Patchwork

by Elle E. Ire

  Surprised, I check local time. It’s late afternoon and my wealthier relatives prefer to dress for dinner.

  One more circuit of the small landmass and Vick dips the nose of the yacht downward. I hang on tight as we rapidly lose altitude and my stomach jumps into my throat. We’re heading straight for the docks. “Need to turn,” I grit out.

  “Controls aren’t responding.” The final faint hum of the guidance system dies.

  Wonderful.

  The boats and wharf grow ever closer, filling the entire viewscreen. People turn and flee back toward shore while others dive off their watercraft and swim for it. A few in dinner jackets and evening gowns stare in openmouthed shock, frozen in place.

  “We’re gonna hit!” I shout.

  “No. We’re not.”

  Vick’s sudden monotone yanks my attention from the forward view, which is the only thing still working on this flying hulk. She’s got both palms resting lightly on the surface of the console, eyes closed. Trails of visible energy lead from her fingertips, then ripple across the mostly dark control panel, lighting up indicators in their wake in rainbow patterns of greens and yellows rather than the terrifying reds. A growling sound erupts from far aft, rumbling like a distant pride of lions roaring all at once, the guidance system coming back online.

  When Vick replaces her hand on the steering lever, she’s able to shift it left as if it requires no effort whatsoever, and we turn parallel to the beach, away from the docks at the last possible moment.

  Our impact isn’t nearly as serene. We miss the docks and boats tethered there, but we’re closer to them than we should be when we hit the water, and even with circling repeatedly, our momentum is still above safe speeds for landing.

  The nose hits first, throwing us both against our restraints with bruising force. Then the tail drops, smacking the water’s surface like an angry whale. Even through the thickness of the hull, I hear the resounding slap and whoosh of the wave we must make. The lights go out, all humming going silent with the yacht’s final death throes.

  When things settle—we never completely cease moving since we’re afloat—I fumble in near pitch-darkness for the fasteners and release myself. I use the chair to pull myself up, then reach out to find Vick in her seat, motionless.

  “Vick? You okay?” My voice wavers and cracks. I’m trembling with adrenaline and relief.

  Two lights spring on, startling me into a squeak of surprise before I recognize Vick’s eye lamps. They flicker on and off once, twice, then settle once she remembers to tell the ocular technology not to blink.

  “Told you we’d be fine,” she responds, though she sounds a bit strained. I wish I could see her clearly, but she’s all darkness and shadows behind those lit eyes. Despite that darkness, silver tones of pride glitter around her outline.

  “That was impressive flying. Tandem with VC1?”

  The twin lights nod.

  I’m not thrilled about that, but it worked, we’re alive, and she seems back to herself, so I can’t complain. Besides, I have bigger concerns. “Vick, you know I can’t afford to pay for this entire yacht, right? I’m pretty sure we’re sinking, and I don’t know what we’re going to say to the rental company.” Actually, I probably can afford it. I don’t live extravagantly, and the Storm pays me well, not to mention benefits and bonuses for each successful mission. It makes me feel guilty accepting all that when the majority of what Vick earns goes straight back into the Storm to make “payments” on the technology they installed to save her life (and make her the most successful merc they’ve ever trained).

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to. I’ve got some footage VC1 just transferred to me that she snagged off the security cameras back on Girard Base. Seems our friendly neighborhood rental agent accepted a packet from a couple of Sunfires and pointed out which ship we were taking. I’m betting he also gave them our general destination and looked the other way to let them sabotage the Tranquility. We owe them nothing. In fact, once I send this data to the Storm, the company will owe us. I’ll fire off a comm packet with that info and what really went down at the Alpha Dog once we’re on shore.” Vick’s more pleased with herself than I’ve seen her in a long time.

  Good. She can use the self-confidence boost.

  With her lighting the way, we stumble through the ship, first to the sleeping cabin where we retrieve our luggage, then to the exterior hatch and crank it open manually. Vick shuts down her eye lamps. The emergency ramp automatically unrolls itself out and down, landing with a small splash and disappearing beneath the water’s surface. Even though it’s evening, bright, blinding sunlight streams through the opening, and it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust. When they do, we both stop dead in the open doorway.

  “Oh… fuck,” Vick mutters, staring back toward the docks.

  I concur with the sentiment.

  All the smaller watercraft—rowboats, sailboats, wave racers and such—float upside down on the current, sails soaked and billowing across the water, loose items spreading in growing circles around them and their occupants treading water and hanging on to their inverted sides. Larger boats remain upright, their decks drenched and covered in remaining puddles, the owners equally soaked and gathering their own scattered belongings. Still more individuals swim toward shore in full clothing, returning from jumping off the docks when they thought we’d crash into them. On the beach, my friends and relatives wring out wet towels and chase after whatever our wave wake dragged farther inland. Every umbrella, every plastic chair is torn or toppled. Several staff members stare in dismay at a smoking barbecue and four destroyed buffet tables once laden with side dishes, plates, and silverware now all scattered across the sand. In addition to the wave, our incoming wind must have done significant damage as well.

  Every face we can make out at this distance is scowling at us.

  Vick’s shoulders sag and she closes her eyes. “Great first impression,” she murmurs.

  I have no words.

  Chapter 23: Vick—Island Life

  I AM a disaster.

  In addition to the beach buggy fire brigade with sand-tread tires and mounted pumps designed to shoot fire-extinguishing foam, there’s a water rescue team. Three motorboats approach from the far side of the island, also equipped with foam pumps. Two go to work on the yacht’s still smoking aft section. The other putters around to the main hatch.

  A staff member waves to us from the little boat. “You two all right?” says the first not-entirely-pissed-off person I’ve seen since our arrival. “That looked like a rough landing. Comms go down? Or is our receiver malfunctioning again? Hard to get good tech on the outer islands.”

  “It’s us,” Kelly hastens to reassure him.

  He’s tan, well-muscled, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes brighter than the ocean. He gives Kelly a big white toothy grin.

  I don’t think I like this guy so much after all.

  “Cascade failure,” I jump in before they can interact further or Kelly can bring up the Sunfires. That’s something I’d rather keep quiet for now.

  Kelly glances at me, giving me an amused smile. I don’t return it. Her hand slips into mine. Yeah, she can read my jealousy. I’m being an idiot in every possible way right now, but I’ve got nothing to smile about.

  The guy—Angelino according to his name tag—raises his eyebrows. “You’re lucky to be in one piece, then. We saw you circling. Smart move. That was some impressive flying if you were without most of your systems. Hop on board and I’ll give you a lift to shore.” He extends his hand to Kelly first, of course, and guides her into the boat. Then he takes our luggage from me. “We’ll make sure your belongings end up in your cottage,” he says. I follow without his assistance, pausing to reseal the hatch.

  This shuttle is going down, one way or another, but maybe I can prevent water from flooding the passenger areas before it can be salvaged and towed.

  When I’m onboard, I retrieve my duffel and sling it over my shoulder. My pistol an
d other personal weaponry are in there, stowed as I promised Kelly they would be but within easy reach. I’m not trusting it to Angelino or anyone else who might be curious and poke around.

  Kelly yips a little at the rocking of the smaller craft, dropping onto a bench seat and gripping the base of it with both hands. I’m at ease, moving to the seat opposite hers, unperturbed by the constant motion. Combined with my earlier nostalgia for the wave racers, I’m more convinced than ever that I’ve had experience with water sports. It begs multiple questions. From what we’ve dug out of my closed records, I grew up in Kansas. Not a lot of ocean out there. But my family had money, lots of it, so I can see summer trips to the shore or maybe even an island like this one.

  I pull back to the here and now as we draw closer to the very crowded docks. My enhanced eyesight picks out facial features even at a distance. A few show concern, especially an older couple in swimsuits.

  VC1 provides a file image to my inner sight that confirms these are Kelly’s parents, though I’d already recognized them from my studying. I hadn’t seen this particular picture of them before. It’s of her mother holding Kelly as a baby, her father looking on proudly. Despite my shit mood, it warms me inside.

  Well, that’s good. Concern is better than the wide range of anger, everything from mild annoyance to outright fury, I’m seeing on everyone else in our welcoming committee.

  We arrive at the dock, the gathered assembly leaving us little room to climb out of the boat. Kelly slips when a sudden wave washes the tiny craft up against the pilings, but I catch her and keep her upright, then lift her by the waist to grab hold of several waiting hands and step on solid wood. There’s lots of hugging and warm greetings, exclamations of joy and big smiles.

  For her.

  I’m a different story.

  No one helps me. Accident or not, no choice or not, I’m the easy target who inconvenienced everyone, and they’re going to direct their frustration somewhere. Kelly and I are the only nonstaff who aren’t soaking wet. I time the rocking of the waves and hop onto the dock, then wait for the inevitable impact of my actions. It doesn’t take long.

  “What kind of hotdogging—”

  “—show off? Who do you think you are?”

  “—ruined my genuine Denetian leather shoes!”

  “You drowned the entire buffet. They were setting up for the past hour, and—”

  “—daredevil? You flipped my wave racer!”

  With every accusation, my headache returns, pounding more fiercely than when I first got the concussion (was that only two days ago?), until I worry my brain will burst through my skull. I shuffle forward step by step, seeking an open pathway to the end of the wharf and eventual escape. Crowds bother me in the best of times.

  This is anything but the best.

  I keep my head down, not making eye contact, focused on the untied laces of my combat boots. The pier seems infinite, no end in sight no matter how many steps I take, but I must be almost there. I must be—

  “Ooof.”

  “Whoops!”

  I plow headfirst into someone’s chest. One more person I’ve offended or harmed in some way. One more lost opportunity to make a good first impression.

  I can’t help it. Tears well up, threatening to overflow—the last thing I need. Clenching my jaw, I swipe them away with the back of my hand and look up to face whomever I’ve crashed into, determined to apologize and get away as fast as possible without humiliating myself further.

  “Hello, Vick. Welcome. It’s wonderful to see you again.” Mr. LaSalle, Kelly’s dad, extends a hand to me. He’s still in his bathing suit, dripping wet like everyone else my piloting half drowned, but his sparkling brown eyes and wide smile show no anger whatsoever. In fact, he looks almost mischievous, like he’s enjoyed watching his extended family get doused.

  I’m staring at his outstretched hand, drawing a blank on what I’m supposed to do with such a gesture.

  Shake it, you idiot. Don’t just stand there like a moron. Take his hand and shake it. But I’m frozen in place.

  He looks from me to his hand and back again, zeroing in on my expression, my face, my eyes. Shit.

  Without any further hesitation, he drops his hand, then extends both arms, takes me gently by my shoulders, and pulls me against his chest until I’m wrapped in the first hug I can remember ever getting from anyone besides Kelly. His wet swimsuit starts soaking through my own clothing, probably leaving dark marks on the gray fabric of the uniform pants, maybe even turning my shirt transparent. I’m dimly aware that everyone else must be watching this interaction. I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it.

  A shudder passes through me. My muscles tense, then relax as I awkwardly return the hug. He doesn’t let go. I don’t want him to.

  “Ah, Vick. You’re all right,” he whispers against my hair for my ears alone. “We’ll make sure everyone understands. Today you saved my daughter’s life for the second time. I’m certain of it.”

  It’s been more times than that, but if Kelly hasn’t told them about the other scrapes we’ve been in, it’s not my place to mention them. I can’t bring myself to tell him Kelly’s life wouldn’t have been threatened at all today if the Sunfires weren’t after me.

  “You didn’t have other options,” he continues. “If you’d landed farther from the island, the shuttle would have sunk, and the dangerous sea life out there would have gotten to you both before the rescue boat could arrive.”

  As if on cue, people down the pier start shouting and exclaiming. I pull my head up and twist around in time to watch the shuttle sink until the ocean is above the top of the exit hatch. It stops there, leaving the roof of the transport visible, so the water in that area must not be all that deep, but Mr. LaSalle is correct. Farther out and we might not have made it at all.

  “What was that about the sea life?” I ask, still staring at the hapless shuttle. With salt water in the engine, she’ll never fly again.

  “Octosharks,” says a new voice at my left shoulder. “Eight heads of snapping teeth. They’re deadly. And several varieties of seagoing carnivorous mammals. I don’t know all the names.”

  I jump a little, then relax as Kelly’s mother gives me a gentle squeeze. She’s also an empath, a very strong one, so there’s no doubt she can read my anxiety and the pain in my battered body, even if she doesn’t pick up all the nuances the way Kelly does. “So much for water sports,” I say, hoping to divert attention away from the shuttle and me. Then again, if sea creatures eat me, I won’t have to face the rest of these people again.

  “Oh, you can still do those if you want to. The resort has an underwater barrier set up around the island. Your shuttle landed just inside of it. Precision flying, there.” She pats my shoulder.

  “Well, she did have help.”

  I jump again. Okay, I’m really out of it if people are sneaking up on me on a regular basis. My training, not to mention my enhanced senses, should have alerted me to both Mr. and Mrs. LaSalle and the man who has now appeared on my right.

  What’s going on in there? I subvocalize, letting annoyance color my thoughts.

  I am… overtaxed from the landing and your current emotional state. To keep you functional, I must draw my attention away from some of our joint abilities.

  I’m not redlining, am I? Redlining, pushing the implants to their limits, is bad and happens more often than I prefer in my profession. When I reach that point, I have to monitor myself consistently to make sure I don’t go into overload, which could lead to much, much worse things… such as my autonomics shutting down, or even more catastrophic, a burnout.

  Not anymore, VC1 returns.

  Oh, that’s comforting. Not at all.

  Nothing to be done about it now, though. I turn to the newcomer and blink when the Social Interaction file I created shuffles his newsnet profile and name to the forefront of my awareness.

  This is David Locher. The mystery man with no retrievable records who went to the Academy wit
h Kelly.

  And he said I had help landing the shuttle.

  His blue eyes bore into me, crinkled at the corners, and his mouth curls in a knowing grin like he’s privy to far more information than anyone realizes.

  When he said I had help, I don’t think he meant Kelly. I think he knows.

  He knows what I am.

  Chapter 24: Kelly—Who Are You?

  VICK IS not herself.

  When Vick sees an opening and takes off down the pier, I try to follow, but my friends and family swarm me the moment my foot hits the dock. I’m the recipient of hugs, cheek kisses, pats on the back and shoulders, handshakes, and a dozen inquiries about what happened up there and whether I’m all right. I hear others questioning Vick, suggesting different actions, complaining about damages she couldn’t avoid but still complaining, and I can’t read her emotional response through all the other sensory and extrasensory input, but when she doesn’t turn around and tell them off, I’m stunned.

  Vick prides herself on her military skill set. It’s one of the few areas of her self-esteem that’s not as damaged as the rest of her. She’s an outstanding fighter and an expert marksman along with many other talents she’s trained hard to perfect. I can’t imagine her taking that kind of verbal abuse without defending herself.

  So when I do finally get away from everyone else and meet her at the end of the pier, the last thing I want to see and hear is my old classmate and wannabe boyfriend, David Locher, belittling her skills by saying she had help with the shuttle landing.

  I didn’t do a damn thing to get that yacht down safely. I didn’t—

  No. But VC1 did.

  And David Locher works for BioTech.

  I slip my hand into Vick’s, giving it a firm squeeze of support. Her distress and a miasma of other emotions flood through the physical connection, making me wince, but I don’t dare embarrass her in front of a crowd yet again by pointing it out. Instead, I indicate David with my free hand.