tamara. Although Commander Arlette was known as a fearsome fighter, this did not impress the big, strong commissar. He was confident of victory and threw himself at the smaller Tamara. I grinned as my commander unceremoniously took him down and forced his arm into a police hold until he gave up. Unbelievable how many tricks she knew!

Everyone hooted and laughed. What fun! And I asked Tamara to teach me to fight that well, too. "About 30 years of experience and daily training," she told me her secret. "Just do what I tell you, kid, and you'll learn everything."

I resolved to do just that, to emulate Tamara as best I could.

I dreamed in the night of Tartelette as queen and Thibault as king, while I was general of a rat repro army, trying to save a sinking boat with Gabin. Afterwards, a repro came at me with a stiff step and opened his jaw unnaturally wide. I fired, but my zapper didn't work. Then its teeth dug into my throat. Zombie! Yes, that's what they called the people who became repros. Because they corresponded exactly to the cliché of the mythical revenants.

Friday, June 8, 2164

In the morning at the shooting training I ran for the first time a simulation with zombies - or politically correct said: genetically reprogrammed humans - and I killed all of them without any problems.

That put my mind at ease.

Finally, Gabin called for me. We were about to leave to train at a larger shooting range. I got into the vehicle with the others. Tamara had a laceration on her forehead that she didn't have yesterday.

Gabin asked her if she had done another wrestling match. Our commander shook her head:

"Didn't happen until after."

Yves, the one driver, turned to us and grinned:

"Well, was it a bar fight or the bouncer robot at the 'Bar Rouge' again?"

He collected a painful slap from Tartelette.

"We have kids on board. So don't talk nonsense." She smiled at me and then said, "It was quite harmless, a little ballet accident with my dance partner when we were practicing a 'pas de deux.' I slipped out of the gentleman's hands while doing an arabesque."

I was now really wondering who was taking the piss out of me. I could imagine a thrashing Tartelette in a barroom brawl much more easily than wearing a white tutu while dancing ballet. I must have looked really confused and everyone was laughing.

"We have a shooting range?", I finally asked after we had been driving in silence for minutes.

"Yeah just past Chatelion Plage," Emily said, checking some aggregate on her combat armor, "usually we go shooting and then swimming and ..." - "And then eat waffles," Gabin completed the program.

"STOP!" screeched Tartelette all at once. The driver slammed on his brakes in shock and Tartelette sprinted out of the vehicle. "Repros?", I asked, startled.

"No, Pineau," came the reply from Emily, who was examining another piece of her equipment. "Tartelette would never freak out like that over repros ... she only does that when she sees something edible."

And sure enough, after a few minutes, Tartelette returned with several bottles of Pineau. This is a local specialty alcohol, something in between cognac and red wine. It makes you drunk as hell, because it contains a lot of alcohol, is sweet, and you drink it ice cold. So you don't even notice the high percentage and cup too much of it too quickly....

Finally we arrived and unpacked the equipment for the shooting exercises. But there came another alarm: a repro cat in the middle of a village on Île de Ré.

Yes, if it's an outside operation, cows in a pasture for example, you can take your time. But when the critters are already running through the villages, things get dicey. The driver hit the gas. He had all the other automatic vehicles shooed aside by the control center. So he could speed through without any traffic problems.

This was my first major operation. My baptism of fire, so to speak, so I would like to describe everything in detail.

Thibault received so many emergency calls in a short time that he had to evacuate the village. The Île de Ré is an island just off La Rochelle and connected to the city by a quaint concrete bridge.

When we arrived in the city, Tartelette immediately had the rest of the island evacuated and because of the new fish repro danger, the navy was also already ordered in. At the height of Saint-Martin, the traffic was so dense due to the evacuation that nothing worked. "And let someone else say that France is underpopulated," Gabin joked, alluding to the fact that only 10% of the world's population had survived the repro apocalypse.

"Damn it," Tartelette cursed. "Hey driver, turn on the hover unit. We're going through the Marais Salants."

Our vehicle was equipped with hover jets, but they were only needed in emergencies because of the high energy consumption. A little later, we were chasing across the salt ponds called the Marais Salants, where the locals skimmed salt and sold it expensively around the world.

We roared across a small field where the famous potatoes thrived in the sandy soil. To Tamara's great sorrow, our hover drive shredded the plants.

By then we arrived in Les Portes, the village at the very end of the island. It was dead quiet - everyone together, including policemen and firemen had left the village in flight.

"It seems that an elderly lady kept her infected cat with her for weeks instead of reporting it. Probably an incomplete expression," Tartelette, who had radio communication with ReS headquarters, informed us.

I had learned that the expression of repros was quite different, depending on the strength of the reprogrammation. There were weak transformations, where the animals had only little powers and moved even slower than usual, up to the aggressive, full expressions, where they had almost super powers. I mostly listened to the radio traffic of the overall operation, where the ReS headquarters coordinated everything. During such large-scale operations, Tamara took over the coordination of everyone involved. Tartelette was given the operational command in each case and was thus allowed to command everyone. This was accepted by everyone involved - police, army and navy. This was her profession and she was occasionally flown to various large-scale missions all over France.

Meanwhile, two decacopters carrying army soldiers had shown up over the village. They would not land until Tartelette ordered them to. We got out.

"Groups of two, we'll roam the village and kill as many repros as we can. We'll meet at the cat house in twenty minutes. We'll work our way from there. Moussaillon to me."

Obediently, I attached myself to Tartelette's heels.

We walked through the marketplace, the stalls deserted and a light breeze of repro smell wafting over everything. I successfully killed two repro cats.

Then loud barking. Three dogs, rushed at us. They showed the reprogramming with full expression. In a flash, they dodged the zapper beams. With an abnormal speed one of them accelerated and with its mouth wide open it threw itself at me. I was paralyzed, the primal fear of these super-powered 'zombies' gripped me like a nightmare from which one never awakens. There was a bang as the dog's teeth slid down my visor. My helmet bulged inward.

I threw up my right arm and it bit into it. The armor cracked. Helpless, I tried to grab the machete with my left arm and strike with it. I knocked chunks of meat out of the dog without being able to slow it down. I missed hitting the neck. The zombie jerked his head around and almost dislocated my shoulder. He kept tearing and just pulled me along with him, I lost the machete. I felt his fangs digging through the armor.

But Tartelette was there and decapitated him. The armor was cracked, my helmet was slightly dented, the fangs had left deep holes. My arm throbbed from the pressure pain, but I had not been bitten. I wondered if my brother was watching the show and if he had thought I was going to die.

I was shaking all over. So much training, and I was almost killed in the first attack.

Slowly I understood why even professional soldiers didn't want anything to do with repros: The animals were unpredictable, not deterred by slogans like 'hands up' - 'drop your weapon' or fancy firearms. The armor we wore was just reassurance. And these superpowers surpassed anything I had imagined. Of course, who hadn't seen the surveillance videos of people being blown to bits in seconds? But the intensity of this attack surpassed anything I had practiced.

But our gift for sensing the animals bought us the few milliseconds we needed. A few milliseconds that set us apart from everyone else.

We heard over the radio how Gabin was killing a flock of repo gulls. There was nothing else suspicious in the main street. Tartelette took some croissants from the vacant bakery.

Then we passed through a residential area with cute one-story villas. Our driver was behind us, following at walking speed. The armored vehicle was almost hermetically sealed and I had been told never to open the door during an operation. That could put the drivers in danger. Especially smaller infected animals could slip in at lightning speed.

Finally, we heard the some bells ringing. It was Gabin and Emily, who had grabbed two bikes from somewhere and caught up with us at the house in question. We went inside.

And almost at the same time I wanted to run out again. On the entrance floor lay the body of the old woman, her head was completely crushed and the skull was open. A rat was still licking out the rest of the brain. Gabin squished it with his boots. I choked dry. Emily patted me on the shoulders. Then the nausea subsided.

Only now did Emily give me the explanation of why we were even going back to the house where it had all started.

"It's not just that Tamara is a super fighter. She's the most decorated commander in the ReS, in part because she's been working hard on the spread of repros. She has developed a program to better understand and target the spread."

I nodded; I had picked up something about these programs in a ReS report. Tamara used them to record repros killed across Europe to predict epidemics. So the boss was not only a super fighter, but an above-average programmer.

"Let's get to the beach. The other ReS units will clean up the village and the surrounding area," Tartelette finally ordered after letting run several simulations in her software to help her to find the best next move.

A few minutes later we were already at the first beach called Trousse Chemise, as I could read on the superimposed map. "We're going to walk the shore now, and as soon as you see an aquatic animal that's a repro, you scream. It's all about finding out if the virus has jumped over yet."

The shore was one of those things. With the strong tides and shallow shores, the ocean was several hundred meters away, so there was quite a bit of shore to search. At a light jog, we hurried across the sandy bottom. I arrived at a small private oyster farm that now towered over water, and by then I smelled the foul repro stench.

"Oyster repro," I screeched in horror as several hundred oysters began snapping at me. Fortunately, they were firmly attached, or I probably would have been eaten by them. "Shit. That's all we need, all those fine oysters to be destroyed," Tartelette said disappointedly.

Suddenly our radios crackled rather loudly, "Everyone! Police, Military, ReS units present at Île de Ré. The German Emperor and his Merkelist party have given us an ultimatum; either we have the situation under control in four hours and prevent the virus from spreading to the sea, or they'll drop some hydrogen bombs on us."

That was it. The dreaded nuclear strike!

One's own country could make a request, or the neighboring states could. This usually happened when there was a danger of not being able to control a repro outbreak. Then there was nothing left but to destroy everything to avoid a major repro spread.

That was one of the reasons why Tamara was so famous: the last ten years she had been able to save at least fifteen cities from a nuclear strike. Most of the time, she had been hastily dispatched from ReS headquarters to the disaster site. There, with her instincts, fighting spirit, daring strategies, and organizational talent, she always somehow got the situation under control.

Still, I thought of the chaos that was now breaking out in La Rochelle and the surrounding area as everyone tried to get away as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, Tartelette had not remained idle. For a heavy flying tank full of gun heads was speeding toward us. The boss had ordered him to wipe the beach and shore clean. She was convinced that the oyster bank was the only danger on this side of the island.

We barely made it to the vehicle before the military got going. Twice the shock waves of the explosions knocked me to the ground, but Gabin mercilessly dragged me on. Slowly I understood why Tartelette had always insisted that I should do more sports, especially endurance running. Even chubby Emily was panting far less than I was.

The driver put his foot down and at full speed we circled the tip of the island on the hover drive and chased to the other beach, which Tartelette calculated was the second most dangerous. The lighthouse of the Île de Ré loomed in the distance. While I barely had time to catch my breath, the others chased back down to the shore area. Even the light muscle boosters built into the combat gear didn't help.

"Don't look so dumb. Shoot the repro gulls down!" came the order from Tartelette. I raised the pump shotgun and took aim at the swarm that was bearing down on me. I emptied my magazine. But then another military decacopter arrived. It came flying at me from behind. Even under my combat helmet, I went half deaf as the high-tech helicopter mowed down the gulls four meters above me with its over-calibrated machine gun. I didn't even have to go chopping heads anymore, as only chunks of flesh rained down.

I took a deep breath and ran after my colleagues who were scanning the beach in a set pattern.

My lungs were burning and my legs felt like pudding. Despite the cooling of the combat suit, I was totally sweaty. Twice I stumbled and landed splat in the wet sand. "Driver, come here and pick up the boy, otherwise he'll collapse on us," I heard Tartelette order on the radio.

Just a few seconds later, the vehicle was beside me in active hover mode. I clung to the large rearview mirror and tried to somehow place my armored combat boots on the narrow running board. The driver drove along the high dunes and I focused on the stench as I tried to catch my breath.

The next few hours passed with searching, but no one found any evidence of any living thing that had been contaminated on the beach. More ReS troops had spread out on the other beaches, but other than our oyster colony, things were looking good.

Meanwhile, we had made it to the lighthouse, which was on another tip of the island. The driver had debarqued me as the vehicle's batteries were running low. Gabin opened his combat visor and I saw that he too was sweaty, "Well boss, does the Merkelist party still have their finger on the trigger?"

Actually, each of us had access to all radio traffic, but it seemed that only Tartelette managed to monitor everything and look for repros at the same time.

"Oh come on, by now it's our own people and our king president is supposedly almost shitting his pants over it."

"Why? Because he might have to give the death order for a few thousand people?" inquired Emily with a sniffle, because not all of them would get away in time.

"Bullshit, he's worried about his vacation villa on Île d'Oléron ..."

I saw our communications displays suddenly glow orange. This meant that the radio was now on a private channel and not broadcasting to the public. It was Thibault, who wanted to tell us something in confidence:

"Tamara, pay attention. We are live on the air. The king hates that kind of talk, you know that!"

"Yes, but the population loves it... We're going to have a snack and then search the rest." Determined, Tartelette headed for the small tourist district just below the lighthouse and made herself comfortable on the deserted terrace of the "Chez Marie" bistro.

"They make the best waffles around here. Cadet, go to the kitchen and take care of that. Gabin get something to drink and Emily see what ice cream is left." We all sprinted off to carry out the commander's orders while she herself went back to her simulations.

The waffle oven thing was easier than I thought it would be, and I managed to bake four waffles without burning them.

We all ate in silence and I laid my tired legs on a chair. Gabin did the same and was now lying there very comfortably. Too comfortable. Tartelette gave the chair legs a kick and Gabin flew to the floor.

Then the redeeming message, the nuclear strike had been lifted. The king himself announced that Commander Arlette, as he saw it, had the situation under control. Actually, that was high praise for our unit and for Tamara personally. But she did not respond.

We spent the rest of the day searching the coast. Unfortunately, the rest of the beach was more difficult to search, as it was no longer a sandy beach and we had to climb over overgrown boulders. Only in the evening we came to rest in Grignon near Ars-en-Ré. Since the island was still under quarantine, it had to be cleaned completely before we could leave.

"Thibault, any news from the other units?" asked Tartelette as she led us unerringly down a road.

Thibault briefly counted up the dead and wounded. "Otherwise, it's so boring that ReS headquarters has interrupted your broadcast."

I abruptly became aware again that the small cameras on our helmets were transmitting everything live. I had completely forgotten about that.

"I'm hungry, when are we going to take a break?" whined Gabin.

Tartelette had the solution for that right away and we stopped at a sinfully expensive wellness hotel. I looked for an empty room and was glad to finally get out of my hygienic underpants. They were a kind of diapers, like astronauts wore. Because during missions, we had a hard time taking off our combat gear.

Finally, we bathed together in the hot tub. Red, ugly welts on Tartelette's back caught my eye and I wondered what animal had injured her like that.

"After that we'll have something to eat and then we'll do some training on the beach and search the rest..." the captain mused to herself, not even seeming to think that maybe we were all knackered from today. I was sure she was joking.

But Tartelette's announcement was all seriousness on her part. We ate, standing in the kitchen, and then it was back to the beach. I was terribly tired and watched sleepily as an Army decacopter supplied us with extra ammunition and other equipment the boss had ordered.

Gabin thrust into my hand some sort of juggling club that looked like a primitive grenade. "Did you get those in World War I?", I asked, yawning. A hard slap on the back made my jaws snap together painfully.

"So kid, if you're tired, you take a shot of Adalin.”

Yes, the Adalin, that was a military sleep inhibitor, strictly forbidden outside the army. I watched as the boss operated my combat mount controls, and the hidden injector on my upper left arm itched briefly. After a few minutes, I felt refreshed. As if I had slept fourteen hours, and I was much more composed than before. By sundown, Tartelette had us doing wrestling drills in the sand and throwing rocks.

"You must stay limber, even on the ground and when a wriggling repro is on top of you. And one day, a rock may be the only weapon you have left!", Tartelette explained to me - the others seemed to have already heard this lecture.

Thibault provided us with the final information. With the weird clubs called “flame grenades”, we made a big fire. For repros are attracted by enormous flames. We stood guard until dawn.

Saturday, June 9, 2164

The second day in the field was exceedingly instructive. Gabin, our expert tracker, took a lot of time to explain the tracks to me as we hunted repros remaining on the beach.