Читать книгу The Fallen Heroine - Fabienne Gschwind - Страница 14

"This is a good place. Give me a robber ladder, boy."

Today I was in a really good mood. As Tartelette gave me this command, I leaned my pump shotgun against a shelf and interlocked my fingers. Tamara put her foot on it and then the other on my armored shoulder. She quickly pulled herself up the shelf between bags of chips, salted peanuts, and insect snacks, then leapt with a catlike leap onto one of the aluminum beams that support the roof of the mall at regular intervals. I reached for my pump shotgun again and looked around.

It was quite dark, but the residual light amplifier in my intelligent combat sight was active and highlighted the position of my colleagues in color. Gabin had also climbed onto a girder and Emily was moving between shelves to find a strategic position on the other side of the hall.

Our whole operation had been caused by a reprogrammed blackbird that had strayed into the large mall late that afternoon and immediately attacked a few employees and customers.

The building had been evacuated in the meantime and surrounded by police and ReS volunteers. The lights were off, because repros don't have supernatural x-ray vision or anything. Therefore, a repro blackbird would not see anything in the dark and could not fly anywhere specifically. I watched Emily swing herself up onto an aluminum beam as well, not quite as athletic as Tartelette, but still looking really professional. Our new training already showed the first effect, after only a few days!

"Okay guys, scan the building with the thermal cameras, maybe we'll find the critter somewhere.”

This could take a while, because finding such a small animal with thermal cameras would be difficult.

So I can tell you briefly what we have been doing:

Tartelette had written an open letter the same day we came back from Île de Ré and told about her project to create a real special unit. She had recommended to ReS headquarters and the government that we be officially recognized as a special unit when the training was completed. Thibault mentioned that in her attempt to convince them, she had offended many senior politicians and made more enemies. But at least it had worked; she got more money for additional weapons. "But also only to prevent her from making more trouble," our first mate had added. After all, the live broadcasts would make it easy for Tamara to denigrate one noble or another, something everyone was afraid of.

She had contacted her friends in the Foreign Legion to train us in various specialties. Tartelette had once served there herself - but no one found out why or how.

In any case, for exactly five days now, we've had intensive military training, well, just in between normal missions. Tartelette has also provided us with the tools for high-performance athletes. That is, we received muscle stimulation and special oxygen amplification like the high-performance athletes, who use it to trim themselves to peak performance without doping.

These treatments had an almost immediate effect. I wondered why every ReS unit didn't do such training. But Thibault had calculated for me how expensive it would be to equip all units with this equipment.

Finally, I was sent off to flush the bird. I ran around and made a lot of noise.

The whole fuss went on for ten minutes and by the shelf with the preserved olives, oil, mustard and mayonnaise I found what I was looking for.

It came as it had to come. With the upgraded arsenal of weapons my buddies dismantled the blackbird and the whole shelf. I was buried underneath. A sharp pain on my butt showed that a shard had found its way between my thigh armor and combat vest and dug into my butt.

Then it quieted.

"Gotcha! Boy, you can come out."

That was easier said than done. It took a quarter of an hour for my colleagues to get me free from under the collapsed shelf and lead me outside to our vehicle.

The parking lot was in chaos. Fire department, police, ambulance were on the scene and everyone was swarming around.

By now I was standing by our vehicle with my armored pants down, leaning against a door while Gabin looked at my buttocks.

"Yeah I see it, but it's not even bleeding. The shard got stuck in your fat ... do you want me to take you to the ambulance?"

"No, just pull it out. But hurry up, not everyone has to see it!"

"Well, ship's boy, did you get some war wounds?" Shoot, that was Tartelette, who was now watching Gabin curiously as he pulled the splinters out of my butt cheek. As she did so, she nibbled on a puff pastry she had snagged from the supermarket. I was so embarrassed that I didn't even feel any pain.

And to make matters worse, the police commander came by.

"Hello Captain Arlette. You're giving your sailors a hard time. Do you have a few minutes to look at the official reports?"

"I'll be right there ... Gabin, Emily take care of our junior and then you're off duty. I'll see you again tomorrow."

This talk of sailor and ship's boy was not just a joke. The book of ranks had taught me a thing or two about this. According to it, Tartelette, with her rank as captain, had almost the highest rank and could only be promoted to admiral or commodore. I myself had already risen from shipboy status to junior sailor, but would need another three and a half years to finally become a senior sailor, a full member of the unit. In reality, it was a money thing: junior sailors earned much less than full sailors. Three and a half years was a bit less than the average life expectancy, so it was a lucrative affair for the ReS.