Fabienne Gschwind - The Fallen Heroine

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.