PREDATOR: Death To Streetcat!

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

My first Predator tale was written in first person; it sort of wrote itself that way. This one, for the same reason, is in third person.

Incest happens. Illegal or not, taboo or not (admittedly for damn good reasons, i.e. usually bad genes are conserved and thus any incestuous offspring tend to be deformed and/or stillborn), it happens all the time.

Anyone who's read Kinsey, or Forbidden Flowers, knows that. In the case of Tom and Carla, they knew perfectly well about incest, but they were so happy together they just didn't care. I doubt they were/are the only knowingly incestuous but happy couple in the world. There's such a thing as Genetic Sexual Attraction, too. I've read about cases where siblings are brought up separately, meet, fall in love and are blissfully happy...until they realise or someone finds out that they're related, and everything falls apart. To me, that's grossly unfair. Love is love IMO, even if it's incestuous.

Robert A. Heinlein had some controversial views; one of them was expressed in Time Enough For Love, in which the Howard Families were the first group ever to reject taboos and the legalistic approach, and to define incest solely in terms of genetic hazard. If a woman and her brother were genetically compatible but she and her husband were not (which was/is entirely possible), it was okay for her brother to get her pregnant. Heinlein had some odd ideas, to be sure, but I think this one makes sense.

Certainly it's kinder where kids are involved - what do they care if Mum and Dad are related? Don't they love each other? Isn't that what really matters?

So accidents such as what happens with Sally and David Hill are entirely plausible and doubtless do occur. Let's not judge, okay?

Rhiannon discovering her clitoris at the age of 3 - this is very very likely; according to Mary Roach's Bonk, there's mention in Kinsey of a woman who'd seen her 3-year-old daughter masturbating. I originally intended this to happen to/with Sophie Harrison in UFO, but I put it here instead. As any experienced school or preschool teacher can attest, kids say the darnedest things!

Hey, it's not as if she lied in saying "I've got a clitoris" - she did! 😋

I recall seeing a documentary (or something) in which a prostitute (or something) really did show off her cervix to a studio audience.

To some degree, the sexual perversions related by Dr. Georgina Summers are in fact real. A man really did write to - I think it was either Nuts or Sorted - in the UK about his girlfriend who wanted him to hit her. He was advised not to "wuss out", but I didn't and don't agree. Hitting a woman in self-defence is one thing. Hitting her when she demands it is quite another. Never mind the whole ‛giving her what she wants' thing - just think about what she wants and why she wants it. I may be old-fashioned, probably am, but in my book men do not hit women unless they are forced to defend themselves.

E.C. Tubb really did write Incident On Ath, in which Sardia really did have an orgasm when Dumarest killed Yhma. Another Dumarest novel, Iduna's Universe (#21), depicted female slavers, at least two of whom were sadists. Dumarest didn't hesitate to maim and kill them...then again, he never hesitated to kill anyone who was trying to rob, enslave, harm or kill him, male or female. To Dumarest, killing was something which, all too often, had to be done - in every case it was him or the attacker.

Spanking, too, is one thing (my characters, such as Commander Kelly McAllister in my UFO tales, often spank women who are ostensibly ladies, such as Jennifer Harrison). Striking her with your fist is another. I can't even imagine it.

I overheard a conversation in which a bloke was complaining that his lover wanted him to give it to her up her bum. He wasn't keen.

There was a reader's letter in Penthouse in which a guy wrote about how turned-on his lover got when she accidentally burst his lip and she saw the blood. The "bitch in heat" was exactly how he phrased her behaviour when excited by the sight of his blood.

Coogan's Bluff is a real film, and Linny Raven is a real character therein. She actually urged another, male character to kill Coogan, played like Dirty Harry by Clint Eastwood. She actually wanted to watch Coogan die.

I recall an episode of Minder in which a boxer talked about the girls "getting frisky" whenever they saw "a bit of blood".

In her (real!) book Forbidden Flowers, Nancy Friday talked to a woman who asked her husband to hit her during sex and asked him if he liked it; when he said he did, she suggested he beat her with a belt. He spanked her first, to get her in the mood, then he did it - and she was in ecstasy for the entire night. True, this is wandering into BDSM territory, as they loved and trusted each other and she actually asked to be beaten, but the point is that some women really do enjoy pain.

Thus female perverts who vicariously enjoy blood, pain and death, gaining sexual pleasure and even orgasm from them, are, sadly, entirely plausible. So don't troll me. 😋

Also...I know a little about self-harm. Indirectly, I've been there.

A friend of mine was doing it, for reasons I will not discuss here for the sake of her privacy; she was cutting her arms. (We really should leave out my drunken attempt to kiss and seduce her, and her brief, willing response to same - her boyfriend and I had it out a few days later after she told him, and settled it amicably over drinks; we both understood that she and I had been drunk at the time. Fortunately we were both civilised blokes who knew what was what, and we remained trusting friends. We even joked about it. He was a good bloke.)

One or the reasons I drew up a gentleman's agreement with him, viz. he would try his luck with her first and, if unsuccessful, that would leave me free to have a go, was that I was hoping he would distract her from her self-harming, because I admit I had no idea how to help her. I only knew that I wanted to, because she was dear to me. We both wanted to help her. She was dear to him, too.

He ended up marrying her. Go figure.

But the advice - to talk to someone, anyone - is entirely valid, and I repeat it here: If you are self-harming, or you feel as if you want to, then please, please find someone you trust and talk to them about it. Talking really does help. I'm sure my lady friend talked to my man friend, and it must have helped - a lot - because she wasn't shy about making love with him in his bedroom when I think she knew we could hear their shenanigans. Not that we ever told her.

And not that she was a lady per se. She had a couple of tattoos, swore often and drank like a fish. 😋

I've lost touch with them and with the rest of that crowd; I have no idea where or how they are, but I miss them. I hope they're doing better than I am, i.e. slowly recovering from my stroke of Thursday 8th May, 2022.

Anyway. Here's my latest tale.

Prologue

Friday August 1st, 2031

Sol. The Sun. It's the heart of our solar system, the source of Earth's life in all its myriad forms. There was a time when we had no idea exactly what it was, believing it to be a huge piece of coal or similar. Now we know it's a vast ball of mainly hydrogen, burning by nuclear fusion into helium. We know it's middle-aged, and we know it's immensely complex, more so than our ancestors could have imagined. We've learned so very much about it.

But what we know is just a tiny fraction of what there is to know.

On occasion it flares, and our electrical and electronic devices complain. To a degree we understand why this happens; we can even predict it, a little. We know that in theory at least, such flares can be predicted months or even years in advance. But we don't know enough to do that yet.

Other people, however, do know. They know that a huge coronal mass ejection will occur on Saturday August 2nd.

A ship of such people is even now approaching this August (by our reckoning); they saw the coronal mass ejection coming nearly two years before it happened, and knew exactly what it would do to Earth. They'd started out as soon as their cloaked satellite signalled them regarding the event. Trivially, it would cause massive electrical interference; power stations would go offline. Weather patterns would drastically, but temporarily, be altered. Some creatures would be confused almost to the point of extinction by the changes in Earth's magnetic field.

For the purposes of this tale, by far the most important effect would be that Earth would become, on average, some twelve degrees Centigrade warmer for a few months. Since this is only an average, some areas would become very cold.

But some would become very hot.

New York, for example...

Vandenberg AFB, Control Room

Saturday 2nd August, 2031

1:32 a.m.

"Sir?" the young, pretty radar operator ventured. She liked her job; three years ago she'd qualified, taken the post...and she'd enjoyed her friends' incredulous comments: "You're gonna do what?!" and "You're working where?!"

Her boss, Colonel Scott Parker, U.S. Space Command, yawned and asked, "What've you got, Terry? Something routine, I hope?"

But Terry McGillis shook her head. "Sir, we have an unpredictable solar event - a flare. No," she reconsidered, taking another look at her readings, "more a coronal mass ejection. It's gonna play merry hell with Earth's magnetic field. We need to send out a flare warning to the civilian authorities." She paused, running a hand through her dark brown cropped hair. "Plus, sir...it's gonna get hot. Real hot. An increase of at least twelve Celsius on average. Per your...standing orders, sir, I'm about to instigate a full alert." Her voice dropped. "They...they're gonna come, aren't they?"

Scott knew exactly who she meant; his handsome face set in grim lines. "Yeah...if they're not already here," he opined bleakly. "Okay, pass the word to the civvies and sound the alert, Sergeant, on my authority."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged worriedly, and did so.

Unfortunately Scott was absolutely right.

Hidden from radar by their advanced stealth screen, not merely disguised as was standard procedure (the planet's population was known to be clever and certainly anything but standard, so a mere disguise wasn't enough), a ship was waiting in Earth orbit for the CME to hit and start affecting the geomagnetic field. As soon as it did a single pod, similarly shielded, launched.

Aboard it was a creature which could best be described in human terms as...a nightmare. Its purpose was deadly. It was intent...on targeted slaughter.

Not that it would mind, of course, if there was opposition...

In high orbit, the cloaked ship waited. In it, a very old, grizzled - but still capable - creature gazed down at the world below. He sighed. "It has been a very, very long time since last I saw the Blue World," Hr'kru-dan, Thin Blade, pronounced.

At his side, Swift Kill nodded. "I think you will see its beauty...and its danger. I would not have asked you to come, nor would I have broken my word, unless it was necessary. There is still a danger the oomans might acquire our weapons before they are ready for them. K'lli and I were both concerned. I hope you will see this and tell the other Wise Elders."

"I am not so old and foolish as to discount the words of Swift Kill," the Wise Elder noted, "yet still I have doubts."

"Which I hope to resolve," Sa'shak-ssa finished. He was but a season away from Elder status, yet still an active Hunter; this was why Hr'kru-dan had agreed to come. It would not be politic to ignore such a highly-placed warrior; even a Wise Elder could be challenged, and even one so skilled would surely lose owing to his age. In some ways the yautja could be as political as oomans. Their politics could be just as cut-throat, too.

Literally.

"Indeed. But now we must wait until Tr'sho-tek has completed his Quest. That takes priority. It is the Way."

"It is the Way," Sa'shak-ssa agreed. The Quest concerned mating, which concerned suckers, and therefore it was about the future - hence it was vitally important for the survival of their people. Thus he could not and did not argue its necessity, even in the face of the threat he was convinced still existed.

Inwardly he hoped the oomans could cope. Never before had any yautja visited the Blue World on a Quest. Hunts, yes, but never a Quest.

And never with so magnificent and formidable a yautja as Da'dkui-di in mind.

New York, New York

7 a.m.

"This is Ted Bickerstaff reporting for CNN, and wow, it's a hot one today! The coronal mass ejection from the Sun messed with electrical equipment as expected, and it's temporarily raised Earth's mean temperature by some fifty-three degrees Fahrenheit. Of course this is just an average; several parts of Russia, Norway and Wales are now showing temperatures of more than a hundred and forty below. Brr! But New York seems to be getting the worst of it - it's 115 degrees even at night, and as much as 150 in the day, humidity 80% or more.

"Better crank up your air con to the max, guys! We're in a major heat wave!

"In other news..."

Blood Fire ceased monitoring, stretching in the welcome warmth. This, he thought with relish, was more like his home world, though he hadn't been back there in several seasons. He stood and checked his equipment. Everything had to be in perfect working order, now more than ever, for he was on a mission. Not, as was the usual case, a Hunt.

Not this time.

His rod rose again at the thought of she who would soon, he hoped, become his mate.

Unit HQ, Manhattan

The same day

As the Enterprise theme song had it, "It's been a long road, gettin' from there to here". But dear God, it's been worth it.

And so it had. After an understandably shaky start, the New York Tactical Operations Unit had proven itself. They'd suffered losses, but mainly through the natural processes of transfer, moving and/or retirement. While they had had a couple of deaths, they weren't job-related. But there was a new intake of rookies from the Academy, better-prepared than rookies normally were. A lot had happened.

To put it mildly.

Luigi Bernalli had successfully gone legit, despite opposition, his businesses going from strength to strength. He and his partners had invested privately in the Unit, and he'd bought the latest equipment and software for them. Other investors had contributed, but there was no sign of the dystopian future of privatised law enforcement à la RoboCop, no Omni Consumer Products.

Although since the Unit had taken on a mercenary whose body was some 70% mechanical, there were jokes that things were going that way. Ironically the guy was even called Murphy (Jim, not Alex), and took in his stride the affectionate RoboCop ribbing. Like his fictional counterpart he could, at need, attach weapons to himself, or even a jetpack. Citizens were reassured to see him flying over the streets on patrol. Kids were told by him, as Alex Murphy had said: Stay out of trouble.

They did. Weapons in schools were now vanishingly rare.

The late Bill Gates had pointed out that the Second Amendment had been misread; it did not give the people the right to bear arms as many thought it did. The Arm Bears Movement, a new anti-guns group, were using this as the basis of their campaign to take guns off the streets; in almost every state except Texas, they were slowly gaining ground. In New York, the Unit was openly supporting them.

The portrait overlooking Julie Lockwood Memorial Alley was still intact, and still beautiful. It had become a tourist attraction, and Maggie Kay of the NYPD had become a guide of sorts - the profits from visits (no-one was ever charged per se to see it, but many of its admirers contributed) went jointly to the NYPD and the NYTOU. Public opinion now was such that it was no longer in danger - if it ever had been, given that Bernalli was unofficially watching over it and its building.

Ed Callaghan was still the Unit Commissioner, his position now unassailable and supported by New York's Chief Judge, Homer Surillo, and Senator Vince Brooks.

New York was now a lot quieter, legally speaking, than it had been in 2027 - four years could make a lot of difference, and they had. Fewer rapes, almost no murders, and even the street gangs had dwindled as their members found better alternatives - even the Unit. Things weren't quite at the stage where people could leave their doors unlocked, but thanks to the Unit supporting the NYPD, they were getting there. For the first time in 30 years, the end was in sight.

The Places To Go Initiative had helped with the homeless problem, too. They had recognised that simply providing homes for the homeless wasn't enough; they had to be taught independence first, else some would miss the streets and want to return. So the PTG staff showed them how much better their lives could be...but they still left it up to them. Very few people opted for street life instead, though this was recognised as their right.

A PTG spokesman had volunteered at a soup kitchen before the Initiative was set up, and he'd confirmed that a lot of them were homeless not by choice but by foreclosure. His combination of sadness and sheer rage at their plight had caused him to create the Initiative. The Senate never saw it coming. "It's not their fault. It's not fair. Many of them have not chosen to be homeless - they have been forced onto the streets. This must change," he insisted. "It will change! This is 2029, not 1929!"

Normally the Senate would have been sympathetic but unhearing. However, Martin Mills was the son of a Senator and knew hundreds of movers and shakers...plus he was the lover of the First Lady's youngest daughter, and she and the President were very fond of him as their daughter's very eligible suitor. So if he said that something had to be done, you could be damn sure that it would be.

The 28th Amendment, ratified in 2029 by an overwhelming majority (who, the cynical said, knew which side their bread was buttered on), nailed it down. It established the right of every American citizen to live where and how she chose. It forbade brokers and the like to foreclose on properties - it was now a criminal offence to render someone homeless; the PTG staff rightly said that this benefited no-one and they couldn't contribute to society if they were jobless. Welfare alone was becoming unmanageable.

True, mortgages still had to be paid; a broker protested, "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch!"

He was gently told, "That's true, but what's the rush? They want to pay. They will. Just give them time."

Now, thanks to the Amendment, there were official channels to renegotiate mortgages if a tenant's situation changed for the worse. A 10-year mortgage, for example, could become a 20-year one, or even a 50-year one. A man down on his luck could now be given a chance, and help, to turn his life around - he wouldn't lose his home and therefore his job.

The Catch-22 was broken - once, if a man couldn't pay his mortgage he would lose his home and then his job, but without a job he could never earn enough to pay the mortgage. The PTG Initiative and the 28th Amendment dealt with that. No longer was foreclosure and job loss a legal threat. Even lenders and brokers benefited - they could be sure of getting their money sooner or later. All they had to do was wait.

In less than a year, the number of homeless people went down by more than 80%; associated costs such as healthcare came down accordingly - and the jobs of the Unit and the Blues were made much easier. The PTG staff called that a win. So did the Unit. Many crimes were related to homelessness, but no longer. Other states, such as Florida and Michigan, were learning from New York's example.

The Director of the PTG received that year's Nobel Peace Prize - and used the money to buy Christmas presents for the kids, spending only a notional five bucks on himself for a coffee and a doughnut. His lover's name was Janine Boon - despite the well-meaning jibes about 'Mills & Boon', she retained her Mom's maiden name even after she and Martin were happily married...at a soup kitchen, to celebrate its imminent closure.

Date rape as a crime had been relegated to history when additives were created which both signalled the presence of date rape drugs in drinks and rendered them inactive. Dr. Jocelyn Barton of the Unit had been instrumental in their creation, receiving the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 2030. Rohypnol and other date rape drugs were banned by law, too, and better alternatives developed.

And perhaps most importantly...in those four years, though Scott Parker and others had watched the skies carefully, there had been no sign at all of the Predators.

The highest echelons were beginning to think that they had, after all, gotten the message: Earth was out of bounds.

Only the very highest, a woman named Carol, didn't relax her guard.

Nor did the Unit Commander.

Fuck, it's hot, Kelly McAllister, very close to retirement yet still the Commander of the NYTOU (still, despite his best efforts, called the NYTOL on the streets and even officially - what can you do?), thought to himself now. The A/C was going full blast, but even though it was state-of-the-art it was making little difference. Frankie Sandford, their amateur astronomer, had warned that this would be the case for several months following the recent CME...though her ribald suggestion that bikinis be made standard uniform for women was amusedly shot down.

("Spoilsport," she jokingly complained.

"Not even bulletproof ones?" Dr. Jocelyn Barton, M.D., quipped. "Candy and I could weave 'em out of ArmorLiteâ„¢...maybe tie-dye them..."

Sternly, though he was tempted to laugh, Kelly growled, "This is the NYTOU, not the offices of Sports Illustrated!"

Kelly could wryly picture his unarmed combat trainer, Lance Aldrin, yelling at him: "Suck it UP, McAllister, you soft motherfucker!")

Smiling to himself, he surveyed the Unit.

At the front desk Frankie's wavy dark brunette hair waved elegantly as she dealt with an irate ACLU lawyer. Against her patient (but dismissive) professionalism he was getting nowhere. No-one ever did against Frankie, not even her lover (upgraded two years ago from FWB), Scott Parker of U.S. Space Command, even after he ceased to be a short colonel.

("When you make General," she teased him, her grass-green eyes sparkling with merriment, "I'll marry you...and give you the Bravo Juliet of your freakin' life!")

Another operator, Tina McIntyre, was explaining the Unit's policy of no physical paperwork to a junior reporter. "Not only do we not use or need it, some of our Academy cadets have never even seen paper!"

Major Duane Holmes, USMC (retired with honours), was with a group of Unit officers, dismantling a Mossberg 500, explaining its features, advantages and drawbacks...and the fact that they were only learning the use of this and similar weapons JIC (Just In Case).

Sergeant - no, Major, she'd been promoted, and damn right too - Candy White was showing the latest batch of rookies around. One knew the Unit already, but was holding her peace out of the politeness Candy had taught her in the four years they'd shared an apartment with her paying rent - now fully half rather than nominal (despite Candy's protests of "Really, you don't have to, it's okay"), as she had taken the training course and passed not just with flying colours but as Valedictorian, with a 4.0 GPA and a perfect attendance record. Kelly couldn't be prouder.

Marie Julie Simpson, once a.k.a. Streetcat, had come a long, long way since being the (underage) urchin recruit he'd taken under his wing following the brutal slaughter of nearly all of her street buddies, the Bloods. Off-duty she kept their memory alive by wearing a bandanna and sporting a tattoo on her left breast: the Bloods' mantra, To The End. But you had to be absolutely trustworthy if you wanted to see it; Marie was fiercely protective of her legacy. She didn't bare her 32B breasts for just anyone. The number of people who had seen it was in single figures.

Okay, that figure was 9. As Frankie might say: Whatevs.

He recalled the conversation with the Academy's Commandant on the day she took the entrance exam...

The Unit Academy, downtown Manhattan

Tuesday 31st August, 2027

The Commandant's office was smallish but efficient - and the same paperless policy as that of the Unit was followed. The office was relentlessly tidy, the desk bare except for a coffee machine - and the Dancing Flower placed there by a mischievous cadet last year. When the office's owner entered one day, a CD player linked to a motion sensor detected this and played Metallica's Disposable Heroes. On seeing the flower's frantic gyrations she'd burst out laughing and decided it was charming, and kept it.

Barbara McClane, Commandant of the Unit Academy, welcomed the Commander, offering a beverage and asking, "What can I do for you, Commander?"

Kelly smiled and sat. "You can do me a huge solid. I have a certain applicant to the Academy. She's extremely bright and has leadership skills, so I expect her to ace the exam. But she's a very special case."

The tall, powerful woman frowned elegantly, her eyebrows immaculate yet untreated. "Oh? How so?"

"She's a discretionary. You see, she's only 14...unofficially."

Those perfect eyebrows raised in surprise. "Kelly, our age limit of 16 is for very good reasons -"

"- which don't apply in her case," Kelly interrupted mildly. "Her name is Marie Julie Simpson; she used to be known in the Bloods as Streetcat."

"The Bloods? But they're all dead now, aren't they?"

He nodded soberly. "All but three of them were murdered by the same assailant, whom I killed. One was killed in a fight shortly afterwards. Another returned to Dallas, and as far as I know he's left gang life behind. Effectively she's the last of the Bloods." He sighed. "The circumstances are about as exceptional as it gets. But what I have to tell you is beyond classified...and most of it you aren't likely to believe."

Kelly explained about the Predator and why it - he - had come to New York. He left nothing out, including his disastrous but honest mistake in believing Luigi Bernalli, the local Mafia don (alleged), would be hit. She listened, her incredulity tempered by the fact that Kelly McAllister, one of the Unit Academy's best ever graduates, was telling her.

Hushed, she breathed, "So...we're not alone after all? But they're not coming in peace? Damn, Carl Sagan would've been disappointed."

But Kelly shook his head. "It wasn't and isn't as simple as that. The Predators - we found out in '17 that they call themselves the yautja - aren't hostile towards Mankind per se. They come to hunt and take trophies. But we are their prey. They favour us because we can shoot back, and apparently our trophies are prized among their kind. They call us pyode amedha, the Soft Meat. We're pretty much the ultimate prey as far as they're concerned. One of the guy's trophies was the intact skull and spinal column of Billy the Knife. He was only nine."

"Dear God. He was just a kid. Don't they respect youth?"

"I'm afraid not. Whether you're old, young, male or female - unless you're pregnant -" he recalled on meeting Leona Willis (neé Cantrell) in '29, "doesn't matter to them. Their only criterion for their hunt is: Is the prey armed, and if so, with what? Marie was spared because she wasn't armed, as per the Bloods' custom - she hadn't earned it yet. But Billy had a 10-inch knife, so he was fair game. Our only consolation is that he died instantly."

"Small comfort," Barbara reflected.

"True, but you take what you can get. Their Final Prey is the leader of any group trying to fight them...which in this case was me. I took on Young Blood single-handed, which is how I got this," he showed her an impressive belly scar.

"Oh my God," Barbara gasped, touching what had become his proudest battle scar. "Looks as if you were nearly gutted."

Kelly pulled his shirt back down and nodded soberly. "I was. But I ran him through with a katana, broke his back. By their lights it was honourable combat, so I was Blooded," he indicated his forehead mark, left by Swift Kill, "and allowed to choose my trophy."

"What did you choose?" she asked, fascinated.

"That they leave Earth and never, ever return," he answered.

Barbara leaned back in her seat. "Kelly, I have to say that if anyone else had told me all this, I might have laughed in their face. But from you...I remember you as a student. So studious, a serious young cadet -" she jokingly quoted from "Shore Leave".

In the same joking manner he similarly quoted, "‛Serious'? I'll make a confession, Barbara, I was absolutely grim!" She laughed, as Bones had in the classic Star Trek episode.

Still chuckling, she continued, "So I have to take you seriously, however outré your story sounds. And believe me, it does. So," she continued more soberly, "Marie survived solely because she wasn't armed?"

He nodded grimly. "If she had been, he would've taken her pelvis as a trophy. As it was, he paid respect to her by showing himself - the Predators are usually invisible - and unmasking, and damn if they don't have weird, ugly faces," he shuddered, remembering Young Blood.

According to Mike Harrigan, someone - probably Major Dutch Schaefer - had once said to a Predator, "You are one ugly motherfucker."

He wasn't wrong.

"And he nearly killed you," Barbara observed.

"Would've, too, if I hadn't tricked him," Kelly nodded. "I was partly faking it, and he thought I was done, so he moved in for an honourable kill. But I ran him through before he could. The katana was specially forged by the Unit, out of TiCrIr, and damn, it was expensive - but worth every penny in the end. I still have it - it's displayed in my apartment, in pride of place on the living room wall." He remembered the combat, every bit as grim as it could get. Karen Miller, a Unit Counsellor, had successfully treated him for the minor PTSD he'd suffered.

Even so, he still awoke screaming on occasion.

"And who was the very beautiful, very sexy and incredibly tall blonde who wouldn't let you make this official?" she wondered.

Again he shook his head. "Her first name is Carol, but that and her status as a covert operations director, and a happily married mother of one, is all I know about her for sure. Oh, and she's a Hereford Heifer, as we used to say in Bolton."

(Author's Note: Carol is a tribute to Trudy, a friendly, pretty Hereford Heifer I knew and liked, though Trudy was a brunette and tall, though nowhere near as tall - and had a minor weight problem. Didn't stop my 26-year-old self fancying her, mind. 😋 Oh, I miss the archery crowd.)

Barbara sighed. "Kelly, this is a lot to take in."

Kelly too exhaled. "I know. But every word is true, I swear it on the Badge."

"And you want me to take Marie on," she continued, "even knowing she's underage, assuming she passes the entrance exam -"

"She will. Her IQ is 164, higher than mine."

"- and that she used to be in a gang," Barbara finished.

"After she was nearly raped by her Dad and the Bloods took her in," he expanded. "Barbara, she needs a reason to live," he appealed. "Her lover, Julie, was raped at fifteen, fell pregnant, lost the baby - a little boy - and killed herself. All her friends but two - one, now - were killed. She has nowhere else to go. She's sworn on her own blood, literally, to live and to love, but she can't do it unless we break laws and give her a shot.

"Denny has already ‛corrected' certain ‛mistakes' in her record, so she's officially a ward of the state and she will officially be 16 on the day you accept the new intake. I need you to overlook her age and give her a chance. Please, Barbara."

Barbara pondered, considering his words and his plea. Finally she murmured, "Kelly, you are asking me to take the biggest risk of my professional life. You are risking yourself, Denny and me in the process - Marie, even; she'll be legally liable, too, if word of this gets out. And what about Ed?"

"Oh, he knows, too," Kelly nodded.

"The Commissioner knows?! Fuck me!" she gasped uncharacteristically. "That's four people you're proposing to drop in the shit! No, five, including me, if I go along with this!"

Kelly had never looked so earnest in his life. "And you are all important to me. I would never take this risk if I didn't have to. But I don't want to have to fish Marie's body out of the Hudson and ask Jocelyn to autopsy her corpse. I repeat: she needs a reason to live. The Unit can provide that. If she graduates from the Academy. That depends on you letting her in."

"And you've taken the risk of telling me...why, exactly?"

"Purely out of professional respect," he replied very quietly.

She gave him an old-fashioned look. "You're using Unit psycho-analytical techniques on me, aren't you? The one thing that would sway me is professional respect."

"Busted," he sighed. "But I honestly believe it's the right thing to do. Illegal, yes, I grant you - but we both know from our time in the Blues that the legal thing and the right thing aren't always the same thing."

Barbara snorted. "Kelly, for me that was ten years ago. Lot of water under the bridge since then. But..." She slumped in surrender. "No, you're right. Sometimes they aren't." She looked keenly at him. "You realise we'd have to swear everyone involved to secrecy?"

"The Unit has already so sworn," he nodded. "So has Marie."

"So the entire Unit knows? Oh, this gets better and better!"

"Barbara, the best way I can think of to convince you is for you to meet Marie, so I can show you what you're in for," Kelly invited.

She considered it, and finally sighed, "Is there somewhere discreet I can meet her?"

Kelly nodded. "Here?"

"Okay. I'll meet her, and that's all I'm promising for now. You crazy fuckwit."

To her surprise, he grinned and subvocalised. The door to her office opened, and Marie entered.

Barbara glared at him. "I take it this is Marie? You utter manipulative twat."

He chuckled and said, "Marie, this is Commandant Barbara McClane. She'll make the decision whether or not to admit you to the Academy if, or rather when, you pass the entrance exam."

Marie nodded politely to the older woman. "Hello, Commandant." She sat, her posture perfect as Kelly had taught her. She'd already come a long way from her days as a Blood - no bandanna; long black hair elegantly styled; a nice cream short-sleeved chemise, not revealing at all; a neat navy blue pencil skirt, which rather suited her; and remarkably, given that she often went braless and commando, she was even wearing a bra and knickers.

(Candy had saucily told him, "A result of shopping in Givenchy. She might only be 14, but she really rocks the bra and panties. She looked so sexy I almost made a pass at her - she looked years older."

"How did she afford Givenchy?" Kelly gaped.

She grinned cheekily. "She didn't. I treated her. Her panties are like my faves: see-through all over! Ooh, they do something for her - and, I confess, for me, too!"

"You know, I should spank you," Kelly groused, scowling.

"Promises, promises, you randy old goat!" she sniggered, wiggling her cute, sexy ass, with her trademark ‛tiny panties' showing through her indecently tight, clingy uniform trousers - which she'd tailored for that exact effect. She looked sexy and knew it...to Kelly's distress.

How the hell, he frequently lamented, do I keep from having heart failure whenever I look at this sexy little sprite?)

The Commandant began sternly, "Hello, Marie. Now then, I am the person you need to -"

"Impress? Convince?" Marie interrupted. At first Barbara looked offended, until Marie continued, "Ma'am, I don't expect any special treatment, or for you or anyone else to go easy on me. I don't need anyone to go easy on me," she added with fierce pride. "I don't want them to. But I do need you to give me a chance. That's all the Commander and I are asking."

"Hmm," the Commandant observed, non-committal, but she had already been impressed by Marie's forceful nature and her determination. Very few people were prepared to stand up to her, especially kids. But Marie, or rather Streetcat, had met the best and the worst New York had to offer in her two years with the Bloods, from Tino the kindly ex-gang pizza place owner to the late unlamented rapist Ron Mallory, whom she'd personally executed. She wasn't afraid of anyone, not even the formidable Commandant McClane.

In her thirty years with the NYPD Barbara had known some intimidating people, including - perhaps especially - Kelly and Ed Callaghan. But she'd never been intimidated by a child...until now. She could easily see the inner core of steel which characterised Marie Julie Simpson.

Marie would need it in the Academy, she knew.

The decision had been made as soon as Marie spoke, but as was her duty, the Commandant was still playing Devil's Advocate, testing Marie to see if she could be put off. Unlikely - the kid (which seemed to be the wrong word; Marie Simpson was very grown-up for her stated age of 14, or even for her official age of just short of 16. Hell, Barbara knew guys of 50 who weren't as mature as Marie!) seemed very driven and committed.

"If I take you on - if I do - I'll expect nothing but the best," she warned Marie. "You'll be subject to the same regime, the same hazing, the same tight, tough schedule as any other cadet. By nature and necessity, the Academy does not forgive. It chews up and spits out the weak and the incapable. Some 60% of cadets don't even make it through their first six months. 75% drop out in their first year, 80 in their second. Our weeding-out policy is strict to the point of brutality - because it has to be, as the streets can be even more brutal."

The kid nodded casually. "I know. Kelly told me." She looked fierce. "But I can take it. I WILL." Then she sobered. "I owe it to Julie to try my best, ma'am, and I swear for her sake that I'll see it through. To The End."

That, Barbara knew, had been the mantra of the Bloods (she later learned, to her surprise and amusement, that Marie had had it tattooed on her left breast). "I see. Of course, I don't expect you to swear it on your own blood -"

To her shock, Marie produced a jack-knife from a hidden pocket in her skirt and made a short, shallow cut in her forearm. A drop of blood dripped onto Barbara's desk.

"For Julie," Streetcat vowed quietly. "I loved her. I swore on her grave that I'd live, love, and make something of myself. The Academy is my chance to do just that. That's all I'm asking for: a chance. The rest is up to me. But I can do it. I will."

Full of compassion and concern, Barbara noted, "That cut needs attention." Inwardly she was impressed again; surely the injury had to hurt, yet Marie's face showed none of it - only a calm expectation.

She merely shrugged. "It'll stop in a minute. It's not the worst injury I've ever had."

"We tested her tolerance for pain, among several other things," Kelly put in softly. "It's very high."

"In all my years," Barbara mused, "I have never before known anyone to swear anything on their own blood. If that was meant to impress me...well, I admit it worked. But you realise it's four years of your life, three in the Academy and one as a rookie? At your age - your real age - that's a lot. And since our drills and exercises are as realistic as possible, you know that a small fraction of cadets are killed each year? When you sign up with the Academy, you are pledging your life to the Badge. You do realise that?"

The concept of "Devil's Advocate" had been explained to Marie by Duane Holmes, and so she recognised what Barbara was doing: giving her an honourable out if she, Marie, felt it was too much. But after all she'd suffered, even the Academy as Kelly had described it would be nothing.

"Yes, I do. But I've faced the most deadly killing machine anyone has ever come up against, and lived to tell about it. 37 other people didn't. And they were all armed."

With that last figure, Marie was including the nine hoods who'd been hit, Morrie Peters (Young Blood's first victim, as confirmed when the NYPD released his body to the Unit for post mortem) and the Columbus Twenty-Seven, including the Bloods. Young Blood had carved through them, sparing Marie only because she was unarmed.

"Plus," she finished, "I kissed Julie goodbye...then I watched her kill herself. I didn't even try to stop her. Ma'am, with all due respect, you have no idea how much that hurt."

"No, I haven't," Barbara agreed solemnly. "I would never trivialise your loss, Marie, any more than Kelly would. But I know what it's like to lose a loved one. My first husband died of brain cancer - God help him, he was only 24. An atypical case, the doctors said." She sighed. "Small comfort when I buried him. I cried for a week."

Marie reached out with the arm she'd cut in her melodramatic but effective gesture. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

Barbara patted her hand. "Thank you. But I married again two years later, and I've had two kids, both boys - and neither one a cop," she quipped now. "I raised an accountant and a bricklayer. Go figure."

Kelly and Marie chuckled.

"So. If - or, as Kelly tells me, when - you pass the entrance exam, do you swear to keep your true age secret, even to any friends and/or lovers, in the Academy or out?" Barbara sounded brisk now.

Marie nodded solemnly. "I so swear, Commandant. No-one will get it out of me short of torture while I'm at the Academy, and even then they'll have to work for it." She looked fierce again. "And I might just have something to say about that." I don't doubt it, Barbara applauded silently. "As for later, if I tell anyone it'll only be people I trust, and believe me, that's a damn short list."

"In that case, Cadet-To-Be Simpson, welcome aboard," Barbara concluded, rising from her seat.

Marie also rose, shaking the offered hand. "Thank you. I swear on Julie's and Billy's lives I won't let you or Kelly down."