Woven

by Elle E. Ire

  “Right. I never answered you. Yes, do it. Please.” She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can’t believe I’m a security chief violating station security, but desperate times and all that shit.” For a long moment she appraises me. I’m about to start squirming under her scrutiny when she speaks again. “Good to see you looking so well, if a little ragged around the edges. Scuttlebutt said you’d suffered some serious injuries on that last mission of yours.”

  I shrug it off, not wanting to rehash it. “I’m fine.”

  Someone raps on the wall outside our concealing curtain, and for a second I wonder if VC1’s tampering has been noticed. Then a sultry female voice says, “I have your drink order. May I come in?”

  Sanderson gives her the okay, and the sexy blond sets two coasters and frosted mugs of ale in front of us, then departs. I take a long sip of mine, then another, appreciating the chocolate and coffee accents of the porter. It’s exactly what I would have ordered if my companion hadn’t beaten me to it.

  Do you wish for the alcohol to have an effect? VC1 asks. She’s found a workaround for my initial programming that used to prevent me from ever becoming intoxicated. She’ll never allow me to get stinking drunk, but it’s nice that I can feel a buzz once in a while. Still, considering the seriousness of the apparent situation, I’d better stay sober.

  Not right now. Maybe when we’re done here.

  Sanderson chugs a third of her lager and sets her mug down with a soft thunk. Guess she doesn’t share my concerns. Or perhaps she has too many different things to be concerned about. I study her face with more intent. Dark circles and bloodshot eyes. She’s not sleeping.

  I gesture at the beer in my hand. “You know me a little too well for someone I’m not dating,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

  “I may need to know you better than that if you’re going to help me.”

  That sobers me fast enough. “Okay, spill it, Helen,” I say, invoking the power of first names. “And I don’t mean the beer. That would be a shameful waste. What do you need from me that’s so secret I’m risking Kelly’s wrath to meet you in a sex club without her?”

  “Oh, like Kelly would have come here even if you invited her along.”

  I give her a grin, but I’m not so sure she’s right. Since the makeshift vibrator incident during our last mission, Kelly’s been hinting that she’d like to experiment more as soon as I’m fully recovered. She even tossed out the Purple Leaf as a possible date night destination, much to my surprise. I won’t say I’m opposed to her finding her wild side. My newly recovered memories tell me I have a crazy one of my own. My worry is that she’s doing this because she thinks it’s what I want, that she’s worried about competing with my past sexual partners. But that’s a problem for another day.

  Helen retrieves a messenger bag from beneath the table and pulls an old-fashioned file folder from its depths. I’m reminded that she has a fondness for things old-school, like her Sherlock Holmes-ian office. Before I can tease her about it, she spreads a set of glossy photographs across the table, careful to avoid the condensation pooling around our mugs.

  I don’t need to see details to recognize dead bodies—torn flesh, bloodstains; they practically jump from the half-dozen images. “Fuck,” I breathe, finding no more appropriate term. I take a longer pull on my beer. “That’s a lot of victims.”

  “Six in the past two weeks. And we can’t catch their murderer. We don’t even have a lead. That’s not the worst of it. Look closer.”

  I don’t want to. I have enough nightmares. But Sanderson is a friend, and I allow myself so few. I lean in.

  And recoil, slamming my spine against the back of the couch.

  “I know,” Sanderson says, shaking her head. “It’s uncanny. And it’s why I wanted you alone to see this.”

  Kelly. Every one of the victims looks like Kelly. Not identical, but blond, green eyes, delicate features, at least the ones they have left. Worse than the resemblance, they’re all disfigured like the blond in the tunnels of the slaver hideout, faces flayed open on one side to expose the bone beneath.

  The similarity to my own recent injury hits like a punch to the gut, and my beer threatens to make a reappearance. But even that isn’t the worst part of all this.

  I’ve seen these girls before. I’ve seen them in my nightmares, though one at a time so I didn’t make the Kelly connection, but I’ve seen them. I’ve seen them, because in my dreams, I’m the one killing them.

  Those nightmares didn’t just feel real. They are real. At least the victims. What about their killer?

  Without another word I stand and bolt from the table, through the drawn curtains, nearly ripping them down from the ceiling, and race for the closest restroom.

  Chapter 30: Kelly—Connections

  Vick is channeling.

  I DROP my spoon on the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth covering our kitchen table. It’s another example of what Vick terms “nesting,” and she’s right, but I don’t have time to consider it now. I’m too busy running for the bathroom on the far side of my bedroom. I make it with seconds to spare before I vomit the broccoli and cheddar soup I’d made for dinner into the toilet bowl.

  Panting, I prop myself against the wall and let the chill of the white tile chase the remainder of the nausea away. I stand on shaky limbs, run some cold water in the sink, rinse my mouth out, and splash some in my face. Then I stare at myself in the mirror.

  That wasn’t the soup. That wasn’t even me.

  It was Vick.

  My comm is in the bedroom, and walking proves more difficult than I expected. Whatever set her off, it isn’t over. My stomach roils with each movement, but without the element of surprise, and recognizing the source, I’m in control now. I hesitate to raise my walls against our connection, but I need to be clearheaded, not distracted by nausea and whatever else might be behind it if I’m going to help.

  I set the blocks in place, picturing solid steel doors closing her out a bit at time, then leaving a small gap between them. Cutting her off entirely would defeat my purpose as her emotional support partner and the woman who loves her. I pick up my comm from the bedside table, tap in her code, and wait.

  It buzzes multiple times, and I’m thinking she won’t answer and I might have to override and barge in when there’s a soft click and her hoarse voice says, “I’m fine, Kel.”

  I roll my eyes, even if she can’t see it. She hasn’t activated visuals, so either there aren’t any cameras VC1 can commandeer in her current location, or she doesn’t want me to know how bad off she looks. I suspect the latter.

  “I’m not,” I return, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “I just threw up perfectly delicious broccoli and cheddar soup that I made, and I’ll probably end up throwing the rest out because of the association.”

  Vick groans. “Geez, Kel, don’t talk about food. I hate broccoli to begin with.” She’s trying to lighten the situation, but I can hear the truth beneath her words. She’s still not well.

  Reaching with my empathic sense through the opening in my walls, I seek out the aura of the blue line that connects us. It’s faded, so she must be on the civilian side of Girard Moon Base, but I can follow it if necessary. “Talk to me or I come find you,” I warn. I don’t like forcing her hand. Vick needs to believe she has free will and independence even with the way the Storm limits both. But a reaction so intense that it reached me this far away is one I have to look into.

  Vick sighs, a long, weary sigh that belies things kept hidden from me for some time. She’s been struggling with her recovery and what she saw in the surgery mirrors, but this is something more.

  I sigh right back at her. “I thought we were past secrets,” I say, keeping my voice calm and soft.

  There’s a long pause, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. I cover my mouth to stifle an inappropriate snort of amusement. With VC1, Vick sort of does have wheels turning in her head. But she won’t appreciate me finding her
decision-making process funny.

  “We are,” she says at last. “I’m in the restroom at the Purple Leaf. Probably won’t be by the time you get here. At least I hope not. Check the alcoves in the rear first. I’m with Helen Sanderson. Don’t ask. I’ll explain what I can when you arrive. It’s her shitshow.”

  “Wait. Really?”

  “Really what? That I’m in the sex club? Look, I’m sorry. It was Sanderson’s idea, and—”

  “No,” I say, interrupting her apology. “I mean, you’re really going to clue me in? I won’t have to drag it out of you?”

  Silence. Then, “Not this time. You need to know what’s happening. Your life might depend on it.”

  I swallow hard. “Ten minutes,” I tell her, then cut the connection.

  I make it there in seven, my heart pounding from the jog across the base. I’m out of breath when the bouncer at the door asks if I’m carrying any weapons, so I shake my head. He passes a scanner wand over me anyway, then waves me through the entrance. A few uniformed men and a couple of women nod and smile as I pass. One points to her drink and raises a questioning eyebrow, offering to buy me one, but I politely thank her and move on.

  The blue line between me and Vick is clear and bright, guiding me straight to the centermost secluded alcove in the back, though the raised female voice coming from within would have directed me just as well.

  “—be here any minute. I can’t believe you told her to come. This is all classified information. She’s going to freak out when she sees this. I don’t need more people capable of inciting panic. What do you intend to tell her?” Officer Sanderson. Helen. Not happy. I like her well enough, and I’m glad Vick has a buddy to do… buddy things with: watch games, drink beer, talk weapons. Lyle and Alex are great, and sometimes Vick hangs with them too, or all three, but it feels like in Sanderson, Vick has found a kindred spirit. I’m happy for it.

  But Sanderson also has an annoying tendency to view me as fragile, naïve, and innocent, and it plays up Vick’s inclination to do the same. Vick’s grown a lot toward treating me like the professional I am and remembering I’m not so breakable anymore, and the fact that she’s bringing me in on this is testament to that, but when those two are together….

  I hover outside the curtain, waiting for Vick’s response.

  Something thuds hard against a surface, maybe a mug on the table? Then Vick’s voice. “I’m going to tell her everything you told me and maybe more than that. I can’t make you share the photos. They’re your property. But I’d like you to. I’m going to give her all the information and hope that forewarning will help keep her safe.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I damn well can and I will. Unlike my bosses, you can’t shut me up with a code. Look, Helen, this isn’t what you bargained for when you brought me in, and I’m sorry. I still intend to help you. But these images change everything. I’m telling Kelly because she’s my friend, my partner, and more than all that, I love her, and I’m not keeping dangerous secrets from the woman I love.”

  My entire body warms with that statement. I reach for the edge of the curtain.

  “I just hope she can keep a secret,” Sanderson mutters as I pull it aside.

  “I can,” I tell them both, noting the slight grin on Vick’s pale face. There’s a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, and I’m wondering how long she knew I was listening.

  Probably the entire time, given her enhanced hearing and VC1’s penchant for tracking everyone and everything in her vicinity. Knowing that doesn’t lessen the impact of Vick’s words. I get the distinct impression she said them more to stop Sanderson’s arguing than to earn my favor.

  I slide onto the couch next to Vick, taking her hand in mine and resting both on her thigh. Her entire body relaxes into the seat. She’s stressed. Very stressed. I’m glad my presence helps, but my worry ratchets up a notch. “Okay,” I say, looking from Sanderson to the woman I trust with my life and my heart. “What’s going on?”

  Chapter 31: Vick—Revelations

  I am out of control.

  SANDERSON AND I tell Kelly what’s going on. Helen only shows her one printed image, the one most hidden in shadow so the mangled facial features aren’t as discernible, but it’s enough to make the blood drain from Kelly’s face, even more so when we explain that all the victims look like her.

  My hand trembles when I pass the photo over to Sanderson. Kelly raises a questioning eyebrow at me, but I give a slight shake of my head and she drops it. She knows there’s more I’m not saying. She also realizes I don’t want to say it in front of the security officer. There may not be any true telepaths, but we can read each other without the benefit of psychic abilities.

  I glance down to where her hand still rests on my thigh. Or maybe she’s picking up my “not now” vibes through our physical contact. Either way, I’m relieved she got the message.

  “Why?” Kelly asks for the third time. “Why would anyone be targeting women who look like me? Could it be a warning of some kind?” She shakes her head. “It has to be a coincidence, right?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence,” I remind her.

  “As for who, that’s exactly why I brought Corren in.” Sanderson takes a swig from her second beer. We’re all drinking now, though VC1’s still burning most of mine off. This is not something any of us can handle completely sober.

  It also occurs to me to wonder at VC1’s sudden silence, her complete lack of commentary on this situation. Maybe she’s honoring my request to wait for me to ask first.

  Maybe she knows more than she’s been permitted to share.

  Kelly sips at her frou-frou frozen concoction, complete with a little pink umbrella to match the mixture inside the glass. “You don’t have any leads?”

  “None. But before you got here, and before Corren’s unscheduled pit stop….” She pauses, turning from Kelly to me. “Never guessed you to be squeamish.” She’s not criticizing. She’s barely even teasing. It’s more a statement of fact.

  Still, I blush, covering it behind my frosted mug. I don’t have a weak stomach. Not with everything I’ve seen and done. But having my night terrors brought to life, or more accurately death, did a number on me. No way Sanderson’s going to let me forget that anytime soon, but I have no intention of sharing the real reason with her. Kelly gently squeezes my thigh, offering comfort and support. She’s piecing together what she’s sensing from me, where the triggers are. I wish she weren’t quite so perceptive.

  “The dead girls look like me. Of course they made her squeamish. Under the same circumstances, you would have been too.”

  Kelly’s defending my kick-ass rep. It’s cute.

  Sanderson waves the comment away. “Whatever. As I was saying, before you joined us, Corren made a comment about putting the security cameras in here on a continuous loop. I’m wondering if that’s how the killer has managed to avoid being seen. All the attacks have taken place overnight, between 8:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. in secluded areas: private workspaces, unfrequented corridors, bathrooms, maintenance passages. All of the locations had cameras, public or individually owned. I’ve looked at all the feeds. Nothing. So I’m thinking some kind of loop making everyone think all is well and—”

  “Isn’t that kind of obvious? How else could they have done it?” Kelly asks. She’s picked up a lot in her years with the Storm.

  Sanderson shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, I wonder if the killer set up the video loop by the same method that Vick sets one up.” She gives me a meaningful look. “What we can’t figure out is how the murderer got access. There have been no reports of break-ins to our security panels, no ‘new guys’ in maintenance uniforms wandering about making ‘adjustments’ to the circuitry, nothing to suggest human tampering. So, what if it wasn’t human?” Sanderson freezes, realizing her verbal slip the second it leaves her mouth, but she can’t take it back. “Shit, Corren, I’m sorry. I—”

  Great. One of my only friends is suggestin
g the murderer isn’t human and comparing them to me. Because I’m not human, either. I close my eyes, fighting down the anger and losing. My hands clench into fists. It’s irrational. I’m not entirely human and I live with that knowledge every day. But I thought the people around me had finally accepted me as one of them.

  “Vick.” Sanderson’s voice is soft. “Come on, look at me. I didn’t intend it that way, but I’m a security chief, not a public speaker. I meant, what if the person, the human being, even if it’s a twisted one, has a device like yours. Something that can loop the camera feeds wirelessly, without direct access. That’s what I meant. Really. I’ve always disagreed with the people who called you a machine, even when we first met.”

  “Sure. That’s what you meant,” I growl. I push myself up from the couch. The room rocks a little. Maybe VC1 allowed more alcohol into my system than I thought she did.

  An unwelcome thought occurs. Maybe she’s letting me be distracted by inebriation from thinking about what she really knows. Is anybody except Kelly on my side here?

  “Screw this,” I say. “You don’t need my help. You’ve got it all figured out. Go input your data into some other computer and let it tell you your next move.”

  “Vick—” Sanderson half rises, catches my glare, and sinks back onto the couch, hands raised palms out in surrender. I don’t know if I would have punched her if she’d stood all the way, but it’s a definite possibility.

  “Hey,” Kelly says, standing beside me. She rests a hand on my shoulder. It’s everything I can do not to jerk away from her touch.

  Part of me realizes I’m not reacting logically, that something is off. Hell, why should I be upset that my friends think I’m a robot when I keep telling everyone that myself? But I can’t stop the rage coursing through me, burning me from the inside out like I’ve blown a fucking fuse.