by KL Mabbs
Captain Michael Scott was in the holo-interface right now. The file was large, but part of it was heavily encrypted. The last days of his mission in the Oil Wars. Of course, some of that had been in the newsies, but Jared suspected some of those stories had been buried. Some things inferred in previous stories, just disappeared.
There were holes in the reports.
Everyone knew the results of the Oil Wars. At the end, Saudi and the U.A.E. were forced to join the rest of the world in an alternate energy program, the same with the States. Like in most wars of the last century, the victors helped get the victims up to tech sufficient specs. Trade was back on line, the population was on the rise, again. But those were effects, and somehow Michael Scott was the cause.
Gerund Hillman hadn’t been specifically after Michael Scott, just what he owned. Some kind of world-changing tech. Something that Faelon called not-cub, or so Jared believed.
What was a not-cub?
The help he had called in had arrived and left, taking Hillman and Harris with it. With the storm that was brewing, the small medical chopper didn’t have the same weight allowance as when it had arrived. They would pick him up when the winds calmed.
Jared’s Blackwater dossier showed Jared to be intelligent and curious, both thought to be a payable asset. His medical records would show that he been willing to experiment with new med tech used for survivability odds in battle. His curiosity was what had him stay; the storm was an environmental excuse he had been happy to use.
Faelon had voiced an absolute surety that Michael would show up for her. Jared also thought that the emotions she did show had nothing to do with friendship. Wolves mated for life, didn’t they?
Jared walked the hallway, leaving behind the gym, and training rooms for a war that hadn’t happened. He stayed away from the barracks on both sides of the stairs leading up and out, not wanting to revisit the mutilation that Faelon had inflicted. He stepped outside into the cold wind and swirling snow to wait for Captain Scott. He wanted to meet the man that had stopped a war and had the love of a creature that shouldn’t exist, tech or otherwise. A shudder went through him that had nothing to do with the cold.
Snow swirled around Michael in a fury of wind. He found it didn’t bother him. The crisp flakes felt cool on his skin and gathered in his three-day stubble to melt and drip water from his jaw. The air was clean, full of things he had never imagined: the blueness of water as it fell frozen, the green of the trees as they pulsed with life, and, under his feet, the beat of the earth. Flowing through him. It was almost a religious experience. The way it filled his psyche.
He had tried returning to booted feet, wearing shoes over the thick calluses that had formed on his feet, like pads, but the earth had stopped talking to him, stopped thrumming through his body. It was like walking on the face of God, the rocky crags were the bones, the forest his beard. Wearing shoes dampened the feel of all the energy that went with a god’s visage and hid it away. He felt lonely when he did that, lonelier even than missing Faelon.
“Sixty metres in front of us. Satellite feed shows a human near the doorway.”
“Just one.”
“Yes, not Faelon, the temperature is normal.”
Michael unslung his rifle, hit the control that removed the covering that kept moisture out of it and powered it up. PAC flowed, a small part of himself interfacing into a data port, calibrating the rifle’s chip that determined distance and vector along with the other functions. They were working as a team again. The memory they had lost coming back, giving them knowledge together as warriors. A comradeship that only strengthened their existing relationship.
“The toxin has left your system, Michael, and my power levels are full. I need to heal your hand.”
“When I sleep.” Michael sighted down the scope of his rifle. With thermal, the man at the doorway stood out in bold relief. Tall, one-point-eight metres, ninety-eight kilos or so. The thermal didn’t give him hair or eye colouring. He could kill him right now; take out one of the guards that held his mate.
He took a breath.
It would be so easy. The squeeze of a trigger and a man’s life would be over. He’d done it before, lived with it the way a soldier does.
But he’d had reasons then. Good ones, he thought.
Now he just had the anger that had been building since he had been attacked, by the army, two different factions, a wolf, and maybe even family. His father. But that hadn’t felt like a training exercise prior to going into the army. Were there other reasons?
He took another breath and eased the rifle back over his shoulder. Then walked the sixty metres out of obscurity and into the vision of a soldier.
“You would be Captain Scott?” Jared asked.
He stared at the figure that had walked out of the blinding snow. A giant of a man, he was two metres and must have weighed one hundred and twenty kilos at least. He was dark, his skin a contrast to the landscape. He knew all this from the file but . . . he wasn’t wearing any shoes, in this weather. And one misshapen hand was covered by a glove. The skin on the back of Jared’s head rippled. But other than that one response, he stayed calm, professional, not letting his emotions control his responses. Gerund wanted to take this man on. He was insane, just as insane as Harris.
“Yes, and you?” The man was sniffing the air as if he were a hound or a scavenging bear. A look of disgust passed over his face, almost too fast to comprehend, but it was there.
“Sorry. Jared Oberi. That’s an AR19; you don’t see those much anymore. What’s the range?”
Captain Scott’s eyes were a deep brown, hard to stare at, but Jared kept his stance and eye contact, for a moment. He looked down, unable to help himself.
“You know my rifle from its silhouette, you tell me.”
“Three–four kilometres for a good sniper. With a smart bullet and computer assist. Six.”
“Five. With a very good computer,” said Michael.
“Yeah, military models.” Jared was sure there was a sneer on his face.
“Mercenary?”
Jared felt the blood flush his face. He was, but most people couldn’t tell from equipment, or a simple conversation.
“A lot of people are trying to kill you.”
“Runs in the family.”
Jared knew soldiers who thought of the military as family. So, Michael knew about General Ariyan.
“You’re here for Faelon.” He swore he heard a growl from the man. Jared stepped back. He couldn’t help himself. His back slapped up against the bunker door behind him. He raised his hands. “Easy. She’s not here anymore.”
The man tensed up, took a step forward. Jared found himself pushed into the door, the steel unyielding, the bones and flesh of his back trying to mould to the flat surface. His feet dangled in the air. That just didn’t happen to him.
Ever.
“I’m . . . not . . . your enemy.” His voice choked out the words. Scott’s left hand around his throat made it difficult to talk.
“Are you Faelon’s?” Jared felt a knife pierce his clothing and slide against his Kevlar Jacket, then the pressure changed and the point was in place again.
“A knife won’t pierce . . .”
“Bet!” Michael knew that PAC could work his way through the cloth of the man’s vest. The knife would slide through flesh so easy.
Jared stilled. “I’m not Faelon’s enemy, either.”
“You took money.”
“I’m on retainer for Blackwater. I was a replacement for a casualty.”
“How many survived?”
“What?”
“I can smell the rot in the rooms below.” Jared felt the grip on his throat loosen. Air rushed into his lungs.
“It was only . . .”
“. . . a few hours ago. I know. Inside.” He snarled the command out. Used to being obeyed. And Jared did. For more reasons than just the force being used on him. The man’s presence was powerful. If Gerund had been this powerful, Jared would
have willingly followed him, even without the money.
Michael shoved Jared through the door, and he stumbled down the first few steps. He hadn’t pushed him that hard, but then, he hadn’t known he had the strength to lift the man off his feet with one hand. Michael had always been strong. The endurance he had over the last few days had surprised him, but this kind of strength was a shock.
What else had Faelon given him?
The smell in the barracks was close, much too humid and warm; the scent of the dead rose up around him, clinging to the back of his throat. The blood was another matter. Like the rabbits he’d been eating, it quickened his metabolism, made him salivate. To his body, there was no difference other than the scent, and it was making him hungry. Was this how Faelon felt? Somehow, he didn’t think so. How many had she killed?
Michael noticed the blood-encrusted wolf tracks.
Another memory surfaced. A tattoo. Michael remembered a child with a tattoo that was similar. But that was in the Oil Wars. The day Ahmed died. The day he lost his memory.
He could still smell the rich scent of Faelon. So close. But he had something else to take care of. “Show me.”
“Show you what, the bodies? Why?”
He grabbed Jared and shook him with enough power to rattle his teeth. “Who survived?” Michael realized the danger here. He and Faelon had even discussed it in the cave where his horses had been attacked. Why wasn’t Michael a wolf?
Faelon had killed in the Johnston Valley. And not just killed. She had made sure her kills were dead, beyond reproach, with no way to heal from the properties of her saliva. Like he had.
“There were five, in the offices, three more in the gym. All dead. Gerund Hillman survived, and the geek Harris. A copter took them out; they’ll be back after the storm.”
“Why them?”
“Harris, she used him to warn everyone away from you, but he’s insane, no one will believe the story he’s putting out. He keeps raving about a woman changing into a wolf.”
“The other?”
“Hillman? He runs Blackwater, or he did. After the report I wrote, he’ll be discredited.”
“Looking for advancement?” It was an opportunity for a takeover many men wouldn’t turn away.
“I retired. The bastard used me to force Faelon’s change. He was using shock therapy to interrogate her. She wouldn’t talk, so he pointed a gun at me.”
That meant he had seen her change. He was right though, who would believe this story?
“Did Hillman come close to dying?”
Jared raised an eyebrow at that, but he answered. “No. She ripped the flesh from his forearm. He could have bled out, but it didn’t come to that.”
Michael released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. No one here was going to come back from near death, the way he had. Faelon was safe, for the time being. She would only be truly safe if he killed Oberi. But, he had already made that decision when he had the man in his scope.
In the war, he had reacted to Ahmed’s death with blind instinct. And then he had acted out in rage, a pure blinding rage. He wasn’t that man anymore. No matter what the rage in his blood was telling him.
But he had to do something.
Michael’s fist moved too fast and with more power than he had intended. The crack of bone echoed in the chamber. A look of shock crossed Jared’s face as he fell to the concrete floor of the bunker, his nose broken. But he was unconscious, and that’s what Michael needed.
“PAC?” Michael walked through the base, searching for the things he would need.
“No guaranties it’ll work.”
“It worked on me.”
PAC went silent for a moment. “You didn’t want to remember. Ahmed and . . . I wanted to help. Didn’t want your pain . . .”
Michael searched his memory, more and more was coming back to him. “I know that, PAC. Reprogram, Node One override. Don’t take my choices away again.”
“Reprogram complete. What about Jared?”
“That’s a safety concern. Can you imagine what the military would do if they had her or me. I can’t kill him though. His scent . . . he was telling the truth.”
The generator that ran the bunker lost a battery to his searches. A small supply of renewable oil, and wire, several mattresses, and food was added to his list. Some of the food he packed away in the space left by what he’d already picked out of the saddlebags of his horse. He dragged the bodies into the gym, farthest from the barracks. Then he stacked the mattresses in the stairway, leaving two just outside the door of the bunker. He moved Jared to those two mattresses and crouched down near him. “Okay, PAC. Make it as permanent as you can. Four days should do it.”
Michael watched PAC extrude a number of filaments into Jared’s skin, knowing they would seep under his skull, intrude into his mind and his memory. And the chemicals there that would change what he saw.
His preparations finished, he left the bunker.
Faelon’s tracks were lost in the fresh snow. At the doorway, he could find them, a few centimetres under the white covering. Her musky forest scent and the metal of blood mingled, making his nostrils twitch with excitement. He lowered himself to the ground, getting as close as he could, close enough to get crystalline snow over his nose and lips. He licked the water away. Faelon wasn’t far ahead now. Nothing said she was dead, and the way she healed . . . her scent hadn’t given up any hint of disease that he could tell.
She was alive; he just had to find her. Now more than ever, he had to understand what was happening. Why he was changing so much?
He managed to keep her trail for a few kilometres in the blinding rage of the snowstorm. Searching the area didn’t help; the snow had piled up in the hours since she had left and fifteen centimetres more covered her trail.
Michael slumped into the snow, his pants soaking up water as he crouched there. His nose buried in the crystallized water, willing her scent to come to him.
It wasn’t there.
With nothing left to hold him, to keep him going, his body failed him. He had been pushing himself too far, and too hard, since he’d escaped White Bear.
“We need shelter, the cliffs to the right,” PAC said.
Michael didn’t answer but he moved, inched his arms forward to support himself as he brought his knees up. A boost of energy seared through his body. “PAC?”
“That won’t last long.” With his hands and the new motion-sensitive eyes he’d acquired from Faelon’s healing, he was able to pick out a change in the motion of the wind as it whistled in and out of a cave front. There were several of them here. He stumbled into the closest one, went as far as he could, and collapsed, curling up into himself. As the drugs PAC had given him wore off, and his capacity to build heat left him, he started to shiver. The ground shook. The Cold War Base. He pulled into himself even more, unaware that PAC had started healing his hand or that Faelon was just metres away from him in one of the other caves.
Node One: Name, PAC. Primary Interface: Captain Michael Scott: Adapting. Primary Systems: Nominal. Organics Engine: online. Behaviour and Emotional files: Updating: Killing is an unwanted act. Defence requires an action. Threat assessment: Group one of Military mercenaries neutralized. Blackwater. Removal of defensive base. Removal of memories from surviving operative. Command Structure: Unchanged. Movement: vector analysis, wind, gravity, geological substructures. Environment: too cold for mortal man, stim on a stick! Temperature: Node One, 40.3 centigrade. Primary Interface Michael Scott: 40.3 centigrade. Secondary Interface Faelon: 40.3 centigrade.
Shield Parameters: replacing musculature structure in Primary. Source, Faelon. Analysis of Faelon’s muscle structure. Crystalline structure in cellular makeup: bone ash, quartz, sand. Minerals: cobalt, calcite, tourmaline, mica. Other—Naklétso? The body has motion, a grace that transforms movement. Made in God’s image, male / female.
Wolf.
Medical Mode: parameters of Keloid removal and restructure of right hand now t
hat the plant resins have been flushed from system. Primary interface transfused with GABA, base chemical for muscle suspension in a dreaming state. Dissolving Keloid tissue. Pain response high.
No help for it. I’m sorry.
Nerves fired for response stimulus. Replacing structure. Bridging nerve connections. Insufficient biological material. Seeding from source. Node One: Reprogramming. “Don’t take choices away.” Adding long range communication functions. Within Command functions.
Power low. Reserves depleted.
Consciousness failure.
Fuck . . .
Chapter 42 Faelon
Faelon walked on four legs, trotting beside the two-legged man that was her father. He talked to her almost constantly, the growls all about the Yeii and the Navajo. The Way, whether it was Witchery or not, and how it all correlated to the world around her. Faelon knew he meant more than the mountains and forest that made up her home, but she didn’t understand it, not completely. She’d never seen his world. But it didn’t matter. His voice was soothing, the words no longer confusing in themselves, but she knew that much of his knowledge would need a physical counterpart before it became part of her. Today he told her about Mother. Not her bitch, but the other Mother, the one that was important to the Navajo people.
“This earth is our Mother and is the place we first cry. Our first sounds are made upon her womb. We rest on her. We grow as she watches. The darkness covers us so we may rest. It’s here we make offerings. Both Mother Earth and the darkness have offerings. The sun that goes across the sky has an offering, so too does the moon. It shines a light for us. All things have an offering, they are the shield we use to live by.” He gathered his thoughts then and crouched down, taking her head in his strong hands and pierced her eyes, holding her as he spoke.” For every spirit captured with flesh, another is set free. Remember, daughter mine. It’s an exchange, not a sacrifice. It’s why the stories survive.”
