Augment

by C R MacFarlane

  Her eyebrow quirked.

  “He said you don’t usually talk to people at all, so I should count myself lucky.” He made an exaggerated yawn, stretching and rolling himself off the bed, landing awkwardly on his knees.

  She realized her mouth hung open. A warm buzz had overtaken her entire body. It was so unusual, her mind stopped, curious only about the feeling.

  “You knew Hoepe before. In the war?” Kieran said, picking himself up and striding casually across the room.

  The feeling crashed around her, like so many buildings and bombs and laz-bolts. She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Sarrin?”

  “What did Hoepe ask you to say?”

  He picked up the puzzle cube and spun it idly in his hands. “Uh.”

  “The message is unpleasant, no doubt.”

  “It’s not unpleasant, I don’t think.” His voice fell flat, his eyes darted to the auto-syringe sitting on the dresser. “They found more Augments. Grant has a plan to help them. Your presence is requested in the cargo bay for a briefing.”

  “When?” Her heart leapt into her throat.

  He glanced at the chronometer. “Six minutes.”

  Her muscles coiled instantly. “No.”

  “He said you’d say that.” The corner of his lip quirked up. “But, there are more Augments. More of your friends.”

  It wasn’t safe. Didn’t they see that? Didn’t they know? She turned away, making herself small in the corner where the bed pressed into the wall.

  “Sarrin.” The bed shifted under his weight. “It’s just a briefing. Trying to decide what to do.” A warning twinged in her head, and she gasped, his hand stretched toward her.

  “Don’t!” She pressed as hard as she could into the corner.

  “Sarrin.” He inched closer.

  Eyes squeezed shut, she clamped down on the monster the same way she did when Hoepe insisted on examining her. But Kieran was no doctor, he had no practiced distant touch. His fingers barely grazed her leg, as she pushed off the wall and sent herself flying across the room.

  His pulse bounced erratically in his neck, fear rolling off of him into her. Ragged breathing tore through her throat. “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He folded his hands between his legs, tucking them away. “You just looked so sad.”

  Sad equalled dead in Evangecore. “You don’t understand.”

  He swallowed several times, preparing himself. “Then, tell me.”

  She stared at him, blinking. A vision of a cold corpse in a dark room flashed before her eyes. The edges of it were fuzzy.

  “Sarrin?” He moved off the bed, gaze shifting between her and the syringe that lay on top of the dresser. “Your eyes have gone funny. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Of course he didn’t, but she had overreacted. Again. Because to touch her could spell death, she had no control over what the monster would do. She was tired of fighting; fighting herself, fighting them. She longed to escape into the deep Deep, and run and run and run until her feet stopped and she left her body behind, running through the stars. But that was not her life, not what she was made for.

  The bandages fell away as she tugged the edge of the cotton with her teeth.

  “Whoa, what are you doing?” said Kieran. “Hoepe said you need those for a few days.” He reached out as though he wanted to come closer, but his feet were fixed to the floor.

  It didn’t really matter though, did it? She shook her head. “Grant will want to spar.” The suture lines running jagged across her hands were bright pink, scabs in the places the flesh had burned too far back. But the skin had healed. Enough, anyway.

  He gasped, leaning forward where he stood. “That’s incredible.”

  She tucked her hands to her sides so he couldn’t see. Another gift of the monster.

  “But you don’t have to….” His gazed lingered on her, she could feel it burning into her with an intense curiosity. But then the smile folded back onto his features when she lifted her eyes to meet his. “It’s only a meeting,” he said. “To try to figure out how to help your friends.”

  “It’s not a meeting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  How could she explain that Grant would want to start a war, and no one had been made more for war than she.

  “You don’t have to go,” he said. “But if you want me to, I’ll go with you. No one can make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  If only her life were so simple. She had tried resisting their demands once. “If there are weapons, I… I don’t want to lose myself.”

  He smiled from across the room. “I’ll go with you.”

  * * *

  Grant cleared a space between the cargo boxes on the large main floor of the bay. A few training mats that he’d found lay in a neat square at one side of the room.

  Hoepe came down the stairs, carrying a heavy kit with him. “Did you find what you needed?”

  “It’s enough.”

  “I found the shooting simulator,” said Hoepe. “The men should be bringing it along.”

  “Never did like to get your hands dirty,” smirked Grant.

  The doctor gave him a look over his hook nose, and Grant instantly thought of Hoepe working at his makeshift hospitals in the middle of the battlefield. Blood and screams pooled in the air and on the floor, the doctor often covered in spatters of it. Including, usually, Grant’s own blood — a price he gladly paid in the fight for freedom.

  The men arrived shortly and not at all quietly, clacking down the stairs. Eight of them. Big and strong, or wiry and quick. According to Hoepe, many of them had seen actual combat in the war — although how they had survived with foot falls like that was a total mystery.

  Hoepe directed them to set up the holographic projector and targeting simulator.

  Familiar movement caught he eye on the upper level: Sarrin. Purposeful, efficient, calculating. Her eyes rapidly catalogued the room, and his heart lifted, she was exactly as he remembered her. When she had left that night, it broken him in two. “Sarrin!”

  She stiffened, her body perfectly still. Behind her stood the engineer — the one who had admitted him to the shuttle hangar — he whispered something in her ear, leaning close. Too close. Grant’s eyes narrowed, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t like to be touched.

  And yet, she descended the stairs. Muscles tense with anticipation, expression neutral. Kieran followed behind, and Grant found himself hoping the engineer would trip and tumble over the side.

  But he made it safely to the bottom and stretched his hand out. “Good to see you.”

  “What happened to your neck?” asked Grant.

  Kieran’s hand withdrew quickly, reaching to cover the faint bruising surrounding his trachea.

  Grant guided Sarrin across the cargo bay, hovering this hand inches from her back where he knew she could feel him but not be overwhelmed. “I’ve missed you. I want to talk about what happened.”

  Her big blue eyes stared up at him, wide.

  Suddenly, the engineer was there. “Hey, Grant.” He slid, somehow, into the little space between him and Sarrin, arm draped across Grant’s shoulders. “I’ve been meaning to ask ya how you made your way into the shuttle bay. Must’ve been quite a maneuver.”

  Grant pulled away.

  An idiotic grin met him.

  “Grant” — Hoepe’s call distracted him from across the bay — “give us your opinion on this set up.”

  Kieran still stood before him, grinning. Weak, out of shape, out of balance. Common. Pathetic. He would have to talk to Sarrin later.

  The engineer shuffled after him. “What’s this?” He pointed to the simulator and the mats. His voice edged with panic. “I thought this was a briefing, a discussion, ya know.”

  “It is,” said Grant. “But I need to know what I’m working with before I finalize the plan.” He stalked to where Hoepe held up a holographic projector lens.

  On the upper platform, the
wild eyed woman who had tried to shoot him in the shuttle hangar entered. “What are you doing?” she called down. “That equipment is Central Army property.”

  Grant glanced at Hoepe with a smirk. “Well, until not so long ago, so was I. I think it’ll be okay if I use it.”

  Her feet rushed down the stairs one at a time.

  “Hey, Rayne,” the engineer shouted, “glad you could join us.”

  “What are you doing?” She paused at the bottom, glancing from Grant to Kieran.

  “Training,” said Grant.

  “Training!” her voice shrilled with surprise.

  The oblivious engineer kept the ridiculous smile on his face. “Join us. You’re always saying we need more tactical drills.”

  Grant felt the tiny muscle in his cheek twitch.

  She clenched her jaw, glancing warily around the room, then nodded.

  “Really?” said Kieran.

  “Keep an open mind, you said. We’re all surviving together, for now anyway.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait,” said Grant, “sorry to interrupt, but neither of you was invited to the party.”

  Hoepe coughed. “Actually, I invited Kieran.”

  “And Rayne is the best shot under the stars.” Kieran gestured to the training machine. “If you’re gonna want us to shoot something, you’re gonna want Rayne to do it.”

  Hoepe caught his eye and shrugged. “It’s not live bolts.”

  Rayne stripped her jacket down, revealing a tactical tee underneath. She at least had reasonable body composition and balance. Grant shrugged. “Alright, let’s see.”

  The first officer followed him hesitantly. She took the simulator’s light-beam rifle and stood on the little platform. Good stance, defensive grip, acceptable. She might be helpful.

  Hoepe started the simulator, and projections danced in the air. She watched for a minute, eyes tracking. The rifle came up to her shoulder, and harmless beams of light shot out of it in controlled bursts. Target after target flashed out, even as the simulator sped up.

  Grant had to admit she had reasonable skill, for a common. Hoepe’s men each took their turn through the simulation. Even the Poet wasn’t too bad, better than his poetry anyhow.

  “Sarrin?”

  She took a halting step, her gaze fixed to the floor.

  “Actually, I think it’s my turn.” Kieran brushed past her, shooting a look behind. Something about his voice made every muscle in Grant’s body tense.

  Grant’s teeth ground together. “No, it’s —.” But the engineer already stood on the mark. Reluctantly, he handed him the rifle.

  “Go easy on me, yeah? I’m an engineer, not a tactician. Never was any good at this in school.”

  Grant saw Sarrin watching the engineer, eyes alight with intense interest. For whatever motivation came over him, Grant seized the controls and increased the difficulty by two points.

  Projections sped through the air. The engineer missed every single target, badly. Grant powered down the simulator, growling. “Don’t waste my time.”

  “Hey,” he shouted, “I was just getting warmed up.”

  Grant turned his back. “Sarrin.”

  “Nah, let me have another go.” Grant glared at him, but the engineer stepped right up to him. “She’s hurt, she can’t today.”

  His head started to throb, the stupid common trying his patience. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sarrin, come on.”

  * * *

  Sarrin watched as Kieran gripped the rifle, stance unbalanced, rifle held at an impossible angle, and fire glow after glow of pulsated light into the empty air. The simulator flashed targets at three times the standard speed. Had Kieran been in Evangecore, he would have been disposed of.

  Too soon, the projectors shut down, the simulation whirring to a close. Kieran objected, Grant said something, and suddenly all eyes were on her.

  Grant held out the rifle. The words that accompanied it were lost to the indistinct buzzing in her head, but she stepped forward all the same.

  Kieran’s green eyes locked onto hers. She caught the last of his words: “… Just a sim. A game.”

  Sarrin was good at games. Evangecore had many games.

  The monster didn’t flare up when she held the simulated rifle, but her body itched with recognition. Pulse pounding, she took her stance, body locking in like a familiar friend. The light-rifle in her hands could be rewired in a matter of seconds becoming a catastrophic heat ray. Had anyone thought of that? Had Hoepe told Grant about her imbalance?

  The holograms sprung to life. Targets danced in the air. The light-pulse hit one, and it was the same game as always — ding. It flashed out — omega. Another — ding, omega. And another and another — ding, ding.

  She had trained in the simulator at Evangecore. Hours and hours. Too much. The movements were automatic, even as the simulator sped up to 4, 5, 7, 10 times standard.

  Her finger pulled the trigger repeatedly. Ding, ding, ding. She didn’t see the targets anymore, simply knew where they would appear. Ding, Ding-ding-ding-DING-DING. The world around her disappeared, leaving nothing but targets and omegas.

  The sim shut off and she slammed back into herself with a gasp. Her chest heaved, the laz-rifle clattered to the ground. She had been slipping and not even realized it.

  Vaguely, she heard the men cheering. Grant came towards her, smiling. She ducked before he could rest his hand on her shoulder, and scooted away.

  Crouched in the corner, she forced the air in and out, as Grant led the others to a set of practice mats.

  A shadow stood over her: Kieran. Of course he was watching, of course he saw what happened. “I didn’t think it would be like this. Go back to the room. I’ll tell them you’re sick, your hands still hurt and that shooting was too much.”

  She stared.

  “It’s not a big deal.” His expression held no trace of its usual casual smile. “Your hands were in an explosion and you had surgery yesterday. Hoepe knows that. I don’t know why he wanted me to ask you to come.”

  Behind him, grunts echoed across the cargo bay as Rayne sparred with one of Hoepe’s men, grappling across the mats. She flipped and pinned him. Not efficient, but effective.

  “Sarrin,” he said, “I saw your eyes go funny. Get out of here.”

  She nodded, pushing herself up at his beckoning. He led her to the stairs, which she took three at a time.

  Grant called out and stopped her. “Where are you going?”

  Caught, she looked at Kieran.

  “She doesn’t feel good,” he shouted back.

  “She’s fine, you saw her shoot. Same old Sarrin.”

  “No, really —.”

  “Let’s show them how it’s done.” He waved an incessant arm.

  Automatically, her feet backed down a step.

  Kieran looked from her to Grant. He stiffened, his back straight, and stalked forward. “I’ll spar with ya.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “I think Sarrin —.”

  “Nah,” said Kieran, his accent extra thick, “I think I can take ya.”

  Sarrin’s heart thumped painfully, her eyes wide as Grant accepted and invited Kieran onto the mats. Kieran climbed up, setting his feet and fists like a child. If he’d had any training, he’d forgotten it to make room for engine schematics.

  Grant pulled back. “You’re just a common. This isn’t —.”

  “A common?” Kieran’s head jerked in surprise. “What does that mean?”

  Grant growled. “A common. Not an Augment. Don’t think you’re the same as me? You’re not.”

  Kieran’s cheery grin disappeared. “So?”

  “So, this is a very bad idea for you.”

  Kieran glanced back at Sarrin, jutting his chin in the direction of the stairs, urging her to take them, but she stood rooted to the spot. He turned back to Grant. “I think this is good. You wanted to spar with someone, show off a little. Here I am.”

  Suicide.

  “Have you ever
fought before?”

  “Sure. My brother and I used to roughhouse all the time.”

  Grant’s nostrils flared. “Okay, then.” He spun, and hooked him, hard and fast and dirty. But Kieran ducked down, avoiding the hit entirely.

  The edge of Sarrin’s vision started to fuzz. Her feet took a few more steps down the stairs.

  Grant threw a cross-jab directly into Kieran’s face, landing full force with a sickening snap. Stumbling back, Kieran fell from the edge. He spat blood, smearing it from his mouth and nose. Still, he stood, clambering back onto the mat. Ducking low, he rushed Grant, clutching him around the abdomen.

  Grant let loose a harsh, jarring laugh.

  Kieran landed a single punch, throwing the whole of his weight into Grant’s abdomen. Grant didn’t flinch. Surprised, Kieran looked up and Grant came in hard, timing his punch so Kieran couldn’t possibly have time to see it.

  Hoepe’s men tried to help him up, but Kieran slumped where he fell. The doctor pressed an auto-syringe into his neck and frantically triggered a series of pressure points.

  Grant turned to her. “Come on, Sar. I was in that cell too long, help me get the kinks out.”

  She stared at Kieran, only starting to breathe again when she saw him stir. There was no avoiding it, Grant was determined. Stepping to the mat, she knew she would do this the same as she had always done with Grant when he got like this: stay slow, focussed, stumble, concede defeat and let Grant win.

  He stretched, the pop-pop of muscles sliding over vertebrae sounding from his neck, too much like mini explosions lighting up behind her eyes. He pulled his shirt over his head, his back a mass of scar tissue, fresh and raw.

  Stay focussed. Stay slow. She took a shuddering breath. Kieran had been moved to the side where he sat up, conscious if not a little dazed. His blood still stained the mat. She dug her toes into the slightly padded surface, grounding herself.

  She shuffled her feet, staying opposite Grant as he circled around her. Grant used to say it was a wasted step between them — they had sparred so much, they already knew how the other moved, already knew the rhythm — but it had been five years since she’d left him. She noted an injury in his right knee, and a favouring of the left elbow.