On Ice

By Greyhound1211

                His hand throbbed, the gauze wrapped around his knuckles was already flecked with blood where it had spotted through the bandages beneath. It hurt when he bent his fingers in and straightened them out. At least when he extended and retracted his claws it didn’t give him a pang of pain. He pulled the gauze a bit tighter and sighed. He said he wouldn’t be like that anymore, putting a hole into a wall because something was taken from him.

                And yet…

                “Keep low, don’t let your head stick above the escarpment,” a voice said through the holoscreen. “We don’t want to blow anything before we’ve even begun.”

                “Roger,” another answered.

                “Keep frosty,” a third said. “Until we get the call, we’re on ice.”

                Chief Inspector Trey Riegel leaned closer to the screen perched upon the dividing wall between the rear where ‘certain members’ were allowed to watch and the driver’s cabin in this PB van. The mountain goat was the one that had told him that the Fournier and LeLande case had been yanked from his hands at the finish line. It was being told that this case, which he’d worked for months, which made Inspector Peaks put his hand through the drywall at home and catch a stud.

                It wasn’t Riegel’s fault, he knew. Trey was a good guy, honest, and frank. The cougar understood this, he’d known him for close to ten years. Riegel would never let someone fuck him over unless it came from way up on high. And this, Sean knew, came from way the fuck up on high. Being told to come to work at an odd time, to dress warmly for a mid-September night, and to sit in a tactical van with a holoscreen as nice as he’d have at home rigged to the dividing wall all let him know that this wasn’t normal.

                On the screen they’d watched as one of at least three PEK response teams set up. That’s German SWAT belonging to the Landespolizei of Berlin. Now they’d sat for another ten minutes just waiting. Peaks twisted on the uncomfortable wooden bench bolted to the wall as he scooted down to see the screen better.

                “What are they waiting for?” Peaks asked, voice gruff and exhausted.

                Chief Inspector Riegel shook his head, eyes not leaving the screen.

                “Wish I had even the foggiest,” he replied plainly.

                Sean looked to the mountain goat and knew something was really off. A Chief Inspector in the violent crimes division doesn’t know what his own department’s PEK response unit was waiting on? Peaks’ jaw set because this wasn’t kosher and he didn’t like when things weren’t kosher. And, as Trey was keenly aware, Sean had a habit of letting people know that. He’d once told Chief Bonn to fuck himself when confronted about a diamond job he’d brute forced several years ago.

                He wasn’t punished. Trey had heard through the grapevine that Chief Bonn had actually responded well to it. Apparently no one ever had the balls to call him out when he was wrong. Peaks, however, believed it was what kept him from a promotion to Chief Inspector himself. Trey’d never told him what he’d heard. He let him think it was one incident instead of a lifetime of misanthropy, punching up, and general assholery.

                “You didn’t hear anything through the vine about this, did you?” the cougar fished.

                Trey shook his head and Peaks knew he was telling the truth. Riegel had tells that weren’t subtle.

                “This came to me at the last moment, too,” he responded. “I was told to hand over the file and inform you it was PEK business.” Sean grunted before Riegel said, “Though…” Sean perked up again. “This is beyond bizarre. Having us come out here, watching a cam stream from one of their vests. And Ritzmann, the PEK Director, told me something about them testing a new toy. He didn’t say toy, but—”

                “Right, yeah,” Sean concluded for him. “So, what, we’re an audience to an operation in a surgical theater?”

                Riegel shrugged again and answered, “I guess so.”

                Who did this come from, then? This wasn’t PB, right? BPOL? Bundeswehr? BND? He flexed his hands again and felt like punching the metal shell of this van, but exhaled the urge away. There was nothing he could do but watch and wait.

—

                Wulf stood facing the double doors leading out of this van. It was explained the plan. It was explained what was expected of it. It was explained what tools would be at its disposal and what the consequences were for anything less than complete success. It had internalized these directives over the past day as it had its firmware updated, had parts of its musculature replaced or improved. It internalized it while its positronic brain was in standby and it reviewed them again even now.

                Enter the foundry grounds. Approach without being seen. Enter the building then subdue and arrest the hitmen Fournier and LeLande. Wulf brought the pictures of the two men up. A raccoon, Fournier, and a mutt, LeLande. French nationals, both. Doing so without loss of life was required. Doing it without violence was preferable but unnecessary. Failure would mean a cancellation of the program and its likely decommissioning.

                Wulf had but two opinions, one of which was preprogrammed. That one was that human life is sacrosanct. The other is that it did not want to be decommissioned.

                It felt the outfit it had been dressed in stretch across its smooth, white skin. A black pullover, a black set of pants, and heavy black boots. Altogether, these provided better coverage in the darkness of the streets around this part of Spandau and would be helpful in the black interior of unoccupied rooms within the shuttered foundry that was its target. The fabric, all wool, strained against his prodigious figure.

A vest had been layered atop the sweater, one that was only strung with three items – a flashbang grenade, a smoke canister, and enough manacles for three people. No other weapons would be granted Wulf. It must use only its intellect and physical prowess to overcome these obstacles.

Lastly, they were waiting for the arrival of a third target whose apprehension was preferred but not expected. Grigori Veneshenko, a Belarussian national and a middle ranking member of the Russian Mafia, the Bratva. It is believed the ruddy red wolf had been behind the commissioning and payment for the assassinations of several important criminal rivals as well as influential businessmen and women here in North Germany. If Veneshenko were to arrive, he and anyone with him could be added to the bounty. Their loss would not be considered a failure and the PEK teams on standby would act as a dragnet to catch anyone fleeing the scene.

“He ready?” Bonn asked.

He and a red panda technician sat in the rear of this van. Hess wasn’t able to accompany it this time. He instead had to attend a conference in Paris where the heads of Union Applied Robotics, Quantum Digital Products, and the Toyotaka Shenshi Electric Company were meeting. Along with General Robotics and, of course, Hess’s own Bernwerk, these were the big five robotics corporations. XTC and Xennox Technology still were considered second tier at best.

The fact they were Chinese and Brazilian respectively surely didn’t play into that fact.

“Yes, Chief Bonn,” the red panda girl replied, finishing tugging at Wulf’s clothes. “As soon as you give the go, he’ll be deployed. I’ll switch over the feed to his oculars and audio receptors and those will be broadcast to all watching as instructed.”

Andre didn’t reply. He simply looked to the holoscreen in the van he was shunted into, much as Peaks was a few blocks down, and a few other commanders in a third and fourth van. They rode in with the PEK teams. He rode in with the pinch hitter.

He wanted to say that he didn’t like this. And, truth be told, part of him didn’t. But this was do or die. Wulf needed to work. He needs to succeed, the Chief thought and ran his hand over his muzzle and nose. Everyone would watch as Wulf performed his mission from the android’s own eyes. This, combined with the recordings it would obtain, would be invaluable towards convincing detractors of its value.

He looked to the back of Wulf’s head and wondered if the machine even grasped the gravity of the situation. Probably not. After all, it had the personality and emotional range of a dead fish. He’d said it before, he’d think it again. He returned his attention to the holoscreen. They’d set up quite a while ago, before Fournier and LeLande could arrive so they couldn’t see any suspicious vehicles arrive. The vans were disguised as tradesman’s vans, too, and well. Andre insisted on using known businesses liveries so they wouldn’t stand out.

They’d waited, watched the two hitmen arrive in their nondescript sedan, probably a rental or stolen at random. And then they kept quiet. He’d pitched this mission as being an anti-organized crime operation. He could paper over if Veneshenko didn’t show up, but it was a lot better if—

“We have a car arriving,” a male voice stated frankly through the radio Bonn had placed on the bench beside him. Even with all their advanced technology, a simple handset with a scrambled channel was superior to anything shat out by Silicon Valley every year. “Mercedes S-Class, license plate matching that of the target. Over.”

Bonn snatched his handset up and held down the broadcast button.

“Keep in position,” he commanded them softly. “I’ll be sending out the response unit promptly. Only respond in an emergency or by my command. Snare anybody that tries to flee that compound. Over.”

“Roger.”

“Understood.”

“All clear.”

Bonn put the radio down. A weight had been lifted from his shoulder. He then looked to Wulf. It was odd, Hess not being here. He said he had to do that conference for appearances’ sake. And that Wulf had been thoroughly briefed. It was capable. All Bonn needed to do was help the tech do final preparations and then command the android to commence its mission.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he dry swallowed.

“Wulf,” he flatly said. The android’s ears perked. “You may commence your operation. Good luck. Don’t fuck it up.”

The android wolf did not respond. Instead, it stepped forward and opened the doors. White light from the LED lights chased the darkness away back this alley and silhouetted the hulking artificial wolf’s built figure. Dropping to the ground, Wulf turned. Its blue eyes met Bonn’s, holding the gaze at it closed both of the doors. Bonn hated those eyes. Not because they weren’t pretty, or painted with loathing or resentment or hatred for Bonn or anyone else.

It’s because they were devoid of any life at all.

He shivered and then turned back to the screen and the technician.

“Count to sixty,” he concluded. “Then switch the feed.”

—

                Wulf stalked along the dark alleyway to the street, keeping its hands in its pockets. It needed to cover a few blocks by foot before it reached the shuddered foundry near the River Spree the criminals had chosen as a rendezvous point. More commercial and industrial than anything else, the only vehicles that passed it by, illuminating the android with its headlights, had no passengers. Automated cars going to pick up its owner or a passenger paying for transport.

                It saw the foundry ahead, some pre-Cold War facility that likely pumped out steel or iron at one point. Now, its furnaces were cold and its chimneys a relic of a world only just interred. Its compound was surrounded by a 10’ tall brick wall and the gate stood open. Wulf went to the far corner and then hopped the wall with ease, not even removing its hands from its pockets.

                As it landed on the inside, the asphalt here cracked and letting grass sprout up, it felt a twinge in its head and knew it was broadcasting now. Wulf had been explained to it that its view would be used as a way to convince these influential officers, as well as others as the video and audio as it would be saved, scrubbed, and used as marketing material (marketing meaning convincing investors and buyers, not broadcast on television or on the internet) of its value.

                Wulf stood tall and scanned the buildings. It did not know what information was being broadcast. If it was just his ocular feed or if it included thought processes, highlights, information popups, and anything else that a human would need to perceive and digest information. Ultimately, it didn’t care. It moved forward silently, rubber-soled boots and off-black clothes concealing its approach.

                Ahead, the foundry itself loomed. Two vehicles were parked out. One’s headlights were still on, though no occupants were inside. A luxury Mercedes S-Class elongated sedan. The other was some random Peugeot. It focused its view on the building and went to one of the side doors. It found the door locked by chain as it tested it.

                Gripping the chain with both hands, it put its thumbs through one link and then pulled outwards. The link snapped easily, Wulf’s arms holding the chain still so it did so silently. Then the android pulled the chain free and opened the door. Stepping inside, Wulf closed the door and turned on its night vision. This allowed the whole room to appear clear, but in grayscale.

                The android advanced and moved towards where it heard, distantly, the sound of conversation. This room was some kind of storage at one point. The next, a hallway. Then came another open loading bay, a second hallway, and then an entrance to a cavernous room. All the while, the voices grew nearer and clearer. The android had enhanced it but only in the loading bay was able to discern actual conversation.

                It sounded like tense negotiation burgeoning on argument. It seems someone wasn’t happy about an arrangement. Criminals going back on their word? Unheard of. Wulf didn’t care about what they discussed, their words meant nothing. But it recorded it all as it stepped into the main production floor.

                The building had been cleared of most of its machinery, Wulf had learned. Though things that were too heavy, too secured, or not worth the effort were left behind. That included more equipment than one would assume and that all turned this room into somewhat of a maze of production lines, piping, heavy machinery, and overhead lines strung from the walls. Above, beyond those wires, exhaust flues ran up and up to the ceiling where they converged some four stories up and snaked towards the main chimney.

                A catwalk ran edged the whole room on the second floor and Wulf scanned it with its eyes, finding a set of stairs up to it across the room, past those voices. It advanced casually, moving not exactly leisurely, but control as it ducked under belts, shouldered past machinery, and generally kept its eyes and ears open.

                “No, no, no! You agreed to the price,” a French-accented male voice cursed in German. “You insisted upon a split payment, now you must fulfill your end of the bargain!”

                “The cops found his body, you fucking idiot!” a Slavic-tinged, deep bass male voice replied in German.

                “That is not our problem,” another French-accented voice stated, male as well. It sounded calm, collected, disinterested. “Our contract was clear and both you and anyone above you that you happen to represent were made aware of this before agreeing to it and signing.”

                Wulf ducked under a slag channel and came up next to a smelter. The control box, its guts ripped clean out long ago, concealed its body as the android peeked around the corner, turning off its night vision as the area around the figures standing about was illuminated by a portable construction light. It scanned the faces of the men it saw. LeLande and Fournier were obvious. As was Veneshenko. The former two faced away from the android, dressed in lounge suits long out of style, though loose and likely comfortable. The raccoon held a hard-shell box in right hand, no doubt holding a custom rifle.

                Wulf scanned both of them and determined both were also armed with pistols, likely Colt or Browning 9mms or .45s. Veneshenko stood opposite his contractors, bedecked in a fine Italian suit that hardly concealed the pair of matching pistols tucked under both arms. The wolf seemed determined but not necessarily angry. His body language, the android determined, was one of projection of power. He wished to force these two to accept terms they didn’t like for the sheer joy of it.

                The hitmen, however, stood resolute. The raccoon with the hard case was definitely angry, likely being the one who spoke first. Fournier. LeLande, a mutt that seemed like he was a mix between a Belgian Shepherd and a hound dog, stood leisurely, one hand in his pocket and the other scratching his cheek. He was waiting to pull his gun, Wulf determined, similarly for the joy of it.

                Wulf watched an unfamiliar man, a German shepherd, walk up with a paratrooper-cut AK-74 strung about his shoulders and held over his waist. He whispered into Veneshenko’s ear and Wulf read his lips, “Building is clear, no others are here.”

                Veneshenko nodded and the shepherd retreated. Wulf then listened and could hear at least two other sets of boots moving about. One sounded like it was on this side of the hitmen, between the android and them. The second sounded like it came from above. Wulf’s eyes lifted and turned on thermal. It indeed found a gunman above, scanning about. Wulf switched back to night vision and stepped across the opening, resuming its walk towards the stairs.

                A rat with an MP5 just appeared at the other side and swung around towards where Wulf was just seconds ago. A flashlight scanned but Wulf had long gone, walking casually towards the stairs once more.

                “What?” Veneshenko asked in Russian.

                “I thought I saw something move,” the rat answered.

                “We swept the building, there’s no one else here. Not even any signs of entry,” the shepherd said in German as he leaned against one of the catwalk’s supports across from Fournier and LeLande. “Relax.”

                “We work alone,” LeLande flatly said. “Famously so.”

                Veneshenko nodded because he’d done his research. They wouldn’t double-cross him. He, though, just might. The rat did relax, slightly. Though he peered about and looked antsy, running his hand around the foregrip on that old MP5 as if it were a security blanket.

                “There were stipulations,” Venehenko resumed speaking, “about what happens in the case of discovery.”

                “We were not discovered,” Fournier hastily stated, upset but not goaded. “The most we leave behind are bullet casings to guns we ditch in a river. Only my Lapua do we ever retain.”

                The raccoon tapped the hard-box in his hand. The box was far too small for a rifle. Meaning it was likely disassembled between uses, making it easier to transport.

                “I heard chatter that the Polizei Berlin had put together how you bumped off Stefan in his apartment and were close to tagging to you,” Veneshenko said and gestured towards the both of them. “I’ve been able to suppress it somewhat but we cannot work together again.”

                “We don’t care,” LeLande flatly informed his contractee. “Pay us for the work performed. You know the consequences for breaking contract with a Church Faithful.”

                Veneshenko’s expression hardened. Of course. Fuck over the Church and the best outcome is you can’t work with them again. The worst? They kill you, your family, and everyone who ever knew you. Usually they stopped with the offender, though, even assassins have standards. He squinted and then looked to the shepherd who picked up a suitcase.

                Above, a horse with a mottled coat held his SPAS to his chest and peeked over the railing, bored. He never heard the approach of the creature that weighed more than twice his weight, and he was a big boy, until he felt the fur on the back of his neck stand up.

                A thick hand seized his mouth and the second seized his trigger hand while wrapping the attached arm across his chest and pinning him in a bear hug. The gunman struggled but was confident. He was Veneshenko’s favorite enforcer, he could snap 2x4s with his hands. And yet he couldn’t even make this man’s hands move. Confidence fled his eyes and he tried to scream but found nothing left his lips.

                Tears ran down his face as he thrashed about. But his assailant had him squeezed against his chest and the horse was losing strength fast. No one was stronger than him, no one! Oh, God, no! He thought of calling for his mom, how he wanted to go home, how he didn’t want to go this way, how—

                Wulf lowered the man’s limp figure and set him onto the metal walkway gently. He would be unconscious for a small amount of time. Enough that by the time he was roused, this would all be over with. The android pulled the flashbang from his vest and pulled the pin. It held onto the plunger, however, and glanced over the railings.

                The rat was still antsy, kept peering back the way Wulf had come. That was a split-second decision, to gain their attention but give them nothing to find. Make someone look the other way. The shepherd below its paws was bored and disinterested. He was on his phone, currently texting a hookup, making sure the boy wasn’t underage and what he’d to him do if he lied.

                Fournier and LeLande, of course, were too engrossed with Veneshenko as he lifted the traditional suitcase and opened it. Cash, Euros, laundered and untraceable. LeLande stepped forward and took a handful, counting it, his face flat but his eyes animated, distrustful. Fournier wished to kill Veneshenko for even suggesting they not be paid. LeLande put the bills back and nodded.

                “It’s all there,” he concluded confidently. “Once we take possession and leave the vicinity, our contract is complete and if you wish to engage the Church’s services again, you must take confession anew.”

                The case closed and Veneshenko chuckled, imagining how he could torture and kill these two. LeLande offered a hand for a shake and Veneshenko went to take it. The plunger hit Wulf’s boot before it fell softly to the walkway. One second, grip, shake. Two seconds, shake, smile. Three seconds, toss.

                The grenade pirouetted as it left Wulf’s gloved hand and tumbled down into open space. Fournier was the only one to see it before it hit the ground with a metallic crack! But when it did, striking off the concrete like a high-pitched gong and bouncing up into the air a few inches, it drew every eye.

                It wasn’t even two full seconds.

                “Fuuuc—!!”

                Wulf cut its video and audio sensors for the second the grenade exploded. When they came back online again, Peaks and Riegel unsure as to what just happened, Wulf was up and over the bannister. He landed hard on the ground and kicked Veneshenko’s knee forward. The wolf screamed and fell to the ground, the suitcase abandoned to the floor as he gripped at his head in pain and terror.

                “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” in Russian was screamed out by the rat as he struggled to put himself back together and get his eyes to focus.

                A heavy punch to the side of the head sent Veneshenko into la-la land. Then Wulf was moving forward and punching Fournier in the gut.

                “Gah!” the raccoon spat out, eyes wide but completely unfocused, not knowing what was happening.

                Wulf struck him in the head just as it heard the sound of a bolt being retracted. It grabbed the hard case and threw it like a discus just as the MP5 was brought to bear. It struck the rat in the head and the gun discharged wildly in a climbing, upward arc, dust and rust raining down as the 10 round burst missed every mark but the moon. Fournier hit the ground and LeLande backed up.

                Lelande, the mutt, wasn’t recovered, but he was obviously trained. Military, most likely. He was in motion by the time the grenade went off. His hands went into his jacket and a pistol was retrieved. Wulf rushed him, staying low. The Browning fired thrice. The first ripped through Wulf’s pullover at the shoulder and gouged out a furrow of synth skin before flying off into the rafters. The second two went there directly as Wulf seized his wrist and hoisted the gun skyward.

                “Who the fuck are you!?” LeLande screamed, his composure finally cracking. Wulf didn’t answer as it squeezed LeLand’s wrist and made him drop the pistol. “Gaahh, oww-oww!!”

                Then, in Russian, “Fuck you, traitor!”

                No bolt retraction needed. The German shepherd held the AK at waist level and sprayed. Wulf moved just quickly enough to get its arms around LeLande and position its body between the target and the wild shooter. Intermediary bullets spewed forth from the flash-hidden muzzle of that old AK, emptying the oversized orange magazine strung from its receiver in a wide arc.

                Bullets, five or seven, gouged into Wulf’s back, ass, and legs and it flinched as what qualified as pain registered across its positronic brain. Ahead, the android watched as the rat, just as he started to recover, stood up to receive. The first bullet sent his shoulder twisting. The second and third hit him in the side and leg. The fourth went right through his head. Blood splatters from the first three painted the side of the control panel.

                The fourth, nothing. A hole appeared in the rat’s head and his body went limp as the light left his eyes. The MP5 cracked off the ground and then rat splayed over it, dead as a doornail. Wulf watched this and could do nothing. The rat wasn’t important, either, just some thug, not someone it needed to protect. It already had done that with LeLande.

                Its arms wrapped around Lelande’s torso and neck, it squeezed until the mutt went limp and until that AK went ‘click.’ Letting the hitman fall to the concrete, Wulf turned and seized the briefcase full of Euros. It closed the distance just as the German shepherd’s eyes focused and saw death astride its pale horse with the glowing eyes of Norse Hel bearing down on it.

                “Oh, my God, oh my God! Who’re—!!!?”

                CRACK!!

                Blood splatted from the dog’s jaw as the briefcase made contact and he was splayed out on the ground, the smoking AK tucked between his unconscious body and the ruddy, pitted concrete floor. A deathly silence laid atop the foundry interior as Wulf assumed a more at-ease posture. It surveyed the men inside. All alive, save one who was killed by his own. Injuries are minimal. It turned, placed the case down on the ground, and went over to its targets.

                Shackles went easily around their wrists. The others were secured as well. The android carried the horse down from the catwalk and placed him gently beside his living friends against a machine, arms bound by belts or wire when Wulf ran out of shackles. It then stood up and surveyed the room one last time.

                “Mission complete,” it stated just as the sound of the PEK units storming the building hit its ears.

—

                “How… how long was that?” Riegel stuttered, staring at the screen with wide-eyed shock.

                Sean looked to his watch and answered, “Less than 10 minutes. I’m thinking around 8.”

                It took them a solid two minutes or so of watching PEK units sweeping the foundry floor before the camera pinned to whoever they just watched perform that op all by himself to find their tongues.

                “Christ on a bike!!” Chief Inspector Riegel spat out, sitting upright and away from the screen. “What… what new ‘toy’ were they testing? An exosuit!?”

                Sean sat back, brow high, rounded ears flat back. His tail, brown and tipped with black, fluffed out in both shock and something akin to arousal. Saying he was impressed wasn’t generous enough. This? This was worth having his case stolen from him. If only to watch that, if only to see the suit and shake the man’s hand.

                “Sean, are you listening?” Peaks gasped and looked to his boss who peered at him in obvious worry. “Are you alright? I’ve been saying your name for thirty seconds.”

                “Y-y-uhh-yeah,” the cougar choked out. “I just… I need some air.”

                He stumbled up onto his paws and fumbled back to the door to get outside. He didn’t give a shit if it was close to freezing, in fact he needed something to freeze his brain.

—

                Quincy Hess chuckled good-naturedly at Benjamin Hallorhan’s pithy joke, flute of champagne held aloft and away from his lips. His plate was empty. He’d inhaled what he was served. Hess was always impressed with French cuisine, even if he cared little for the French people themselves. It was better than the ‘schnitzel, cabbage, and black bread’ so common in his own country, so the chef here would likely insultingly declare. It helped that the elk had a bad sweet tooth and had to keep himself away from it for fear of getting fat and this place was a candy store left unattended.

                Better yet has been the company at this event. He hadn’t seen Hallorhan since his father, Ulysses, died some years ago. Benjamin seemed fine now, but he took his father’s death very hard. It also didn’t help that it thrust control of Union Applied Robotics, based in Pittsburgh, squarely into his lap. Sink or swim. And Benjamin deftly swam. The Americas were basically his and Quantum’s. For now…

                The table chuckled as well, adding to the din of conversation filling this elegant ballroom brightly lit and filled with some of the wealthiest people on Earth. Music wafted from a string sextet in the corner, a raft of Bach pieces being performed, primarily. Hess leaned forward to speak but stopped as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He placed the flute down and pulled the phone out.

                “Uh-oh,” Benjamin observed from across the table as Hess stood up. “In trouble at home already?”

                Hess smiled and retorted in kind, “Not yet.” To the joy of the whole table, it seemed, as he retreated from their earshot.

                “How did it go?” he asked as he stood on a balcony looking down over central Paris.

                “Complete success,” the technician, Lexi something, said from the other end of the line.

                The way she relayed that, however, didn’t instill confidence.

                “But?”

                “But,” she reluctantly, breathily began, “one of Veneshenko’s thugs was killed. Shot by one of his own comrades, at least. Wulf used his body to save LeLande from a similar fate. He’s suffered damage to the musculature on his back, posterior, and upper right leg. One of the bullets lodged itself against part of his interior plating. No damage to batteries, memory, coolant systems, lubricants, or core systems.”

                “Artifical muscle and synth skin can be replaced, Lexi,” Hess stated as he leaned on the wrought iron railing running around the edge of the balcony at waist-height. “What’re the Nielsen ratings?” There was a pause and Hess sighed. He was almost forty, but he wasn’t that old. “How did the viewers react?”

                “Oh!” The red panda chuckled. “Astonishment. With this performance, any detractors would be silenced. The PB is onboard. Even Chief Bonn has said he needs no further convincing. No doubt the local and state government will be equally impressed.”

                “I’ll have MP’s barging down my down by the end of the month,” the elk said and exhaled purposefully to watch his breath condense. “And the world will be forged anew by winter. You’ll be receiving a bonus. No, don’t argue with me to be polite, God damn well knows we’ve all earned it. Tell Wulf he did a very good job for me.”

                “Thank you, sir,” she said. “And I will.”

                He expected her to say goodnight and hang up, but she didn’t. So he asked, “Was there… something else?”

                She sighed and reluctantly explained, “Chief Bonn wants… Wulf to be stored and maintained on PB property, in their headquarters near his own office. He doesn’t want to have to contact anyone at Bernwerk to have him deployed or return there regularly. I think he wants him maintained in-house, too, with PB-employed technicians.”

                Hess smirked because that had been the plan, though the elk hadn’t chosen one of their locations to suggest yet. HQ, though? Well, now that Bonn had asked, he could make it seem like a sacrifice.

                “Tell him he drives a hard bargain,” Mr. Hess replied and smiled wickedly for only the shimmer of a Paris night to witness. “Does Chief Bonn have an idea as to when he wants to make an announcement? And how he wishes to… integrate Wulf?”

                “He suggested something about a press conference in October,” Lexi said, voice uncertain but likely accurate. “As for integration, it wasn’t explained and I don’t know. It’s obvious Chief Bonn still holds reservations. Wulf likely needs a way to be socialized, he’s said. Wouldn’t it be prudent to try to craft a personality profile using some of our consumer models?”

                The elk shook his head and thought.

                “No,” he concluded, uncertain but against that idea. “I don’t want to muck up that mind with preprogrammed personalities or emotional profiles. Last thing I want to do is have a brain as advanced as his default to some shit meant for a security Achilles or, God forbid, one of our more sensual Athena escort units. No, if Bonn wants to socialize him, he has to send him off to kindergarten all on his own the old fashioned way.”

                He almost made a ‘take him to the park and train him’ comment but thought better of it. He didn’t want to think of Wulf as an animal. A kid who needs schooling? That’s fine. It’s infantilizing in a way, but not demeaning or derogatory.

                “Should I provide any direction?” Lexi encouraged, voice unsure.

                “No,” Hess concluded. “Wulf has to develop those things by himself. Though we’ll need to keep an eye on that. You can, if you’re still interested in staying with this program.”

                “I am,” Lexi swiftly declared.

                “Good girl,” Hess said and chuckled softly. “Then it’ll be up to you to keep an eye on his emotional and personality growth. That brain of his might as well be flesh and blood, so it should develop the same way. It will be interesting to witness.”

                Suddenly, Quincy heard an ‘eerp eerp’ come through his phone and he took it away to see Bonn himself was calling.

                “Sorry, dear, have to motor,” he informed here. “The Chief himself is calling.”

                They gave quick goodbyes and hung up. Then, Hess answered his phone, touching the button and, lips pulled into a devilish smirk, put the phone to his ear.

                “So,” he began, “how did it go…?”