Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel

by KL Mabbs

Sarah reminded Michael of his mother. Not her looks, the blond hair that swayed as she walked, or the haughty way she moved, but the smile that caressed her face as it lit up the sky, reminded him of his lost parent.

  “Let’s go to your house.”

  Michael towered over her. Most of the kids his age couldn’t equal his height or the weight that his training gave him. “No, that’s not possible. I’ll walk you home though.”

  “You and your dad too messy?”

  He laughed as she said it, an easy joke that might have been true with other widowed men left with a son that made hard choices at such a young age.

  “No, it’s not safe.” He held her hand with a gentleness that told her he had no wish to harm her, wouldn’t harm anybody.

  Sarah didn’t argue. She wanted Michael’s company, but the tone in his voice told her more than she wanted to know about his home life. Scared her in ways that only a walk down the wrong streets of the city would. And that was in daylight.

  What Sarah didn’t understand was the love she heard every time Michael talked about his father.

  Michael forced the breath from his lungs and then inhaled deeply. Though he could run faster, he kept his pace slow and steady, his emergency pack tied tight to keep its movement down. Beside him, Faelon loped lightly on two feet, occasionally moving to four limbs with the same grace and mobility as an animal. It was eerie, and exotic at the same time.

  The path led them along the slope of the mountain, the evergreens changing the light every few minutes as they passed in front of them. A Whiskey Jack shrieked at them, the bright blue of its feathers oddly hidden in the trees around them.

  The anger he had felt earlier was still with him, a quiet rage that kept him warm. He was sure his doctor was only a front. For the army, or his father, he didn’t know. There was enough to either suspicion to feel right, though both would have different motivations for the action. He knew that, as sure as Faelon was right about the pills being poison. Faelon’s instincts and her sense of smell were true. Michael felt that in the center of his will. And somehow, he trusted Faelon in the same way she seemed to trust him.

  Trailing behind Faelon, he was moving slowly enough not to bump into her when she stopped. A growl came from her. Like the one that had claimed his attention when she was in the trap, it was meant to scare. Her body was thrust forward, one hand on the ground, her nose up, and her ears forward. The fur on her head and the mane that trailed down her spine was standing on edge, bristling. Michael slowed and angled to her side so she could see him, and more importantly, so he could see the ground in front of her. Cresting up the slope were tracks. Wolf tracks, larger even than Faelon’s, they were set deeper in the snow. They came up over the path, showing where the wolf had stopped, moved towards the cabin, and then turned away, heading back down into the valley. From the look of the spoor, they were at least a day old. The snow had had time to melt and then freeze again. With the day warming up, water was building up in the bottom of the track, the ice a shimmer beneath.

  “I know him, Faelon. That’s the wolf that went after my horse last year.” The tracks had the same twists and scars in them, as distinctive as fingerprints. But these prints were larger. How does a full-grown wolf get bigger?

  Faelon had dropped to all fours. Her nostrils high, she was searching the wind, changing her position to find an enemy.

  Michael carried a pistol as well as a rifle when he trekked into the bush each winter. But right now, for running, all he had on him was a knife strapped to his thigh. With the threat from last year, he had improved the sliding door on the cave that held the horses, but wolves were cunning. They should be safe. And usually an animal was more afraid of him than the other way around. Still.

  Michael pointed to the tracks and started to move in their direction. “Let’s follow them, Faelon. See where he’s headed.”

  “Hot, Michael,” she said.

  “Yes, dear. Very dangerous.” She cocked her head at him in a sideways gesture, but didn’t say anything. Then she moved off in the same crouching graceful lope. Michael untied the snowshoes from the small knapsack he always carried, slipped them on, and started to follow Faelon into the deeper snow off the hard-packed trail.

  He kept his eyes open and ears tuned as much as possible, but his senses were blind in comparison to a wolf. And, the more Michael got to know Faelon, the more he was sure she was just that.

  The tracks led downhill, the snow around them unmarked. His running path had been pressed hard over the week he had been using it. Here, the snow was deeper. Without his snowshoes, he would have been a metre under the surface, struggling to move in the light powder. Faelon though, was able to spread her hands and feet enough to balance her weight on the surface of the snow, the same way a wolf would. But, her steps were slow and careful; if she moved too fast, she would fall under the surface and be as limited as if running in the ocean’s surf.

  They followed the tracks for ninety metres, Faelon on one side and in front, Michael on the other side and slightly behind, when they both turned back towards the cabin and stopped. A windswept mound of boulders was to the right of them, their tops shielded by the spruce trees that surrounded them. From here, the cabin was in sight, half a klick upslope.

  Michael felt like he was being stalked. The low growl from Faelon confirmed it. The wind had been mercurial all morning, but right now it was coming from the left. Faelon quested with her nose, her head shifting, and her ears twitching. Then the wind shifted, briefly, and the growl that erupted from Faelon’s lips made Michael react. He slipped his knife from its sheath. She turned her head to the right, and a blur of darkness erupted from the old growth that had surrounded the boulders. Two savage growls broke the morning. The Whiskey Jack that had been following them stilled.

  And Faelon changed.

  One moment, Michael saw her lunge at the other wolf, her face and teeth reaching for its throat. Her body shifted, like quicksilver under moonlight, and the next moment her brindle-coloured snout and long canines were snapping shut. Michael heard the sharp crack of her teeth closing on air. As the black wolf passed, her claws reached out and raked its hide, and her teeth snapped again at its hindquarters. They bit down on flesh this time. She whipped her head and tore a great chunk from the animal’s flank. Its cry pierced the air, but it ignored her, too intent on its prey.

  Michael had six metres of distance to watch as the male wolf slipped past Faelon, landed on the ground, stepped forward twice, and then lunged straight for his throat.

  In snowshoes, his movement was hampered. He didn’t have much choice, so he kept his knife low, his stance ready and spread out, as a hundred kilos of wolf bore down on him, the growl in his ears deafening. The wolf’s arc would bring its teeth to his throat. Michael crouched down and raised his knife, thrusting with all his weight. He felt the blade bite deep into the wolf’s underside, the hilt meeting its hide and burying deep. The wolf twisted its head and drove its teeth into Michael’s right shoulder. His hand slipped from the knife. He collapsed, following the wolf’s arc to the ground as best he could, lessening the force, reducing the tearing of his jacket and hopefully the flesh underneath. He heard Faelon then, her weight slamming into the other wolf with a thud as they rolled away from him, snow exploding outward. He finally got a look at the wolf as it snarled and ravaged at Faelon, trying to tear her apart. Its body was black in colour, turning to a dark grey on its limbs and paws. Its hair was spiked with rage, and its eyes glared with darkness, as if its colouring was showing its personality as well. It was easy to see Faelon against its dark fur; she possessed the same brindle coat as her hair in human form.

  Then silence descended on the forest as the two wolves untwisted from each other as if they had to see each other to make the next move. Then Michael saw what he had gone through with Faelon himself—only he had won that dominance game. Locked in the stare, Faelon took an aggressive stance, her fur standing up, a growl thrumming through the air. The other wolf’s st
ance was defensive. It stood slightly crouched, its back up, and tail hung low. The intruder turned and melted into the forest. Blood stained the snow, puddles of it trailing after the male.

  Michael tried to stand up, and a wave of dizziness took him. “Fuck.” He twisted out of his gear. Faelon, sure the intruder wasn’t coming back, turned to her mate, and nuzzled into his face and throat. The wuff of her breath was warm on his skin, as was the fur that now covered her. Michael put a hand on her chest and pushed her back, “Easy, Faelon.” She sat on her haunches, staring at him. Her apprehension showed as she began to edge closer and then stopped, the dark amber of her eyes moving from his shoulder to his face.

  With his left hand, he pulled out his first aid kit, opened it, and prepped what he thought he would need. His jacket, ripped as it was, kept the cold from most of his body. He eased his arm first out of the arm of his coat and then out of his shirt.

  Faelon whined as Michael hissed from the pain and the wound was bared to the air. A nasty ragged bite pierced his shoulder, front and back. The imprint of both sides of the wolf’s jaw where it had tried to come together. If it had, Michael was sure flesh and bone would have been missing. Michael put his hand up, pulling the flesh open to inspect the damage more closely.

  Faelon moved, her nose pushing his hand away. Her tongue started to lick at the wound.

  “Faelon. No.” He tried to move her away, gently.

  She growled. A low warning.

  “No,” he said.

  She snapped at him, her teeth clicking near his face, her eyes daring him to stop her. Michael leaned back in the snow, his shoulder in the air. He mounded the stuff between his feet and then rested his legs higher than his head.

  “Okay. I get it. Really, I do.” Faelon licked the blood away, and with each hiss of pain that Michael let out, she would turn to him and lick his cheek, the way a mother might kiss a child, and then returned to her ministrations.

  Michael rested, a dizzy spell catching him again for a moment. The sound of the Whiskey Jack came back, an impertinent scolding, as if it had warned them of the wolf.

  When Faelon was satisfied that the wound was clean, she sat back. Michael poured Betadyne over the flesh and put a field dressing on as best he could, then wrapped up warm again. Next, he tied a sling out of a triangular bandage. Slowly he raised himself to his feet, hoping the shock he had tried to offset wouldn’t overcome him.

  “Let’s go, Faelon. I need to get home.” Michael took the few steps to retrieve his knife from the imprint in the deep snow where it had landed.

  Faelon turned, looked at the blood in the snow, and sniffed the air.

  “He’ll bleed out with that wound I left in his side. And then there’s the damage you did.”

  Michael didn’t like the idea of leaving an animal to die, but it had attacked them. In an ambush, more like the way a human would have done it. It was an almost perfect surprise attack, or would have been if Faelon hadn’t saved his life, again. She followed him, but her eyes and nose kept testing the area as if she expected the other wolf to come back. Michael wondered if maybe there were others like Faelon. That sent a shiver of worry through him. He found himself looking around more than usual on the way back to the cabin.

  For the last three years, he had believed the lie of safety that he told himself his life up here had given him. That wasn’t true anymore.

  Chapter 8 Hillman

  Headhunting has been practiced for centuries as a means of securing social roles and functions, from China to America. This didn’t change in the twenty-first century when it became a way for large corporations to influence the social course of history, gobbling up the best of the human race in their endeavour to build hierarchal relationships that prospered both in terms of money and influence.

  When Gerund graduated, he decided that he would never again be in a relationship like he had with his father, Jacob. He turned to headhunting, rather than being headhunted like prey. It was better to imagine himself as the procurer of heads for ritual sacrifice. That thought led him to think about how wars operated, both past and present, and with the States failing in half of its economic endeavours due to restructuring and loss of resources, he turned to the private sector. Blackwater showed up on the list of companies with growth potential—more than many would have thought possible for a mercenary company. Gerund knew how to make them notice him, because money and power were the same thing and he knew a way to save the company from its own bottom line.

  Death.

  His internship had been in a medical facility. He had kept their books, but he also had taken an interest in what they spent their money on. The company's name doesn’t matter. What does matter is that they had pioneered a gene therapy drug that keeps cells alive during treatment. He looked into the records, found someone who could explain the biologics and the laws around human testing to him, and then he proposed an idea to Blackwater Inc.

  They hired him right out of graduate school.

  Gerund Hillman surveyed the satellite feed of Michael Scott that came through his business class personal adaptive computer. In display mode, the P.A.C. projected a life-sized hologram image that took up one corner of the room. This feed showed a man in lotus position, of apparent good health, throwing up. Hillman knew from the records that he was two metres tall and one hundred and twenty-five kilos in weight.

  The woman with him was odd, curled up around Michael that way, and nude. And then he had the woman sniff out his pills, as if she could tell what was in them. Gene therapy was expensive, barely affordable by most people. So what did that make her?

  What were the right questions to ask? What was the client looking for? And why was the client looking for it in a retired military recon team?

  Gerund knew what Michael’s doctor had reported to the medical advisory board, and that report had alerted conditions that Gerund himself had put in place. He suspected poison. It would have been a different way than the rest of Michael’s unit had died, but no less ruthless for the means. Considering where he wintered, it was discreet and tidy. Come spring, few would suspect foul play. No less, anyway, than the other accidents. Bloody near poetic. And what if it was the Canadian army tidying up loose ends? Whatever they were.

  The rest of the feed was uneventful. Wait.

  “Jacob. Stop the feed there. Back up now.” Most people would have picked a name for their P.A.C. that was friendly. Gerund wasn’t friendly. Neither was his relationship with his father.

  The tree cover was intermittent. Colour and objects appeared briefly, only to be hidden a moment later. With the right algorithm though . . . “Extrapolate a new angle and show me this from under the tree cover. And don’t be an idiot about questions. Just do it.” A smile crossed Gerund’s face. The same smile he had wanted to use when his father had been alive.

  Gerund walked into the holographic scene. A wolf had attacked the two . . . no, its target had been Michael. But that wasn’t the only anomaly in the feed.

  “Jacob, are there any gene re-structuring projects that would account for that change?”

  “There is no evidence to suggest that conclusion.” Gerund’s P.A.C. wasn’t military grade, and none had ever been released to his knowledge. What would a Military P.A.C. look like? As high up as he was in Blackwater, he was ultimately an executive. The bottom line was always control. His own relationship with his P.A.C. reflected that. The software was almost sentient in its adaptability.

  “Any unclassified records of a military P.A.C?” The client had them studying these men for a reason. But it wasn’t just the men he was watching. There were other conditions to the contract.

  “Not since last time you asked.”

  “Then find me the classified ones. And that includes all news footage that’s been blocked.”

  “That would be . . .”

  “Just fucking find them.”

  Gerund studied the satellite feed again. One minute there was a woman in the trees with Michael, the next a wolf
. The change had been somewhat hidden by the trees overhead and Jacob’s extrapolation was as narrow as his view of the world. But, since humans couldn’t change into animals it had to be something else.

  Hillman's certainty blossomed. Michael had a military version of a P.A.C.

  Gerund wanted Captain Scott to live, needed him to, since it meant what he thought. As he kept studying the images before him, Gerund wondered how difficult it would be to change the encryption on a military P.A.C. To accept a new owner.

  Chapter 9 Michael

  When Michael Scott was sixteen, he brought a woman home for the first time. Gwen. He would have described her as winsome. She was the one to take his hand first, so sure of what she wanted. Michael liked the attention.

  She looked at him a bit funny when he walked around the house, shushing her, as if he was trying to hear something. She giggled when he looked through the windows, searching for his father. She squeezed his hand and grabbed his arm at the same time, resting her head against the firm muscles of his shoulder.

  “Michael, isn’t your dad at work?”

  “I never know where he is. His work . . .” Michael stopped at that. His father had cautioned him about his work. Not even the army should know about this project. So Michael shut up.

  The kitchen door opened easy, and the fridge too, after he had popped it open a millimetre and peered in, looking for the thin, almost translucent wires his dad had started using. Gwen walked in, carefree, her skirt swaying as she walked.

  “Come on, Michael, show me your room.”

  He saw the glint of the wire as she walked through the living room arch, imagining the way it would press against her ankle as the pressure built up, the skin indenting, knowing it was too late to stop her from triggering it. There was only one hope. He stepped from beside her to in front of her, pressing her against his chest. Gwen thought it was play and she kissed him, her eyes open and wanting to see his face as she pressed her tongue past his lips. Something one of her girlfriends had told her about.