Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel

by KL Mabbs

  In the observation room, Samantha Ariyan slammed her fist into the thing that had been a wolf moments before. This wasn’t an ordinary animal, nor was it the P.A.C. unit she had thought it was. The fact that it now looked human, after all that current had gone through its body, didn’t shock her. What did, with all the enhancements at her disposal from her P.A.C. unit, was that it had taken three punches to its jaw along with the electricity to put the monster down. That alone should have killed it or at least made it unconscious, depending on its natural impedance. As it was, she watched the blackened skin on its hands and feet start to fade, along with the bruise on its jaw. She picked up the control box she had dropped, walked over to Lieutenant Kerrigan, and dragged him from the room. She made sure to listen for the hiss of the door and the click of the locking mechanism.

  It was certain that Lieutenant Kerrigan would run up against Michael Scott, sooner or later, and Zach didn’t have a P.A.C. unit. Samantha very much wanted for Lieutenant Zachery Kerrigan to survive Michael Scott. She checked Kerrigan’s pulse; it was thready and weak.

  She had to be right. Please, let her be right.

  Oh God, please survive, Kerrigan.

  Chapter 24 Faelon

  Faelon’s sire sat crouched down on his two legs. He held the sand of the earth in his hand. She had watched him colour it even though she didn’t comprehend colours. Her sire knew that and had found ways to explain it to her. The composition of the minerals, the order in which he set them out—“this is the ‘iikááh’: the place where the gods come and go.”

  “And Łizhiní Sals—the black sand—makes the border, to hold the spell. The left side is left open, to let the gods in.” He scooped more of the dark colour into his fist, careful not to let any leak from the bottom until he was ready to relax the muscles enough to draw a fine line. He let it fall, a thin stream of sand made sacred.

  “The first man and woman were called Etsáy-Hasteén, and Estsá-assun. They direct us in the healing that makes us. Listen to them, my little wolf.”

  Faelon woke cold and shivering. The heat she normally exuded wasn’t there, driven from her by the man’s staff and its strange power. Worse than the trap, but with the same taste and smell that had been on it. Her muscles were stiff and sore. Lying on a carpet of evergreen needles had taken just enough of the cold away to allow her to stretch out, until she arched her back and stretched out her ribs. Then the wound in her side screamed at her. It hadn’t healed yet, not completely. Why? A moan escaped her lips. She rose to her knees and hugged herself, shivers running over her flesh like ants searching the forest floor for food.

  Faelon forced herself to stand, her limbs unsteady. Wary of her ribs, she rubbed as much of her flesh together that she could, her thighs and legs especially, forcing her blood to pump, regulating her body heat. Her breasts ached in a way that had nothing to do with her wounds. Eight suns since she had mated with Michael. She needed food. It would keep the cold at bay and help her heal. She needed to survive now more than ever.

  She looked to where her mate had last been. The rim of boulders that had held him secure. His blood pooled on the ground, now frozen like the water on the earth. The black wolf’s blood was nearby, and just up the valley, Chaka. She forced her limbs to walk the distance to the prey animal. Her eyes, still able to track movement even as a human, had shown her it was dead long before she stood at its side to feel the cold flesh.

  She opened the pouches of dead flesh that still sat behind the saddle. Michael had put extra furs in there. As much as she hated the feel of those on her body, she wasn’t about to discard extra warmth. Not now when she needed it so badly. She shivered even more until her body built up a layer of heat within the cloth. She found “thermal socks” as Michael called them, which would act as protection for her feet; she slipped them on and suddenly found herself warmer than she had been in the last day. Almost like normal. She hugged herself, and the gurgle of sound that meant joy sputtered from her lips.

  Faelon searched through the rest of the equipment. There was a claw, what Michael called a knife, and other things. “Ordnance” he had called it. PAC and her mate had explained the concepts of the world in the last eight days, and much of it still made no sense to her, even the language she had learned. It took use to become part of her. But, she knew this: ordnance was not something she wanted to know, like the tooth-spitter Michael had tried to show her, she found it . . . not of herself. So she left those things, without touching them any more than she had to.

  She used the claw to slice open the horse’s belly. The flesh was half-frozen for the first few centimetres, and she had to use the rough edge of the claw to saw it open once she pierced the hide. The effort warmed her even more. And the flesh, when she finally found it and cut it from Chaka, was still warm enough to let the blood flow down her chin when she bit deep into the heart.

  She remembered Michael, shedding tears at the thought of eating his other prey animal.

  “There’s more to life than prey and predators,” she said, mimicking his words. “There is the living.” Warmth trickled down her cheeks. She put her hand to her chin and caught the blood-tinted water that dropped from her eyes. When had she learned to cry for prey?

  Her ears, as sharp as ever, picked up the sound of air moving fast. She turned to look, searching the sky. As quiet as it was, she knew that noise. She took the claw and reached into Chaka, cutting more of the succulent organs from the horse, and quickly wrapped them in more of Michael’s spare furs to keep them from freezing. She knew about fire, knew it was one way to stay warm, and cook food, but she had no idea how to start one here.

  She was being cautious; Michael needed her and their enemies were still out there. The whisper of sound she had detected told her that much. The sound of the moving ground that held itself in the air. It also told her that they were looking for her. Faelon couldn’t let that happen, not if she hoped to see Michael alive again.

  She returned to the grove of trees that had sheltered her and kept her alive. She was hungry still, but now she had a way to keep her belly full. Tomorrow she would be better and then she could look for her mate.

  Chapter 25 Michael

  Three men were in the room besides Michael Scott. Sergeant Frank Jackson Huer, too slim to look a soldier, he had a lean strength. Blond and boyish looking, he didn’t look twenty-eight. Corporal Jamie Boyen gave the Irish stereotype a rest. He was darker than Ariyan’s Euro-Arabic heritage, didn’t drink, or do any of the stims that were trendy this decade. He did however, have the silver tongue his ancestors claimed. And the several women he dated, and who knew about each other, claimed it as well.

  Lieutenant Ahmed Ariyan was as Canadian as his father was, and as well versed in Mandarin as his mother. He was of medium height, but stocky, muscled like a small bear.

  “It’s from my dad,” Michael Scott said.

  He tossed one of the “watches” to each of the three men. “PAC, block this room from radio transmissions, please. Do so for any conversation involving us four, and or any mention of the P.A.C. unit. Implement command structure for all communication.”

  “Who are you talking to, Captain?” asked Ariyan. The other two men perked up.

  “An acronym. Stands for personal adaptive computer. Not the most imaginative name, but I didn't know what else to call it. Dad’s been working on it for as long as I’ve known . . .” Michael’s voice cracked, but he coughed to hide the tell-tale emotion. “Put it on. It will react, so . . .” His men looked at him, waiting. “ . . . it’s weird. Felt like a storm had walked up my arm.” It had left his arm numb for an hour, too, but he didn’t say that to his men. He trusted his father.

  Boyen slipped his P.A.C. on. “It feels like silk.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Ariyan. “It’s softer, like deep desert sand.”

  “Uh-uh, it’s like the cold steel of a motorcycle, warms up the same way, too. And that’s sweet, baby,” Huer said.

  Michael had found out a few thi
ngs before giving his friends the device. Like the fact that this “computer” had communication gear a techie could get a wet dream over. “Ask for the interface manual.”

  He watched his men, as their whispers activated the holo-display in their units and three separate books appeared in the air before them.

  “Sweet,” said Huer.

  Ariyan stayed quiet, his eyes soaking up the contents of the book.

  “Sweet Mother of Aire. It’s a bloody book. How does it turn the page?” said Boyen. The virtual paper flickered and then curled over as if someone had brushed a thumb over the corner.

  Ariyan looked up. “Turn page.” He got the same result from the haptic interface for his comment.

  “Gentleman, read the manual. Don’t speak of this to anyone. When you’re done, we’ll talk more.”

  Node One: Name, PAC. Primary Interface: Captain Michael Scott: Adapting. Primary Systems: Nominal. Organics Engine: online. Behaviour and Emotional files: Updating. Command Structure: Implementing.

  Node Two: Name, Sammy. Primary Interface: Lieutenant Ahmed Ariyan: Adapting. Primary Systems: Nominal. Organics Engine: online. Behaviour and Emotional files: Updating. Command Structure: Implementing.

  Node Three: Name, Sweet Aire. Primary Interface: Corporal Jamie Boyen: Adapting. Primary Systems: Nominal. Organics Engine: online. Behaviour and Emotional files: Updating. Command Structure: Implementing.

  Node Four: Name, Marlon. Primary Interface: Sergeant Frank Jackson Huer: Adapting. Primary Systems: Nominal. Organics Engine: online. Behaviour and Emotional files: Updating. Command Structure: Implementing.

  The deer smell was still thick in the close confines of the cabin. No. This wasn’t a cabin, not like his. Michael could smell the living scent of the tree that surrounded him. The acrid aroma of sap lingering near the floors and walls. Too strong not to notice. The air space echoed in his ears, a resonance he didn’t understand. Turning his head, he could see a kitchen nook, the counters made of wood but shaped—one of the Eco-homes that had become popular in recent decades. They took time to grow to this kind of sophistication—years in the cold of this region. There was a cedar chest at the foot of the bed, the smell sweet, enough to make his nostrils flare. The walls held sand paintings encased in glass. The rich colourful symbols drawing his eye: Rainbow Woman, Locust, Lukatso, the bamboo that brought the people forth from the third world. This world supposedly. He saw the symbol for the Yeibicheii, the holy people of the belief system. Navajo spiritual myths. He knew them from the research he did on Shaman’s Curse. Then he noticed the borders were unfinished, in the old way. Implying that the person who did them believed in the power that would flow once they were sealed.

  He took stock of his body, the pain he remembered from earlier. How long had he been unconscious? He was still hot, too, but it didn’t feel like a fever. His thoughts were too coherent, too focused.

  He noticed sounds, next. The quiet creak of the tree as it breathed around him; the movement of lungs, human; and the wet shivering of pine needles rustled by the wind outside.

  “PAC?”

  “Here.”

  “Status,” he said.

  “Still in Medical Mode, diagnostic only. The Nano-bound paralysis has been neutralized. I was unable to maintain Boost Mode. Power systems low. Alternate energy systems running. Your system parameters are changing.”

  Michael heard footsteps. Though they were almost silent, it was the soft slip of leather over wood that alerted him. Lights flared on, blinding him for a moment. “Shit.”

  “Who you talking to?” The Aboriginal man he had seen earlier entered the room, a staff in his hand and a form that seemed familiar to him for some reason. The hides that covered his body reminded Michael of something. A memory jarred in his mind, tried to slither into place, but he lost it. The man sat on a chair near his bed.

  “A computer, a form of Medtech.”

  “At least that explains your healing abilities, maybe your temperature too. You seem coherent. My name’s White Bear Dying. Welcome to my home.”

  “Michael Scott.” He reached out with his left hand, his right arm still splinted. The muscles in his right shoulder pulled, but the pain was a dull ache. PAC and Faelon were serving him well.

  “There was a grey wolf . . .”

  “That abomination won’t be bothering you. I drove it off. Caught it thirsting over you, lapping the blood from your wounds. If it comes around again, I’ll kill it.”

  “She . . .” Michael stopped, remembering, faintly, the cries coming from his mate.

  “She.” The flesh around the Shaman’s eyes crinkled up, disgust showing on his face.

  The deer smell still overpowered the room, but something had changed. An acrid overlay that made Michael look more closely at his host. The memory that had been slinking around in his hindbrain came to the front.

  “Shaman’s Curse.”

  “I read that. By . . . ah, you’re that Scott.”

  “I saw you.” Michael flexed his right hand, barely, the bandages tight, making his hand look deformed. He tried to adjust his arm in the split. He could feel the knitted flesh and bone. His hand though . . . “In the valley, the first winter I came up here. You . . . you were wearing Grizzly furs then, and you changed.”

  “I had thought . . .” His look turned pensive, the skin around his eyes contracting. “Skin-walking.” His appearance changed again. Fear pulled at the whites of his eyes. “You want a coffee?”

  “Yes.” And, true to his desire, he could hear the kitchen alcove start to hum in response. He could almost feel the pulse and beat of the solar collectors.

  “Here, hold my staff a moment. I’ll get you a cup.”

  “What?”

  White Bear brought it forward from his lap, set the point in the floor. Leather hung from it in places and symbols were carved into the pale brown wood. They twisted like a living thing, the way bacterium did under a microscope.

  “It would make a good weapon.”

  “Hold it.” The Shaman dropped the carved wood into Michael’s lap. The acrid scent grew stronger. Michael opened his nostrils, pulled a breath into his mouth and throat and tasted the air. The same smell was coming from the old man. Something under his hides. No, from his skin. From his body. White Bear walked towards the kitchen at the far end of the room.

  Why could he smell it now, suddenly? Michael sat up with a smoother motion than he thought possible, considering one arm was splinted and the damage done to his legs. His eyes took in the Aboriginal man in front of him. There was a firmness about him, even though his age looked to be over sixty years from the weathered bark of his skin and the slight arthritis that had settled in both hands.

  “I know a story.” White Bear said, raising his voice. “As old as my tribe. Would you like to hear it?”

  “What tribe is that?” Michael said.

  “‘Diné. It means the people.” Cups clattered, and then the hiss of a stasis cooler as it was opened, something that should have been silent to him from this distance.

  Michael took the staff in his unbandaged hand. The bitter smell coming from the man changed. It became . . . Michael didn’t know what to call it. He looked at the pale brown wood in his hand closely. The wood grew warm. The leather that covered it in places was buckskin. The carved symbols looked old, some he recognized from PAC’s research into Skinwalking—that’s what his book Shaman’s Curse had been about. There were teeth marks along the shaft, fresh, from the lack of discolouration around the gouges. He sniffed in the scent of the wood, another smell lingered there, light musk, as crisp as pine. Not the old man’s.

  Faelon’s!

  What had the Shaman said? I drove her off. Anger rose in his throat, a low growl he had to bank, before a rage he hadn’t felt in a long time took him over. The staff had grown warm in his hand, almost hot. He leaned the staff against the bed. White Bear, turning in the kitchen to watch, didn’t seem to notice the effect it had, or the anger that sat behind Michael’s eye
s.

  The man’s smell changed again. The fear that had been pulling at his eyes and his face disappeared.

  The coffee burbled as the machine finished pumping water through its mechanism.

  “My ancestors are Navajo. To most people that just means Indian. I moved up into these hills many years ago. I was learning about Skinwalking. Knowing the stories were one thing, but finding the old ways, that was taboo to my people. I didn’t realize . . .”

  “You think the wolf that attacked me was a Skinwalker?” More noises: the sound of glass scraping over metal; the clink of glass against pottery; and the soft murmur of running water.

  “She was standing over you, the wounds on your body fresh . . . That Medtech you mentioned, and the way you fight—you military by any chance?”

  “Used to be.” Thoughts of the father he had never found surfaced, and the frustration that went with that. Because the army thought they owned his last invention. A year and a half of looking, and the same amount of time almost giving up. But not quite. And now . . . all this had something to do with Robert Scott.

  “That explains it. The only thing my computer does is adapt this house to my life cycle. Haven’t had to flip a light switch for years, and the coffee is always fresh.” White Bear walked into the room with two cups, both a thick homemade kind of pottery. The colours of the cups a burnished blue, and green. He set the blue one down for Michael.

  “I make it from one of the trees in the area.”

  “What?”

  “The coffee. It’s good, kind of like hickory.”

  It didn’t smell good to Michael.

  “Let me tell you a story,” White Bear said.

  “About the coffee?” Michael looked confused.