by R. K. Syrus
35
Something snaps her back. Back to where scalding day is stalked by tendrils of freezing night.
Some primal trigger deep within her nervous system causes one final surge of adrenaline from nearly exhausted glands sitting on battered, withering kidneys. Swollen eyelids scrape over tear ducts long since dry. The deflation of the lush green mirage leaves her in a backwash of lucidity and sand.
She recognizes the insolent twig in her way, the one topped by curious bumps. A foot in front of her, it nods at her. Not wood, rather a scaly, brown-speckled snake adorned with devilish horns.
El-ṭorîsha. Also known as the horned desert viper… poisonous.
They look at each other. Both on their bellies. Eye to eye. Nose to darting tongue. They share a moment. It passes. The viper bids her a frosty good night and slithers home.
In front of her, pads of moisture, blood and sweat, even some thickened saliva press onto the sandpaperish topsoil. Her skin betrays her. Benedict Arnold skin! The natural pores in it, the newly added collection of cuts, even the openings of her sinuses, all let liquid escape. The patterns they make are a Rorschach tease. Before Sienna can make them out, they evaporate.
She’s up. Don’t remember doing that.
She’s walking. Where to again? Oh yes.
Away from the horned viper. South, to the Fertile Spear; it’s her only chance. Irrigation pipelines run all over. All along them are remote first-aid stations. Once activated, Worldwide Help will come. They are among the select group of people not likely to kill her on sight.
A sound. Loud enough to penetrate the dry fog rattling around her head.
So unnatural. It must be real.
Awareness of it causes her body to move. Her groggy conscious mind is a step behind her lifetime of training and hunter’s reflexes. When it catches up, Sienna finds herself crouched behind a big rock, listening.
Noises get sifted in the space between her eardrums and her thinking. She recognizes them. Muffled ATV engines and the odd brief command coming from men’s mouths. She cannot make out the language or the words. Whoever it is, they are coming closer. Quickly.
Her dehydration-addled mind still works, just slower.
Doesn’t make sense.
Those dune machines are only short range. There are no towns around except the one she has destroyed. Perhaps those two monsters, the suicide-bomb kidnappers, had radioed in her position. Except they had been driving dark, off the grid, with a switched-off GPS unit.
USA friendlies then? The promise is nearly tempting enough to believe in. Sarge Bryan’s liquid-gold cybernetic eyes finding her in the distance before anyone else saw her. His smiling face. And, as long as she’s fantasizing, she has to add Nobu with a cryo twelve-pack of brew borrowed from Captain Bobblehead’s private stash.
Not likely.
The Lee and Bryan could have picked up on her position by stealth drone. But SOP would be to get her attention, then drop a survival kit with an encrypted handset. She’d have a few hours to sip milspec electrolyte replenisher before enjoying a chopper exfil after dark.
The ship’s XO, Bianchi, would definitely not send a bunch of cowboy Marines on four-wheeled motorcycles.
“This way!” one of her cowboy pursuers shouts, his accent indistinct.
Whoever they are, they’ve got her tracks.
Gotta hide and find some ammo.
Minutes later, Sienna slumps at the mouth of a gorge. Dark soon. They will have night-vision. She will have a great chance of breaking her ankle. Her persistent trackers spread out through the jumbled rocks of a canyon. One wanders too far.
In real life, creeping up behind people hardly ever works. Waiting for them to come round the corner of an outcrop and slamming them on the head with a log, that has a higher success rate.
Her arms are nearly as wooden feeling as her club. She has to put her whole body into it. Thankfully, she connects with a discreet whunk, one his companions didn’t hear. Sienna drags her insensible pursuer into the shadows. He looks Caucasian. Long hair. Unshaven. Cute when asleep. She searches him for water.
Nothing. Not even a crappy energy bar. It must all be on those ATVs. Odd insignia. Not the WWHI Serpens. She checks his other gear. The desert kit he has on is no standard outfitting of any armed forces she knows.
Dreaming Boy has a lot of custom stuff, like special-ops rigging, but traveling much lighter. There’s a sidearm, but most interesting is his shoulder weapon. An EEL launcher. Dubbed the “sea cucumber round” by T-Rex because of the—to him—hilarious shape and texture of the projectile it fires. Electroshock enveloping ligatures are purposed to incapacitate, not kill.
Maybe friends of old Artuk, bent on taking me alive for my salvage value?
Sienna turns her captive over, crosses his hands and slaps an EEL stun-cuff round onto his wrists. The smart non-lethal emits a small electric jolt. Then, sensing no struggle, stops. Epoxy goo hardens, securely binding the commando’s wrists. She stashes the remaining EEL rounds in her new webbing. She leaves the launcher. At about three pounds, in her state, it looks a might heavy. Good thing she’s got her own launchers, as long as the batteries last.
She rises to her feet. Too quickly. Sienna catches herself before collapsing. The small nook of dusk shade fills with stars of her own making. She sits down again until her vision clears. Shaking her head does not help much. She realizes the fix she’s in.
Too many.
They’re not amateurs either. They’ll have their transportation guarded.
Got to make… make it out of this damned canyon.
The canyon has other ideas. Annoying geology formed it with only one entrance and a sheer back wall. No use trying to climb it. Even if she had the energy, a fly would be visible trying to make the ascent.
The hard way, then.
“Crikey, she’s a fast one!”
“Up there, I sawr her!”
Australians and South Africans? What the heck is going on?
“Careful. Don’t shoot off any EELs unless you hafta. Someone get eyes on, now!”
Whoever you are, get eyes on this!
Sienna dips out of her hiding place and sends out a chunk of sandstone. A puff of dust explodes off a soldier’s flak vest. Deciding to return the non-lethal favor until they force the issue, she uses less than full acceleration. Not that she has much choice. Each discharge of energy leaves her battered and worn body weaker.
Too weak. And that’s no good for anyone. Sienna feels it rising. She barely restrained her smoky wraith at the Six Hills village. Hours have passed like a blur. Hours filled with dehydration. Filled with getting shot. With watching a kid get blown up by the cruelest of monsters. She feels its seductive strength. Her vǫrthr, whose plaything is indiscriminate death, rises.
No!
Sienna looks to her hands. She can barely focus. Her breath comes in short rasps. The next piece of stone won’t even float in her palm.
Out of juice. Guess… we’ll have to give… ’em the old fastball then…
You are weak. So weak.
If her hand were not on the rock outcrop, she’s sure she would keel over. Preparing to hurl her projectile, she dips out again—
Let
And slams cheek and shoulder into one of them. The great big, bearded fellow takes a half-step back. Tactical sunglasses the color of a rainbow at sunset study her. He reaches into a chest pouch.
me
As he rips open a Velcro flap, Sienna finds an EEL round. It takes both her hands to hold the few ounces of metal and plastic without dropping it. That is all the strength she, the weakling girl, the spent soldier, the failed warrior has.
Out!
Before she can even try to plant the EEL onto Bristleface’s forearms, her pursuer shows her something that makes her drop her guard and think she’s dreaming.
His dusty gloved hand holds out a yellow rose.
“Sienna McKnight, I presume?” her assailant says with a white-toothed grin. “We’re here ta rescue yah.”
Sienna cannot cling to consciousness, cannot fend off the malevolent darkness that will surely kill the man in front of her and all his companions. She does not know the bearded man, but she knows what is rising inside her all too well. In the instant before her vǫrthr takes over, she decides.
She slaps the EEL round on her own arm.
Above her, as the world of consciousness falls away, Bristleface’s grin turns to shock. And then he skids out of sight as her eyes roll back in her head. Fifty-thousand volts jolt her. Sienna pitches forward, losing consciousness. The mercenary drifts yards away, down an elongated tunnel. “Missy!
What’ve
you
done?”
That pisses her off.
The EEL’s electro-tendrils sap the last of her strength and confuse the other.
She thinks she hears someone who sounds like her mumble back: “Who you callin’ miss—?”
36
FAR FROM THE WANDERING DESERT
“…your arms right now.”
My arms?
At the sound of a woman’s cheerful Saturday morning cartoon show voice, Sienna tries to raise them. At first they feel heavy, or numb, like after she’s rolled and slept on them. She looks. Padded leather restraints latch her forearms snugly to gleaming stainless-steel bed railings.
“Hgggh wasssthisssmm?” Sienna’s tongue is as dry as a chalkboard eraser. She pulls on her bindings. Rising up as far as she can, she pretends to check them out more closely, while also checking out the room. Before asking the obvious, she needs to arm herself with enough information to ferret out lies. She scans for any clue as to where she is, and anything she can use as a weapon.
No windows. Most of the equipment is ultra-modern. It looks like what they had in Roger’s room back in Washington, only the markings are in a bunch of different languages. The vaulted ceiling is not covered by drywall drop panels. Carved and fitted stones arch above. These have been painted over many times and give the impression of being very old. The place has a distinct subterranean vibe.
Captivity. This is getting old. Her soft shackles clink.
“Sorry about those. It was that thing that you were doing. We had to put those little wrist warmers on ya.”
A phone on the wall chimes a lively tune. Not a Lux/Net handset. It is an actual telephone with a receiver and curly, tangled wires. She hasn’t seen one like that since visiting a Cold War bunker during a history field trip. Full, heavily glossed lips purse at the interruption. A long, manicured finger raises politely in Sienna’s direction. As if her being patient is a choice.
“Let me take care of… Hello? Oh, hi.”
Her attendant is about her age or a few years older. She’s thin and tall, very tall. She pirouettes away from the bed. She’s balancing on heels at least six inches high. And that accent. It is pure mid-Atlantic, a hybrid made up in Hollywood when talking pictures were invented. As natural as the color of her huge hair. From the back she looks like a human dandelion. She twirls back to face Sienna, phone cord wrapping around slim waist and prominent bosom. Sea anemone false eyelashes flutter.
“Yes, our little patient is up.”
The strange woman is a multitasking contortionist. While balancing the plastic receiver on her shoulder, she pokes at Sienna’s bed monitor, and at the same time undoes the leather restrains. Colorful ink on one of her arms depicts a serpent coiled around a bright red apple.
“Yes, yes, she is. After the grogginess of the anesthetic wore off. Uh huh. Really well, considering. She’s pretty alert.”
A flashlight contained in the base of what looks like a lipstick tube flits over Sienna’s face and deftly checks her eyes.
“Pupillary response… really good. And so adorable hazelly too!” Her caregiver’s voice chirps with delight. “Her pictures totally don’t do her justice. Yes… no. Scans show no concussion or cranial pulmonary events. Aside from the obvious, she’s in good shape. See you soo-oon.” The receiver clacks back onto its hook. Sienna’s arms are free of restraints. “There. That must feel better.”
Two fingers press delicately on her wrist. The woman’s nail extensions are also ten miniature display screens. They play a video of animated kittens which somersault, hide, and do kitten things. The medical exam is accompanied by giggles.
“I know you’ve got a pulse. I was in a healing ashram last year and the doctor guru guy proved sparshana touch could diagnose early-stage conditions better than a clunky old MRI. Wild, right?”
Sienna welcomes the freedom of her arms. Still, she’s been given no reason not to be wary. Who was on the phone? Is she a prisoner? If so, of whom, some transatlantic glee club? There’s a small chance this is some off-the-grid DARPA black site. Maybe they are humoring her while they figure out how to extract what’s left of the unique RAPTEK from one standard-issue soldier’s body.
“I… don’t,” Sienna finally manages to croak out. “Don’t think Army medical is going to cover that sparshana stuff.”
“Don’t worry about… Oh, you’re joking.” The woman’s mass of curler-bound hair shakes merrily. “Joking is good. I’m Melanie, by the way. How is your pain level, on a one through ten scale?”
“Hi, Melanie. I’m at about a hard three, I guess.” This is accurate. Her body throbs all over. It’s a challenge keeping her balance sitting up in the bed. Full-on getting up and walking will take some prep time. Her head feels like it has been mushed by a huge nutcracker. Wide swaths of skin have been peeled off, as though by sandpaper.
It was sand all right. Minus the paper.
On the upside, the amateur Chechen-style surgery wound on her upper arm is covered by a transparent dressing. It’s closed up and stitched properly. Elegantly, really.
“Yeah, a three.” But with ambitions.
Sienna cranes her neck to look around from a different angle. Shooting pains greet her movements. “I’ve been in a few military medical centers. Don’t recognize this one.”
“That’s because it’s super-secret. Which is quite a lucky coincidence because you’re a secret agent or something. General Bryan will tell you everything.”
The mention of the name is at once comforting and baffling. “Wait, general?” Sienna asks, still fuzzy. “Either I’ve been out longer than I thought, or you mean Sergeant Bryan, right?”
Blonde curls shake above her like fronds of a huge fern. “Military ranks, who can keep track? Admirals, field marshals, prelates, magi—the list just goes on.”
“You know Sarge?”
“Sure do. He said you prefer your lattes foamy and you like an extra snuggly blanket when you’ve got sniffles or are recovering from shrapnel wounds.”
Finally something familiar.
“Let me talk to him.”
“Not a good idea just yet,” Melanie says. “Remember the secret agent part? He’s supposed to call us when he can.”
Sienna tilts up on an elbow. Under clean white sheets, her whole body is a glowing ember of hurt. She knows this feeling. The results of accelerated healing, sonic orthopedic casts, hyperbaric treatments. While she’s been out, her body has been given the platinum card health care treatment.
“So, Melanie. Where are the doctors?”
Sienna lurches her legs over the side. The strange woman involuntarily backs away from the bed. Not scared, but definitely mindful. Melanie recovers from her start. Her eyes twinkle; she giggles.
“Oh, I should have asked you before. Now that you’re back to your senses, can we set some ground rules? Number one being: no more throwing neurosu
rgeons through walls.”
“Huh?”
Melanie gestures to the wall across from her bed. There’s a distinct man-sized indentation in the drywall plaster.
“Or me. Just so we’re peachy clear, okay?”
“I did that? To who?”
“You were kind of out of it. And the nice man forgives you, though he is charging us double his normal hourly for the time he was knocked out. We had to take all the sharp objects out of the room so you didn’t hurt yourself. At first I thought only ferrous metals, then you made that little hole in the ceiling with a glass thermometer.” She points a kitteny finger up. “Then I thought, alrighty, let’s try dampening the electro-conductive valence.” Melanie pauses her torrent. “Maybe we leave that for later. You must still be tired. And as for doctors, I’m afraid I’m it for now. Ta-dah!”
“You’re my doctor?”
“Well, I started full-time at Eurolincx right after I left med school. I mean, hee, I did all the work, but I stopped handing things in when they got so cross with me for disagreeing with the textbooks. And just between us”— Melanie drops her voice to a whisper and looks over both shoulders for no apparent reason—“I’m not exactly certified in England. But I won’t tell if you don’t.”
She winks. And unless Sienna’s seeing things, the ends of her long lashes sparkle pinpricks of light.
England?
Her attending cheerleader/physician continues Melanie-splaining. “Great thing is, we had all your medical files. Right from when Theodora McKnight delivered you. She kept detailed records, even how your poor little heart stopped for a spell. Which reminds me! The same thing happened to Audrey Hepburn when she was small due to a really bad case of whooping cough, her mother revived her and knew right then and there Audrey was destined for great things. Just-like-you!”
The bizarre deluge of information delivered with such unflagging pep starts to make Sienna wish she was back in a coma.
“Wait… why would you have my medical records? And Melanie, I think I have to ask you…” Things were getting weirder, not clearer. Time to change that. No point delaying the cliché. “Where am I?”
