by Faith Hunter
The cats were bored and bounded around the cab, finding comfy places to snooze away what was left of the night. Spy jumped into my lap. I waited for her to claw me, but she turned around twice and curled into a ball of purring sweetness. “Faker,” I accused her.
We clattered over the bridge. Moments later the hotel came into view. Jagger’s people opened the heavy gate to the overflow parking, and Cupcake wheeled the rig and trailer into its spot, which was a lot tighter now that there were all the extra containers taking up space. Jagger and Amos and the two OMW guards went to work setting up the second Antigravity Grabber.
I carried my suit to the grabber, removed the weapons, tossed the armor under the flat surface, checked the AG energy levels, and engaged it. I stripped off the stinky dungarees and gloves and tossed them in too before dressing quickly in the clothes I had discarded forever ago.
My new armor rose into the air and quivered as the energies began to murder the PRC nanobots and my own. Antigravity killed them all. As to the new nanobots inside me, well, that should be interesting. Hopefully, I’d be back home to my own pre-set med-bay before they reached critical numbers.
Jagger tossed his suit under the grabber’s energies and it rose with mine. Amos and Cupcake were nowhere to be seen. “It’s dawn,” Jagger said, sticking his fingers into his jeans pockets, thumbs outside. “You want sleep? Or you up for something more entertaining?”
I turned my eyes to his face. He was staring at the armor, his eyes sleepy-looking, but his mouth . . . Bloody damn. That mouth. Almost smiling. Relaxed. My belly turned into a pool of molten need. “You know that touching me makes it worse.”
He chuckled. “And not touching you is torture.”
“I don’t want a slave.”
“I’m already there, Little Girl. Too little, too late.”
I closed my eyes. Hating this. “I need to get the containers back to the scrapyard. There were two women held prisoner at a well-fortified log cabin on the way here. I have a bad feeling they weren’t alone, maybe like the people at the campground. I’m going to rescue them and anyone else trapped there. You want to help, get the earthmovers and pumps to Marconi. Hire us rigs to haul the containers. Get us some paid guns. We need to be out of here by midafternoon to get back to the log cabin before dark.”
“I’m going with.”
“Fine. You can sleep on the way. I got an itchy feeling I need to be back at the med-bay.” He looked the question at me. “I’m not feeling so good. The infection is starting sooner than expected.”
Jagger cursed and walked away. To do my bidding. Tears pricked my eyes, but I didn’t have time for them.
Cupcake and I took care of the gear and secured the decontaminated suits in the shipping container they came in. Exhausted, we trudged to our rooms, showered, and fell into bed.
I woke at 1:00 p.m., alone in the room, shivering and feverish. Cupcake, her stuff, and the cats were gone. She had laid out my clothes, which she had never done at the scrapyard. I initiated my nearly antique Morphon to find two messages. Mateo had managed to get the Simba to the scrapyard. He had already begun additional decontamination and an electronics sweep, and was running diagnostics on the WIMP engine and the EntNu uplink. Jolene was adding upgrades and connecting the command modules to her systems as backup. And Cupcake was ready to roll. I turned off the Morphon. I doubted anyone could track me on such an old system, but that wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.
After a cool shower, sunscreen, and a handful of aspirin, I tossed the sheets, towels, and anything that fit into the tub and filled it with water to kill my nanos. I dressed in the jeans, boots, and two layers of shirts that Cupcake had chosen. Black gloves. Sunglasses, which I especially needed because the transition headache was starting and it was bright outside.
I repacked, hung the Do Not Disturb card on the knob, and left, but paid for four more days, so any remaining nanos would be dead when the room was cleaned. Spy met me in registration and walked me out, tail high, leading the way to the secure parking area where everything was different. There were five rigs now, four hauling the new containers, men and women milling around, all armed. My old rust-bucket was loaded with wooden boxes I recognized from Marty’s, and covered with my old cheap scrap.
Jacopo Marconi was standing beside Jagger, a duffel at his feet, and his brother Enrico was trussed up, gagged, blindfolded, and sitting on the cracked asphalt. The cats were hiding under my rig in the shade. Cupcake was giving directions and instructions to the drivers and hired guns. I wasn’t needed, so I walked to Enrico and placed my palms on his face. I pushed with my blood, with my nanobots, beginning the transition that would make him mine. Or kill him. By the time we got back to the scrapyard, he would be ready for the med-bay.
When I stood, I spotted Jagger. He was weaponed up like a space cowboy, wearing yesterday’s clothes, hadn’t shaved, had sweat rings under his arms and down his back, and bloody hell, he looked good. The moment I thought that, he looked up and met my eyes, holding my gaze. There was a lot of heat in that stare for a moment, and then he blinked, and it was gone. That was good, right? It had to be good that he could shut it down. He said, “Deputy Darson was gone. Marconi has people looking for him.”
“Okay. Will he keep us informed?”
“He’ll tell his kid.” He inclined his head to Jacopo and said to him, “You ride with Amos in a rig. Part way there you’ll be blindfolded. Your brother rides with me in another rig. Bikes are loaded for later travel.” Louder, to the drivers and guards, he said, “Let’s roll!”
In seconds we were ready to go, and five rigs rumbled to life. I climbed painfully into my cab, ignoring the cats who jumped in through the open door. Belting myself in, I stretched out my legs, my joints aching, and propped them on the dash. Shifting like the pro she was, Cupcake maneuvered out of the lot, leading the way for the convoy.
She passed me an electrolyte drink, which was slimy and nasty, but I drank it down as we pulled out of Charleston and left behind the last bit of green and civilization I’d see for a while. Of course, civilization had included a sex-slave camp, so maybe not so civilized.
As the last of the farms disappeared, Cupcake glanced at me side-eyed and said, “I know you’re dying and all, but we’re still going to clean out the sex-ring log cabin and kick some butt on the way home, right?”
I shivered, my teeth clattering, knowing it was the fever rising, and while I wanted to be under a blanket, that would only make matters worse. Cupcake passed me a bag of ice and said, “Hold it behind your neck. And answer my question.”
I was sure I hadn’t told Cupcake about my fears for the women there. Had the cats told her? Were they talking to her too, mind-to-mind? That was terrifying, but I was too sick to address that possibility. “Sure. We’ll kick some ass. Bonus points if there’s an e-trail showing a tie to the military, Deputy Darson, the MS Angels, the Law, or the Gov. If it is a sex shop, that’s too coincidental for there not to be a link.”
“Hey, Jolene,” Cupcake said. “You hear the boss lady? Get cracking.”
“Sugah, I been on that since y’all left that place.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m going to the sleeper cab to rest.” I unbelted, shoved cats out of the way, crawled into the back, lowered the foldup bed, and fell onto the bare mattress, holding the ice against my middle now. I dropped into oblivion.
∆∆∆
I woke when the cab fell silent, the constant rumble gone. I was on my side, wrapped around the still-cool water bag, sweating. The fever had temporarily broken, but I was weak, aching, and even breathing hurt.
Spy was curled into the crook of my arm, purring. Other cats were behind my knees, against my back, one against my head. I grunted, Spy awoke, and the others came awake too. Shoving cats away, I sat up. There was a tiny comms system, two bottles of electrolyte drink, four aspirin, and an energy bar I recognized as coming from the SunStar on the tiny fold-out table. Seemed Cupcake’s inventory of my scrapyard had
included the spaceship. No wonder she and Jolene were cozy.
I drank the drinks, took the aspirin, and ate the bar. It was tasteless, but I needed the calories. When I could stand, I stepped across the cat litter box and used the cab toilet. Everything in the cab stank because of my toxic sweat. There was a tiny portable body wand I could use to clean myself, but it would take a lot of time, and I could hear voices outside. Cupcake. Jagger. Amos. Jacopo. No engines anywhere. I breathed deep despite the pain, palmed the comms system, braced myself, and stepped from the cab, the cats landing all around me.
The first thing I saw was the eight-person donning unit, some sections with armor already in place. In neat rows were the wooden boxes I had seen packed on the flatbed back at the hotel, the wooden boxes from the first container I had opened at Marty’s. Their lids were off. Two of them I remembered, each holding three long rifles capable of multiple-caliber projectiles, all with AI targeting and high-capacity mags. A box of hand weapons was beside it. In organized rows were crates of ammo—the various calibers that would fit the weapons. Last was a case of third-gen blasters, RADR IIIs—pretty, sleek, with armor neural-link capability. They probably had greater range and improved lethality than the one I had killed Marty with.
I walked on around the now-empty rig, trying to figure out where I was. There was a creek in a half-dry riverbed off to the side of the cracked, broken road. It looked a lot like what was left of Big Coal River and Coal River Road, just outside Sylvester, a few klicks from where the log cabin was.
My crew stood under the shade of a tree: Amos, Cupcake, Jacopo, Jagger. They stopped talking and looked me over. They could probably smell me even through the distance that separated us.
The comms system, a tiny thing the size of my pinkie fingernail, vibrated. I tucked it into my ear, and Mateo said, “Afternoon. Cupcake says you’re sick.”
“Yeah. What do you care?”
“You’ll survive. You always have.”
My heart clenched at the callous response. “Update,” I demanded, not crossing the distance to the small group.
“The Simba needs a test run before we go after Evelyn. Cupcake said you intend to close down the armored log cabin and rescue the prisoners. And yeah, Jolene and I’ve been checking it out since you left. Sat-sensors say it’s full of prisoners.”
I said nothing.
“So I got us into place on a low hillock, two klicks from the building, which is another two klicks from your current location.”
“Us?”
“Simba, Jolene, and me.”
“Hey there, sugah. Soon as you’re in your suit, I can monitor your vitals and stick you full of meds to compensate for the transition.”
I grunted softly.
“And the suit’s got a full power load this time, Sweet Thang, so you can make comprehensive use of the complete armor tech and weapons capability.”
Mateo said, “We can do a trial run of our plan to take down Warhammer.”
“And the others?” I asked, staring at the group under the tree, knowing the answer already. “What do they say about it?”
“They’re in.”
All this for Evelyn. All this planning. All these machinations behind my back. I wanted to lash out at Mateo. I wanted to hurt him as badly as he was hurting me. But . . .
I remembered the sight of him the day I rescued him from the small-town sheriff who had enslaved him as his own personal bullyboy and computer. The mess he had been when I got him to the office and out of the warbot suit. The PRC nanos had eaten him, piece by piece.
All I had wanted for years was for Mateo to be his own man, not a thrall to me. I just hadn’t expected him to betray me when that day came. I hadn’t expected it to hurt. Sometimes getting what you want is painful. “What do your sensors say about the armaments?”
“The walls have minimal exterior armor; appear to be standard prewar build of logs and plaz-crete. However, I’m detecting something on the inside, maybe carbon-fiber reinforcement. Windows are reinforced—old-style bullet-resistant glass, not silk-plaz—but will stand up to anything except the Simba’s bigger weapons. Garage doors are reinforced with graphite epoxy trusses and hemp-plaz carbon-fiber composite, possibly scavenged from a black-market Tesla fuselage. One mid-war laser cannon visible from above the left garage door, possibly also from a Tesla.
“I count”—he hesitated—“twelve distinct humans on the second floor. Twenty-seven on the main floor, but one room is heavily packed, and I can’t differentiate exact numbers. Likely a prisoners’ dormitory.
“Eleven vehicles are out front: four armored Supra-El utility vehicles; the two tanks you took down before; four motorbikes; and one county car, possibly Hand of the Law. Lot of people moving with purpose.”
Darson? I wondered. It would make sense for him to flee from one sex shop to another.
Watching the group who were watching me, I considered that information. Turned on a heel and walked off to the side, toward the river. “Describe the bikes.”
“Two Harleys, two LPMs, newer models, maybe last five years.”
“Black and blue and green-flame paint jobs?”
“Negative. Solid black. Why do you ask.” It was a demand, the tone of a spaceship CO talking to his subordinate.
“Spy spotted some motorbikes while we were in Charleston, and she was upset by them, but they looked different.” I sat on a rock at the water’s edge. The creek was a steady trickle, the sound of moving water rare these days, except when storms blew through. “There was a deputy’s car at the log cabin when we came through last time. Any chance the county car is Darson’s?”
“The vehicle is parked at the wrong angle for me to be sure. Do I need to work my way in closer?”
“Hold your position.” As an afterthought, I added, “Please.”
I pulled off my glove and put my fingers in the water. It was warmer than body temp and sludgy with algae. “Jolene? Did you find a paper trail on Darson’s finances?”
“It’s incomplete, sugah, but he only showed up in Charleston two years ago, so his financial backtrail is short. However, he lives in a mighty fine house in Charleston for a county Hand of the Law, and he has a partnership in a string of strip clubs from St. Louis to Louisville.” Strip clubs was a euphemism for the sex trade.
St. Louis to Louisville was the direction the MS Angels had been moving the last time Harlan and I talked. St. Louis was one of their biggest strongholds. Nothing about the sex shops was coincidence.
“Any sign the rest of the sheriff’s office personnel are living higher on the economic ladder than their salaries indicate should be possible?”
“Negative,” Jolene said. “Don’t mean they ain’t hidin’ the money better than Darson, though.”
I nodded to myself and mentally called Spy. She raced up and sat on my thighs. I tilted my head forward, asking her to touch mine. The world tilted and I wanted to vomit, but I held it in. I told her what I wanted. She hissed and backed away, nearly flying to a rock nearby, her tail twitching in either excitement or anger. Hard to tell which.
I pulled on my glove and walked back to the group, saying to Mateo, “Send the GPS to Cupcake’s Morphon.” I tapped off the comms. “Gear up. We’re taking the log cabin.” And it needed to be soon, because I could feel the shivers getting close again.
“’Bout damn time,” Cupcake said.
I stripped off the boots and pants and stepped up to the donning station. I initiated it, closed my eyes, and prepared for misery, because this time, I needed to allow full hookup, even the private parts. And it would not be pleasant.
∆∆∆
Running four kilometers—weaponed up and carrying two cats—was nothing while wearing fully charged, restocked armor in full battle mode, even with me sick as a dog. It was late afternoon by the time we had positioned ourselves and were ready to initiate the plan devised by Mateo and me, one that included the cats. Spy, wearing a tiny camera secured on her chest and tied directly into our face s
hields, leaped from my arms, followed by the other cats, and raced for the house. I settled myself, sitting against a tree trunk, eyes closed, to follow her through the mental link we had established before we left the scrapyard.
The world shuddered and shook, and I wanted to hurl. Instead, my body stabilized and relaxed. According to my suit monitor, Jolene had taken over my armor and was injecting a combo of meds based on the transition protocol of the med-bay in the scrapyard’s office.
“Okay, Spy,” I murmured. Feeling oddly tranquil, I reached for the explorer cat, found her, and saw through her eyes.
Spy was perched in a tree, the limb overlooking the western gable of the log cabin. From this vantage, she could see the front of the house, the garages, and had a clear view of the parking area. Into my comms system, I said, “The tanks are being repaired. There are multiple mechanics and weapons specialists working on them.”
Spy showed me other visions as well, one at a time, which kept the nausea and vertigo at bay, though I got the feeling that she found it silly that I couldn’t see all seven cat visions at once. Each view was from a different outside perspective, and I told the other humans the positions of the guards before Spy turned her attention inside the windows.
Inside the front window, a woman once again danced on a pole in front of a group of men. I counted the men. All were armed. All wore gray camo fatigues, the same kind I remembered from the sex-shop camp. My fears had been right.
The high-level MS Angels wore gray camo. Had ever since the war. One of the men we squished on the way to Charleston had worn washed-out black camo. I hadn’t thought about it at the time since gray camo was common enough in the backcountry among West Virginia hunters. I hadn’t caught it until I saw the dead men at the camp.
“Mateo. They’re wearing MS Angels camo, just like some of the men at the campground. Jagger had to have noticed, and he didn’t say anything about that.”
