Patchwork

by Elle E. Ire

  Inside, the scene is controlled chaos. Overturned tables and chairs, broken glass everywhere, including a shard that makes it through my uniform pants and cuts deep into my shin. I swallow a yelp while VC1 increases platelet production and rushes a stream of them to the affected area. Warm wetness seeps into the pant fabric, then stops, leaving a circle of darker material against the already deep gray.

  Though it resembles the aftermath of a tornado, nothing currently moves, everyone having taken cover of one sort or another. I follow that example, crunching my way as quietly as possible over the glassware until I’m behind one of the bench seats lining the side walls, bolted to the floor and impossible to overturn. There I find the second of our fallen, a young woman with a neat round hole bored through her forehead appearing in infrared as a dark circular blot like an ink spill. She lies on her back, eyes wide open as if she can’t believe her own demise. My guess is she peered up and over the back of the bench and caught a laser beam for her curiosity.

  How many still alive in here?

  In response, I’m briefly deafened by what sounds like a cacophony of drums played in different rhythms at different speeds. Then, one by one, the beats separate themselves, fading to manageable volumes, and nine glowing red dots appear on my internal display of the bar, hovering over various objects around the room.

  Heartbeats. VC1’s distinguished and located everyone in the pub by their heartbeats.

  I never knew I could do that. Cool.

  Mutters and murmurs flow around me, nothing discernible but clearly plans being made. I activate my comm. “On my mark, Lyle. One, two—”

  The hiss of the opening airlock farther along the wall to my right coincides with “three” and I rise to my full height, confident from the lack of prior movement that no one else took infrared tech to the bar tonight. There are numerous warm-blooded targets I can make out parts of: a crouched knee jutting from behind the edge of a sideways table, a shoulder too wide for the chair concealing most of it, the tops of two caps whose owners don’t realize they aren’t crouched low enough behind the main bar running across the rear of the pub.

  Lyle’s light flashes around, drawing attention to the lock. He’s got himself hunkered down and pressed back into the protective alcove, and he’s set the hatch to remain open. It’s a good distraction, and a couple of crazier mercs fire at the bouncing white beam, rather than tracking it to its source.

  Identify the indicators as friends and foes.

  Complying, VC1 responds in a rare use of actual words. Guess she can’t come up with a metaphorical image for compliance fast enough.

  A half second later, the glowing red figures I can make out differentiate themselves in my display with overlaid flames for Sunfires and rainclouds for members of the Storm. Three targets theirs, one ours. Nice to know our people knew how to hide, at least. You sure?

  The factions wear different uniform styles, the AI returns, a note of smugness in her tone. And the Fighting Storm doesn’t wear hats.

  Wow, complete sentences and everything. You and I might just learn to be friends after all. I transmit the targeted image to Lyle.

  A buzzing sound that might be VC1 blowing a raspberry follows, but I can’t be sure because I’m opening fire, first on the two whose heads I can see. I bean one with my XR-7’s blunted pellets, hard enough that a groan and a thud follow the shot. The second round sends a cap flying but does no damage.

  I duck back down while the one with the exposed knee adds a barrage of additional rounds at the same general area. That individual was marked as ours but clearly can’t see what he or she is aiming at and is just following my lead.

  I peer around the bench seat as exposed-shoulder-guy (guessing at the sex from the broadness of the body parts) pops off a pellet or two at me, and I narrowly miss taking one to the throat. Pinging sounds of more-lethal bullets off metal suggest other Sunfires have opened up on Lyle’s airlock hiding place, but he’s doused his light, and the shots don’t hit home.

  Time to retake the offensive.

  I set my weapon to repeat-fire and let ’er rip while racing the length of the pub from the front doors to the chest-high two-foot-thick wood bar at the back, following VC1’s identified Sunfire targets as they pop up along the way. They can’t see me, but they can hear my steps and gunfire, so their return shots come closer than I’d like. I’m betting lives on VC1’s accuracy, but she’s proven reliable in the past and I’m banking on it now.

  One goes down. That’s two out of nine, which doesn’t include me or Lyle. Shoulders is one of ours and stops aiming at me when I shoot the Sunfire directly behind him, who topples over with a loud thud and a groan. Shoulders waves a hand in my general direction and ducks out of sight. Four still unaccounted for, I figure as I make it behind the bar and survey whom I’m sharing the space with.

  I end up face-to-face and barrel-to-barrel with the Sunfire now missing his hat, his friend sprawled unconscious on the floor beside him. He’s got his free arm wrapped around the throat of a woman in a server’s blouse and skirt, forcing her to kneel in front of and facing away from him toward me. She’s terrified, if the trembling of her infrared outline is anything to judge by. Worse, the Sunfire’s eyes flicker with red overlays—infrared implanted contact lenses.

  Which means one very important thing. He can see me as well as I can see him.

  Chapter 4: Kelly—Connected

  VICK IS in trouble.

  My hand tightens around the handle of the cup of tea I’m making, so hard the knuckles whiten and the hot water inside sloshes around like a mini tsunami. My heartbeat ramps up, almost drowning out the sudden increase in my breathing from regular exhalations to quick panting gasps.

  I close my eyes, forcing suddenly tense muscles to relax, and blow all the air from my lungs in one push. I’ve been with Vick, connected to Vick for years now, but the unnatural (to my own body) sensations caused by sudden floods of adrenaline still catch me by complete surprise.

  Once I’m no longer at risk of passing out from hyperventilation, I set the mug on the counter, ease into the closest kitchen chair, and rest my palms on my thighs. My first thought, now that I’ve got my mental shields in place, is to contact Vick, reassure myself of her well-being, but I discard the idea. If she’s in trouble, in the middle of a fight or some other dangerous situation, which is more often the norm than not, I’ll be distracting her, possibly fatally so.

  I bite my lip and twist a lock of blond hair around one finger. Then I reach for the comm device in my pocket and tell it to contact Alex. Same concerns apply, of course. He’s part of Vick’s team and could also be in danger, but most of the time he’s tech support, backup like me, acting as our eyes and ears rather than diving onto the front lines.

  It takes several long, tense seconds before the connection opens, and I’m worrying I’ve made things worse after all, when Alex’s harried voice carries over the tiny speaker. “Alex here. Hands full. This better be important.”

  I set the comm on the table in front of me. It’s voice only, no vidscreen like some of the pricier models. Vick hasn’t had them upgraded for Alpha Team. Says she doesn’t like people watching her work. In the background, I hear pops and sizzles, like grease in a pan of bacon, and muffled cursing. As usual, my timing is not opportune.

  “It’s me,” I reply, guessing he hasn’t checked the ID or he would have called me by name. Or hung up. Or not answered at all. It’s not that my two male teammates dislike me, but they have an annoying habit of trying to keep me from knowing when things go bad, especially when it comes to Vick. I’m not made of porcelain. I’ve gotten a lot better at shielding quickly to prevent empathic overload. And besides, it’s my darn job.

  “Kelly?” A pause. More sizzling followed by a crack. “Um, hey, Kel, can you maybe check in later? Kinda busy right now.”

  “Kinda worried right now,” I return. “Picking up some disturbing emotions from Vick strong enough to reach me all the way in our quarters.” Which
, come to think of it, is very disturbing indeed. Line of sight or a few rooms away is about the greatest distance for casual emotional transfer. Farther if she’s agitated. The Alpha Dog is halfway across the base. She must be truly agitated indeed for that spike to have hit me so hard and clear. “Need an update on her, if whatever you’re doing isn’t life-threatening.”

  He mutters something that sounds concerningly like “It might be.” Then, “Gunfight in the Dog. No reports of injuries… from our team.”

  Translation: somebody is dead and Alex doesn’t want to tell me, but it’s not Vick or Lyle.

  I can’t blame him. Feeling another’s death puts me out of commission every time, no matter how strong I’ve gotten. If I’d been closer, I would’ve been useless to them for anywhere from a few minutes to hours depending upon proximity.

  More pops and cracks followed by a sharp yelp. “Shit. Look, Vick’s fucked around with the promenade area’s systems. I’m trying to keep things from shutting down completely, which would be… bad.”

  Knowing Alex’s tendency to sugarcoat things for me, bad is probably an understatement.

  “She said to tell you not to come down here. If she’s engaged with the Sunfires, she’s gonna run hot. It’s part of the job. Doesn’t mean she’s in trouble. And to be honest, there’s nothing you can do right now.”

  Nothing except provide the emotional support I’m getting paid for. My teeth grind together. Vick wants independence. I try to give her that. She’s earned it. But she is in trouble no matter what Alex says. Likely she’ll get herself out. She usually does. But right now….

  “I’m heading that way. I won’t interfere, but I want to be available. Don’t argue. You can’t win.” I am the end-all and be-all when it comes to Vick. As her former psych-med and current partner, whatever I say with regards to her health goes.

  Alex sighs over the connection. “Don’t I know it. See you in about fifteen.” In the distance, an alarm wails. The connection drops.

  I glance down at my casual attire. I’m supposed to be in uniform when I’m performing any duties for the Storm. I change quickly from civilian wear to my gray uniform shirt and trousers, black boots and black belt, the colors blending with the drab walls of the Storm’s section of the base. I’ve done my best to decorate these walls in our quarters as much as I can—Earth scenes, mostly from North Carolina, my home state, and Kansas, Vick’s home, though she can’t remember much of it. Paintings of vast cornfields, a farmhouse, a cabin in the deep woods. Three-dimensional projections of waterfalls, lightning over the prairie, boats crossing a mountain valley lake. I decorate myself, too, with as much color in my off-duty wardrobe as I can obtain while Vick prefers to stay in her standard-issue garb. But right now, making myself militarily presentable costs me precious minutes I worry I can’t afford.

  Right before leaving, I open the drawer in the table by the door and grab two syringes—one blue-tipped, one green. They’re a bit dusty, but a quick check of their date indicators shows they haven’t expired. These are for emergencies. I have a ready-to-go pair of identical ones for use on missions in my kitbag. Vick hasn’t needed them in at least nine months, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Maybe her paranoia is rubbing off on me. I drop both into the sealable right thigh pocket of my cargo pants and close the Velcro flap, hoping I don’t need either one. The feeling of intense danger has eased a bit, but that might be because Alex has warned Vick of my impending arrival and she’s upped the output on her suppressors rather than the threat having passed.

  My tension rises as I move through the corridors. I’m picking it up from everyone now: the other Storm soldiers rushing by me in both directions, the medical personnel heading for our hospital wing, and once I leave the gray and enter the pale blue of civilian areas, the other Girard Base inhabitants as well. All of them carry auras of varying shades of stressed-out pink—the way my empathic sense registers to my vision, with colors representing each emotional nuance. Vick hates the color pink. I’m starting to agree with her.

  A branch leads toward the promenade or the landing bays. Alarms echo along the hallways, bouncing off the metal walls, making it impossible to tell which direction they come from, but I remember hearing them on Alex’s connection. No sirens or flashing lights in my immediate vicinity, so I’m not in danger, but I’m definitely heading into it as I turn left toward the central dome and the Alpha Dog Pub.

  I’m a few meters from where the corridor opens up into the dome when it hits. Distracted by intermittent alarms and distant flashes of lights on the promenade, I’m unprepared when the spike of all-out terror slams into me.

  Walls up or not, the emotional onslaught physically throws me to the floor. My chest constricts. I cannot breathe. My eyes squeeze shut, tears seeping from beneath the lids. Small whimpers escape my throat while I fight to inhale and fail.

  I’m vaguely aware of hands on my shoulders, my arms, soothing voices and anxious inquiries, but I have no way of responding, no way to let them know I’m all right.

  Mostly because I’m not all right.

  Vick’s gone into a full-blown panic attack, an emotional meltdown the likes of which I haven’t felt since the first time we met. Unknowingly, she’s dragged me in with her, and unless she regains some control on her own, there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  Chapter 5: Vick—Lock and Load

  I AM trapped.

  “So you decided to turn up after all,” the Sunfire says to me, pistol steady. The waitress squirms in his grasp, but he tightens his arm around her neck and she sags against him, defeated. Though she can’t see me and doesn’t know I can see her, her eyes plead for me to do something, anything. I can, but I’m not sure she’ll appreciate it so much.

  “What is it you want from me?” I ask as casually as I can manage under the circumstances. We’re behind the bar, so I can’t watch the ongoing fight, but I hear it—hollers and thuds of punches hitting home. I make out Lyle’s signature whoop, an ululation no one else in the Storm can emulate, though every new recruit tries. Blind brawling. Nothing quite like it.

  Calculate the shot.

  A thumbs-up appears in the center of my internal display. In the corner a countdown ticks off. I need to stall a little longer until VC1 can manipulate my aim in just the right way.

  “We want you,” the Sunfire growls. “We want your tech. Your owners wouldn’t sell it at a fair price. No one could have afforded what they were asking. Now they won’t sell it at all. So we’ve got orders to take it. If you come willingly, maybe our research guys won’t kill you trying to copy it. If not….” He shrugs with one shoulder. “We’ll take it anyway and reverse engineer it. We’ll copy what makes you so fucking successful, only we won’t just put it in one guy. Everyone in the Sunfires will be like you. We’ll win every contract. We’ll be unstoppable.”

  It might not be their real plan. Their tech department might have something else entirely in mind, but it’s all this grunt knows. He’s got his shoulders back, his chest puffed out; his ego knows no bounds.

  I can’t help it. I bark a laugh. “You’ll be insane,” I tell him. “Look, power and consequences. Strength and costs. You know the old sayings.”

  He blinks at me, dark lids falling over red lenses, weird as hell to watch.

  I try again. “Be careful what you wish for and all that?” Still nothing. Leaning in so that even in infrared he should be able to make out my expression, I let all the pain and torment, all the borderline madness come through. “You. Don’t. Ever. Want. To. Be. Me.”

  To my satisfaction, he flinches and deflates.

  “I can’t come with you. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m programmed, you moron. Mechanical lapdog, remember? And my tech? Booby-trapped. You fuck with it, you, me, your researchers, and half your part of this base go boom.” That last bit’s pure BS, but I’ll say whatever it takes to keep these guys out of what few brains I have left.

  VC1 flashes an image of my body with a balloon
in place of my head. It swells and bursts, scattering bits of red rubbery material into the air, more like brain matter than a child’s entertainment.

  Okay, maybe not all BS.

  I swallow hard against that disturbing thought. “If you can be successful without being owned, do it. If you can’t—” The countdown in my display reaches zero. VC1’s calculated my speed, weapon firing time, and accuracy compared to my opponent. Not sure where she gets her data, but if I know her, she’s hacked the Sunfire database and downloaded all his stats. Crosshairs invisible to anyone but me appear on the guy’s forehead. I fire.

  The waitress screams as his head slams back against the curve of the bar. It’s such a close-in shot, the force of the blunted bullet cracks his skull in front, a visible dark line dividing his face from hairline to the bridge of his nose while the heavy wood’s lack of resilience audibly fractures it from behind—a sickening crunch embedded in my auditory memory. He lands sideways, blood oozing from both sides and pooling in a black puddle around him.

  The server scrambles away, collides with me, and shrieks again.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her. “And he’s dead. Fight’s not quite over, though, so stay put.” I crawl to the edge of the bar and peer around it. “Lyle, where are we in this?”

  Outside the front doors, lights flash on and off up and down the row of shops. My stomach flip-flops with fluctuations in the artificial gravity. Alex is losing his battle with the station’s antique tech.

  The flicker of a handlamp gives away Lyle’s location. He’s off to the right, with a couple of our people, one male, one female, probably here together on a date. “I think we’re good,” Lyle calls back, both out loud and over the comm. “I took one down over here. And this couple’s with us.”

  I nod, then do the math. Nine heartbeats, plus mine and Lyle’s. So nine initial unknowns. Two bad guys and the server behind the bar. The guy whose knee was sticking out, who is probably the same guy Lyle’s hanging with now. Knee-guy’s girlfriend. That’s five. Shoulder guy makes six. The Sunfire I nailed behind him is seven. The one I blasted on my run through the bar is eight. And the one Lyle took down. Nine.