by Faith Hunter
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For days, Cupcake and Amos moved Enrico and me back and forth, from the med-bay to my bed, keeping us stabilized and giving Enrico intensive—very intensive—Berger-chip treatments throughout his transition, a timing and intensity I hadn’t tried. It was Cupcake’s idea all the way, Old Man Marconi’s chosen chips teaching Enrico about Italy—the historic, pre-World War III Italy—and how to speak Italian.
At the end of the first three days, I climbed from the med-bay and, while I wasn’t great, I was okay-ish. Enrico, who had been blindfolded the entire time, was ready to go home, though he was a very altered, very Italian Enrico, who had forgotten how to speak English. Marconi might not like that part, but the intensive chip therapy seemed to have drastically lessened Enrico’s attachment to anyone. Which was amazing.
Now that I was stable, Amos was in the med-bay, learning via chip how to maintain all the equipment in the scrapyard and how to fly a high-altitude, low-orbit WIMP engine fighter jet, which he had always wanted to learn. He and Cupcake had clearly spent the last days growing closer, a lot closer, and she cast loving glances at Amos before she took off, driving the still-blindfolded Enrico to a mutually agreed upon safe place for Marconi to pick him up.
For the first time in ages, I had the office to myself. Well, as much to myself as the giant of a man in the med-bay allowed.
Alone, I drank a cup of coffee and grieved Harlan, because that was what vengeance was for. Then I walked into the morning sun, Spy and the black cat on my heels. I realized that the black cat hadn’t been brought for neutering. So that meant . . . he and Spy were like the male fighter cats and the older queens. Okay. Good to know who the next generation of cat leaders would be. I’d have to figure out what to call him.
I wandered through the scrapyard, seeing all the changes Cupcake had made while I was confined to the med-bay. Smith’s had been organized chaos when I took it over, and that had remained my style through the years. Cupcake had different ideas, and the place looked good.
Tapping my comms, I said, “Mateo. You around?”
“Affirmative. Your two o’clock.”
I turned right and stopped. In the middle of the aisle was a corpse, recently dead, the blood still fresh. Darson. He had been dismembered. The cats were gathered around, feeding, eating the protein. Spy sauntered up beside Tuffs and crouched. They touched noses before Spy helped herself to some fresh liver.
“You know where Warhammer is?” I asked into comms.
“Yeah. I know all sorts of things.”
“Like what?”
Mateo’s warbot raised high, an aisle over, his form unfolding, his chameleon skin going pearlized gray. He tilted his spider-like carapace, towering over me. His eyes focused into mine through the plaz-silk window. He looked angry and tired and, very oddly, beaten. “I’m less tied to you,” he said.
“Good.” That seemed to surprise him, so I added, “I never wanted you as a thrall. I just wanted to save you.”
He watched the cats eating his victim, then said, “Warhammer and Evelyn are in a wartime military bunker at the intersection of old I-77 and I-81, near Fort Chiswell. We’ll need backup to take her down. None of the plans we discussed will work.”
“Okay. I’m here for you. Your war is my war.”
Mateo blinked. “You could have done what Warhammer is doing. You could have raised an army. Taken over the world.”
I laughed, the sound too loud in the empty junkyard. The cats all stopped and looked at me, then went back to eating. “And have to rule? Bloody hell, Mateo. I got a junkyard to run. I don’t have time for stupid stuff like running the world. Besides. The Bugs are probably still here, hiding somewhere. They’ll take out anyone using the wrong weapons. This isn’t our world anymore.”
“But it could be.”
I thought about that. “Nah. I don’t want it. I’m going back to the office to check on Amos and eat lunch. I hear you and Cupcake have watermelon sprouting.”
Mateo shook his misshaped head. “I’ll never understand you.”
“I may not be the active Little Girl, anymore, Mateo, but I’m still OMW, and Pops’s daughter. The world doesn’t interest me. I got what I want here.”
“What you ‘got here’ is a bunch of junk and a Bug ship, Shining. And the SunStar.”
“Yeah. Later.”
I wandered to the greenhouse to pick some fresh produce. Maybe have a beer or two.
It was a good day to be alive.
About the Author
Faith Hunter is the New York Times bestselling author of the Jane Yellowrock series, the Soulwood series, the Rogue Mage series, and the Junkyard Cats series.
www.faithhunter.net
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