Patchwork

by Elle E. Ire

  That particular bad memory is a recurring visitor during scans.

  Vick’s eyes half open and a wave of tiredness passes from her to me. She looks from me to Alkins and back again. “Yeah, Rodwell. Guess with everything else tonight, it hit harder than usual.”

  And that would make perfect sense. It’s what I expected her to say.

  Except she’s lying.

  Vick’s eyes widen as she realizes her mistake. I’m in physical contact with her. I can read a lie with perfect clarity. I stare back, my gaze narrowing. She shakes her head, a minute movement no one notices but me. Whatever really set her off, she doesn’t want Alkins to know. Or is it me? Does she not want to share it with me?

  I’m going with the former, but I fear the latter.

  Either way, I’ll defend her.

  “We’ve had… issues,” I begin, wading in. “A sexual assault. Sometimes this procedure brings it to the surface. It’s been months and months and the bad reactions never seem to fade.” I try, but I can’t quite keep the bitterness from my tone. Vick growls softly under her breath. I’m not trying to expose her secrets either. It’s all in her file. Alkins has to already know all about Rodwell and what he did to Vick.

  “Well, of course it doesn’t fade,” the doctor says, causing both me and Vick to turn and stare at her. She stares right back. “You do understand how her mind, such as it is, works, don’t you?”

  “Um….” I have no idea what she’s talking about, and from Vick’s frown, she doesn’t either.

  “Good grief, that idiot Whitehouse really didn’t explain anything to you. His head was always too far up his egotistical ass to be bothered.” Alkins breaks eye contact to make notes on her touchpad. Isaacson busies himself with storing away the equipment.

  We wait, but Vick drums her fingers on the armrest. She’s losing her limited patience, and once it’s gone, I don’t want to be in the way of her temper. “Care to share?” Vick says, teeth gritted.

  I step away a bit, keeping one hand on her shoulder but making it clear I’m not going to get between them if Vick decides a physical “inquiry” might work better than a verbal one. Looking inward, I’m not sure why I’d allow such a thing to occur, but part of me does not like Dr. Alkins, and it’s not just what I know about her past relationship with Vick. At least I don’t think that’s it. There’s something off about her, an empathic sense that she isn’t nearly as interested in her patients’ welfare as she should be, but rather, her actions are far more self-serving, though how beyond the normal earning of a paycheck and general respect, I can’t guess.

  Alkins huffs out an impatient breath and sets the touchpad aside on a shelf attached to the wall. Folding her hands together in front of her, she addresses us like a teacher might speak to a particularly obtuse class.

  “Sixty-three percent of Vick’s brain is gone,” the doctor begins. Well, at least she didn’t call her VC1.

  “I’m aware of the numbers,” Vick says, jaw clenched.

  Very aware. And she hates being reminded of it.

  “Did you really think with so little of your organic tissue intact that your memory would be stored in it?” Alkins waves a hand in front of her like she’s shooing flies. “You have some memory storage capability. That’s why bits and pieces are coming back to you. The brain is, as we all are coming to realize with each university study, far more adaptive and self-repairing than anyone realized. But the reality is, the vast majority of your functions are run by your implants. That includes memory storage and playback. Your memories won’t fade. Ever. They are permanently recorded in the circuitry. If you think of an incident, your implants play it back for you, as clearly as if it just occurred, complete with all the sensory input that accompanied it. Visuals, sounds, smells…. Some people would pay millions for the recall you have. Imagine if you were older and wanted to remember the first time you fell in love, or had sex, or held a newborn? You’d have that. With absolute perfection. You’ll never lose one single moment from the time you received the devices until the day they cease functioning.”

  I stare at the doctor, the horror of the realization and the fact that I should have figured that out a long time ago sending my heart plummeting.

  Vick drops her head back against the headrest and closes her eyes.

  Chapter 13: Vick—Compensate

  I AM unfixable.

  Never fade. Peg’s…. No. Dr. Alkins’s words echo in my head, bouncing around my biological and mechanical brains like the bullets that put me here in the first place.

  “Did you seriously not know this?” she asks. “How could you not know this?”

  “It never occurred to me.” Kelly sounds chagrined. She shoots me an apologetic look, but I shake my head.

  Hell, if I didn’t know, how could I expect her to? “I don’t remember what it’s like for memories to fade over time,” I say, voice hoarse. “I guess I thought this was how things were supposed to work and eventually—” I break off, swallow, then continue. “Eventually, I figured I’d get better.”

  Alkins crosses her arms over her chest. “Well. You won’t. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t alternatives. We could block the—”

  “No!” I practically shout, sitting up straight in the chair. Whitehouse and Kelly blocked some of my memories before, with disastrous results. As horrible as these are, as bad as the side effects have been, I’m keeping them. All of them.

  I have so few memories left.

  Kelly rushes to press me back, but I’m not having it. I swing my legs over the side, plant my boots on the tile, and push to a wobbly stand. I have no choice but to lean on her, and I hate it, but I’m not returning to my seat. Not with that suggestion hanging in the air.

  The doctor rolls her eyes and puffs out an impatient breath. “Oh for the love! You are such a drama queen.” From the glint in her eyes, she’s not referring to my reaction to the suggestion to block my memories. I hold her gaze until she throws her hands up and turns away. “If you don’t want to be free of the trauma, there are other things you could try that should help,” Alkins continues like we didn’t just share an unpleasant stumble down memory lane. She knows I remember the truth about our relationship. She knows. But she’s as unwilling as I am to speak of it in front of Kelly.

  Good.

  “Like what?” Kelly asks, taking half my weight on her shoulders and bringing my attention back to what I should be focused on—my relationship with her.

  Shit. Get your priorities straight, Corren, or you’re going to lose the only person you’ve ever really cared about. I’m frustrated with her coddling me, but she’s a part of my entire being. I’ll never forgive myself if I drive her away by being stubborn.

  Then again, maybe you should lose her. She deserves better than your fucked-up psychosis.

  Kelly squeezes my side where she’s got her arm wrapped around my waist. She’s reading my anxiety and indecision. I push both as far out of my mind as I’m able, which isn’t as far as I’d like.

  “Practice,” Alkins says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Behind her, Isaacson nods.

  “Can you be a little more specific? It’s not like we haven’t tried.”

  I glance down at Kelly, eyebrows rising. She’s pissed, and it’s coming through in her tone and rigid posture.

  Alkins shrugs. “Try more. Keep her distracted. The trick is to prevent her from flashing back on the unpleasant memories. You have to hold her in the here and now.”

  “I’m standing right here,” I grumble. The doc hasn’t treated me like a machine so much yet, but it’s starting to come through in her current treatment of me.

  “I know you’re here,” she says, her smile almost genuine. Almost. “But your partner is the one who will have to do most of the work.” She fixes her gaze on Kelly. “When you feel her starting to drift, bring her back. Talk to her. Hold eye contact. Maintain touch, no matter how she reacts. With practice, it should snap her out of the memory.” She’s all professio
nal now, no snark, no bitterness. Like she’s detaching herself from our shared history. Like I’m a patient and nothing more. Which is as it should have been from the get-go.

  “Thank you,” Kelly breathes, loosening her grip on my rib cage. “We’ll try that.”

  Alkins chuckles and goes back to her touchpad. “Maybe give it a few days. She’s pretty banged up. No implant damage, though. No signs of overload. Just stress and exhaustion. Go home. Get some solid sleep.” She scrolls through a couple of screens. “You’re scheduled for R & R starting tomorrow. Good. Rest. Relax. Check in with me when you return from your trip.”

  Trip? What trip?

  A calendar helpfully appears behind my eyes, the next week highlighted in blue and labeled “LaSalle Family Reunion” and smack in the middle of it in all caps “KELLY’S BIRTHDAY.”

  I really am the worst girlfriend ever.

  Kelly picks up on my confusion because she gives me a light slap to my left bicep. I wince anyway. The medics pulled a long piece of glass out of that one.

  I’m not steady when we leave the medical department of the Storm’s section of the base, and the night I’ve had isn’t the reason.

  We both remain silent all the way to our shared quarters—typical for me, virtually unheard of for Kelly. If she isn’t chattering happily on and on about something, I know there’s a problem.

  And I have a pretty good idea what the current problem is.

  The corridors are mostly empty by this late hour, but she’s considerate enough of my feelings to wait until we’re in our living room before she eases me into the single armchair, paces away, then whirls and faces me head-on.

  “You lied to me. And okay, I understand not wanting to talk in front of your ex-girlfriend new doctor, but you could have just said you weren’t ready to talk about it. You didn’t have to lie. And the whole walk back, you could have told me what was really bothering you in the diagnostic chair.”

  Yep. Nailed it.

  “You never flat out lie to me.” Hands on her hips, glaring for all she’s worth, she’s fucking adorable. I don’t dare tell her that, but from the way the glare intensifies, she can probably read it from me.

  “That’s because I can’t,” I mumble, knowing it’s the worst thing to say the moment the words leave my lips.

  “What?”

  It’s all I can do not to get angry right back at her. It’s like she’s asking for another argument today. Like she’s been asking for them ever since I got called away to the Alpha Dog. Maybe even longer than that. Her temper has been short lately. It’s not that I don’t deserve it most of the time. But I really don’t have it in me to go head-to-head again tonight.

  I take a deep breath, let it out, and count to ten. Then I close my eyes, because if I see her fury, I’ll lose my control. “Look,” I say, pausing to collect my thoughts and choose my words. “It’s not that I want to lie to you. It’s not even that I wish I could. But don’t you think it’s just a little unfair that every other human being in the universe gets to keep a few secrets except me? Aren’t I entitled to a little privacy too? Or don’t machines get that privilege?”

  Her sharp intake of breath tells me my words hit home. Hard. I crack open one eye. To my relief, she’s no longer glaring. To my shame, she’s got tears trailing down her cheeks. I sigh and open my arms to her, but she turns and flees to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. A second later, the lock clicks into place.

  Well, damn.

  I push myself out of the chair, every muscle in my body groaning in protest, and make my way to my own room. Stepping from the Kelly-decorated common areas into my private space is like moving from a home to a barracks. It’s never felt more spartan and impersonal to me than it does at this moment, with its company-issued light gray furnishings and almost entirely bare walls save for the single holo of a Kansas farmhouse with the breeze lightly blowing the fields of grain or whatever staple they grow there. Dark storm clouds move swiftly in the distance. Portentous. I tap the frame and shut their motion down.

  A quick check of my internal chronometer tells me I’ve got four hours to unwind and sleep before I have to rise, pack, and head for the shuttle we’ve rented for our getaway. That is, if she even still wants me to go with her.

  I strip off my fear-sweat-soaked clothes, grab a quick shower as hot as I can stand, throw on a pair of underwear, and yank a ribbed olive-drab tank top over my wet hair. The sheets chill my skin as I slide between them, and I shiver, burrowing as deep beneath the too thin blanket as I can.

  It’s only a few seconds before my bedroom door slides open. I know the soft tread across my carpet, so my fight-or-flight response doesn’t kick in.

  Kelly spreads her thick lavender comforter over me, then climbs in beside me and wraps her body around mine. Her head tucks beneath my chin, her soft breath warming my exposed neck and breastbone. I shift to put my arm around her, then stop, uncertain, but she reaches for my wrist and pulls until it drapes across her back.

  Through our mutual bond I still feel her irritation, but it pales in comparison to her love. Enfolded in warmth both emotional and physical, my mind and body find peace.

  Chapter 14: Kelly—Secrets and Admissions

  VICK IS hiding things from me.

  I wake before Vick. It’s a testament to how exhausted she is that my slipping from the bed and out of the room doesn’t rouse her. With her training and paranoia, the slightest sound should bring her to full alert. Maybe VC1 is giving me an assist.

  I’m halfway across the living room when her alarm goes off, its annoying rendition of the traditional military reveille bugle making my teeth grind together. When I’m still with her and that horn sounds, I practically leap off the mattress.

  Why she doesn’t just let her implants wake her, I have no idea, but I suspect it has to do with her wanting one more demonstration of being a “normal” human being.

  So I’ll endure the bugle when we share a bed.

  She’s moving around in her bedroom, albeit more slowly than usual, but when I hear the drawers opening and closing telling me she’s somewhat okay, I continue on to my own tasks of dressing and packing. Our vacation destination, Infinity Bay, is a predominantly water world peppered with islands of varying sizes and maintaining a comfortable temperature range perfect for sunning and swimming. Unlike my parents’ home state of North Carolina in what would now be the dead of winter, the island paradise is the perfect choice of locations for the annual reunion.

  But it necessitates the packing of clothing items I don’t keep on the moon base.

  I have neither shorts nor tank tops. I prefer sleeping in a long T-shirt if I’m alone, or sexier wear if I’m with Vick. I do have a bathing suit, a cute two-piece in hot pink that I wore exactly once to the base’s indoor pool before I tired of the ogling and Vick’s constant readiness to punch the next soldier who drooled over me.

  I toss the swimsuit, along with some ivory and tan slacks and a few short-sleeved button-downs into my suitcase and vow to drag Vick shopping when we arrive. She’ll be even shorter on her wardrobe than I am, and I don’t want her to stand out any more than she’s already going to. Some casual attire will go a long way toward preventing that.

  I hope.

  Biting my lower lip, I add in some lingerie and underthings meant more for play than practicality. It heartens me that Dr. Alkins’s advice wasn’t all that different from my Academy mentor’s. Keep trying. Be patient. Keep Vick’s mind on me and off her memories. I can do that, so long as Vick is willing.

  We meet in the living room at the same time, me with my rolling luggage and an additional bag slung over my shoulder, Vick with her Storm-issued duffel. I’m in a white knee-length skirt and strappy sandals with a pink top. She’s in uniform.

  Of course she is. Gray shirt, gray slacks, black belt, black combat boots. And she’s armed, her pistol, not the usual XR-7 but some other (probably deadlier) letter/number combination I can’t keep straight, hanging in a holster o
n her thigh.

  Still, she’s here. She’s packed and she’s going with me. Something tight inside my chest loosens.

  She eyes me, head cocked a little to the side, gaze narrowed as if daring me to criticize. I can’t help it. I have to say something.

  “The gun is a bit much.”

  “Last time we visited your family, if my patchwork memory serves me correctly, there was a terrorist attack.” She folds her arms over her chest.

  I place my hands on my hips. “It was a bomb, Vick. It went off. Boom! No shots were fired. Your pistol was useless, because, yes, you had it at the time. Do you really want to terrify everyone when we get there? Is that the first impression you want to make?” Of course it isn’t. I regret the words the second they leave my mouth. More than almost anything, Vick wants acceptance. I know that. If I could kick myself, I would.

  She holds my gaze for another moment before looking away. “It’s a thirty-six-hour flight. Through raider territory. I’ll store it before we disembark,” she mutters, then strides away, the door to our quarters opening at her approach. I trail behind her, lips clamped shut.

  We’re silent all the way to the landing bays. We’re in the commercial sector, as busy as the Storm’s hangar but in a much more haphazard way—babies crying, older children darting around their harried parents who desperately try to corral them before they can be squished by a luggage transport or a taxiing shuttlecraft. Workers shout to one another over the whines of engines, the screeching of landing gear, and the squeak of tires on smooth-polished gray tarmac. Scents of lubricants and fuel assail my nostrils. But no blood of injured soldiers returning from assignment. No med staff guiding antigrav carts stacked three high with human-shaped black bags.