by Elle E. Ire
“Where’d you get those?” I ask, giving in to the inevitable and swinging my legs off the bed.
“Rachelle lent them to me. We always shared clothing in the Academy.”
Like sisters.
Somewhere along the twists and turns of my life, I must have had good friends. I wish I could remember any of them right now.
I half expect Kelly to come over and offer comfort for my mood, but the suppressors are working and she doesn’t notice. VC1 must have recovered from yesterday’s ordeal.
A thumbs-up icon appears in my internal view, confirming my thoughts.
Funny. When Kelly’s smothering me with concern, I want it to stop. When she can’t read me, I miss her extra affection. Get a grip, Corren.
Since I showered last night, there isn’t much prep work to get ready. Leaving my laser pistol behind hurts, but it’s too hot for a jacket, and I’d have nothing to hide it under, which would totally freak out Kelly’s friends and family. I do stow a knife in my right boot, careful to tuck the handle all the way down. Then I grab a few other items that might come in handy, and we make it to the pier just as everyone else is arriving. About twenty guests, most carrying colorful reusable shopping bags slung over their shoulders, are boarding the transport that could carry approximately fifty people.
A resort staff member ushers us aboard the double-decker craft, most passengers making for the upper deck while I tug Kelly into a bottom-level seat. She pouts but complies. Rachelle joins us. Lily and Tonya opt for upstairs. A second employee casts us off while a third takes the wheel and starts up the solar-powered engine.
Within minutes we’re in deep water, passing the barrier the resort uses to keep out the carnivorous sea life, designated by bright orange buoys floating on the surface at widely spaced intervals. There’s no sign of the half-sunken shuttle, and I assume the salvage company has towed it to a storage facility on Celebration Isle.
It doesn’t take long for Kelly to figure out why I chose the seats I did. Though it’s a clear day, it’s windy and rough, the waves crashing against the sides of our vessel and spraying us with salty droplets. Soon the upstairs passengers are descending to our level, crowding into the seats or standing uncomfortably. “Vick….”
I glance at her. She’s gone greenish gray. I rest a hand on her thigh, reaching the other one into one of the many pockets on my cargo shorts to remove a medipatch. Her eyes widen, but she lets me press it to her neck. A moment later she sighs with relief, the motion sickness meds doing their thing.
“Paranoid much?” she says while others around us groan in discomfort. A few grab for sick bags located in pouches along the railings.
“I prefer ‘prepared.’ And you should be glad, not critical.”
“I’m always glad when you’re around,” she says and leans her head against my shoulder. The waves continue rocking us hard, but in that moment, all is right with the universe.
Chapter 28: Kelly—Spree
VICK IS compliant.
Taking Vick shopping is a unique experience. The girls see it as a challenge, laughing and joking with her, asking her opinion on different styles, trying on outlandish and inappropriate pieces to make her feel comfortable.
At first she’s withdrawn and embarrassed, but after Lily and Tonya show off grandma-style swimsuits in the shimmer-cotton and radiant spandex combo that was popular about fifty years ago, complete with the light-up trim, and Rachelle pops out of the dressing room in a polka-dot neon pink sundress three sizes too big for her, Vick eases up somewhat.
“It’s not a chore. It’s an outing,” I explain while the others riffle through stacks of sunhats. “We’ll pick some items that are appropriate, but we’re also having fun, being silly, seeing who can be the most out of style.”
Vick nods, her expression serious, in full analysis mode. Then she heads straight for a rack of sunglasses in the window of the boutique we’re exploring. Minutes pass. The others are in and out of the dressing rooms at least twice before I decide I’d better find out what’s going on.
“Vick?” I say, moving to stand behind her. She might be in her own head, communicating with VC1. I could understand her facing away so the others don’t notice her eyes unfocusing. Or she might be upset about this whole excursion.
She still isn’t moving.
I don’t want to spook her. Startling Vick can have serious consequences. She’s hard to surprise, but if one succeeds, one could find oneself staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon, and while I don’t see any visible weaponry on her, I’m not so naïve as to believe she’s unarmed.
I shuffle my feet on the white tile floor, kicking some collected sand and bits of seaweed and driftwood that other customers have tracked inside. Clearing my throat so she has to know I’m close by, I try again. “Vick? Everything okay? If you want to head back to the hotel, I understand, and I’ll go with you. I can meet up with the girls late—”
Vick chooses that moment to whirl and face me, the most outrageous sunglasses perched on the end of her nose. The style is circa Earth in 1950s Hollywood: star-shaped lenses, rhinestone-covered frames, the works. I’m too surprised to speak, my mouth gaping open, my eyes wide and staring. In my peripheral vision, I’m aware of Tonya and Lily coming up on my left and right, also silent. Rachelle must be behind me somewhere since I don’t hear her either.
Once she’s certain she has everyone’s attention, Vick says, completely deadpan, “I was thinking of getting these for here and to use on planetside missions. What do you think?”
Long, silent pause. Lily breaks, her laughter low at first but growing louder by the second, followed by Tonya’s signature high-pitched giggle I remember so well from the Academy. It used to drive her teachers crazy because it would set off the entire class. Rachelle and I can’t help ourselves and join in on the mirth.
Through tears I focus on Vick, making certain we haven’t read her wrong and upset her, but she’s grinning, eyes sparkling beneath the sunglass lenses, brighter than their rhinestone decorations. Lily comes up and claps her on the shoulder. “Good one, Vick.”
“I love a surprise sense of humor,” Tonya chimes in.
Vick’s grin widens further. I appreciate my friends more than ever.
We move on from there, checking out the other shops. We have a few more hours before we have to catch the complimentary launch back to our resort, but we’re in full-on shopping mode. I pick up a few wardrobe necessities, then talk Vick into a modest black one-piece bathing suit that she’s uncomfortable with but can accept as an essential. I would have preferred something more revealing, perhaps a plunging neckline or a higher cut up on her hips, but I’ll take whatever I can get her to agree to. Rachelle finds her some tank tops that show off Vick’s muscles and two more pairs of cargo shorts in white and navy. She’s not thrilled with the white, says it makes her stand out too much, but Lily points out with a wink at me that it will catch the glare of the sun and blind any attackers that might be lurking behind palm trees.
Vick seems to ponder that concept for a long moment, then nods, earning an additional laugh from our group. I’m not so certain Vick meant this one to be taken as a joke. She blinks in surprise at their amused response but rolls with it.
Formal wear is more of a challenge. As a fashion expert, Tonya brought hers. Rachelle looks good in everything, so she finds a lovely evening dress in the first place she looks, teal with a satin full-length skirt and glittery bodice, complete with some cut-out parts around the waist that show off her incredible figure. Lily rents a traditional black tux and leaves it at that. For me, it’s a stunning deep blue dress patterned with sparkling silver stars. While I’m modeling it for the others, I reach out and gently close Vick’s mouth for her. She nods her thanks.
So we’re all taken care of. Except Vick.
We browse the racks, but nothing suits her. She won’t try on a dress, despite the fact that holos we found of her in her teens indicate she used to wear them.
“I�
��m not that person anymore,” she tells me. “I don’t remember her at all.”
It’s not true; she remembers bits and pieces, but I don’t push her. She’s upset enough about it as it is.
Pantsuits don’t work either, though she gamely tries a couple on. They flatter her muscular figure, especially the sleeveless ones, but the flowy fabrics and pastel colors make her frown in distaste. After searching through four different stores, her positive mood fades, and I suggest a break for food.
We have lunch in a pleasant open-air beachside café, my Academy friends taking great pleasure in telling embarrassing stories about me from my college days and Vick taking it all in, leaning back in her chair and catching the sun with her Hollywood glasses on.
Vick talks too, much to my surprise. She asks each of the girls good questions about themselves, earning surprised looks that she knows so much about them, but I suppose Vick was really paying attention when I spoke to her about my friends. There are a few things I don’t remember ever telling her, but I shrug it off. She’s participating, part of the group, and I couldn’t be happier. I love Vick and I love my friends. I want them to like each other.
After a number of rum drinks with little umbrellas and a lot of good conversation, we discover that we’ve got only minutes to race for the docks and catch the launch. We pay the check and stand to make a dash for it when Tonya reminds us we still haven’t bought Vick any formal wear for the big party toward the end of the week.
“You go,” Vick says to me, holding both my shoulders and nodding for the others to head out. “I’ll pay one of the water taxis I saw at the pier. I’ve got some other shopping to do, anyway.”
“You do?” I narrow my eyes at her. “You hate shopping. What are you up to?”
She shrugs. “Your birthday. I need a gift, and don’t try to tell me you don’t want anything because everyone else will have one, and I won’t, and I already stand out enough for all the wrong reasons. I also need formal wear. I’d rather solve that problem on my own. Now go before you miss the boat.” She passes me one more seasickness patch, then turns me toward the dock and gives me a gentle push. “I’ll be fine. Go.” To punctuate her urgency, a multitoned boat whistle sounds in the distance, the same one our boat made when we arrived.
I take Vick’s few purchases from her so she won’t have to carry them. “I’ll put these in our cottage. And I trust you,” I tell her. Then I break away and run, hoping that we weren’t still in physical contact when I said that, because to be honest, I’m not certain she can keep herself out of trouble, and if we were touching, she’ll have read me as well as I can read her and know I didn’t have complete faith in her being alone. Her fault or not, problems seem to find Vick wherever she goes.
Chapter 29: Vick—The Hardest and Easiest Choice
I AM indecisive.
I follow Kelly out of the restaurant and stand on the cracked curbside, using my enhanced vision to track her all the way to the pier. She boards the bobbing craft, only then glancing back in my direction, though her human eyes can’t see me at this distance. I get a warm feeling inside when she waves anyway. She knows I can see her.
Once her vessel has moved beyond even my sight, I let out a long breath. A quick thought lowers the suppressors, allowing the headache I’ve sensed buried beneath the implants to pound inside my skull. It hurts like hell, but I’ve been warned that overuse of the suppressors can have long-term negative effects, so I’ll endure the pain, at least until I need to operate undistracted.
“Operate,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head and letting the intensified pain punish me. Operate like a machine. I still can’t think in terms of being fully human. Kelly would smack me.
I wander along the quaint sandstone streets, everything around me light in color and feel. Flags and awnings flap in the ocean breeze. Signs swing back and forth on their hinges. Seabirds call to one another as they glide overhead. I should be relaxed, but it takes effort to put one foot in front of the other.
Who knew socializing could be so exhausting?
I know my relationship history through the tales of the other mercs. I was an extrovert once. I barely know what that means anymore.
An image of a nutshell with me trapped inside flashes on my internal view. I pound my fists against it, making cracks but never breaking free.
Gee, thanks, I tell VC1. She doesn’t bother replying.
Maybe she’s trying to tell me that’s who I am now, trapped in my personal shell.
Or maybe she’s saying I’m nuts.
My strolling takes me farther from the main thoroughfare, and I spot some indications that Infinity Bay isn’t the total paradise it makes itself out to be. Even here there are homeless, a few drunks (though those could be overzealous vacationers), and what looks like a drug deal going down in one of the narrower, darker alleyways.
Not my problem, none of my business. But I hesitate, watching the lanky guy with unkempt facial hair and stained knee-length shorts grab the wrist of a girl half his age and half his size. Strands of dyed pink hair obscure the teenager’s face, but my eyesight spots the bruising on her bare arms and legs. She digs in a pocket with her free hand, drops some credits into his palm, and yanks herself free, then flees toward the opposite end of the alley and disappears around a corner.
He shouts after her. I only make out “not enough” and “owe me” before I force myself to move on.
As if of their own accord, my feet turn me left, between two competing tiny grocery stores filled with locals and visitors alike. The visitors grab sodas and snacks. The locals make more practical purchases, like vegetables and loaves of savory-smelling fresh-baked bread. When I get past them, I’m facing what looks to be a second-hand clothing shop.
Why did you bring me here? It had to have been VC1’s idea. I didn’t choose this direction.
Just because I tease you does not mean I dislike you or will not help you. In fact, I have observed that in relations between humans it is often quite the opposite. I believe it is called “good-natured” teasing.
How is it that the AI in my head acts more human than I do?
Given what I know of humanity, I am not certain that is a compliment, VC1 muses.
That earns her a snort and earns me an odd stare from the shopkeeper as I step over the threshold. I cough as if I’m recovering from a cold and ignore the fiftysomething woman, heavyset and eagle-eyed like she thinks I’m here to steal her merchandise.
I meander through the aisles, pulling a shirt here, a jacket there, until my hand brushes soft velvet. My fingers linger, running over the fabric, appreciating the luxurious nature of it. I reach for the hanger and pull out a dark blue dinner jacket with lapels and pockets trimmed in black satin. The shade of blue reminds me of the navy ball of my blocked love that I once found myself trapped in within my own head—something I’ve never tried to describe to Kelly because it defies coherent description. Regardless, I’m drawn to this garment. It’s… decadent, classic. I can imagine it with black dress pants and classy black men’s-style shoes, with maybe a tie?
VC1 shoots me an image of the entire outfit put together, the jacket tailored to my curves and muscles, a shiny satin black shirt beneath the jacket to match the lapels, and a blue velvet bow tie completing the look. It reminds me of old vids, men smoking pipes and cigars, lounging in oversized armchairs, then removing jackets like this, or letting their romantic partners do it, and taking their elegantly dressed ladies to bed.
There’s only one problem. The heat. I pull up the local forecast for the night of the event and sigh. Hot, muggy, even the breezes will be warm. I slip the hanger back on the rack. Not the best fabric choice for a tropical island.
Buy it, VC1 says in an authoritative tone.
But—
An unexpected thunderstorm a few hours before the party will drop the temperatures to unseasonable lows. In fact, I suspect you will be lending Kelly that jacket.
Wait, I say, making certain I’m facing away
from the saleswoman. Even speaking in my head, I look odd when I’m in communication with VC1. You’re telling me you can predict the weather?
Far more accurately than the local meteorologists. I can extrapolate from a variety of scientific databases, combining knowledge of wind speeds, cloud formations, air moisture, and temperature to predict weather with 97 percent accuracy as opposed to their 79 percent. Her internal voice turns smug. I could teach them a few things about their algorithms.
I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised. Any technology VC1 can tap into, she can use.
I take the jacket off the rack and try it on. Big but workable, though I’d prefer it to fit my curves a little better. I realize it will complement Kelly’s gown—a navy blue dress. A color I seem to favor, though she prefers green.
She specifically bought it for me.
She does many things specifically for you.
That was a thought, not a comment, I admonish the AI. You’re responding to my rhetorical questions and thoughts as if they were direct communications to you.
For me, there is little difference.
So much for privacy.
I heard that.
I resist the urge to sigh again and picture Kelly’s reaction to me in this dinner jacket. In my mind’s eye, she’s running her hands over the fabric, enjoying the feel of the velvet and me within in. A shiver runs up my spine.
“He will love it,” a voice says right behind my left shoulder.
I manage to keep myself from jumping or whirling on the shopkeeper or drawing the knife from my boot, but only just. Taking a second to compose myself, I turn to face her. “She,” I clarify. “It’s for me.”
To her credit, the woman doesn’t even blink at that. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, assessing. “The jacket is fifty credits. Alterations are included.”
