Woven

by Elle E. Ire

  I sputter, the tears flowing freely now. I could ask VC1 to stop them, but I don’t bother. “God, I love you,” I say, using my healed hands to pull her closer.

  “Like no machine ever could,” she agrees. She taps her engagement ring against the one on my finger. She must have retrieved them from the shuttle’s safe and replaced mine on my hand once I got out of stasis. “When they’re done with you, and you’re up to it,” she continues, “we’re sealing this deal. I’m not waiting for anything else to take you from me. When Medical lets you go, we’re getting married, legal or not.”

  Chapter 28: Kelly—Monsters

  Vick is not herself.

  THE WEDDING ceremony I’m hoping for has to wait longer than I expect. Obstacle one is Vick herself. Not that she’s opposed to the idea; she proposed to me, after all, but she’s been stalling, her self-esteem issues and the fact that it can’t be legal getting in the way. My drive surprises her, and I sense she still feels she’s unworthy, but my insistence is convincing her little by little. However, she isn’t recovering from her injuries at her usual superhuman rate.

  Oh, the physical ones and the cosmetic damage have all but disappeared. Thin lines serve as reminders of where the surgeons put her back together, but in a few days, even those will vanish. She looks like the Vick I fell in love with. Her doctors even replaced her auburn curls with her normal long, dark hair. To see her, one would think she’s healed. But I can see inside as well as out, and her psychological scars aren’t fading at all.

  Every time I think she’s almost overcome one trauma, another rises up to take its place. Airlocks barely faze her anymore. She can make love to me without flashbacks of her violent rape.

  Now it’s reflective surfaces. I notice it first in her room in the medcenter, the day the doctors tell her she’s being released. Vick dresses by feel, without the aid of a mirror. In fact, she stands facing away from the one hanging by the bathroom door. She pulls her brush from the duffel of toiletries and clothes I brought her and yanks it through her hair in a handful of quick movements, all the while staring into the corner, not at the mirror, and not meeting my gaze.

  “Your part’s a bit crooked,” I say, laying a hand on her arm to slow her down before she rips out all the new strands. Taking the brush, I fix it for her. When it’s a perfect line down the center of her head, I tuck the brush away in the bag. “You okay?”

  I know she’s not. To my sight, she’s shrouded in an aura of green discomfort.

  “Fine,” she grinds out, a bald-faced lie. She knows I know. “I just want out of here.”

  Fair enough. Vick and medical facilities have a long and painful history with each other. Some terrifying things have been done to her under the pretense of health improvement. But this is more than that.

  The Storm restricts her to light duty for her first two weeks back, Vick grumbling about it the entire time. They’ve got her going over mission reports, giving lectures to new recruits, and conducting training sessions—anything not overly strenuous or emotionally taxing. It’s a logical decision, a good plan for most soldiers working their way up to active status, but not for Vick. Her psyche requires constant stimulus as a distraction. Otherwise, she dwells. And when she dwells, the disquiet creeps in.

  I worry it’s more than the metal making up her skull. She’s insisting on sleeping apart in our two-bedroom quarters, though we haven’t done that in months. Her excuse? She’s restless at night and worried she’ll keep me awake.

  Translate “restless” to “constant nightmares.”

  I feel them. Her suppressors don’t work as well when she’s asleep. She’s keeping me awake regardless, but I don’t tell her that. She has enough guilt about what she puts me through already. I hide my exhaustion with makeup. Vick doesn’t use makeup. She doesn’t know how to hide the dark circles that ring her eyes. She’s lethargic and unfocused.

  “Will you talk to me?” Before she can disappear into her room for another torturous night, I take her hands and pull her down on the couch in the center of our living room. “It’s been a week. I want to respect your privacy, but I’m worried. The nightmares—”

  Her head drops. She stares down at her lap. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Dammit, Vick. Stop already. I’m not porcelain. You won’t break me.” Not like this, anyway. She’s come damn close before. I don’t mention those times. I wouldn’t trade them. “It’s not your fault. What is your fault is refusing to take steps toward recovery. The first one is telling me what is going on.”

  Vick shifts her position so she’s facing forward while I study her from the side. Her gaze darts from one corner of the room to another, flitting about but never settling, carefully avoiding my eyes. Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, like she wants to tell me something but can’t quite bring forth the words.

  Is she being blocked? The Storm can do that. One order from the right person and Vick can’t tell me anything they don’t want her to. I’m about to attempt some creative questioning when her mouth opens again.

  Finally, a whisper. “They’re so real.”

  “What are?” I don’t want to push too hard, but I need this information if I’m going to help her.

  “The dreams,” she says, then turns to me. I suck in a gasp at the bleak hopelessness in her eyes. Manufactured or not, they are expressive.

  “Tell me.”

  She takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I’m… doing horrible things, monstrous things. Kel, I’m hurting people, killing them. Not people who deserve it. Not like on assignments. These are people I don’t even know, that I’ve never seen before. Why? Why would I do that?”

  A chill passes through me. I force it away. “You aren’t.” I take her shoulders and pull her to me, holding her close. She’s shaking. Hard. “Vick, they’re dreams. You know they aren’t real.” We’ve come so far, and now it’s like we’ve lost years’ worth of progress over the past two weeks.

  “But that’s how they feel. Smell, sound, taste, touch, they have them all. Like when VC1 replays a memory for me, except these aren’t mine. And they are. I see myself doing these things. I don’t understand them, and I can’t stop them.”

  “When did these different dreams start?”

  “When we came back to Girard Moon Base,” she says, then stops. “No. I think… I think I had one that night I commed you and woke you up by accident, but I couldn’t remember it then. I wonder if I’ve had them even before that.”

  Wetness soaks into the fabric covering my shoulder. She’s crying. I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve seen Vick cry. Whatever this is, it’s cutting her deep.

  “And the aversion to mirrors?” I ask.

  Vick goes rigid. Damn. One problem at a time. I should know better.

  “What aversion?” She tugs herself free and wipes her eyes on the backs of her hands, then scoots away to lean against the armrest, but not fast enough. I already felt the lie.

  “You know what I mean. You haven’t willingly looked in a mirror since the slaver mission. You dress and do your hair by feel. You keep your eyes down. You avoid reflective surfaces.”

  She shakes her head, but I reach out and place my hands on either side of her face.

  “Vick, you’re healed. There’s nothing bad to see.” Maybe they’re connected, the dreams and this aversion. But no. She was having these new nightmares and asking me about her soul before we went after the slavers. What is this? And how do I help her get through it?

  Vick raises her hands to my wrists and pulls mine away. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? When I look at myself, I always see something bad, even before the toxic lake. It’s worse now, but the monster has been there since the airlock accident. The Storm hid it, but it’s always been there.”

  Chapter 29: Vick—Lookalikes

  I am protective.

  I’M HEADING out of our quarters to give yet another string of lectures on safe weapons protocols when my internal comm buzzes. VC1 shoots
me an image of Officer Sanderson. No. Helen Sanderson, head of civilian security on Girard Moon Base. The facsimile wears a concerned frown, and I wonder if my AI knows something I don’t.

  Kelly’s still asleep. As support personnel, she isn’t required to keep my hours, and I know my nightmares disturbed her last night, so I slip the rest of the way into the corridor, let the door slide shut behind me, and lean against the wall.

  Kelly. I’m disappointing her in a big way. So much psychological progress gone to shit. I broke off our talk last night to retreat into my bedroom, and we haven’t spoken since.

  Vick Corren. Mercenary hero. Girlfriend coward.

  The comm buzzes again. Go ahead and open the channel, I tell VC1.

  There’s a click, and I feel the connection open. I’ve asked Lyle and Alex. Regular humans don’t detect this sort of thing. They think it’s cool.

  I don’t.

  “Hey, Sanderson,” I subvocalize, forcing false energy into my tone. “What’s up? There a game this afternoon?” Good company, a couple of beers, and some Cirulean grass hockey at the promenade sports bar might be just the distraction I need.

  “No games, and I’m definitely not playing,” her voice comes back, somber and low. “We’ve got a situation on the civilian side. It’s got my guys baffled, and I could use your and your… assistant’s… take on it.”

  She doesn’t mean Kelly. Sometimes I wonder if she’s figured out VC1 is more than some advanced technology, that she has a mind of her own. Technically, I shouldn’t be working with any organization other than the Storm without the board’s permission, but I’m not programmed against it, and I owe her. Besides, I kind of like breaking the Storm’s rules when I’m able. It’s so rare that I can.

  I bring up my schedule on my heads-up display. “I’m free later this afternoon. Where should I meet you?”

  A pause. Then, “The Purple Leaf. It’s public enough, but they’ve got those secluded alcoves in the back. Meet me in the same one where we had our one and only sort of date. You remember which?” She stops and gives a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course you remember. And if you don’t, I’m sure VC1 does.”

  “Um, okay.” The Purple Leaf’s a sex club. I hung out there a lot before the airlock accident, had a lot of casual sexual encounters, did some crazy shit. I’m not that person anymore. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing I can discuss over the comm, even if your counterpart is scrambling it. Just meet me around four o’clock.” A pause. “And don’t bring Kelly.”

  I’m about to argue, but the connection drops.

  Don’t bring Kelly. Which probably also translates to “don’t tell Kelly.”

  Shit.

  I’m going to a sex club. Without my fiancée. I’m meeting another woman who also prefers women, and I’m not telling Kelly anything about it. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I’m in favor of that plan.

  An image of me digging my own grave appears on my internal display. Too close to home, I tell the AI, considering that I did exactly that on Elektra4 not that long ago. VC1 was in control, and I didn’t witness any of it, but I know it happened, and it still turns my stomach if I think about it too hard.

  Sorry. But you are taking actions that will undoubtedly cause problems between you and Kelly LaSalle.

  If she finds out about it, I send back.

  When has she ever not found out about any of your its?

  I sigh, pushing off from the corridor wall and hurrying toward Storm central and the class I’m supposed to already be in the progress of teaching. Sometimes I wish you were a little less of an AI, I admit. Your insights are too damn accurate.

  I will take that as a compliment.

  Needless to say, classes do not go well. I’m distracted by Sanderson’s upcoming clandestine meeting. The room I’m teaching in has one-way glass across the back—in other words, mirrors. So not only do I not want to look in that direction, the direction of my class of recruits, but I have the distinct impression that I’m under observation. Someone in the Storm hierarchy is keeping tabs on me and my recovery process.

  Can you confirm? I ask VC1 while demonstrating the proper way to load an XR-7 Safety Net with its blunted rounds. I don’t say what I’m asking her to confirm. I know she monitors my thoughts even if she’s gotten better about not acting upon them without being asked.

  You are indeed being observed.

  Great. I can’t imagine what they’re seeing is earning me points.

  We take a break for lunch, returning to the same room afterward. To make everything worse, there’s a power surge about two-thirds of the way through the second training session. The lights flicker, go out for a moment, and then flash back on. The brightness intensifies until the entire room of students is shielding their eyes. Some duck down in their seats, and I have a moment of realization, enough time to crouch behind the podium, before several of the fluorescent bar lights shatter, showering everyone with bits of glass. One arcs a visible jagged streak of electricity from the bulb to the floor, not far from my defensive position. I throw myself out of harm’s way, swallowing a shriek of terror, even though I know for a fact that it would have done no more than give me an uncomfortable shock.

  It looked like lightning, and that’s all my psyche could focus on.

  What the actual fuck?

  The lights steady. Everything returns to normal. But my hands tremble throughout the remainder of the lesson, so much so that I fumble a box of ammunition and have to chase the rubber-tipped rounds across the tile floor, gathering them up in clenched fists to avoid dropping them again. I wait for the recruits’ mocking laughter. It never comes.

  Even at my worst, I’m intimidating, my reputation enough to keep them in line. For now.

  After class I send Kelly a message that I’m meeting Sanderson for a beer and let her fill in the blanks as she will. Partial truths are easier to sell than outright lies, and I’m quite certain alcohol will be involved in whatever the security chief has going on with the civvies.

  The promenade dome is quiet when I arrive on that side of Girard Base. Too quiet. It’s midafternoon. Even if the day shifts haven’t gotten out yet, there should be more people around, tourists from the settled worlds, spouses of military personnel running errands, and the station school ends classes at 1500. A few teenage couples are necking on the benches at the central hub of the dome, but the usual echoing laughter and loud conversation are missing.

  Whatever Sanderson’s issue is, it’s big.

  I pause at the entrance to the Purple Leaf, handing over my Storm ID to the bouncer at the door, letting myself be scanned for weapons. He holds out a meaty palm, and I pass him my personal XR-7, grip first, then slip my matched set of knives from my boots and give him those as well. He in turn sets them on a counter in front of a window where an attractive blond woman tags each one and hands me a claim chit.

  Once he’s satisfied, he waves me through the archway into the gaudy interior. The holdout pistol in my back holster, the imitation leather lined with sensor scramblers, goes unnoticed beneath my black jacket. No way am I entering a potential danger zone unarmed, and I’m willing to bet most of the other mercs milling around the circular bar in the center of the establishment and lounging on the deep violet plush couches are equally prepared for trouble.

  Even here, the crowd is thin. Almost no civilians, only uniforms. A couple of waitresses clad in purple-leaf-covered bras and G-strings lean against the wall, chatting to each other. The manager, a tall, dark-skinned, elegant gentleman in a deep purple suit stands by the bar, arms crossed over his chest, surveying the two-thirds empty room.

  I give him a nod and head toward the back, VC1 supplying a reminder of which alcove I’m aiming for, even if there’s no way I’d forget. One of the gray-camo-clad women at the bar gives me the once-over when I pass her and offers me a drink, but I shake my head. I’m here to see what Sanderson needs, help if I can, and get the hell out.

 
When I turn toward the alcoves once more, Sanderson has the curtain to the farthest one pulled aside. She’s standing in the archway, watching my approach.

  “She’s hot,” Sanderson comments when I’m within earshot, nodding at the woman who flirted with me.

  “She’s all yours,” I return, feeling a blush suffuse my cheeks. “I’m taken.”

  That earns me a laugh, though her expression is sober. “Don’t I know it.” She beckons me into the private seating area, two overstuffed violet couches and a small round table between them the only furnishings. The curtain drops into place, giving us more privacy. Even so, I instruct VC1 to give the space a once-over for cameras and listening devices.

  All areas of this establishment are monitored with security cameras, though there are no microphones present, she informs me. No surprise. Sometimes the Leaf’s customers get rowdy. The bouncers need to know where things are heating up, and not in a good way.

  Thanks, I tell her, never wanting to take her services for granted. Turning to my human companion, I ask, “You want me to put the cameras in here on a loop?” A strange feeling passes through me when I make the offer. Like a touch of déjà vu, though I haven’t done that camera trick in a long time. Have I? I shake it off.

  Sanderson’s eyebrows rise almost to the hairline of her buzzcut. “That’s right. You can do that, can’t you?” She seats herself on one of the couches, expression going contemplative.

  I sit opposite her, my own eyebrows raised, waiting for a response and wondering what the hell is going on.