Patchwork

by Elle E. Ire

  Devin goes down first, then Stephen, both dead with one shot each, but Stephen’s finger continues to hold down the trigger.

  I’m screaming when two impacts connect with my skull, both from the right like someone’s taken a fist and knocked on the side of my head.

  My arms release Devin’s body where I’d been holding him on the deck. Don’t even remember catching him and going to my knees. I sit back, blinking. Then the pain hits, tearing, clawing, ripping my brain to pieces. I want to raise my hands to my head, but I can’t move. Within three seconds my vision and hearing go. Three seconds might not seem like long, but it’s an infinite amount of time to recognize death, to rage at it in futile denial, to know I haven’t got a chance even while the rest of my body fights to survive.

  The two senses that remain are smell and taste. I smell the coppery scent, taste the blood as it oozes down the back of my throat along with globules part of me identifies as brain matter and the rest of me shies away from knowing, and I can’t function well enough to spit them out.

  I can’t function at all. No one’s there to hold me when I die.

  I’m gone. And I’m gone alone.

  “Hey!” Something tugs at my sleeve, yanking me out of the memory flash.

  I blink, but I’m still blinded by the flare of the grenade.

  The grenade. In the Alpha Dog. The one that landed me in the now stuck airlock with—

  “Are you okay?” Another tug on my sleeve.

  Really need my sight back.

  An image of me hanging in the net beneath a tightrope flashes in my internal view. It takes me a second.

  Offline. Hah. Very funny.

  Why? My palms press flat against the cold metal flooring. My back rests against one of the walls. I don’t remember this position. I was clawing at the locking mechanism, and then… the most vivid and complete memory I’ve ever had of the first time I died. I would argue it’s the only time and everything since has been carried out by a mechanical facsimile, but I keep that philosophy buried for Kelly’s sake.

  And my own sanity, if I’m being honest with myself. Hard to live for tomorrow when you believe yourself to be dead today.

  You need to cease panicking, VC1’s voice sounds in my ears. All my systems are working to prevent your overload and keep your suppressors on full power. I cannot divert anything to restoring your eyesight.

  So the AI stands between me and a full meltdown. Terrific. She’s not lying. I can feel the emotional pressure building beneath the surface of my now calm exterior. If I give it the slightest opportunity, I’ll totally lose my shit. My emotions don’t go away when they’re suppressed. Sooner or later, I’ll pay a hefty price for this delay.

  “Um, hey….” The tug at my sleeve comes one more time. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

  I pull gently but firmly away. “It’s Vick,” I manage, my voice hoarse and strange to my own ears. “Or Corren. Whatever you wanna call me. Yeah, I’m okay.” No, I’m really not, but I can’t say that to the kid. I’ve never been good with kids. Kelly would be so proud. “What’s our status?”

  A scraping sound, like she’s shifting around. “Um, our what?”

  Right. “Our situation. Are you hurt? Is someone trying to get us out?” Please, please, please, let someone be working on getting us out. VC1, you can override the lock.

  Not while maintaining your autonomics, no.

  Meaning my heart rate, breathing, brain functions. Yeah, I need those. I’ll wait.

  I swear she laughs.

  “I’m not hurt,” the girl says. “You’re bleeding, though.”

  Now that she mentions it, I feel the sticky wetness of blood seeping through the torn fabric covering my knees and several places on my arms as well. “Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”

  “You weren’t a minute ago,” the kid scolds, voice turning so dramatically stern I have to smile a little. “You were breathing really fast, and your face went all white.”

  “Well I’m okay now.” I think back to right before the grenade went off. “Your name’s Abby, right?”

  “Yeah. Short for Abigail. Is Vick short for something?”

  I grimace. “Victoria, or Victory, depending on who you ask.” I hate both. Victory was my dad’s nickname for me. He teased me with it every time I won something, from a singing competition to a hovercycle race. Drove me crazy using it in front of my high school friends.

  I blink. When the hell did I get those memories back?

  “Victory’s cool.”

  Glad someone thinks so.

  “The hatch is stuck again. Mom says that happens a lot. It’s why I’m not allowed to use it to sneak into the pub. Can you get us out of the airlock?”

  I shake my head. It hurts, and I have a feeling if I could see, I’d be dizzy. Probably hit it against something when I rolled with the kid. “Actually, I was hoping you’d help me with that. See, my eyes aren’t—” I almost say “functional,” but she won’t understand. “My eyes got hurt when the lights came on and I can’t see right now. Can you tell me what the lock controls look like? Are there red lights or green lights?”

  More shuffling around, then a slight pressure on my shoulder as Abby uses me to lever herself up. “Um, three red lights, two yellow, no green.”

  “In that order? Top to bottom?”

  “Yeah.”

  I picture the controls in my head, not using the implants, just regular memory. Three red lights across the top means the doors are sealed, the air is not cycling out, which is the one good thing, and the communications system between outside and inside the lock is down. The yellows are more encouraging. Someone is in the process of working on both the door and the comms.

  “Okay, so I think we’re going to be stuck in here a bit longer,” I tell Abby, keeping my voice as calm as possible. It’s not hard. With the suppressors on full, I tend to speak in a monotone anyway. And I don’t want to scare her any more than she probably already is, though actually, she doesn’t sound all that scared.

  “You think my mom’s okay?”

  All right, that sounded scared.

  “She’s fine,” I lie, knowing nothing of the sort, but that’s what I’m supposed to do, right? Reassure the kid? “She was behind that big wooden bar. I’m sure it protected her.”

  Abby moves from where she’s standing and plops down next to me again, her shoulder against mine. It drives a couple of splinters deeper into my skin, but I don’t nudge her away. When I turn toward her, I can just make out her general shape, a slightly grayer blob against a whiter background of glare. Good. Eyesight’s coming back.

  The muffled sound of a drill followed by tapping and grinding comes from the hatch on the pub side while someone’s all out banging on the opposite hatch leading into the promenade. I imagine an entire maintenance team out there, no doubt with Alex, hopefully an uninjured Lyle, and likely Kelly as well, waiting for my release.

  Gah, Kelly. How badly did my near-meltdown affect her?

  A few minutes pass while we wait. Abby describes every detail I can’t see, including the appearances of several workers peering through the hatch window, then an officer I expect is Sanderson from the description of “a woman with really short hair that looks kinda pointy and an in-charge face.” And finally, “There’s another lady,” Abby informs me. “She’s frowning.”

  “Blond hair, green eyes?”

  “Yep.”

  “That would be Kelly. My partner.”

  “Ooooooh,” Abby says, and I realize she’s taken the term to mean more than “someone who works with me in the Storm.” That’s fine. I guess. “She’s pretty,” the girl adds.

  I nod. It hurts. Damn. I’m gonna have to go to Medical and get checked out once we’re free. I hate Medical. Medical is where they do things to me, sometimes without my consent. But I suppose that’s what happens when you’re property. I face the general direction of the window and force what I hope is a convincingly reassuring smile. “She look any
happier?”

  “Nope,” Abby says.

  Yeah, didn’t think so.

  “She’s tapping the side of her head and pointing at the door,” the kid continues.

  Right. Kelly wants me to use VC1 to repair the damage to the airlock controls. Sorry, no can do, if she wants me to keep breathing. I shake my head and lean it carefully back against the metal interior wall. The coolness on my now pounding headache would be welcome, if I were anywhere else.

  “How old are you?” I ask to distract myself from the upcoming poking and prodding from the Storm’s medical staff.

  “Seven.”

  My eyebrows rise. “You’re doing really well with this, for seven.” She is. Her earlier panic when she couldn’t find her mother aside, she’s not freaking out. Hell, she’s keeping me calm more than I’m doing for her.

  I feel her shoulder shrug against mine. “I’m on my own a lot. I have to be responsible.”

  “Well, keep it up.”

  After several more minutes, the metal in the hatch groans, and a hiss precedes its opening on the Alpha Dog side. I can distinguish people’s faces now, and some details, though everything looks too bright and kind of washed out.

  “Victory! They did it!” Abby squeals. Instead of rushing out, she takes my hand and helps me up, not that she’s really strong enough to help, but I let her think she does while I brace myself with my other palm against the wall.

  We’re two steps out of the airlock, and I’m just taking in the damage to the pub. Scorch marks everywhere, including over a lot of the remembrance images of fallen soldiers that decorate the walls. My eyes flick to those of Devin and Stephen. Both destroyed. Soon as I’m able, I’ll see about replacing those.

  Then there’s no time to notice anything else because a soft, curvy feminine form hurtles itself into my arms.

  Kelly.

  “Hey. Okay. I’m okay,” I tell her, wanting to soothe but unable to put the warmth in my voice. They’re just words. The right words, but with no particular inflection. I lose myself in her softness, the scent of the lavender shampoo she uses and the tickle of her wavy hair on my chin, then push her back. We’re not alone, not even close. There’s a half dozen technicians, a cleanup crew, and Officer Sanderson giving us a goofy grin she quickly schools into a more professional expression. By the entrance, Lyle tosses me a nod and goes back to poking at the burns on his face, studying them in a mirror that somehow survived the grenade. Alex stands beside him and waves.

  Definitely not the time or place for a romantic reunion here in front of everyone, including my teammates, who will tease me mercilessly about “going all soft and mushy” on them.

  I should tell Kelly about the Sunfires and their specific goal of acquiring me or killing me, but it’s not the time for that either. For one, it would worry her more than she already is, and two, I’m assuming some of the Sunfires from this attack are still alive. I didn’t kill them all. If they are conscious and mobile and within earshot, I don’t want to remind them of their mission and start this up all over again. Three, I don’t know if anyone else is targeting me. I’ve known assassins to pose as emergency personnel to get close to their targets. Doubtful that the Sunfires would want to bring in that kind of professional and alert even more potential competition to my abilities, and I’m not aware of them having their own, but I’m paranoid, and I’m not up to taking on anything else tonight.

  “You’re not okay,” Kelly says, mirroring my thoughts and keeping her voice low, thank goodness. “I can feel the turmoil when I touch you, even with the suppressors running.”

  And failing. But I don’t mention that. The emotion suppressor technology is meant to be a stopgap, to keep me functioning until I get myself out of whatever mess I’ve gotten into. But it won’t work indefinitely, and its usefulness is rapidly running dry. To punctuate that, my hands tremble and a wave of dulled anxiety sets my heart racing until I force a deep breath through my suddenly tight throat.

  “I know,” I mutter, not wanting to be overheard. “But I’ve gotta take care of something.” Glancing to the side, I retake Abby’s hand. “Come on, kid, let’s get you where you belong.” I’ve spotted her mother through the propped-open front doors, noting with relief that the dead Storm soldier’s body has been removed. The waitress is way over in the center of the dome having some bandaging wrapped around her forearm. I only hope my legs will carry me that far.

  “Yes! Mom!” Abby says, seeing her as well. She tugs me forward, and I wince at the ache in my joints but don’t pull away. Kelly takes my other hand, probably concerned I’ll need to lean on her (which is totally valid), and the three of us head to the makeshift triage area.

  On our way out, I pause and turn to Lyle, still looking in the mirror. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing a dermolaser and some plasflesh won’t fix. You’ll be back to flirting with Alex in no time.” To my surprise, he goes bright red with embarrassment, obvious even through the burns, and shoots me a pleading look while making shushing motions with his hands before turning quickly away.

  Three steps outside Kelly whispers, “I didn’t think you’d noticed the attraction.”

  I hadn’t. “Well, maybe I’m more back in touch with humanity than you realize.”

  There. That would give her something to consider, even if it’s a total lie.

  Chapter 8: Kelly—Rifts and Fractures

  VICK IS stubborn.

  “You were always in touch with humanity,” I say softly. “You just don’t talk about it much.” Careful to avoid the torn and blood-soaked patches of her uniform shirt, I shift my hand to Vick’s forearm, as much to steady myself as her. The adrenaline of my second-hand panic and my own personal worry has long since worn off, and what I want most is to take Vick back to our quarters and hold her until we both fall asleep. It’s full into the base’s night, almost ten, and there will still be reports to file and the medics for Vick to see before we’re released.

  And I have to make Vick admit she needs an emotion purge.

  Her legs are shaky as we cross the dome to the open space at the center, though she tries to hide it by lengthening her stride. Her hand clenches and unclenches at her side, masking the tremor I noticed earlier as well.

  Trapped in an airlock, after what she went through all those years ago. I can’t imagine how that has impacted her psyche, whether she remembers the details or not.

  We reach the triage area and Abby breaks away, throwing herself into her mother’s arms and nearly knocking the waitress and the bench over backward. “I’m fine, Mom,” the girl says when the woman lets a few tears fall, then wipes them away. “Really. Victory saved me!”

  I raise an eyebrow in Vick’s direction. Abby had announced “victory” before, but I’d thought she was simply celebrating their release from the airlock, not calling Vick by name. A very endearing, rather adorable name.

  Vick manages a sheepish grin. “Don’t mention it. To anybody.”

  But she’s too late. Alex and Lyle have come up behind her and they’re both chuckling. Lyle gives her a light punch to the shoulder. “Victory, huh?” After her earlier flirting-with-Alex remark, I can’t blame him for seizing the opportunity for payback. He raises both hands in the air, arms forming the shape of a V. “Victory!” he announces.

  Vick punches him in the stomach, not nearly so lightly. “Knock it off,” she growls.

  “Thank you,” the waitress says, standing and stepping between them, timing excellent, “for saving both me and my daughter.”

  “You’re wel—” Vick breaks off, one hand going to her forehead. She wavers where she stands, and both the waitress and I make a grab to steady her. After a couple of deep breaths, she looks at us. “You’re welcome.”

  “You need medical attention.” A woman in a medic’s uniform gestures at the bench the waitress vacated. “Sit.”

  I watch while the medic runs a portable scanner over Vick and reads the results. “Abrasions, cuts, bruising, single cracked rib, mild concuss
ion.” She flicks through a couple of screens. “Your Storm medical records are labeled as classified, so you’ll need to check in with your own people in the morning, but I’ll take care of removing the glass, sealing the rib, and prescribing a painkiller if you aren’t allergic to any medications?” She makes the last part a question.

  Vick shakes her head no, then winces. I rest a hand on her shoulder but she shrugs it off. “No allergies,” Vick says, “but never mind the drugs. I have what I need in my quarters.”

  “Which you won’t take,” I mutter. She ignores me.

  I stand to the side and let the medic do her job. She must pull six or seven blood-covered shards from various places on Vick’s arms, legs, and back. “Lucky none of these hit an artery,” she comments, applying an adhesive spray that produces a layer of new skin over each wound. She uses a molecular laser to fix the broken rib and uses the spray again on Vick’s worst scrapes.

  All the while, I’m studying Vick, the way her jaw clenches even when she isn’t being worked on, the stillness in her limbs like she’s got to hold herself rigid or she’ll fall apart. If she’d let me touch her again, I’m certain the emotions would be bleeding through her suppressors and tell me how bad things are, but she shifts away and glares whenever I try to get close, enough times that the medic orders her to be still.

  “Good to go,” the woman says at last. “And good job.” She nods in the direction of the waitress and her daughter, just gathering their things to leave. “I’ve heard your name from some of your organization’s medical staff. They say you’re quite the hero. I can see why.”

  A touch of maroon tinges my vision, signifying the medic’s more intense interest in Vick, who appears oblivious to it. Good.

  “Right. Well, thanks for the patch job.” She stands, supporting herself with the back of the bench, her hand clenching the wood. No one else seems to notice, but I do, and she sees me watching. She takes off, striding the rest of the way out of the dome, her gait stiff and controlled.