by KL Mabbs
“Yes. Faelon has some interesting muscle functions.”
“What does Faelon . . . ? You were in Medical Mode when she changed.”
“Yes.”
“How much strength?” he asked.
“I don’t know. My shield abilities won’t be available to you.”
PAC was adaptive, he knew that. Had seen it from the very start, but he had just been writing for the last few years. Not fighting, and certainly not changing, not really. Even if it only meant that his hand looked functional, it would be better than . . . “I can live with that.” Relief flooded through him. Would he still be alpha to Faelon? Still be her mate?
“It will be painful. I have to remove the old flesh, the scarring from the Shaman’s ministrations. And the herb he used is still in your system; I can’t start healing until that dissipates.”
“Can you act as a muscle, for now, without starting the surgery?” Now that he realized what PAC could do, he thought he understood what the surgery would look like. PAC would exude a chemical that would dissolve the ruined flesh and allow the healing to take place that it and Faelon could accelerate, allowing the hand to return to, at least, a normal look.
“It will be clumsy.”
PAC flowed into place, a dark glove taking shape.
“Like I’m not that now.” Michael went back to working on the damn buttons of his shirt wondering why he felt so hot, when he knew he didn’t have a fever.
Chapter 28 Samantha
The walls looked dirty to her today. They weren’t; it was the tears and grief from the last few days. Her outlook on life. She should go back to work, but that seemed impossible. Next week. She had the time coming.
Nothing seemed important to her right now.
Her breakfast sat untouched, cold coffee and toast with tart marmalade. Samantha raised her hand to stroke her hair into place. The chime of metal against metal made her look at the charm bracelet that now adorned her wrist. A moment ago, it had been a matte black watchband that had sealed itself closed. Now it gleamed, silver against the light cinnamon of her skin. Shock coursed through her, an electric tingle. The charms were . . . what she would have picked out herself: a maple leaf, the crossed sabers of her rank, the Arabic letters for her son’s name, an old Mandarin symbol referring to luck and grace, and a small ninja sword in its sheath.
“What the . . . ?”
“Is there something wrong, ma’am?”
“Explain what you are to me again.”
“Your son called me Sammy. I assume after you, ma’am. But I am a military device to safeguard your life and ease your communication and physical needs in a wartime response.”
“Define wartime response,” Samantha said. She could feel her hands start to vibrate, as if she had been using a power tool, her adrenaline levels rising.
“Any engagement that could endanger your life, sanity, or health.”
“The only thing endangering my life is the advance of old age.” Samantha knew the condition she was in. Forty-eight wasn’t old, but in a few years . . . She was already getting the start of heavy crow’s feet. Smile lines. Right now, worse from the grief.
“Analyzing metabolic and genetic material.”
“What?” The rush of blood made her hot, the flush of heat rising up between her breasts to her throat and then to her cheeks. She put her hand on the table to steady herself.
“There are known substances that will slow the advent of age. Some of these aspects are similar to the Full Boost process.”
“Full Boost?”
“Systemic response enhancement. A slow feed will improve muscle and skin tone. I can implement an exercise regimen that will aid in conjunction.”
“Did Ahmed ask for this?”
“No. He wanted to be powerful, stronger, and faster.”
“My God.”
“There is no indication . . . Ah, it was rhetorical. Acceptance is needed to effect changes.”
General Samantha slipped from the chair to the floor. She clasped her arms around her legs and drew them up to her chest, then buried her face in her knees. This was impossible. Ahmed dead. And his—his computer—coming to life as if, as if it was too much for her. She let her guard down and cried. The tears flowed down her cheeks, the shiny rivulets running over the wrinkled skin of her neck. She palmed her eyes, pressing them until her vision went red and colours danced behind her eyelids.
Node Two: Name, Sammy. Medical Mode: Analysis, physical and genetic material, alleles match as per previous Primary Interface. Analysis of last wishes and testament of Ahmed Ariyan. Emotional files updated. Grief stricken. Node Two and Primary Interface correlate.
Not fair . . .
General Ariyan found herself outside the observation room of the black wolf, again. The man he had become was . . . handsome; there was no other word for the strong features that graced his face and his body. His body was taut, the muscles lean and well used. As if the man had pushed himself all his life, they stood out in rip cord relief. Dark hair covered his chest, legs, and arms. A rough beard gave his face a fierce determination. Pale yellow eyes, an almost sickly hue, told her this was not a man, no matter how he looked. But, its presence mirrored Lieutenant Kerrigan’s newfound charisma. Kerrigan hadn’t shown the same restlessness, the pacing, that this male animal exuded with every step within its cell. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Samantha could see her eyes reflected in the observation window. They had just turned darker, like a forest bathed in the warm shadows of summer. Her eyes wide at the thoughts behind them. Here, at least, she didn’t have to behave herself; this man wasn’t under her command. Wouldn’t be a conflict of interest. And he didn’t promote the emotions that Lieutenant Kerrigan did. None other than lust, at least.
She ran a hand over the skirt of her dress uniform. Her charm bracelet chimed with the effort. Heat rose up under her skin.
Sammy said the induction training had taken. That speech would be possible.
So far, all the animal had done was growl.
Samantha Ariyan punched the radio button that allowed voice activation. “What do I call you?”
The wolf glared at her. Kept her eyes. General Ariyan had no problem with that. This wasn’t Kerrigan. She returned his stare. Ten seconds . . . twenty.
“I SAID, WHAT IS YOUR NAME, SOLDIER?” The wolf that was a human flinched. It didn’t run through his body in a shiver, or other exclamation of muscle contraction, but it was in the pupil of his eyes. She could see it reflected back at her, as if she was standing inches away from the beast. He raised his head, exposing his throat. Then looked at her again. His focus, though, seemed to be over her shoulder or perhaps her chin, but not directly into her eyes.
“My . . . name . . . Ma’ii tsoh.” The vowels were garbled and the consonants were as much a growl as any that had come from his lips, but she understood him.
“Sammy, search that word out, please. Anything similar that comes up in your search.”
“Mai Coh is the closest I can find. It means wolf in Navajo. Or witch. There is a lot of fear associated with this meaning in Navajo culture.”
“That’s interesting.” She rested her hand on her hip. The other hand, the one that held Sammy went to the glass, holding her weight as she studied the wolf. “Now how would this . . . wolf . . . know his name in that language?”
Sammy didn’t answer her. She knew it was a rhetorical question.
Chapter 29 Michael
“The new P.A.C. units will interface with your combat suits,” said Michael Scott. The suits looked like old-style motorcycle gear. Protection—hooded. Though the mask was almost skin-tight and hugged the face. A re-breather unit filtered toxic fumes or supplied oxygen for underwater missions. The materials were fibre or plastic composites designed to slow or stop the newer smart bullets and to reduce weight for the soldier.
“It rewrites code and can modify scalable hardware as it needs with its own material. The P.A.C. unit is superior in every way, b
ut it won’t compromise itself. So when you disconnect, it needs a chance to revert the systems back to normal.” Michael snapped the restraints of his suit together, the helmet sliding into place. His voice carried over the internal speakers of the rest of his team. “Keep that in mind when it comes to suit inspection.”
“Aye, Boss. No showing off,” Boyen said.
“We’re a recon unit. Keep that in mind until you have no choice but to kill.”
“Sir, yes sir,” the other two men in the unit replied. Huer didn’t mind following orders, he preferred it. It made things easy. Kill or don’t kill, and here are the reasons why. It was a simple way to keep his conscience clear. Michael found himself envious of his Sergeant for that simplistic approach to life and death.
Ariyan was another matter. His mother had given him the impression that he was better than most. In some ways he was, that’s why he was part of this Recon team. But he didn’t like the confinement of “orders.” They made him bristle, like a dog under attack. Michael suspected that was another component of his relationship with his mother.
“We’re looking for signs of oil reserves today, folks. We know they exist. Let’s find them.” Michael hoisted his rifle to his shoulder and climbed into the silent vehicle that acted as a roving command unit for his Recon team. The lightweight jeep lurched as the other three followed his lead. He flipped on his media unit, secure in the knowledge that PAC would alter the feed if anybody fucked up.
Node One: Name, PAC. Primary Interface: Captain Michael Scott: Adapting. Primary Systems: Nominal. Organics Engine: online. Behaviour and Emotional files: Updating: Kill: to deprive of life: cause the death of: to slaughter (as a hog) for food: to convert a food animal into (a kind of meat) by slaughtering: to put an end to
Suit parameters. New materials: analyze structure and components. Interface accomplished. Security update: alter media state if compromised. Body language behaviour file updated. Metabolic rates and responses, file updated. Correlation to words spoken at the time. Correlation to emotions picked up from Primary Interface. Name: Michael Scott, Captain. No change in command structure. Adapting.
Behaviour and Emotional files: Updating. Morals.
Michael looked down at the Shaman that had ruined his hand. There was an obvious goose egg where his skull had hit the wall and the expected blood loss from a head wound had pooled on the floor. The living floor would soak it up as a nutrient if it stayed there long enough.
He should kill the fucker. The rage he felt kept telling him it was the right thing to do; the soldier in him said he shouldn’t leave an enemy behind him, alive. Not the right strategy when it came to the black wolf, but he had thought it would die and he’d been too wounded to go after it and finish the job. He didn’t want to give in to either of his viewpoints; he had wanted to leave the war behind him, to forget everything, and not to kill was part of that. He no longer attacked first, that was one of his new rules. That hadn’t changed in the mountain pass, but here, in the Eco-house, it was just the old man’s delusions. He had never killed the insane before.
His right hand tingled. Already it was sore from PAC’s manipulation, the parts that could still feel pain. The scar tissue that ran between his fingers was numb. He could make a fist now, though. He didn’t have the fine motor control he needed for buttons, or even to load a magazine, but he could punch, hold a knife, maybe. And in a few days, PAC would be able to do more.
He pulled a blanket from the bed he had slept in and wrapped it around the old man. His breath plumed over the man’s cheek and the lashes of his eye quivered. The eyelid moved. Michael stepped back, his rage wanting to vent again now that the man might be waking up. He took another step back, his pack swinging with the movement. He was ready to leave, his last decision made. He turned.
“Why?” The gasp was dry, a reedy tone that leaked from the man behind him.
“Why didn’t I kill you, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a writer. It’s all I want to be. That, and Faelon’s mate. You won’t understand that. You’ve made that clear. But neither of us is evil. We haven’t killed except in self-defence. I could easily take your actions as an aggression. How would you feel if I crippled you? Left you maimed in these mountains so you couldn’t hunt, couldn’t feed yourself?”
“You don’t know the . . . ánt’įįhnii like I do.” White Bear struggled to sit up, the coffee cup that had fallen and spilled, clattering as his hand brushed it across the floor.
“The what?”
“A Yeenaaldlooshii. A Skinwalker, Michael. What you will become . . . if you don’t stay here and let me treat you.” He eased himself to the bed, looking frail.
“You have your life, old man. Come near me again and I will kill you. Get near Faelon and there will be no warning. She is my mate and more important than you, or anyone.”
He turned and walked from the room, then down the steps and out the front door making sure he closed it. The cold would kill the old man and he had made a promise.
Michael adjusted his pack, and slipped on the snowshoes that would let him navigate the heavy snow. He knew that what he wore was enough to keep him warm even in the cold of the evening that was coming on. That something had changed. He let the cold breeze into the neck of his jacket, the warmth of his body providing more than enough heat. Too much almost. Why was he so hot?
“PAC, find a satellite and get us a position, please.”
The holo-tech that PAC used to project images sprang into being, shifting colours over the snow, adding a life-like scene that was large enough for Michael to walk through and manipulate with the built-in haptic controls.
“We’re in the Johnston Valley. Here, Michael.” A small telltale sprang into being within the 3D map.
“Show me home, and the last place Faelon was seen.” Two more telltales etched into existence.
“Give me distance.”
“Four kilometres, approximately.”
“That will take us hours in this terrain. Damn. I was hoping . . .”
Michael made sure his weapons were secure, his gun strapped on his left side. It felt awkward there, but he would adapt, and at least he could shoot with his left hand, even if it took more concentration. His aim was even close to what he could do right-handed, though it took him longer to make the same shot. No help for that. His knife hung from the right side of his belt. He pulled it out now, held it in his right hand. The grip felt odd, the scar tissue and nerves sending different impulses to his brain. He might be able to take a man down with it, but only if it was under stealth conditions. An outright knife fight would leave him too vulnerable. The rage that had been riding him surfaced again, told him to kill White Bear.
He looked around, took a deep breath, his awareness suddenly stretched out. The valley opened
up to him: the scent of pine, cold and pure, the thick smell of deer that came from the house behind him, the clean scent of ice and snow. The twitter of birds came to his ears; the movement in the house behind him, the soft thumps of the old man walking. The sound of the wind was a whispered chain of evergreen boughs that went on for klicks.
Faelon was ahead of him. He stilled the rage he felt, and took a step, and then another. He didn’t worry about what the heavy exertion and the altitude would do to his lungs. He had acclimatized days ago while he and Faelon had learned to spar together. He eased his breathing into a slow pattern and started to run in an easy lope that ate up the ground.
Chapter 30 Faelon
Her sire sat naked on the earth. Man and wolf mixed in ways that made them inseparable in Faelon’s mind. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed his speech, the soft caress of his hands through her fur that told her she was whole and one with her pack, her sire, and through him, her bitch, as dead as she was. Her sire told her memories: days of the hunt, of the seasons, and of the Diné and the Blessing Way.
The Diné, of the earth, but from a different world. Sacred to the beat of the universe and the White World they lived on.
Faelon, stiff and sore, was warmer than she had been. The meat from last night had brought back some of the natural heat of her body and it was returning to normal. She stretched out, letting her muscles play in the cold mountain air. The motion was smooth and easy but for the area around the bruises from the staff attack. Those tightened up, adding a hitch to the smooth flow of her muscles. The marks on her had faded to a dark yellow hue, the colour of a spring flower.
She willed herself to change. The thought went through her body the way she had learned. The quiver of her muscles ran the length of her form, but her shape didn’t change. The fur she loved didn’t grow in place, as it should have. That had never happened before, except when she had found Michael and the night they had cried out their mating pact.
