Woven

by Elle E. Ire

  “Clothes can be changed. Hair can be dyed back and restraightened. You had to do something to disguise yourself. You’re a little too well-known as a merc.”

  Yeah, VC1, aka Vick Corren, is becoming a name to fear, according to the Storm’s intel. And my picture has been circulating through some of the darker networks. Hence, the clothing choices and auburn, slightly curled long hair.

  I can’t cut it. I don’t think even Kelly knows the extent of that aspect of my manufactured appearance. Either that, or she’s caught that detail in my file and doesn’t ever mention it. My hair is a synthetic construct, since much of my skull is metal. Even though I’m a clone, the scientists and medical personnel had to make room for my implants, which meant removing a large section of my skull and more than half the brain within it.

  The irony is not lost on me. My clone would have had a normal brain, duplicating my genetics. But to transfer my personality, my knowledge and memories to it, the clone had to have implants. To have implants, they had to damage me in exactly the same way the bullets in the airlock had. To live, I had to become a machine again. I’m told it’s much more precise and neater than the damage caused in my airlock accident, but I refuse to look at the scans.

  I have enough nightmares, thank you very fucking much.

  However, that means everything that was built into me before the cloning is still built in. Including the hair. It takes dye and curl easily, which is convenient, but it doesn’t grow. If its length is shortened and I should change my mind and want it back at some point, well, I would have to go in for a pain-in-the-ass procedure to replace it to make it look… natural and have it stand up to a DNA scan. I have to do that often enough anyway due to damage on missions and such. I’m not going to ask for it.

  Add to all this a set of aqua-colored contact lenses over my mechanical eyes, and, well, “I feel like I’m cheating.”

  Kelly blinks. “I’m sorry?”

  “Cheating. Not playing fair. It’s bad enough that I’m pretending to be their business associates, distant relatives, friends, but I don’t even look like me. In my head, I’m not facing them as VC1 or even Vick Corren, which is already hiding my skill set—”

  VC1 lets out an amused snort.

  “—instead I’m presenting myself as a nonthreat. It gives them no reason to suspect, to begin to defend themselves. If they could put up some kind of fight, I’d probably still win, but at least then—”

  “It would be self-defense.”

  I nod, the fucking curls bouncing against my cheeks. “Yes, and it wouldn’t be so damn… easy. I’m winning. I’m cheating to do it, and that fucks with my head.” I turn hopeless eyes to her, the burning in them threatening to become something much more embarrassing. I blink it away. “Does that make any sense?”

  Through our bond, through our physical contact, I read her surprise at my admission. It’s growth of a sort, being able to admit weakness out loud, or shame, or guilt. She’d know it, feel it anyway, but to say the words, that’s a rarity for me.

  Standing, she climbs into my lap and wraps her arms around my neck, resting her head on my shoulder. Her fingers find my hand again, toying with the ring she gave me, a smooth black titanium band inset with three equally flat bright blue gemstones. Smooth and flat so as not to catch on anything when I fight. Blue because she’s determined that I do, in fact, have a favorite color despite my denials of caring about aesthetics. She knows me better than I know myself.

  I’m glad, now, that Lyle and Alex fled. It allows me to be affectionate with her without the rise of discomfort that a public display would cause.

  “It’s not cheating,” she whispers, her breath tickling my neck. “It’s an attempt to keep you safe. Anything that protects you is something I’ll support. And as for easy… well, it might be easy for you, but it isn’t easy on you. It bothers you, and it should. When it stops, when it becomes as simple for you to forget as to commit, then you should worry, about your sanity and your soul.”

  Except that I never forget anything. Not without it being erased from VC1’s memory, and I have forbidden her and the doctors back on Girard Base from doing that. With the exception of Rodwell’s rape, I resent any memory taken from me, even the bad ones. If I am going to do immoral things, then I should suffer. At least for as long as any normal person would. That’s when the scales of my self-measured justice become unbalanced and cruel.

  Kelly’s reminder that I am suffering and not just strolling through my life without care does help. I’m not some kind of monster, at least not yet. That doesn’t solve my other problem with having her along on this mission.

  Kelly sighs. “There’s more,” she says, seeing through me. “What else?”

  I pull my hands from hers, raising them in frustration. “Isn’t it obvious? Of all the missions to send you on, it had to be the one where I’m posing as a slave buyer. And worse, you as my assistant. My slave assistant.” With everything that title implies.

  “It’s not like we’ll be giving public demonstrations or anything.”

  I close my eyes. Maybe, maybe not. My research says things can get out of hand very quickly in this sort of environment and make the Purple Leaf sex club back on Girard Moon Base look like a toddlers’ playground.

  My team will enter the slavers’ base of operations under the guise of being buyers at an imminent auction, Alex and Lyle posing as our bodyguards in this charade. The goal? To map out the installation via VC1’s technology, then send the schematics to U Ops’ strike forces holding position just out of scanner range. They will extract us, or we’ll extract ourselves. Then they launch an attack, wiping out shield generators, weapons centers, and the leaders’ quarters while hopefully avoiding areas where the slaves are held. Once the base is taken, they free the slaves and obtain data revealing where the operation’s other bases are located so they can deal with them later.

  It’s a multiplanetary initiative, our fees paid by a cooperative of governments who’ve lost citizens to the slavers but have been unable (or unwilling) to annihilate them themselves.

  “If I’m going to maintain our cover,” I say, the muscles in my jaw clenching, “I will have to do whatever they expect of their buyers. I’ll stall and avoid as much as I can, but in the end, I’ll have to do things I don’t want to.”

  In other words, I’m programmed, no, brainwashed as Kelly insists because programming is too inhuman, to not let this mission fail if it’s in my power to prevent it.

  “One more good reason to have me here,” she says. “I can run interference for you, make up excuses for why you aren’t participating in all the ‘fun.’ I’m not going to let them force you into a situation you can’t live with.”

  I’m still not thrilled with her presence, but I shoot her a grateful look.

  “And the smaller ones we can’t avoid?” she continues. “I know it won’t really be you. It will be Valeria Court.” Kel grins at the ridiculous alias, but U Ops suggested that having a name vaguely similar to my own would make it easier to remember. The manufactured persona with complete and impressively trackable records is a slave keeper/buyer from the opposite edge of the outer rim worlds who has traveled across the known universe hoping to purchase something more “exotic.”

  Gah! Someone, not something. I’m already beginning to think like a fucking slaver.

  Kelly will keep her own first name and a last name of Laroe, since her real surname, LaSalle, would turn up her diplomat mother in a background check.

  She reaches out to caress my cheek, fingertips trailing along my jawline. “Vick Corren, however, is unwaveringly faithful.” Her lips find mine, and I allow my mind to forget my concerns for a few pleasurable moments. They don’t last.

  Unwaveringly faithful. Yes. But to whom? Kelly or the Storm? No matter what I want, I know which one will always force itself to the forefront. I hope our relationship can withstand it.

  Chapter 4: Kelly—Persona

  Vick is…. Valeria.

 
WHILE VICK and I are kissing, Alex chooses that moment to open the hatch and pop his head into the cockpit. I feel his embarrassment before I turn, confirming it with the red flush crawling from the neckline of his black T-shirt to his forehead.

  “Um, sorry, I just wanted….” He breaks off, pointing at a thermocan of Amp-Ade in the copilot seat drink holder.

  Vick looks from him to the can and back again, her own flush and the faint yellow aura around her revealing her own discomfort with the interruption. She reaches across, takes the can, seals it, and hurls it at the doorway, catching him square in the chest with it.

  “Oof! Hey!” His offense is fake, his pained smile apologetic.

  “Next time, chime or knock first.” Vick’s annoyance is not fake.

  I rest a hand on her shoulder. She calms under my touch. Lyle appears behind Alex. “Final approach, folks. Remove anything out of character for a slave-buying team and let’s do this thing so we can go home.”

  Vick stands, leaving VC1 managing the piloting. We give each other the once-over while Alex and Lyle do the same. Her gaze lingers on my left hand. I cover my ring with my right palm. “No.”

  She smiles, but there’s only sadness in it. Shaking her head, Vick pries my fingers away, then slips the engagement ring from me. “A slave owner’s assistant engaged to that owner would be too hard a cover to sell, and you know it.” She takes off her own, the pair clinking together in her hand. There’s a lockbox on the flooring beside the pilot’s chair. It takes her a moment to uncode it, place the rings inside with great care, and seal it again. Alex and Lyle slip quietly out the hatch.

  “Will that be enough? What if they break into the ship?”

  She shakes her head again. “They won’t. It would be an extreme breach of etiquette.”

  My brow furrows. “Criminals have etiquette?”

  Vick huffs an amused laugh. “The organized ones do. Always wanting people to think better of them while they do the worst. We’re guests here. Overriding our ship security, then the cockpit hatch, and then the lockbox would be unforgiveable and send the wrong message to all the other buyers. No one would do business with him, regardless of what he found. He won’t risk it with us or anyone else.” She pauses, staring at the box. The aura around her shifts from light to dark. “When this is over, I want to finalize things between us. As much as we’re able. A quiet ceremony. Friends. Family. Even if it won’t be—” Her voice catches.

  I wrap my arms around her, holding her to me from behind. She’s trembling.

  “—real or legal,” Vick finishes.

  Every ounce of love I have for her I project through our bond. It returns to me a hundredfold. “It may never be legal,” I tell her, “but it will always be real to us. Always.”

  “Incoming transmission,” VC1’s monotone interrupts through the cabin speakers. “A Mr. Jacks requesting our identification packet. Sending now.”

  The shuttle’s forward viewscreen shifts to show our vessel approaching a scattering of prefab buildings on the small moon’s surface, enclosed duraglass walkways connecting them to one another, their squared-off edges blurred by a protective shield dome encasing them all. Tractor beams pierce the darkness around the installation, locking on to our vessel and guiding us toward a widening opening in the shield. The largest building, with massive steel doors, gapes open, ready to swallow our entire shuttle whole.

  Vick sighs. “Go ahead and cut the engines,” she tells VC1.

  The almost subliminal rumble beneath our feet subsides.

  “Well, we’re in it now. They’ve got full control,” she says, sinking back into the pilot’s chair.

  “Jacks is… requesting… visual communication with ‘Madame’ Court.” No monotone this time. VC1 is amused.

  Vick snorts and leans toward the visual pickups and the smaller screen built into the forward console. “Put him through.”

  I blink. The warmth has vanished from her voice. It’s all hard edges and complete control. Her expression settles into sharp lines of disinterest and displeasure. I place myself at her right shoulder, deferential and ready to act upon any request she might have of me.

  A face resolves itself on the screen, depicting a man who’s seen more than a few hard knocks and survived them with defiance, cruelty, and aggression. Straight, neatly trimmed brown hair, lightly lined features for someone well into the second half of his lifespan, but with a jagged scar running vertically down the right cheek and forcing one of his piercing brown eyes into a perpetual squint. His lips curve into what he probably thinks is a smile, but it comes off more like a sneer that seems to say, “I’ve got you exactly where I want you.”

  “Ah, Madame Court. Or is it Mistress Court?” he asks with a wink of his good eye.

  “Either suits me, depending on my mood, which, at the moment, is shit. It’s been a long trip, Jacks. My staff and I are eager to settle in. What’s this about?”

  Jacks stiffens, pulling back from the screen as if affronted. Or afraid. A smile threatens, and I smooth my features. In or out of character, Vick has that effect on people.

  He frowns. “Your reputation precedes you, and you’re living up to it.”

  “Then you know I’m here for business, not to play name games. Are you letting us land or not? There are other places where I can shop for what I’m after.” Vick folds her arms across her chest.

  “No need for that.” Jacks waves an apologetic hand at the screen. “But hopefully you and your staff—” He nods to me at Vick’s shoulder. I suppress a shudder. “—will have time for both business and pleasure. My auctions are events, not quick displays of flesh on a block. We do things differently on this side of the rim. Consider it more of a festival than a shopping trip. Tonight, after you’re settled, you’ll be my guests at a dinner in the buyers’ honor, something to show how much I value my clientele. And I have some new merchandise that bears testing out on the right audience.”

  “I’m not interested in being your lab rat, Jacks,” Vick snaps.

  He ignores her. “Land your vessel in the open hangar. When you get the green light, proceed to disembark. An escort will meet you there and show you to your quarters. Jacks out.”

  The screen darkens. I let out a long sigh, but Vick remains ramrod straight in the pilot’s chair. Tension radiates off her in waves.

  The tractor beams pull us into the hangar and settle our shuttle on a marked-off landing pad not far from several other opulently appointed (and some garishly decorated) craft. The gigantic doors seal shut with a resounding bass clang of thick metal on metal. After a few more moments, indicators on the control console switch from red to green, informing us that the bay is pressurized and contains gravity and breathable atmosphere.

  Across the bay, a much smaller hatch opens and a team of eight armed guards in forest green uniforms, our escort I assume, strides toward our ship, outnumbering us two to one. “Not unexpected,” Vick mutters. Her mouth forms a grim line. At least their weapons aren’t drawn, though their hands hover near their holsters.

  “There is something wrong here,” comes VC1’s voice from the speakers, her even tone revealing none of the concern her words convey. “Now that we are within their shields, I can take much more accurate readings of this facility. The power consumption, not to mention the number of biological life signs I am detecting, are far insufficient for the population this installation is reported to contain. In fact, the buildings themselves appear to be nothing more than mere facades. Beyond the exterior walls there are no designated rooms, no furnishings. Some appear to be storage facilities manned by a skeleton crew, but most stand empty.”

  Vick and I exchange a look. The escort guards have arrived at our boarding ramp, which lowers with a distant rumble of machinery and a hiss of hydraulics.

  “What does it mean?” I ask.

  “It means our intel is fucked.” She pauses, considering. “Can’t change course now. Can’t call in the reinforcements until we’re certain the slaves aren’t here so
mewhere and we attempt to set them free or they’ll die in the crossfire. Let’s get out there and figure out just how fubar this is.” The auburn curls and blue eyes do nothing to soften Vick’s growl of frustration as she heaves herself from the chair. Her hands pat down several places on her clothing concealing hidden weaponry. We can only hope the signal scramblers sewn into the lining of her suit will do their job better than U Ops’ intelligence officers.

  She slams her palm against the hatch lock and exits the cockpit before it slides fully open. I trail behind her. What have we gotten ourselves into this time?

  Chapter 5: Vick—Under Not Over

  I am confused.

  LYLE AND Alex meet us at the top of the ramp dressed in matching black boots, cargo pants, and T-shirts. They wear their weapons openly, a back holster between the shoulder blades for Lyle, a much more accessible thigh holster for Alex, their pants pockets bulging with other lethal and nonlethal accessories. They’ll have other items hidden on their persons as well, if they’re doing their jobs the way the Fighting Storm taught them.

  Our luggage already rests at the ramp’s base, deposited there while Kelly and I sorted things in the cockpit, I suppose. One of Jacks’s guards signals for an autocarrier, and the flatbed robotic device leaves its charging station against one wall and trundles over. The guard loads the bags onto it, taking care with each item, so we’re still falling into the “guest” category. Our covers haven’t been compromised, no matter what other weirdness is going on.

  A second green-garbed guard, this one female, sends an inquisitive glance up at us, then flashes a smile past me at Kelly. It vanishes at my hard look.