Woven

by Elle E. Ire

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: Vick—Interference

  Chapter 2: Kelly—Long-Distance Relationship

  Chapter 3: Vick—Delicate Interaction

  Chapter 4: Kelly—Persona

  Chapter 5: Vick—Under Not Over

  Chapter 6: Kelly—River Styx

  Chapter 7: Vick—Infrastructure

  Chapter 8: Kelly—Roles to Play

  Chapter 9: Vick—Showtime

  Chapter 10: Kelly—Seduction

  Chapter 11: Vick—Dessert

  Chapter 12: Kelly—Grit

  Chapter 13: Vick—Humiliation

  Chapter 14: Kelly—Aftermath

  Chapter 15: Vick—Out of Bounds

  Chapter 16: Kelly—To the Rescue

  Chapter 17: Vick—Contingency Plan

  Chapter 18: Kelly—Tunnels of Dark

  Chapter 19: Vick—Loose Ends

  Chapter 20: Kelly—Missing

  Chapter 21: Vick—Karma

  Chapter 22: Kelly—Helpless Abandon

  Chapter 23: Vick—Depths of Despair

  Chapter 24: Kelly—Horrors

  Chapter 25: Vick—Unwanted Influence

  Chapter 26: Kelly—Is Anybody There?

  Chapter 27: Vick—Mirror, Mirror

  Chapter 28: Kelly—Monsters

  Chapter 29: Vick—Lookalikes

  Chapter 30: Kelly—Connections

  Chapter 31: Vick—Revelations

  Chapter 32: Kelly—Memories

  Chapter 33: Vick—Double

  Chapter 34: Kelly—Tug of War

  Chapter 35: Vick—Restrictions

  Chapter 36: Kelly—Perceptions

  Chapter 37: Vick—Laying the Trap

  Chapter 38: Kelly—Goals

  Chapter 39: Vick—Baby Steps

  Chapter 40: Kelly—Encounter

  Chapter 41: Vick—To Overcome

  Chapter 42: Kelly—Dark Reflection

  Chapter 43: Vick—Exit Strategy

  Chapter 44: Kelly—Solutions

  Chapter 45: Vick—Confrontation

  Chapter 46: Kelly—To the Rescue

  Chapter 47: Vick—One on One

  Chapter 48: Kelly—No Choice

  Chapter 49: Vick—Sacrifice

  Chapter 50: Kelly—A Relative Term

  Chapter 51: Vick—Love and Secrets

  More from Elle E. Ire

  About the Author

  By Elle E. Ire

  Visit DSP Publications

  Copyright

  Woven

  By Elle E. Ire

  Storm Fronts: Book Three

  What if the mirror does reflect what’s inside?

  Mercenary Vick Corren is steadfast in her love for empath Kelly LaSalle. When it comes to her love of herself, not so much.

  After an acidic-lake dunking on a distant moon shows Vick what’s really beneath her synthetic skin, it doesn’t matter that she heals. All she can see is the metallic shell of the soldier she once was. It’s a cruel reminder that she’s a cyborg. An AI. Less than human.

  And that’s not Vick’s biggest problem. Her clone, the sadistic VC2, is on the loose and on the hunt. Her mission? Eliminate Vick and make Kelly her own.

  Can Vick resolve her crippling identity crisis in time to defeat VC2—a terrifying version of herself that she might have been if not for Kelly’s love?

  As always, this work is dedicated to my soulmate/spouse. There is no one in my life who knows me as well as you do and encourages me to be the best I can possibly be. Thank you for helping me embrace my true self. Thank you for believing in this dream so that I would continue to write when I wanted to give up. I love you.

  Acknowledgments

  THIS IS a rather bittersweet moment for me writing these thank-yous. For as long as I can remember, this series, and especially the character of Vick Corren, have been haunting my thoughts both waking and dreaming. I can picture her clearly, in no small part because of the amazing work of my two cover artists—Nathalie Gray who did the covers for Threadbare and Patchwork, and Anna Sikorska who finished the series with the beautiful art for Woven. I can also hear Vick in my head, always nagging me to get her story out there, and I’ll confess, she hasn’t yet shut up, so while I’m taking a break from Storm Fronts, there may be more for her to do in the future. It saddens me to see the trilogy come to an end, but a character like Vick never sits still for long.

  I want to thank my amazing editorial team—Gus Li, Camiele White, and Brian Holliday for putting up with all my misplaced commas and hyphens and triple-checking for continuity errors. I am so grateful to have had them along for the entire series. Their support and enthusiasm, along with their suggestions, took me in directions I hadn’t originally planned, and I know the trilogy is better for their influence. Any remaining errors are all mine.

  Thank you to Naomi Grant for her promotional wisdom and everyone else at Dreamspinner Publications who has had a hand in getting this series out there.

  Thank you to my writing group: Amy, Evergreen, Gary, Joe, and Ann for their ongoing advice and for keeping me sane throughout the publishing process. Thank you to those readers who have contacted me or left reviews to express your enjoyment of Vick and Kelly’s adventures. Those words mean so very very much and make me want to write more and more. In particular, thank you to authors Arielle Haughee and MB Austin for your praise and support.

  Special thanks to my agent, Naomi Davis, who believed in this series from the very beginning and continues to believe in me as an author.

  Thank you to my daughter, Ana, for cover art opinions and never-ending eagerness to read the next book.

  Finally and most of all, thank you to my spouse for car-ride brainstorming sessions, random what-ifs, last-minute read-throughs, and all the love and support an author could ever ask for. None of this would have happened without you by my side.

  Chapter 1: Vick—Interference

  I am tired.

  I STUMBLE toward the Storm’s military transport ship. The ramp seems to waver and buck as my boots climb it, though I know it’s solid and still. The hatch stands open, Lyle’s massive form framed in the entryway and backlit by the interior lights casting his already dark exterior into shadowy blackness.

  “Corren, great job today. You kicked some serious ass. That psychopath won’t be hurting kids ever again,” he says, his bass tones falling over me like a thick blanket. Warmth, comfort, companionship. These tonics wait for me in the shuttle, if I can just make it another few steps, though the one person I need the most isn’t onboard.

  A smaller form appears behind Lyle—Alex, our tech expert. “Yeah, and you did it in record time according to the Undercover Ops records I hacked. Mission spec for this job was another week at least. Hunt the bad guys, take ’em down, get home for breakfast. No one has beaten their estimates as bad as you just did.” Alex didn’t know the Storm had an Undercover Ops until five months ago when they “invited” our team to join them. Even VC1, my ever-present, brain-inhabiting AI, hadn’t been able to confirm their existence, and she makes Alex look like a kid playing with a toy circuit set. But from the inside, they both have a lot more access to intel, including data that U Ops probably doesn’t want us to have yet, if ever.

  An image of my new handler, Carl, appears on my internal display, his broad chest and tree-trunk legs barely covered by a cheerleader’s uniform. Meaty arms and hands the size of my skull wave pink-and-white pompoms before the entire picture vanishes.

  Yeah, the boss will be pleased. The Fighting Storm’s decision-making board will be pleased. The accountants will be pleased. Everyone who has any kind of power within the Storm’s infrastructure will be fucking ecstatic.

  Yippee for me.


  I’m two steps from the lip of the hatch when I stumble, nearly falling off the metal ramp to hit the landing field tarmac six feet below. It wouldn’t do serious damage, but it would hurt, and I place my next foot with extreme care.

  “Hey, you all right?” The concern in Lyle’s tone touches me in places I hadn’t known I possessed until Kelly, my life partner, helped me reconnect with them.

  Damn, I wish she was here, but then again, I don’t. I’d be a heartless, cruel bitch to bring an empath into a kill zone.

  When I trip a second time, Lyle closes the small distance and catches me, grabbing me by both shoulders and hauling me upright. With his face mere inches from mine, his frown is impossible to miss, shadows or no shadows. “You don’t stumble.”

  In other words, I’m programmed for optimum agility.

  I stop that line of thinking, my own growth and Kelly’s influence curling tendrils of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Such thoughts not only belittle the individual human I am, even with the implants, but also make unfair assumptions about Lyle’s perception of me. He and Alex both have worked hard at overcoming the predominant mindset that I’m a machine in an organic casing (and even that’s cloned version 2.0), a walking biological computer, a robot with a pretty exterior. If they can accept me as a person, a friend and teammate, rather than property, then I can damn well give myself the same treatment.

  “This is our third assignment almost back-to-back,” I remind him. “I’m… tired.”

  But I shouldn’t be collapsing on boarding ramps. The implants’ job is to maximize my energy reserves, keep me to all outside appearances fit and focused, and I’m not. What’s going on?

  Exhaustion, mild dehydration, emotional trauma. In other words, the usual.

  I swallow a bark of laughter at that last comment. VC1’s droll humor becomes more and more like my own every day, but my non-AI partners will be even more worried if I start laughing out loud without an obvious stimulus. No, not a stimulus, a reason. An obvious reason. Sometimes I worry the more human VC1 becomes, the more machinelike the rest of me gets.

  I push that concern into a dark emotional corner with all the rest in order to focus on my current dilemma. Why aren’t you doing anything about it?

  Because you are now in a position of safety and security. I have been moderating your physical and emotional stress for several days. My own systems are not taxed. You are in no danger of redlining or overload or burnout—

  I close my eyes and exhale. No, I don’t want to burn out ever again. Dying that way once was more than enough.

  —but I, too, have limits, as you are well aware. It is imperative that I allow your biological infrastructure to heal naturally when time and situation permit. It gives me an opportunity to perform maintenance on my own functions while preventing you from becoming overly dependent upon my assistance.

  Which means you’ve pulled out your support and I’m about to lose consciousness.

  Precisely.

  Wonderful. That thought and the tightening of Lyle’s hands on me are the last things I remember before the universe goes dark.

  I’M IN some sort of research facility, long metal-walled corridors stretching out before me and branching in multiple directions, door after door breaking up the endless walls on either side. Some of them are open, revealing white-coated technicians performing a variety of experiments or typing furiously at their desk comps. I’m wearing an identical lab coat over gray pants, my white canvas shoes covered in plastic protectors, but the uniform feels odd, out of place, like it should belong to someone else.

  Medical personnel pass me as I hurry along, most ignoring me, their faces locked in masks of concentration, though a few smile and raise a hand in greeting. I return the gestures, but again, they feel performative, fake.

  At the end of the hall is a larger set of double doors with a red light above them. I fish a keycard from my lab coat pocket and wave it over the electronic lock. The photo on the ID card depicts a blond male, but I’m in a female body, dark hair cascading over my shoulders. I have a second to wonder where I got the card before I hide it away again. The light flashes green. The doors part.

  I’m in a launch bay. Lots of ships of varying sizes. Lots of activity. The bay doors stand open on the far side, the glimmer of a force field indicating why everything and everyone isn’t being blown out to the open starfield beyond.

  Asteroid. Or moon. I’m not sure where I am in the greater picture.

  “Doctor?” a man in a pilot’s uniform—a Sunfire pilot’s uniform—asks, approaching me at a brisk clip from one of the smaller spacecraft. “Can I help you with something? You science types don’t come in here much.”

  I pause, for the briefest moment uncertain how to proceed. Then I meet him halfway, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him back toward his ship, into the shadows it casts in the otherwise well-lit bay. “Yes, there’s a problem,” my voice says, but it’s strange to my ears, not quite my own, but still mine. It lacks inflection, sounds like the me of years ago, right after my accident in the airlock. Once we’re out of sight of any other workers, I lean in, keeping my pitch low. “We think you may have brought back a virus from your last mission.”

  The pilot straightens, surprise turning to indignation in his ruddy features. He runs his hand through dirty-blond hair, brushing it away from his reddening face. “I keep a clean ship. And me? I never skip decon cycles like some of the other guys.”

  I nod, conveying earnest sympathy with my eyes even if it’s missing from my voice. “Regardless, scans suggest something attached itself. To your hull.”

  “My—” He turns away to stare up at the exterior of his sleek fighter craft. Fast and heavily armed, heavily shielded. Perfect.

  The second his back is turned, I’m in motion, wrapping one arm around his throat and giving a sharp, brutal twist. His neck pops. He slumps backward. The body should be heavy, but it’s nothing to me. I drag it behind the landing struts, use my lab coat to cover his flight uniform, and remove his gun belt and laser pistol. I strap it on over my gray slacks, tucking my black T-shirt into the pants. I take his boots, leaving the canvas shoes in an empty shipping crate. No one will notice the corpse until I’ve lifted off in his fancy ship. The burners from my engines should char it nicely. They might not be able to positively identify my victim for days.

  And I’ll be long gone.

  I’m searching for something. No, someone. Someone to ease the anger, the fear, the… incompleteness. I have to find her.

  Though I don’t know how I know it, I’m certain my sanity depends on it.

  I WAKE up in a bottom metal bunk, gasping for breath, disoriented until the vibration of a ship in motion transmits to my sleep-fogged brain.

  What the fuck was that about?

  I have nightmares all the time. But that? It felt real—more real than usual. It felt like me, like a memory more than a dream. But that sort of calm cold-bloodedness, even toward an enemy Sunfire merc, sends icy sweat dripping down my spine. I’m not like that. Even when I have to kill, I have regrets, feelings, guilt.

  I suffer.

  This me felt nothing at all.

  And that aching emptiness, that sense of not being whole. Definitely not me. I have Kelly. She’s everything I need.

  I freeze, my muscles tightening, my breath stopping in my chest. It. Felt. Like. Me. I’m not like that, but….

  I review the already hazy dream images in my head, which in itself is confusing. My organic brain transfers my thoughts instantly to my implanted brain. VC1 stores the memories in perfect clarity. This is why nightmares are more difficult for me than others, why bad experiences cause me more problems for longer periods of time than normal people’s. This is why she sent my worst memories… elsewhere.

  When I first woke up as a clone, there were doors, lots of doors, in the research facility, but they were shut and locked. It wasn’t the same location as the one in my dream, but I had wondered then, and I’m wondering now�
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  “Are there other clones of me? And is another one awake?” I ask aloud in the otherwise unoccupied cabin. And is she completely, utterly, entirely insane?

  A wave of disorientation hits without warning, my vision swimming, my head spinning. Nausea churns in my gut before I can squeeze my eyes shut against the unexpected onslaught. What the hell?

  I am sorry, VC1 whispers through the migraine setting in behind my eyelids. There are things you cannot know. Things I must prevent you from knowing.

  Why? I’m blacking out again. Remaining conscious is like swimming upstream in a flooding river.

  One of my primary directives is to protect you. If you knew there were other clones, you might take unnecessary chances with your life. You might assume you would be “reborn” even once resources have run out. Expensive resources, which applies to another of my directives, to minimize waste for the Fighting Storm.

  But if there’s another me awake right now…

  She is not an immediate threat. One directive overrides another.

  Once again I am reminded that VC1 is not perfect, that no programming is without glitches and bugs. Another clone, awake, dangerous, is definitely a threat to me, at least indirectly. She could blame me for her actions, though those actions and her half-formed goals are fading even as I think about the possible ramifications. The pain blossoms into blinding agony, my brain feeling as if it’s collapsing in on itself, and I know with certainty that VC1 is erasing the memory from her storage.

  When I wake again, I’ll recall the bad dream in the same vague, undefined, fleeting way any human being would remember a nightmare before it vanishes entirely from my thoughts.

  The irony is not lost on me that this is one of those rare moments when I wish I weren’t so human.

  I SHAKE myself, dispelling the remnants of a strange bad dream, and glance around. Standard furnishings for Storm shuttles like the one I was boarding when I passed out, so I know where I am, and I haven’t been out long. Or have I? It’s a two-day flight back to Girard Moon Base, so….