by Elle E. Ire
Here we find two single beds that Vick pushes together along more floor tracks to make a much larger surface. We search until a cabinet built into the bulkhead reveals king-size sheets and replace the smaller ones. By the time we’re finished with both the bed-making and the soup, I’m yawning even though it’s only early evening.
We’re both still naked, our clothing scattered all over the cockpit, and boy do I hope we don’t get boarded for any reason: raiders, mercs, interstellar law enforcement, or otherwise. I slip between the sheets after her, reveling in the coolness of the satiny material against my still heated skin. Vick’s just as warm when I tuck myself in against her chest, my smaller frame fitting with hers like perfect puzzle pieces.
The payback comes about two hours later.
Vick’s groan wakes me from deep REM sleep, dragging me out of a very arousing dreamscape into cold reality made even more frigid when she thrusts the sheets off us both, then throws herself off the side of the bed and bolts for the shuttle’s bathroom. A moment later, gagging sounds, followed by vomiting carry through the open hatchway.
Damn.
My first impulse is to hurry to her side, but Vick hates for anyone to witness her in times of weakness, even me. Sometimes there’s no way around it, but throwing up is rarely life-threatening, so I curb my protective side and take a few deep breaths. Blinking away the half-awake disorientation, I raise my face to the ceiling. “VC1, um, are you there?” I say, so quietly I worry the system’s mics won’t pick up my voice.
A datapad built into the nightstand by the bed lights up. I read the words on the screen—I AM PRESENT.
Insightful choice of modes of communication. Given the advanced nature of the being that is VC1, she could have just taken over the ship’s internal comms and used the overhead speakers to communicate. Instead, she perceived that I wanted this to be a private chat and acted accordingly. Impressive. “Does this shuttle come equipped with medical supplies?”
A brief pause. THERE IS A MEDKIT IN THE BATHROOM, COMPLETE WITH AN MD37 MEDICSCANNER AND INDIVIDUAL DOSES OF THE MORE COMMON MEDICATIONS. YOU WILL FIND IT BENEATH THE SINK.
I have no idea what an MD37 is, but I head for the bathroom, pausing to pull on a complimentary robe I spotted earlier when we were searching for larger sheets. I also wrap my emotional shields around myself, a second layer that prevents me from being so sucked into her trauma that I can’t be of any help. By the time I’m fortified, the sounds of distress coming from the bathroom have quieted, reduced to panting and the occasional hitch in her breath.
I step to just outside the open hatch. “Okay to come in?”
There’s a long pause, and I’m about to enter without a response when she says, “Hang on a sec.” Her voice is hoarse, her words strained.
A loud whoosh follows as she drains the toilet through the shuttle’s vacuum-driven plumbing system; then water runs in the sink.
“Okay,” she calls, though it’s more resigned than encouraging.
I find her with her palms braced on either side of the white porcelain sink, head hanging, dark hair thrown behind her wild and tangled. Deep purple to the point of almost black swirls in menacing clouds around her. Too dark to be mere fear, I can only equate this color to sheer terror, barely under control.
“Knew there’d be some kind of cost, some price to pay,” she mutters. “Didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“Nightmares?” I ask.
She nods, her eyes still hidden from me. “Worst I’ve ever had.”
Considering some of the ones I’ve held her through, some of the horrible things she’s experienced, that’s saying a lot.
“It’s still a step forward,” I say. Don’t give up, Vick. Please, please don’t give up.
She raises her head then, her haunted gaze meeting mine in the bathroom mirror above the sink. I swear I can make out her demons in the depths of those eyes, and I shiver.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “It’s a step forward… into my own personal hell.”
Chapter 19: Vick—Side Effects
I AM letting Kelly down.
The second day of our travel is quiet. Too quiet. We enter Weiss space, that ultra-fast method of bending both time and space in order to traverse the galaxy from one solar system to another in a reasonable amount of time, invented by some guy name Weiss. Everyone uses it. No one but the physicists really understand it. Even VC1 can’t translate the concept into words I’ll comprehend. But it turns the viewscreens to nothing but snow for hours and hours and leaves nothing for the pilot to do but wait until the ship returns to real space.
In the meantime, Kelly and I dance around each other, orbiting but never intersecting. We exchange small talk. We smile, but it’s forced. We touch… and I flinch away no matter how hard I try to control it. And her face falls. And my heart breaks.
I don’t blame her. I wanted what she wanted. And I tell her that, but I can’t try again. Not yet. I need time for things to quiet down in my head.
Assuming they ever will.
The nightmares following our lovemaking hover in my mind’s eye even during my waking hours. Worse than my flashbacks, they were even clearer, every smell, touch, sound, vivid as if I were in the moment, and worse, magnified by those bizarre extremes and randomness that nightmares incorporate.
Dark, endless corridors leading to torture chambers where both Rodwell and Alkins wait to torment me, snaking wires sparking as they burst through my skull and strangle me in their endless coils, and the worst one—a vast empty space, plain metal walls, floor, and ceiling, everything gray. I stand in the middle of it, growing colder and colder, my breath shortening, my pulse fading.
And I’m alone. Completely alone. No matter how loudly or often I call for Kelly, my voice echoes back to me, mocking my terror, until I’m too hoarse to call anymore. In that moment, I would give anything for a comforting touch, a soothing word, a reassurance of any kind, but there’s no one.
I pull myself free of it seconds before dying. My headache pounds, a constant torment since Kelly and I made love. The implants keep it hidden from her, buried beneath my suppressors working at almost full capacity.
To distract myself, and to make things up to Kelly, I throw myself into preparing for her birthday/family reunion combination. VC1 has no trouble locating and hacking into the guest list, then correlating names with background information drawn from dozens of networked sources. Without Kelly’s knowledge, I read every file, view every news clip, study every image until I’ve connected names to faces, stored them in my memory, and prepared topics for interaction with everyone who will attend. Or almost everyone. There is one guy, a David Locher, who went to school at the Academy with Kelly, and then for all intents and purposes disappeared. I can find nothing on his career choices, residence, hobbies, even with VC1’s help, so I’m betting on some kind of government or super-secret technology work. But he’s on the list, so he’s attending. I make a literal mental note to look into him further when we meet. Other than that, it’s a fairly quick process, several hours’ worth of work rather than the days it would take an unenhanced human, but it gives me something to do for the remainder of the flight.
And it keeps me awake.
People have commented that I seem cold and distant in social gatherings. I will not let that be the takeaway her family and friends have when I meet them, or in the case of her parents, meet them again.
I wish I could remember the first time. Kelly says we liked each other, but she has a tendency to sugarcoat things. I’m desperate to make a good second first impression.
My life is so fucking weird.
Or maybe I should say “lives.”
Once I’ve got the family and friends locked into memory, I practice other things, like smiling, laughing, though the latter must be done quietly and in the yacht’s bathroom so Kelly doesn’t think I’ve lost my mind more than I already have. I’m not good at either spontaneous emotional response, but this will have to do.
I’m halfway between a grin and a chuckle and panicking at the sudden thought that there might be dancing or some other social practice I’m unfamiliar with when the ship’s proximity alarm sounds. We exited Weiss space about two hours ago, so that’s not the cause.
What is it? I query as I race down the corridor to the cockpit.
Unknown, VC1 returns, and now gone. But you should take a look. I recorded the readings.
What am I gonna see that you couldn’t?
A laugh, a genuine laugh carries over my internal speakers. You might be surprised at the capabilities the human brain possesses. What you call instinct or intuition is more likely you humans accessing the large portions of your brains that go unused throughout most of your lifetimes. No computer, even one as advanced as I am, is currently able to match that capacity for abstract thought and interpretation.
A laugh and a compliment. Okay then.
Kelly’s already in the copilot’s chair when I enter the forward compartment. She’s got a frown on her face and her hands pressed against her ears. “I don’t know how to turn it off!” she shouts, pointing an elbow at the speakers producing a consistent blaring whoop.
I reach over and exaggeratedly flip the switch right in front of her on the console. The one marked “Emergency Alert.” She blows me a raspberry. The smile that produces doesn’t need any practicing.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” I say to the ceiling.
The front viewscreen shifts from an image of the vast expanse of space to display whatever the pickups recorded a few minutes ago, but the changes are so subtle I barely detect a difference. I lean forward, watching for any indication of what set off the alarms, but there’s nothing. I’m about to give up, figuring I missed it, when the slightest of flickers flashes at the edge of the screen, so fast I’m uncertain whether I imagined it. Then again, just a quick flare indicating some sort of vessel possessing a heat signature entered our sensor range and left it. I lean back.
“It’s nothing. Another ship on the same flight path.” I consult the readings on the console in front of me. “We’re close enough to Infinity Bay that we should be detecting other ships soon. Spotting one a little early is just a coincidence.”
It is not, VC1 states without equivocation.
“What do you mean?” Damn, I said that out loud. VC1 avoided alerting Kelly to a potential problem, and I blurted it right out. I glance to the side. Yep, she’s got her eyebrows raised, waiting for an explanation. “Go ahead and explain to both of us,” I tell the overhead speakers. “I’m an idiot.”
Kelly pats me on the shoulder. I don’t flinch. Oooh, progress.
“This was the third instance of the appearance of the unidentified heat signature.”
Oh, that’s weird, and I don’t mean the UFO. I straighten in the pilot’s chair. Beside me, Kelly does the same. It’s my voice and yet not my voice coming from above, so very different from the perception of speech I get from VC1 in my head or even the sound of my own speech when I talk out loud. Even more distracting is the complete lack of any inflection. People might complain I drop into monotone when I’m not concentrating on it, but this takes it a disturbing step further. It’s my pitch, tone, and whatever touches of a Kansas accent I carried over when I left Earth to join the Storm, but those are the only distinguishing features. And yet it’s me, in a bizarre, twisted, give-me-nightmares kind of way.
Kelly squirms in her seat, her nose scrunched up and her eyes half-closed. It’s adorable, but it’s affecting her too.
“You okay?” I ask, reaching out to touch her knee.
It breaks the spell. She turns and blinks at me, takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Yes,” she says. “It’s just… the last time I heard that, it came directly from you, when you were completely under her control.”
I nod, understanding. When I’d been truly losing my mind, when Kelly’s emotion block was failing, VC1 stepped in to prevent a total breakdown. I didn’t like it, but it had been necessary. We have a better balance now. I don’t entirely trust VC1, but then, I trust almost no one, so that could just be on me.
Then the AI’s actual words register.
I glare at the speakers. “What do you mean, the ‘third instance’? Why didn’t the alarms sound the first two times, and why didn’t you alert me?”
“Because those two occurrences were well within the expected possibility percentage for a coincidental encounter. A third instance, with the same heat signature, was not.”
I let that sit for a moment while I consider the possibilities. There aren’t many of them. We are being followed. I don’t say it out loud right away. I can, actually, be taught. But if I try for evasion at this point, Kelly will read my subterfuge with ease.
“Who’s tracking us?” she says, saving me the trouble.
I sigh. “VC1, any thoughts?”
“I do not think. I process information.”
Grrr. “Fine. What are your conclusions?” The viewscreen shifts back to a real-time image of the stars ahead and a shining bright blue disk increasing in size with each passing second as we draw nearer to Infinity Bay.
“Insufficient data. I require guidelines.”
Human intuition. Abstract thought. Okay. “It’s the same ship all three times. You’re certain of it. How do you know?”
“The variances within the signature are the same for each appearance.”
Variances. A ship’s engine signature variance acts like a fingerprint. No two ships carry the same exact variance. If such things were recorded, we’d know exactly who trailed us. But they aren’t. For one thing, who would want to keep those kinds of records? Other than public commercial transports and company-owned recreational crafts like interstellar cruise ships, most pilots don’t necessarily want others to know exactly where they are at all times. And besides, it’s almost impossible to measure with that degree of accuracy.
It doesn’t surprise me at all that VC1 pulled it off. It does make me wonder even more about party guest David Locher and why even VC1 can’t find any recent intel on him. But that’s a problem for another day.
I close my eyes and ponder some more. There are only three groups I can think of that would have a reason to be tracking us: local law enforcement which, given we are in a rental and not a Storm shuttle doesn’t make sense at all; raiders looking for easy spoils; and the Sunfires, still after me. I’m not fond of any of the options, but how to narrow them down?
Ships, engines, heat signatures, variances. The glimmer of an idea comes to mind. “VC1, how irregular are the variances coming off that ship?”
A pause.
Kelly opens her mouth to ask a question, but I raise a hand to hold her off. One interruption and I might lose this crazy train of thought.
“They are 98 percent regular. The engines are well maintained.”
Which eliminates raiders, who are notorious for letting their ships nearly fall apart before performing any upkeep. With recent improvements in defensive ship security systems and better weaponry, the local pirate types struggle. They have neither the funds nor the manpower to maintain their vessels.
And law enforcement has no reason to hunt us.
“So,” I say, trying for casual and unconcerned and failing miserably, “our friends the Sunfires are back.”
Chapter 20: Kelly—Cold Pursuit
VICK IS wanted.
Vick takes over full control of the yacht while I run a mediscanner down the length of her. The swelling in the organic portion of her brain still shows lingering traces of her concussion, but for the most part, VC1 has pulled her together.
I never know whether to love or hate that AI.
We’ve got the sensors on long-range, and it’s my job to watch for anything unusual while Vick pilots us closer to Infinity Bay. Not that I have any real confidence in my ability to tell the unusual from the usual. I suspect she’s just giving me something to keep me occupied so I won’t worry.
It’s not working.
Ship
traffic is increasing the closer in we go: commercial haulers, private racers, yachts and shuttles, massive passenger liners, a few patrol ships guiding some of the larger ones in. Something’s missing.
“Where are the military vessels?” I ask, hoping I’m not pulling her from anything vital.
She turns toward me, her hands still moving over the controls while she works in tandem with VC1. Neat trick. Her eyes go unfocused for a moment. “They don’t have a military to speak of. Some ground personnel, a handful of ships for emergencies. It’s a resort world. The tourists far outnumber the residents. They let each island’s police force handle the trivial stuff. People come here to relax. No one’s looking for a fight.”
“Until now,” I mutter, but she hears me anyway.
“Yeah,” Vick agrees. “Sorry. Seems like I’m always bringing trouble. Maybe we should rethink this. I could land, drop you with your family, and—”
I’m up and out of my seat, my hands on both her shoulders, pressing her into her own chair as if I can physically force her to stay with me. She twists her neck to meet my gaze. “Knock it off. You aren’t leaving me here or anywhere else. Do you really think they’ll chase you to the surface?”
A wicked grin erupts across her face. “Not if they can’t find us.” She tilts her head toward my chair. “I don’t even know for certain they’re still tailing us, but our destination is obvious. I’m not taking any chances, so I need to confuse them before we land. Might want to strap in for this.”
My grip on her shoulders tightens. Considering some of the daredevil stunts I’ve seen her pull off in the past few months, with and without wearing restraints, if Vick says to strap in, we’re in for a rough ride.
I fall into my seat as Vick jinks us into a quick turn, then pushes the engines to their limits and redlines our speed. My fingers fumble with the belt fasteners, clanking the insert against the metal receptacle repeatedly before it clicks home over my left hip, then doing the same with the one on my right. Alarms blare yet again, warning that flying a luxury yacht like a fighter craft is not good for the engines, the shields, or the structural integrity. An automated message pops up on one of the console screens in bright red letters:
