Heretics (Stars Edge: Nel Bently Book 4)

by V. S. Holmes

  She hated IDH fashion: the uniformity, the complexity, the nauseating press of too-warm fibers as they cupped her muscles with almost sentient perception. But she’d wear electrosuits for the rest of her life if she didn’t have to wash a stranger’s blood from her underwear.

  By the time Lin arrived, exhausted, from her briefing, Nel had packed up the entire room, save the gleaming case of the other woman’s personal effects.

  Lin’s bloodshot eyes took in the room before settling on Nel. “You packed?”

  Nel shrugged, refusing to meet her gaze. “Couldn’t go back to bed. Thought I’d get us ready. Where are we staying?”

  “Here,” Lin explained. If fatigue didn’t strain her voice, her tone might have been gentle. “We’re staying on the train. Not sure how long we’ll be here, but there’s no use in disembarking. Plus, it’s probably safer if we keep to ourselves. Get any research done?”

  Distrust zinged up Nel’s spine, but she was just as exhausted as Lin and let the warning dissolve in the maelstrom of other nameless feelings. “There’s not much available, even on the IDH databases. Someone mentioned I get Teera to set me up with a VPN to bypass the basic firewalls.”

  Lin frowned. “They’re against IDH protocol, unless you have clearance. In which case you don’t really need one to begin with.”

  “Even for privacy?”

  “I never considered needing privacy from them.” Lin shrugged. “If you need to look up anything, about your family or something, just let me know. I’ll do it for you when I have a second.”

  “Just curiosity at this point. How’s the doctor—Mackey?”

  Lin frowned. “I didn’t know you’d met him.”

  “I hadn’t. The guard in the back was asking after him. They seemed close.”

  Satisfied, or too tired to press it further, she heaved a sigh. “He’ll make it.” Lin stripped her suit off, hanging it carefully in the cleaning case at the back of their closet before dropping a kiss on Nel’s head. “Gonna take a shower, want to come?”

  Nel shook her head. “Already did.”

  Lin stepped into the bathroom only to emerge a second later, face pale. “There’s blood on the floor.”

  If Nel had the constitution to even think about eating breakfast, she would have vomited. Instead, bile bathed her teeth for a moment before she choked out, “Yeah, people were shot.”

  Lin’s narrow, strong hands ghosted over Nel’s shoulders, her arms, gaze delving where her hands didn’t in search of injury. “You’re okay?”

  No. “Yeah. It’s not mine. It’s ah…” She couldn’t remember the guard’s name. “The kid. Guarding the generators. Grazed. Elbow all fucked. Helped him until the medic arrived.”

  Lin peered into her eyes, searching for something Nel frankly hoped she wouldn’t find, hidden under mental calluses and ancient stone walls. “You’re okay?” she repeated.

  Nel almost couldn’t lie a second time. “Just tired. Shaken a bit. Sure sleep and food will have me back to normal.”

  “We ate in the meeting, but I’m sure the Founders will give us something.”

  Nel chuckled dryly. “Last time I ate in a Founders’ restaurant I got a greasy rotted mouse in my empanada.”

  Lin’s face paled. “Emilio?”

  “Oh, no clue. Honestly, probably not. That place meant a lot to him. And apparently he didn’t have much control over his underlings.” She grabbed Lin’s hand for a reassuring squeeze. “Think I’ll unpack since we’re staying here. Enjoy your shower.”

  Lin rocked back on her heels and rose, the motion fluid, despite her obvious stress. When she was at the bathroom door, however, Nel’s mind blurted, “IDH have a lot of firefights?”

  “Some.” Lin turned, but her eyes stayed fixed on the bloodstained corner of the bathroom floor. “My uncle arrived late one night; ship barely made it into our hangar. Covered in blood. Interrupted our family game night. Dar and I asked, of course. How could we not? But our parents never spoke of it. He moved out of my parents’ home later that week. Our uncle, I mean.”

  Nel followed the line of tension, of vulnerability, stretching down the woman’s throat to her fisted tattooed hand. “I’m sorry. Must have been scary as a kid.”

  Lin didn’t answer, just slipped into the bathroom and slid the door shut behind herself. It was several minutes before the water started, and when it did, Nel caught the soft sound of sobs under the splashing.

  Would they ever stop breaking apart?

  A flashing message light on her comm derailed her attempt to unpack and her half-assed speculation:

  NOTICE: All personnel not outfitted with electromesh gloves or integrated electrosystems please report to F3 in twenty minutes at 1300 for equipment assignments.

  Annoyance was preferable to exhaustion or anxiety, so Nel seized onto her frustration at IDH tech with renewed vigor. She double-checked her electromesh and pressed her brow against the bathroom door. At least the sobs had stopped. “Hey babe, us normies gotta go get outfitted with stuff, apparently. See you a bit later?”

  “Yeah.”

  When, after a beat longer, Lin said nothing more, Nel ducked into the train corridor and made for the nearest exit. The rear-most Quonset hut butted up against the low stone wall, a stretch of which was painted with various targets.

  “You getting a fit?”

  Nel turned to see a colossus of a woman crouching beside the open door of the hut labeled F3. She was strapping something on her forearm that looked larger and far more sinister than most of the IDH gear Nel had seen so far.

  “Guess so?” Nel hazarded.

  “Head on in, they’ll get you started early if you want.” She flashed a smile. “Mariana, by the way.”

  “Nel,” she replied with a strained smile and a nod at the contraption the woman still adjusted. “We all getting those?”

  Mariana’s laughter was a bark. “Not unless you got the heavy blaster training to go with those shoulders.”

  “Hard pass,” Nel replied with a wince. “Last gunfight I was in I chose a trowel instead.”

  “Oh, you’re that Nel. We heard about you.” Mariana’s face brightened. “Way it was told I thought I’d have to give up my spot as toughest broad on base while you were here.”

  “Nah, that’s all yours,” Nel promised, stepping into the hut. “Thanks, though.”

  The hut was dimly lit, with tidy stacks of ammo lockers from at least three different defunct military organizations. Each was filled with a different set of parts Nel hoped wouldn’t end up anywhere near her skin, let alone jacked into her nervous system. A harried woman glanced up from cataloging one locker’s contents. “Name?”

  “Dr. Nel Bently.” When her brows knit in confusion, Nel clarified, “Might be under Annelise Bently?”

  “Yep, got you. Gussy will get you set up. Outside.”

  Sure enough, a slender man who looked better suited to a runway in Milan than a desert paramilitary outpost flashed her a brilliant smile. “Annelise, good to meet you.”

  “Nel. Please. ’Less you want me to use you for target practice.”

  Thankfully, he laughed, rich and bright.

  She stared for a moment, hearing the sound arc from stone, mix with birdcalls, and slip away over the river. It seemed like forever had passed since she last heard proper laughter. “So what’s this for?”

  “Upgrading your suit for self-protection.”

  “Can we opt out?”

  “Are you domestic personnel?”

  “Not really sure what I am.” Nel eyed the IDH gear with mounting suspicion. “I thought we were going lo-fi here.”

  “Lo-fi?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Low-tech. Something about being encased in electronic fabric when tech can kill me sounds terrible. Actually, everything about it sounds like shit.”

  Gussy’s brows rose. “Well, unless you get a notice from your psychologist or doctor, IDH mandated every adult be au
gmented.”

  She grimaced. “Whatever is the simplest one you can get away with, okay?”

  “Your record said you used a model X-126 previously. That what you’re most comfortable with?”

  “Only thing makes me more uncomfortable than using these damn things is being on the business end of one.”

  “Roger that.” He dangled a battered but clean-looking model from his middle finger. “Try this.”

  It fastened almost seamlessly to the sleeve of her suit. Metal pressed against her skin, delicate electrodes barely more than brassy paint against her faded tan. The material warmed in the time it took to flex her fingers.

  “How’s that?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to these,” she whispered. “Don’t know if I want to, honestly.”

  She peered sidelong at the striated copper disk embedded in the electromesh encasing her palm. Cold fear pinched under her sternum at the thought of looking directly down the barrel of one’s own hand. She hadn’t fought it when Paul leveled his desperation at her. There had been a few times when it sounded appealing, even. But right now, Earth needed help from everyone she could get. And that included one mildly competent archaeologist with an anger problem.

  “You need a brush up?”

  Nel’s shoulders tightened. “Don’t think any number of reminders replaces comfort. But yeah. Aren’t these things supposed to sync up with us? Last time it was talking in my head.”

  “Yeah.” He frowned, scanning the connections briefly before plugging in the device in his hand. “Should have paired by now.”

  Seizing the opportunity, she reached for the strap. “Look, if it doesn’t work—”

  “I’ll try a few others. Might be having issues with your chemistry. Hasn’t happened since the original prototypes.” He turned away, still murmuring the apparently long and sordid history of electromesh and synced weapons. Nel let him mutter, scanning instead the blast holes on the opposite wall. It was not despite her anger that she avoided firearms and weapons in general. Her lack of skill made for a good excuse, but on the far side of her thirties and faced with multiple shoot-outs, it seemed thin.

  A soft chuckle rose from an open doorway in the base wall. A broad, middle-aged Black woman leaned there, arms crossed. Something about the set of her smile tugged at Nel’s memory, but her embarrassment at being spied on shoved it aside. “What?” she snapped. “Picture might last longer.”

  Her observer didn’t seem fazed by the nasty tone or words.

  “Don’t mind Max, she’s just curious. Try this one, Dr. Bently,” Gussy offered, producing another glove. This one, much to Nel’s horror, was bulkier.

  It was easier to attach, at least, but still, no eerie whisper at the nape of her neck or anything, really, beyond the usual tingle of an electrical field. “Nope. Guess I’m a reject.”

  Gussy’s cheerful face withered. “I just don’t understand—”

  “Gussy, let it go.” The woman in the doorway straightened. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with Dr. Bently. Why don’t you puzzle over this little mystery while we chat, eh?” Her head tilted appraisingly.

  Nel felt heat bloom on her face and looked down at her scuffed boots. She hadn’t been sure what she really cared to do, beyond finding her mother, for the last few weeks. Still, whoever this person was, she seemed to have something for her. As long as it’s not a set of headphones filled with deadly noise, we’ll be okay, she promised herself. After a second’s thought while she fiddled with her trowel handle, she muttered, “How’d you know it was me? Trowel?”

  “Attitude.” The woman’s smile widened, and she gestured into town. “Care to join me?”

  They walked in silence, Nel staring at the vines spilling from rooftops and arbors. The heady floral scent weighed her mind, forcing her steps to slow as she passed brilliant red blooms. She tried to note which alleyway they turned onto, if something went south, but the tangle of leaves and worn stone could have been any number of the narrow streets. Nel glanced at her companion as they walked. The woman surely felt Nel’s gaze on her but seemed content to let her stare. She was regal, the kind of proud that came from certainty in her own ability. It was the confidence that came from power. Her brown eyes were bright, despite the lines of gray woven into each of the thin, tight braids twisted in a large bun.

  “Dr. ah…?”

  “Dr. nothing. Never bothered with it. What drove my education wasn’t the title, and what I wanted to understand most you can’t learn from secondary education. At least, not when I was going.”

  Nel nodded, noting that the woman hadn’t told Nel what she could be called instead. “I get that. I think I mostly wanted the title out of spite. For those who said I couldn’t.”

  The woman chuckled. “Defiance can be powerful.” She turned a corner, waiting for Nel to tear her focus away from the glimpse of a garden over the top of a tall stone wall. She unlocked a heavy wrought gate in the same wall and held it open. “Here we are.”

  While the wall blocked much of the mid-morning light from the street outside, it was as if the limestone blocks reflected it back to the tiny paradise. Winding paths and the table just ahead were bathed in a bubble of warm sunlight.

  “This is yours?” Nel marveled, ducking under the lush growth. “It’s gorgeous.”

  The woman laughed, brown skin gleaming as she settled in one of the chairs by the garden table. One ringed hand gestured to the seat opposite.

  “So, how’d you hear of me?” Nel settled into the chair, hoping the answer might give her a clue as to who, exactly, she was having brunch with.

  “I’m familiar with your work.”

  “I see.” Nel cringed. Her undergrad theories had been about as socially aware as they were understated, which was to say, not at all.

  The woman responded with a vague smile as she turned toward the small house against one side of the garden. “Dee?”

  A rich male voice drifted from the open windows, accompanied by the gentle sound of dishes.

  “Would you mind bringing out the pitcher I set aside this morning? We have a guest.” When her attention returned to Nel, she lifted her chin. “I’m Max Gamal.”

  Nel’s brows shot up. It was a name she knew, and not just from a few dozen academic studies. “Wait, remind me of your area of study? You co-authored a few heavy-hitting theories.”

  “I’ve been involved with a lot of studies, most notably some funded by your sometimes friend, Mr. Sepulveda.”

  “So you’re one of the Founders? Or do you go by a different name here?” She was leaning forward now, mind jumping at the chance of familiar territory.

  “We have as many names as we have origin stories, Bently. Probably more,” she answered with a faint smile. “Here we prefer Alkhalaaq. Don’t you have different answers when folks ask how you got here?”

  “I suppose. Depending on who’s asking.” She frowned, then felt the thrill of a secret unfurl in her chest. “So, do I get a different answer than the other IDH people?”

  “You’re not IDH.”

  She didn’t feel like IDH, but never expected any of the Founders groups to really make the distinction. The lines were blurrier by the hour. “Not really.”

  “Then stop arguing.” Her smile grew. “I imagine you’re pretty accustomed to arguing.”

  Nel laughed, cheeks hot. But despite the jab, ease had settled into her bones. Temporary, surely, but a relief. “I think it’s about the only thing I’m good at. Or, at least, I seem to turn everything into one. Don’t win often though.”

  “That’s rather why I wanted to speak with you.”

  Nel snorted. “I’m shit at arguing?”

  “No. Regardless of the outcomes, you still choose to. Not keen on the status quo, at least, not if it’s not keen on you.” Max stared at her a moment. “We would like to know any developments in IDH’s investigation of the sonic attack on Earth and the group known as the Reapers.”<
br />
  “Don’t you already? I mean, we’re all working as a team.”

  “Are we?” Max’s voice was light but not gentle.

  “Surely Emilio—”

  “Sepulveda is not literally in bed with the daughter of IDH’s most influential family. You’ve made it this far without becoming an IDH patsy, a disappeared statistic, or a body never found. I still see the glimmer of a soul in there.”

  “Way down?” Nel joked, if only to release the tension building in the air between them.

  “Way, way down.”

  “Good to know. Don’t think I’ve seen it in a hot minute.”

  “You’re going to need it. Friends will be hard to come by—hold on to them too.”

  “Oh, I’m trying.” Nel collected her scattered thoughts.

  The bite in Max’s words softened to fondness. “The first time I heard your name it wasn’t from IDH. Or from Emilio.”

  “No?”

  “It was from my nephew. He was fresh out of undergrad and kept talking about this girl he met. Course his momma and I thought for sure he was in love, but it was something much more profound than that.” Max pulled a leather-bound journal from her bag. She unlatched it with deliberation, drawing a photo from its note-filled pages.

  Nel leaned forward, peering at it with interest. Three adults stood in the brilliant sun, the stone pyramids of Giza towering behind them. It wasn’t the twin brilliant smiles on the faces of the two women or the familiar earnestness of the white man on their left that made Nel’s stomach flip. It was the beaming light brown face of the boy in the front, holding up a brand-new Marshalltown trowel. Nel’s eyes widened. “You’re Mikey’s aunt, the one who turned him on to archaeology. Aunty M?”

  She opened her arms with a tired smile. “Indeed. I might have given him a little nudge, forwarded the more interesting papers and planted a few seeds. He was already falling for the romance of the lifestyle.”

  “Yeah, he was really into that.” Nel drew a breath. “Look, I’m sorry. About what happened down there—”