"Who, me?" Tom replied, trying for injured innocence and failing miserably. He swung up in the vehicle and disappeared out of sight, voice floating back. "Well guys, our leader and our late and laggard pilot are here, so as soon as the board shows, we can finally get this show on the road!"
11
Michelle eyed the armored vehicle with distinct disfavor. All promises aside about a better ride this time, the first challenge was going to be getting into the damn thing. Last time she'd been thrown in; this time, she was trying to figure out the handholds and footholds, when Blondie wrapped hands around her hips. "Twitch! Catch her!"
She remembered Twitch - he was the redhead who'd rolled into the baggage igloo. He appeared in the doorway, took a quick look, and caught her forearms, then hauled her in as Blondie boosted her up. "Terribly sorry…" She started to say, as she tried to get her footing. Twitch pulled her back, further inside and completely off balance, and she collapsed on him.
"Got her. Where do you want her?" He'd wrapped her in an awkward hug, and swung her down on a seat. "Shit, she's a tiny little thing. Weighs less than my combat load-out."
"I know. She's got attitude enough to keep up, but then you put an actual hand on her, and you realize it's all fluff and fury and raw determination." Blondie had come up on her heels, and was kneeling in the aisle now with one hand wrapped firmly around her ankle and the other pulling her pants leg up. "Good, the wrap's holding."
"I'm fine." She tried to pull her leg away, and got nowhere at all.
"Damn, that's a hell of a telltale on the wrap. Did she get shot?" Someone spoke behind her, and she couldn't place the voice.
"Cut, looked like." Blondie poked fingers through the hole in the cloth, the edges stiff with dried blood. "Remember, unlike us, she's not wearing armorcloth." He tugged her pants leg down, and stood up. "You think one of the board has spares small enough to fit her?" He looked around the interior, then stepped over her legs, taking the seat next to her against the wall.
"Aren't we supposed to be saving seats for the board?" Tom was standing by Twitch, looking out the door. She couldn't remember him moving, but she was having problems tracking through the exhaustion and the pain. "Who are finally, thank fuck, moving this way."
"You are. I'm going to make sure she doesn't try to stand up before we get there." He was pulling on her harness straps, and she shook her head, batting his hands away and buckling herself in.
"I'm right here. You don't have to talk over my head." She clicked in, and suffered him double-checking everything.
"I apologize. Michelle, will you please hold still a moment?" He was putting two fingers against her neck, checking her pulse rate.
She gave an irritated grunt, and grabbed his hand, wrist to wrist, pinging him with her full systems check status. "You could just damn well ask."
He stopped, and really looked at her. "I could. I should have, the first time. Bloody hell, woman, you need a nano suite and a regen unit. How are you still moving?" He held up one hand without breaking eye contact, making some sort of gesture.
"I'm fine. I just need to get somewhere safe, which isn't looking like it'll happen…" She stopped, and frowned at the familiar aid kit that plopped into her lap. "What? I'm not bleeding!"
"Your nerves are fried."
"Oh, that's just the last flight. It'll fix out in a week or two." She waved that off, and was surprised when her wrist was caught by another soldier. Tom was standing there, and pinged her for a systems health check. She rolled her eyes, and sent one to him, too. "Always does."
"Shit, man, she's toasty." Tom shook his head. "And she's still trying to walk out on us?"
"Yeah, I caught that." Blondie was tearing open a packet, and sticking the pad inside on her jugular. She felt the chemical teeth bite in, and then the area went curiously numb. "I'd say it's a miracle she survived this long."
She blinked at him, trying to think through the lassitude seeping into her veins, and making her head feel heavy, body sluggish, control slipping away from her along with the pain. "There are no miracles. Have to make my own luck."
"Ma'am, there are miracles all the time. You just have to know how to look. You've already been ours; looks like it's our turn." He squeezed her hand, then looked up at Tom. "Which nano pack would you recommend? I've never seen a nerve net like hers."
"I have; she's wired near identical to a jump pilot. Give her the purple one." A hand touched her forehead, brushing hair out of her face, and a thumb gently closed her eyes. "Wait about three minutes, and she'll be out cold, first."
"I didn't give her that big a dose!" Blondie sounded genuinely upset, and Michelle wanted to ask what the dosage was. It was too much effort to open her eyes, though, much less to speak. They continued talking over her anyway.
"The pads are calibrated to our general mass and metabolism. It won't OD her, but she's going to be out like a light for a few hours." Tom paused, and said gently, "It's all right, Michelle. You can let go; we've got the watch." He squeezed her hand - or possibly it was Blondie. She sighed, and relaxed into the seat, feeling boneless and warm for the first time in days. She wasn't going to be able to get away just yet anyway, and at least they were shooting in the right direction… Her thoughts grew hazy, and then slipped away.
12
She woke in a bed that didn't make sense; it was too comfortable and too large for a crash pad. The ceiling was done in nice, high-quality sunpaint that was hidden behind exposed beams, making it seem there were lights just out of sight. She blinked a few times, and turned over - or tried to turn over; the first attempt showed that the covers included a heavy duvet, and she was weaker, sleepier, and less coordinated than she'd thought.
She also didn't hurt, at all. That was confusing, more confusing than the local brightly colored seaside art on the walls, and the large blacked-out window. There was a note stuck on the window, but she couldn't read it from the bed. There was also a giant glass of water on the bedside table, next to an alarm clock showing three in the afternoon. She pinged her implants, confirming it was reading correctly for Nueva Terra local, June 18th. She'd lost an entire day. A neurosystems health check showed greens across the board, where previously she'd been in danger red and non-reporting black. Only her reserves were at high yellow, depleted. Whatever the nano pack they'd given her had been, it had fixed her right as rain, better than she'd been in years.
When she pushed the covers back and sat up, she was still shaky but not hurting, and the rug felt soft and warm under her bare toes, the room faintly cool against sweat-damp, wrinkled and stinking clothes. Michelle touched her neck, finding the pain patch still there. It peeled away easily enough, leaving slightly irritated skin behind as it had long since drained the last medication into her veins. Her jacket was hung over a chair nearby, boots next to it and a stack of loaner clothes neatly folded on the seat.
The water glass, she realized, had a note leaning against it. No, a packet of electrolytes, to mix in. She picked up the packet, noting the very plain type of a military issue, and shook her head. No matter where she was, the boys were still trying to take care of her. The first taste of citrus-flavoured water brought alive a clawing thirst; Michelle barely stopped for breath twice while sucking the giant glass down.
Stomach sloshing, she got up and found her balance was not quite right. It wasn't off, so much as her reaction times were too sluggish. Her body wanted to stabilize, but she kept sending the commands a little too late, too limited for the full range of available motion.
Carefully, hands out, she made her way over to the note on the window. It read, Do not open. Locked down against spyware drones. Well, that was clear enough. She was still in Nueva Terra, and the Fed was still trying to kill her. This time, though, she had allies. And clean clothes.
The three doors set into two walls of the room proved to be an empty closet, a bathroom with a second door to the hall, and a door directly to the hall. No one was in the hall either time she checked. Michelle took
the opportunity to lock both accesses, and then used the bathroom. It was fancy as the bedroom, but she relaxed at a tasteful note from housekeeping regarding towel use and multi-day stays. No matter how luxurious, a hotel was still a hotel, and familiar. A pile of plastic-wrapped items and bottles on the counter were clearly courtesy shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, toothbrush… the range of amenities and the luxury brand confirmed, like the mattress quality, that she was somewhere on the very high end. The washcloth and hand towel had been folded into a little origami creature, and she smiled, trying to figure out how it had been done before pulling it apart.
After a shower, she felt almost human. The combat wrap hadn't come off to gentle tugging or water and soap running over it, acting like it was welded to her leg. She could live with that; walking still produced a twinging pain, so it wasn't completely healed yet. As for the borrowed clothes, they were new, tags and stickers still on. She peeled and pulled those off, dressing in local fashion with tight leggings and loose shirt, tied up at the waist. She left her hair down, because the one thing she hadn't found in the bathroom was a hairbrush. Knowing military haircuts, it was entirely possible no one had one. Barefoot and feeling a little naked without the jacket, she headed out, keeping one hand on the wall for balance.
The hallway proved she was in a vacation house, not a standard hotel; it had stairs down to a living room, where a holocast was playing the news as background noise. As she stopped to look around the living room, a Pinelandian representative was warning the Federated States Parliament, "The countries of the Federation are watching your actions. Your treatment of Nueva Terra will determine our future with the Federation. This harsh and brutal response will only accelerate the flight of member states!"
The perky Fed-based newscaster, of course, immediately started running down the remarks and making light of "big threats from the smallest nations, who aren't upholding their budgetary share.” Michelle shook her head and continued on to the kitchen, where she could hear conversation from actual people, in Imperial.
Grunveld and Blondie were leaning on opposite sides of a kitchen island that looked like it could seat fifteen easily, half-drunk bottles of water in their hands. Grunveld was saying, "We were doing Night Hunter back in '38, over the Scatterlings and up the Spice Coast."
Blondie laughed. "Damn, and here I thought we were hot shit with the latest tech, when we were hauling it over the Dragon's Teeth Mountains in '45!" He looked up, seeing her, and braced on the counter, putting his water down while locking eyes with her. "Michelle. Good to see you up." He'd switched from Imperial to Trade, and his voice had gone soft and worried, even as Grunveld swung around to give her a similar once-over. "Why don't you pull up a chair?"
She tipped her head, studying the worried look on Blondie's face. Even Grunveld, though his face didn't give anything away, had tensed. "What's wrong? My crew? The board?"
Grunveld shook his head, and pointed at a chair next to him. "They're all right. You, on the other hand, look like a stiff wind would knock you over. Sit, girl!" The last he snapped, and she smiled at him, making her way a little unsteadily to join them.
"Hey it's been twenty-two and a half hours without coffee. Bet you'd look worse. Do you know which restaurants deliver here?" She slid into the chair, as Blondie pushed away from the counter and headed over to the chiller.
"I'll make food. What do you want?"
"Food? Protein is good." She thought about the electrolyte packet, and soldiers, and hastily amended parameters. "Protein shakes not so much."
Grunveld laughed, and Blondie pulled his head out of the chiller to grin at her. "Bacon and eggs. Can't go wrong with breakfast."
"That sounds heavenly. It's hard to beat bacon." She settled down, and looked curiously at Grunveld as he got up - but he was moving clear of Blondie's prep, and starting a fresh pot of coffee. "And breakfast is such a reliable meal. No matter what time zone you're in, or what local time is, there's usually some diner somewhere serving it."
Blondie nodded, and laid several strips of bacon across the pan. They sizzled, and her stomach growled in response, mouth watering. "How many eggs?"
"Three, if it's not too much trouble?"
"Three for the first round, check." He plucked all three out of the container with one hand, leaving her marveling that he could manage that.
"I don't think I could eat a second round." She propped her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in the palms of her hands.
"Not yet, maybe, but dinner's only a few hours away. We're having steaks and prawns on the barbie; they're marinating now." He flipped the bacon over without making a splattering mess everywhere, and she inhaled the aroma appreciatively.
She forced her attention away from the bacon before giving into the temptation to steal it directly out of the pan, and looked at Grunveld. "Is the board holing up here today? Or are they already done?"
"Hah! No, the rest of them decided to pull a double-shift, catch a few hours sleep, and pull another one today. You may have missed the latest news. The Feds are sending in their own team to take control of your plane, and you, if they find you, in order to publish their official version. So everyone else is crawling all over the plane to document every single inch of it, and get it all down before the evidence is destroyed."
That sent a shiver down her spine, and she immediately looked for the exits. But no, this was the safest spot in the city. "So, why aren't you in the hangar with the rest of them?"
"Because I'm in charge of human performance. All my best evidence is sitting right here in this house, watching the bacon like a nearleopard watching a lamb straying away from its mama." He looked at the pan, and back at her, and she laughed, holding up her hands.
"Guilty as charged." The smile faded, though, as she looked at him. "I already told you everything I know yesterday."
"Everything you felt was relevant, yes. If I hadn't already had Miller's report, though, I wouldn't have several critical details." He nodded at Blondie, who was paying strict attention to toasting the bread and scrambling the eggs in the pan. "So we're going to go over it again." The coffee maker gave its death rattle, and he pulled the carafe out, filling a mug for her as she bowed her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Here, have some coffee first."
"Thank you." She drank the steaming black coffee, trying to ward off the incipient headache. At least it was good coffee, good enough she didn’t mind drinking it black. "I must admit, I'm curious. How different were our reports?" That would let her know where to start.
Grunveld shook his head, letting her know he was wise to that, but Blondie spoke up. "I'm not a pilot, and I wasn't plugged into the system. Which, given the neural damage you sustained, seems like a damned good thing. Here, eat up." He slid the eggs onto buttered toast, put the bacon on top, and slapped the second piece of toast on top to make a breakfast sandwich too big to fit in her mouth. "Mine had a lot more 'the aircraft hinked left when it should be going straight. Pilot screamed, half the blinky lights turned red.'" He gave her a crooked smile.
She returned the smile, and picked up the steaming hot assembly. It wasn't fancy, but it suited her right down to the bottom of her stomach and soul. The eggs were creamy, bacon still chewy and only slightly crisp in Imperial undercooked style, and the bread crisp enough it almost cut into the corners of her mouth. Together, it was glorious. "Mmm. This is lovely, thank you!"
"Anytime." He smiled, turning off the burner and leaning against the island, watching her with that simple pleasure of a cook sharing food.
Finally, she slowed down enough to clear her mouth with more coffee, and took the opportunity to tease him. "Um, your timeline's off. The blinky lights turned red before the aircraft hinked left. The warning buzzers escalated to the neuro tinglers, which is why I screamed."
"Why the fuck… pardon me, ma'am, but neuro tinglers?" He frowned at them both. She dodged the question by picking up the sandwich again, and trying to squish it down small enough to take a large bite ou
t of the middle instead of nibbling off the edges.
"The design philosophy is that a pilot cannot ignore them, and will be forced to deal with the problem." Grunveld replied flatly, and refilled his own cup.
"Well, that's bloody stupid! Pilot was doing her damnedest to deal with the situation; there's no need to torture her for the airplane having a come-apart on her!" Blondie shook his head, and strode angrily over to the chiller, yanking the door open and putting the rest of the bacon and the egg pack away.
"It is my hypothesis that this pilot's ability to endure feedback from multiple warning systems made a critical difference in survivability." Grunveld replied, and looked at her. "I wish we could have gotten a system status check from you prior to takeoff, and immediately after landing. As is, the one you gave Miller yesterday certainly indicates that the warning systems are contributing to accidents instead of helping prevent them."
Michelle stomped on the initial flare of outrage that Blondie had shared her status check, and thought that over as she chewed on her breakfast. To be fair, it was relevant data. "No one's ever asked for one before, after an incident."
"I'll be recommending we change that. Unlike the Fed, dear, we're not here to assign blame; we're here to figure out how to prevent future accidents." He let her chew on that along with her sandwich.
She finished her sandwich, and took a deep breath. "All right. What do you want to know?"
"I have a list." He smiled, and took a small recorder out of his pocket, placing it on the counter, and stating date and time. "Let's start with when you flew into Lasku. How did you avoid triggering air defense on the way in?"
"The same standard way everyone does. Every TransCon ballistic has a code our transponder transmits, along with the assigned transponder code, that verifies us to be in the airspace. I don't know why they shot at me on the way out. My code was no more than four days old!"
Going Ballistic Page 7