John Ridley: Those Who Walk in Darkness

Soledad had been standing in ICU so long the drone of life support had faded down to Muzak. It was time to go. But how do you leave someone who may or may not even know you're there? How do you leave someone who may be serene on the outside but screaming like the buried undead within?

Soledad slid fingers, gently, along Reese's shoulder—skin soft, body warm. There was still life there. There was still hope—along Reese's tattoo of the bold words.

And then Soledad left.

What is this? You want to tell me what this is?"

"It's my gun."

Soledad tried to read Rysher. Rysher was hard to read. He looked weary. Sort of. Not quite angry. Mostly he looked pained. But it was just hard to tell. Rysher'd spent a lot of years navigating the politics of the LAPD. He'd floated their currents all the way to lieutenant of G Platoon, the Metanormal Tactical Unit. Big title. Lot of responsibility. You're in charge of the people who keep superhumans in check in the second largest city in America. You don't get to a spot like that by having a weak poker face, letting everybody know exactly what you're thinking and how you're feeling. At the moment, consciously or unconsciously, he betrayed nothing. Soledad couldn't tell for sure if Rysher's look was pained or quietly furious.

"I know it's your gun, Officer. Specifically what is this?"

On his desk, where the lieutenant's finger pointed, was Soledad's case: her side arm and its clips. Six of them. Color-coded. Blue, green, yellow, orange, black and red. The red clip—phosphorus-tipped bullets—she'd used to chop the pyro. Effective but obviously not enough killing power. Maybe she needed to hollow the points, up the damage quotient to compensate for the speed lost by the friction of the burning slug against the air as it…

Soledad realized she'd been thinking when she should have been listening.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't—"

"I asked you to tell me what this is."

Soledad glanced at Bo. Bo, arms folded, leaning against the wall, didn't look ready to involve himself in things. For the minute he wasn't Soledad's sergeant, element member. He was a spectator. Nothing more, nothing else.

"It's an O'Dwyer VLe."

That got a laugh from Rysher. Part bemused. Part dismissive."You're kidding, right? Metalstorm can't get DARPA to approve this thing past the experimental stage. HIT has written it off, and you take it out on a call? How did you even get one?"

"They sent it to me. Metalstorm granted me permission to make modifications provided I gave them the rights to all patents that resulted from my work."

Rysher, walking through things slowly: "On your own. You go out, get permission from an experimental contractor. Then, spare time, you modify a weapon?"

Rysher turned to Bo, looked to him. As always, Rysher gave nothing. Bo, maintaining his disinterested-observer status, returned nothing.

"My undergraduate work was in emerging technologies at Northwestern. I staffed A Platoon in the armory for more than a year, where I was trained in modifying both SWAT and MTac weaponry. This is not a hobby, sir. I'm fully qualified."

Under her clothes, from under her arm, along the side of her body, Soledad felt a single drop of sweat crawl down her flesh.

Light eked through the window, past drapes faded dull from years of collecting sunlight. It lit the walls, fake wood paneling, and reflected off of plaques to Lieutenant Rysher and awards to Lieutenant Rysher and honors to Lieutenant Rysher and photographs of suits and brass giving Rysher those plaques and awards and certificates. Soledad was featured in one of the pictures. Her and Rysher, him shaking her hand, the day she was accepted to G Platoon. Soledad still had sense memory of his strong grip that transferred respect. Rysher'd welcomed a lot of cops to his command over years of service. Out of all of them, that he should choose to hang a shot of him and Soledad in his office… Rysher was proud of Soledad. Had told her that on many occasions, and not just when he was handing her wall dressing. A lot of times, just passing her in the hall, he'd take a minute to stop, talk, catch up with her, then having done so end things with" I'm proud of you, Soledad." That's what made sitting in his office breaking things down for him hard. Whatever the situation, if Rysher was pissed at her… that wasn't good, but she'd deal. But, decent as he'd always been, what Soledad couldn't deal with was letting Rysher down.

Rysher, holding up one of the clips, the red one: "This is what you used on the pyro. Phosphorus, right?"

Soledad gave a nod.

Rysher held up the yellow clip.

"Synthetic slugs. For metal morphers."

"Synthetic slugs don't give you enough velocity." Rysher put that square. He wasn't just some brass behind a desk. He'd spent a long time, a lot of years, going after freaks. He knew what he was talking about.

So did Soledad."The gun has DTT auto targeting for distance modulation. Because the weapon is electronic, it can modulate the discharge with the synthetic slugs, fire them at a higher velocity relative to distance from target." That was technical mumbo jumbo. The point: "It moves the slugs fast enough to put down its target."

The green clip.

"High-density muties: invulnerables, impenetrables."

"What good is a bullet if it can't penetrate?"

"The slug is a gelcap. Contact poison. Exposed to the flesh, it arrests the nervous system in less than twelve seconds."

That one, the green clip, Rysher set down carefully."Little something for everybody."

A shrug."Nothing for intangibles, sir. I've been working on it, but freaks that can shift planes, manipulate density…? I haven't figured out anything for them yet. Or for telepaths."

Bo made a move. Slight. But he'd been so still, quiet, his slightest action was magnified by expectation. Soledad, Rysher, they both looked to Bo. He did nothing more than adjust his stance. Make himself comfortable.

Soledad tugged at the collar of her turtleneck, self-conscious.

Rysher said: "What were you thinking? How could you… Why would you do this?" He was so full of lament you'd think he was asking Soledad why she shot his dog.

"How could I do what, sir?"

"First time I heard about you, everybody was saying you were good cop."

"I am a good—"

"You worked hard, you angled for MTac. I had hopes for you. High hopes, O'Roark."

O'Roark. Her last name. Soledad couldn't recall a time, in private, Rysher didn't use her first name. Now O'Roark. No" Officer" in front of it. Just O'Roark. Distant. Cold.

Soledad said: "And I haven't done anything that—"

"The hell you haven't." Distant. Cold. Getting more so by the second."You used ordnance that aren't approved, aren't certified."

"The weapon works, sir."

"It's not even out of the experimental stage of development."

"It's… no, sir, it's not. But I have tried for two years to get the weapon certified."

"Tried how?"

"I submitted schematics, proposals, test results to A Platoon."

"And when you didn't get the response you wanted, when you wanted it, you decided to field-test your piece on your first call."

"No, sir."

"You packed that thing by accident? Sure wasn't an accident you had it hidden in this case. If you'd carried it in the open—"

Soledad began an answer, got tripped up at the starting line. Then: "It was meant to be a backup. If our element had no other option—"

"And you decide that? A probee on MTac, and you decide how to handle a call."

"What was the alternative? Do nothing while that freak put four people in a coma instead of one? At least that. I did my job. Sir."

No matter the respect she had for Rysher, in the moment, Soledad almost forgot to tack on the honorific.

Made no difference. Rysher wasn't listening. He was sitting, thinking. His fingers working at the spot where his temple met his brow.