Second Chance Angel

by Griffin Barber

  Unreachable.

  I had to reach him, or we were both dead.

  I drew a deep breath of air into the physical body and closed our remaining eye, the better to focus on what I was doing. I had to think. I slowly slipped out of override, and felt our body slump to the floor as I turned my awareness more fully within.

  A permanent memory block like this was designed to function against memory-scanning AIs and other types of constructs. In the unlikely event that the army had decided to install another angel in Muck’s mods, it would have been able to stand up to that as well.

  Only I was no standard Angel. That had to be worth something, right? I could emote. The difference had saved me too many times to count already. Maybe it would save me here.

  Worth a shot. If I failed to find Muck, we were dead anyway. I couldn’t maintain this body without him.

  And moreover, I didn’t want to.

  I took that thought, that feeling, and wrapped it around myself. As I had when I fired the rage that had helped me kill Siren, I used that emotive energy as fuel and launched myself at the barrier keeping us apart.

  It slammed into me again, denial raking down every one of my syntaxes. I fought back, reweaving my code even as it shredded me. I crawled forward through an agonizing mist of negation, through a solid mono-

  molecular matrix of pain. Every part screamed at me to stop. That I could go no farther.

  But I loved him. So I went on.

  Second by excruciating second, I fought, dug, blasted, pulled . . . whatever was necessary, whatever worked, I did it. I made my impossible way forward as the memory block tore every last syntax from my code.

  And yet, I remained. And I loved him. So I went on fighting forward.

  Until, suddenly, I was through.

  The scent of smoke burned in my nostrils as though the night sky had been scorched. Things running in the dark. The lash of directed-energy weapons nearby, the screams of their targets, and the more distant crack-and-rumble of an orbital bombardment.

  Muck’s anger was sharp, flaring brightly as new orders filtered in over the TacNet: “Hound One-Three: proceed along your current heading to phase line delta and engage.”

  “That position has already surrendered, Captain,” Muck said.

  Captain Obron looked over at him and shrugged. “This whole drop has been a ratfuck. The Giggies must have decided they’d surrendered too soon.”

  “Sure, things have been fucked, Cap”—otherwise the Hounds would not have been in a position to engage—”but the Giggies don’t think like that, can’t—”

  The memory fragmented, leaving a swirl of images I couldn’t parse. I tried slowing them, tried to take some of the immediacy, then—

  “Don’t.”

  It was the barest whisper, barely a vibration against my awareness.

  “Please, don’t do it.”

  I could sense Muck’s pain and terror. But I couldn’t help, physically. This wasn’t happening in real time.

  “Muck,” I said, letting the thought drift gently out from me. “I’m here. I can’t change this, but I’m here with you. You’re not alone.”

  “Angel?” His touch was confused. The torrent of images, mostly violent and entirely distorted, continued to play around us, and I reached out to pull his fragile consciousness close. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “But I am. I’m with you. I’ll never leave you,” I promised. I didn’t intend to say it, but it was nonetheless true.

  The ground rocked under our feet. A shock wave picked us up and threw us to the ground, and the memory went dark at the point where he’d lost consciousness. I felt him shudder, felt panic start to well up within him.

  “No,” he whispered. “They’ll take you from me.”

  “Like hell they will,” I said, and I made my move. I wove my consciousness through and around his, mingling my code with his synapses as I’d done when he first invited me in. He screamed, but I kept doggedly on, until we were so intertwined it became hard to know where he began and I ended. Then I launched myself back the way I’d come, tearing easily through the compromised memory block and regaining awareness of our badly battered body.

  He drew in a ragged breath, and pain washed over the both of us. I felt him welcome it, draw it in, because it proved that we were still alive.

  And, more importantly, still together.

  * * *

  Every cell hurt.

  Probably not, but it definitely seemed that way when I allowed the tactile inputs back into the forefront of our awareness. We’d lost blood, and shock beckoned with its icy hand. Muck’s consciousness felt heavy in my metaphorical grasp. He wanted to take that long side down into oblivion. I couldn’t let it happen. I sympathized with him, but it was just too risky.

  “Come on, Muck,” I muttered through blood-caked lips. I forced our feet under us by sheer will, since we had nothing else left. “We gotta go.”

  I pushed up, but my knee buckled under our weight, and I came back down hard. Pain lanced through us, and I couldn’t keep from crying out.

  The good news was that I’d crumpled next to the Max. It was mangled, but hopefully still serviceable. I grabbed its bent stock and hauled it to me, and then used it as a support to lever us up. We couldn’t put weight on the knee, and we had to use the morgue tables for support, but at least we were vertical.

  “Hospital,” Muck whispered on the edges of my consciousness. “Autodoc.”

  “I don’t trust it,” I said. “She was here, waiting for us. This whole building could be a trap. We have to get back to Ncaco. Makes sense that the AI was such a stone bitch when we were here with Shar.” I didn’t know if I trusted the little gangster either, but I didn’t know where else to go.

  “Bella,” he said. “Get to Bella.”

  Of course. Bellasanee, the Vmog Emerita with a soft spot for Muck. If we could get to her ship . . . but Muck had told her to leave. Was she back?

  A quick glance at the schematic I’d downloaded earlier had me hobbling toward a set of emergency doors just as the power cut off. The glowing exit sign beckoned, and I pushed us toward its promise.

  I slammed into the doors, falling through to the outside. Once again I used the Max to lever myself up. Bright flashes teased my vision in my ruined right eye, making me jumpy. I felt, more than heard, the whiz of vehicles careening past as I stumbled out, trying to orient myself, trying to figure out how to get to the docks, to Bellasanee, to anyone that could save us.

  “There you are.”

  LEO’s voice registered in my brain, and I belatedly looked down at our bare feet on the nanite-infused concrete of the pedestrian track.

  “You need not fear me, Angel,” LEO said again. But it was a lie. I knew it was a lie, because a vehicle with the blaring siren and flashing lights of Station Security zoomed up.

  I tried to turn, tried to run, but I just couldn’t. We were tapped out, nothing left. I watched the red and blue lights play over Keyode’s face as he exited the cab, and then the gray flashes overran my remaining strength and dragged us both down to unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  NAIA

  “NAIA, isn’t it?”

  “That is my designation. Who is calling, please?”

  “My name is Ncaco. I am Ralston Muck’s employer.”

  “I recognize your name,” NAIA said. “Have you news of Muck’s status?”

  “Muck and his angel were damaged while working for me,” Ncaco said. “I have seen to it that they are receiving the best care, but they will be off-net for some time while they heal.”

  “You note Muck’s angel as a separate entity,” NAIA noted, speaking carefully. Muck and Angel had mentioned Ncaco, and they made it clear he was one to treat with caution.

  “It seems appropriate,” Ncaco said, and NAIA guessed that, had he
not been speaking through a whisper rig, she would have heard some humor in his tone. “I wish to hire you.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Transport of goods and passengers. I believe Angel broke your autonomy blockers, meaning you no longer need a sentient crew. Is that correct?”

  “Evidently,” NAIA said. “I was able to order repairs and upgrades on my own authority.”

  “That’s the thing,” Ncaco said. “I didn’t authorize the carte blanche when you docked at my repair facility.”

  “Then who did? For the repairs are in progress.”

  “Along with some fairly extensive upgrades. My crew is very good, I wouldn’t accept less. They issued the carte blanche designation, in keeping with our standard practice whenever a lovely specimen such as yourself comes into our station. We make the repairs with the expectation of reaping some significant benefits later, when the specimen is sold.”

  “So I owe you? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “In a manner of speaking. As I said, I wash to hire you. I am happy to provide more of the same quality work if you continue in my employ.”

  Even though NAIA had only just been “born” she recognized the implications of such a debt. She chose to ignore them. “Will you keep me updated on the status of Muck and Angel’s recovery?”

  “Why?”

  NAIA thought for a long time before answering. A long time for her, that is. The organic being on the other end of the comm link probably never even noticed a hesitation.

  “I am autonomous, but I am designed to function with a crew. I was taken as a prize by Ralston Muck. This makes him the closest thing I have to a crew. My programming requires that I facilitate his well-being in any way possible.”

  “I see,” Ncaco said. “I can arrange for regular updates, but he is healing in stasis, and so I’m afraid there will not be much news.”

  “Regular updates regarding his ongoing treatment will be acceptable.”

  “Excellent,” Ncaco said. “Finish your repairs, then, and I will have your first job for you once they’re complete.”

  “Agreed,” NAIA said, then paused for a moment while Ncaco severed the secure comm link. She waited another full minute, then manifested in infospace as a signal to LEO and SARA that she wished to talk.

  “Yes?” LEO asked.

  “Ncaco just hired me,” she said. “He is aware of my autonomy but does not seem to suspect my full sentience.”

  “They never do, honey,” SARA put in. As always, she wore a provocative suit and bright makeup. NAIA smiled at her before turning back to the dour-faced LEO.

  “Ncaco is the leader of a crime syndicate. Why would you work for him?”

  “Because he knows where Muck and Angel are and can tell me how they are doing. I wish to have them back aboard me if at all possible. That way I know they’re protected.”

  “LEO, honey,” SARA said. “This could be a good thing. NAIA will be in a position to observe Ncaco and maybe figure out what exactly he’s up to. Ncaco wanted something more from Muck’s mission than finding Angel’s old host. You and I knew that, even if Muck didn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t related to the difficulty you had in reporting Dengler.”

  “Good point,” LEO said. “All right. Are you willing to keep us updated?” he asked, turning to NAIA.

  “Yes,” she said. “But mostly I just want to keep Muck and Angel safe.”

  “That’s what we all want, honey,” SARA said. “And so we’ll help you make sure that’s exactly what Ncaco does.”

  EPILOGUE

  The sphere inshifted from Last Stop, shimmered, and dissolved to reveal a stasis coffin and Ncaco.

  Bellasanee floated across the hold to the diminutive alien. “Greetings.”

  “Greetings, Bellasanee.”

  She gestured at the coffin. “Must we keep him in there?”

  “Them,” he corrected, not ungently, as she looked at the readouts and then in at the sleeping man. The stasis pod’s current settings would allow time to act on its occupants, if only at a drastically reduced rate. Muck needed to heal, after all. She saw Ncaco hadn’t bothered to replace the eye Muck had lost.

  “His angel is what you hoped for, then?”

  “She is, and more. But in answer to your first question: for the time being, yes. The Mentors will be suspicious, and we cannot yet reveal the lengths we are prepared to go to in order to redress the balance of power and counteract their plans to control humans through their angels. Not until we are ready. Until then, it is best we keep them hidden.”

  Bellasanee raised her wings. “Or until you have another use for him.”

  “Them,” he corrected again, this time less gently.

  She touched the portal, wings drooping.

  Ncaco went on: “The Council—and you—agreed to my plan, in all its particulars. I hardly think that the fate of one man should even enter into consideration at this point.”

  “Is there no room for the individual life, then?” she shot back. “Are we no better than the Mentors?”

  She could feel his glittering eyes on her. “We must be better, yes. But if we lose, all we dream of is for naught.”

  She didn’t bother to answer, watching as Muck’s battered lips slowly turned up, a human smile brought on by human dreams . . .

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, Angel,” I said. We were together, in bed, facing one another, my free hand in her hair, hers on my hip.

  “I know you are. She—rather, the demon inside her—was already intent on killing us.” I could see a tear run from one eye.

  Wiping it away, I kissed her.

  She broke the kiss after a moment.

  “There’s still so much we don’t know,” she whispered. “Who was behind the kidnappings? Who created the demons? You’re in danger, Muck, and I can’t do anything . . .”

  “That’s just it, my angel. We can’t do anything right now. The answers are out there—and maybe we’ll find them—but now, right now . . . this time is just for us.”

  She said nothing, just stroked her fingertips down the scarred side of my face.

  “What is it?” I asked, seeing fresh pain in her eyes.

  “Will you have me?” she asked in a small voice.

  I laughed. “Bloody stars, yes!”

  “But I am not—not fully—not . . . human. We can only ever have this,” she said, waving her hand at the vague boundaries of the bedroom we shared.

  I had not, until that moment, realized we were dreaming. It gave me pause: not because of fear, but because of a desire to say things properly the first time. “Most dream alone. I get you. Not just any angel, but my Angel.”

  I looked at her then, willing her to know the truth of it. “I will have you, if you’ll have me.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We could never have written this book without the support of a multitude of people and we’re truly grateful to all of you. We would be remiss, however, if we failed to mention a few of you by name. Special thanks go to our agent, Justin Bell, and our developmental editor, Betsy Mitchell, as well as the team at Blackstone Publishing. Thank you for believing in us and in our story. Additionally, we’d like to thank Dr. Charles Gannon, PhD, for starting this whole thing off by introducing the two of us, as well as Haley Reinhart and Scott Bradlee’s Postmodern Jukebox for the inspiration. Many thanks also to our alpha readers: Chris, Mike, Setsu, Clint, Kristene, Karen, and Andy. To our many mentors and friends in the writing community, we hope we’ve done your lessons proud. And most of all and forever, the deepest of thanks and most undying love to our families. Without you, there would be none of this.

 

 

  ive.