Patchwork

by Elle E. Ire

  Okay, yeah, I’m less stressed out. Still fucking hurts.

  You need distraction and energy release.

  And if I don’t find a way to deal with this?

  You will overload.

  Definitely don’t like the sound of that. Overload leads to burnout. I’m not certain she’s talking about the same thing, but I’m pretty sure. I force my body to swing my legs over the side of the bed, then, with my eyes still closed, fumble my way to the dresser where Kelly and I have stored our clothes for this trip. My new swimsuit is on top, and I find it by the feel of the fabric. Opening my eyes would expose them to light. I’m certain that will not be a pleasant exposure.

  Working blind, I strip naked and pull on the bathing suit just as Kelly emerges from the bathroom. She’s bound to ask why my eyes are closed, so I open them and immediately regret it. Sunlight streaming through the open curtains bombards my man-made retinas like stabbing needles. Kelly winces and frowns. “Headache again?”

  No use lying to her. “Yeah.”

  She looks me up and down. “You sure you want to go swimming?”

  I shrug. “I want a distraction. I want to burn off energy. So yeah. Swimming. And wave racing, and whatever else I can talk you into.”

  She slides up next to me, slipping her arms around my waist and resting her head against my chest. “If you’re with me, you can talk me into most anything.”

  I take that as a challenge.

  AN HOUR later she may be regretting that statement as we bounce over the waves on a two-seater wave racer. Kelly’s shrieking in my ear with a little fear but mostly excitement. Her arms tighten around my waist as if she’s hanging on for dear life, which I enjoy more than I should. I angle us just right to catch a big wave as it’s cresting, and we catch air for a couple of seconds before slamming into the water and dousing ourselves in spray. I let out a whoop that surprises me and have to admit that the activity is working to decrease my stress. I’m barely noticing the headache anymore.

  “Oof,” Kelly says in my ear. “That was fun, but my backside will be black and blue.”

  I grin, knowing that even though she can’t see it with me facing away from her, she’ll feel my amusement. “I like black. I like blue,” I shout to be heard over the craft’s engine and the waves. “I like your backside.”

  She smacks me on the shoulder.

  My mood sobers. “Seriously, though, if you want to go back….” I’m not trying to hurt her, and she’s got bruising from the shuttle crash. I’m being selfish, only thinking of my own needs. I am so not cut out for a serious relationship.

  Kelly smacks me again. “Quit with the guilt trip. I’m fine. But I wouldn’t mind just cruising around the island for a bit.”

  “Sure. How about you drive?” Before she can protest, I bring us to a complete stop, lock the controls, and slide off the chassis into the warm tropical ocean. It’s not too deep here, and I’m able to keep my head above water if I stay on my toes.

  Kelly stares down at me, the racer bobbing with the waves. “I don’t know how to drive this thing!” she says, her vocal pitch several notes higher than her norm.

  “I’ll teach you. It’s easy. Scoot forward.”

  She complies, placing her hands tentatively on the controls as if the handlebars and buttons will shock her on contact. I grab the seat behind her and bounce myself on the sandy ocean floor a couple of times until I get high enough to swing back onto the racer. Then I reach around her and cover her hands with my own, using my right thumb to flick off the safety lock.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “You rotate the hand grips forward to move forward. The more you rotate them, the faster we go. You can also use the handlebars to turn us left or right. If you want to slow down, rotate the grips toward you. If you want to come to a quick stop, let go altogether, but I wouldn’t recommend that if we’re really hauling ass.”

  Kelly laughs. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I have no intention of hauling ass or anything else. Just a pleasure cruise for me.”

  “It’s always a pleasure cruise with you,” I say, flushing red as soon as the words leave my mouth. It’s about the sappiest thing I’ve ever said to her, but it just slipped out. And it’s the truth.

  I feel her love through our connection. She leans her head back against my chest. We stay that way for a long moment, just enjoying the sun and the salt air. VC1 was right. I think I’m more relaxed now than I’ve been since the Rodwell mission. My headache is all but gone.

  Easing the handles forward, Kelly putters us around the circumference of the island. It’s almost perfectly circular except for a couple of peninsulas and a handful of bays for more private sunning and swimming, making me wonder if it’s man-made rather than natural.

  Man-made, my ever-present sentient encyclopedia informs me. This world was terraformed for tourism. Only a few island landmasses exist outside the temperate zone, and those were there when the planet was colonized, along with the flora and fauna. The resort islands were designed for optimal visitor use.

  Interesting.

  We’re about two-thirds of the way around the island, the main building and largest beach coming into view, when Kelly brings us to a gentle stop and releases one hand from her white-knuckled grip on the controls to point across the waves in the direction of the open ocean. Considering how reluctant she’s been to let go of the handlebars, whatever she sees must be really important or unusual, and I follow her line of sight.

  At first I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Internally switching to shielded view, I cut the glare on my implanted lenses and sit up straight. There, not as far away as I’d prefer, are several dozen dorsal fins protruding above the water’s surface, all of them swirling in circular patterns like they’re engaged in an infinite dance of figure eights.

  “Should we get out of here?” Kelly asks, a slight tremor in her voice. “They can’t get to us, can they?” To punctuate her questions, one of the creatures leaps, breaking the surface with half its horrific body—one body, eight heads, hundreds and hundreds of teeth. One of the mouths closes on the long leg of an unfortunate seabird flying too close, probably looking for prey of its own. It drags the hapless waterfowl under amidst a cacophony of high-pitched squawks and a shower of feathers.

  “I think we’re okay,” I say, drawing the words out while I continue to watch. I have no idea what the top speed of an octoshark might be and no desire to find out. “How about we start easing away, just to be on the safe side?”

  At full speed, a single-man racer would outrun them. A two-seater like yours would be… a closer race. However, they cannot swim in water less than five feet in depth, VC1 informs me. They also cannot jump higher than you observed. None have ever been reported leaping over the underwater barrier. The barrier is also angled and electrified, so if one managed to land on it or merely come into contact with it, the creature would be propelled away from the island.

  Kelly rotates the hand grips away from us and turns the nose of our craft toward shore and the docks, looking over her shoulder in frequent, furtive movements. The octosharks continue their frenzied circling.

  That’s good to know, I tell VC1. Is this behavior normal for the species?

  According to the planet’s oceanographic institute, not at all. Octopodidae-Selachimorpha prefer to swim alone so as to reduce competition for food sources. They only gather during mating season. Which this is not.

  I can’t imagine what those things would be like while mating, and I’m glad.

  Well, it’s a mystery for another day—preferably a cooler one. The sun is almost at its zenith, beating down on us at full strength, when we return to the pier. I loop the racer’s tie-rope around a pylon and hold the craft steady against the dock for Kelly to climb out.

  I’m looking forward to a cool drink under a shady umbrella, when a shadow falls over me. Glaring down from the pier is David Locher, hands in the pockets of his swim trunks, his face a mask of impatience and aggravation.
/>   Behind my eyes, my pulse begins to pound.

  Chapter 32: Kelly—The Deep End

  VICK IS late.

  “I had a nine o’clock reservation for that wave racer,” David says, holding out a hand for the key fob. “I booked it last night.”

  I check my waterproof watch. It’s a little after ten thirty. We went out at eight.

  Instead of passing over the key, Vick grabs him by the wrist and uses his outstretched hand to leverage herself onto the dock. Then she tosses the fob onto the racer’s front seat. His glare deepens. Behind him, a staff member from the water recreation department approaches at a fast walk and comes to a stop a few feet away as if waiting to see how this will play out. I offer him a faint smile and a little wave. He returns neither.

  Must be losing my touch.

  “Be glad I didn’t say ‘Go fish,’” Vick says, straightening and facing David head-on.

  My former classmate’s mouth opens like he’s prepared to berate her, but he stops, eyes dropping to her long, tan legs and rising to the swell of her chest in the tight, wet bathing suit.

  “Wow,” Vick says, shaking her head. “You really are something. Here I thought this was all about Kelly, but you’ll ogle anything with boobs. How about focusing on my eyes when you’re standing in front of me?” she snaps, drawing his gaze to hers.

  “It is about Kelly,” David growls, tossing me a quick grin I don’t return. “And they’re not your eyes. I happen to know that your band of merry mercenaries owns them, and my company manufactured both of them, along with most of what actually works in that metal skull of yours.”

  “What’s about me?” I ask, staring first at David, then at Vick. “What are you talking about?” Then I catch Vick’s expression and freeze. She’s gone white beneath her tan, giving her an odd pasty complexion that’s anything but healthy. I play back the conversation in my head. Vick knows her eyes aren’t real, but her skull being metal? I knew that. I’ve seen holos taken during the reconstructive surgery. Large swaths of her skull were replaced by metal plating when the bullets blew out entire sections of it. It’s all there in…

  …her classified medical file. Sealed by Whitehouse, seen only by her personal med team, which includes me. But how much of it has she been permitted to view? How much has VC1 managed to sneak into?

  Judging from the look of horror on her face, not bloody much.

  I certainly wouldn’t bring such morbid images to her attention. I know I have no desire to see them again. Once was enough.

  “I thought you knew,” I breathe, reaching for her. She steps beyond my grasp.

  “Intellectually, I did,” she says. “Bullets. Skull. They don’t mix well. I just didn’t want to accept the extent of it.”

  David spreads his arms wide. “Well, there you have it. You’re a robot. One who can’t tell time, apparently. I’ll have to let the team know to work on that in future models. Now, if you’ll let me get on with my day….”

  “Fuck you,” Vick and I say in unison. She turns to stare at me, then laughs, breaking the worst of the tension, some color returning to her face. “You’ve been hanging around me too long,” she says.

  I smile back. “Never long enough.”

  David makes a loud gagging sound. I wonder what I ever saw in him. Half toxic masculinity, half still-in-high-school adolescent personality. Could he be charming? Yes. And he was, and still is, good-looking. I’m still glad I wised up before I ever let things get too serious.

  Behind Vick, the male staff member frowns. He’s big and burly, around thirty-five, with what looks like a military haircut just beginning to grow to civilian length. Probably just got out of the local Coast Guard or something. Maybe he also disapproves of how David is treating Vick, though he has to be confused by the nature of the insults since no one but BioTech and a few mercenary organizations know about the implants, and only her closest team members realize they’re sentient.

  “You really should have made a reservation,” the staff member says. I don’t see a nametag, which is odd, but he’s in the resort uniform, so maybe he forgot or lost it. “You can book through the vidviewer in your cottage. Please do so in the future. We have several guest racers under repair. This was the only one operating this morning, so we couldn’t give him a replacement. He’s been… displeased.”

  So, not sympathetic, just annoyed we’ve made his job harder.

  “Sorry,” Vick says. “We didn’t know. The key was in it. We thought it was first come, first serve.”

  David clambers down into the wave racer without assistance and powers up the vehicle. “Hope you left me enough fuel,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “It’s solar powered,” Vick says, indicating the collector panels embedded across the racer’s bow and stern. “But for you, I’d darken the sun.”

  “Your charming personality does that for you,” David says, then putters off across the gentle current close to shore.

  It’s almost comical, the insulting banter back and forth, but there’s an edge underlying each of their tones, and their colors are darkened by anger and aggression. Vick watches him motor away in the direction we came in from, her eyes never leaving him until he passes a small peninsula of the island jutting out into the waves. His racer disappears around the bend.

  “Forget about him,” I tell Vick, taking her hand. “Let’s grab a couple of juices from the tiki bar and find the girls.”

  She nods, and we head up the pier together until we reach the sandy shore. It’s midmorning, and my stomach is growling. I hope they have food at the bar too.

  We’re strolling by the water’s edge, making our way around waders and sunbathers, stepping over towels and coolers. My parents wave to us from one of several tiny tents set up along the sand. Mom is removing her swimsuit cover-up and climbing onto a cushioned massage table. Dad’s already on one. The pair of masseuses waits just behind them while they settle in.

  Open-air massage on the beach, cool breezes, ocean view, all the tension in the muscles being melted away by competent hands. Vick gives an excellent massage when she’s so inclined, but it’s been a while since we had the time. I’ll never convince her to drop her self-consciousness enough to let someone else give us a couple’s massage, but maybe I’ll book one for myself.

  I can’t imagine anything more relaxing.

  That’s when the screaming starts.

  Chapter 33: Vick—What Big Teeth You Have

  I AM bait.

  “Oh for the love of fuck.”

  The scream is high, shrill, yet definitively male, and it takes me all of two seconds to identify the source—David Locher. Which makes the cause equally obvious—octosharks. While everyone else races toward the beach trying to figure out what’s wrong, I tear away from it, making for our cottage. Kelly shouts after me, but I can’t make out what she’s saying, and I wouldn’t stop anyway. I’m already taking too much time going back for a weapon. Of all the damn times not to be armed. But where do you hide a pistol in a bathing suit?

  Locher isn’t likely to last long against those carnivorous monstrosities. But even I’m not stupid enough or egotistical enough to go after them unarmed.

  It occurs to me halfway to our lodgings that this might be some kind of trap or bad joke at my expense. The island is protected. The sharks shouldn’t be able to breach the barrier. But their earlier behavior has me spooked enough to investigate.

  It also occurs to me to wonder why I’m bothering.

  Because it’s the right thing, that’s why. Because it’s what Kelly expects me to do, even while she begs me to be more careful and take fewer risks. Because I’m the only chance Locher has of survival, and even assholes don’t deserve to be eaten alive by eight hungry mouths.

  Our cottage is one of the closest to the beach, so it doesn’t take me long to reach it, get inside, and use my thumbprint to open the weapons pouch I’ve kept hidden in an overly large potted palm just inside the front entrance. I’ve got two pistols and a couple o
f knives in there. I choose the laser over the projectile weapon. While either might suffice, I have no idea how thick an octoshark’s… hide… skin… whatever, might be, and the water would slow the bullets too much to risk using them.

  Your selection is the best option, VC1 assures me.

  I don’t waste a thought to respond. I’m too busy running back toward the pier using an implant-generated adrenaline burst to put on more speed.

  There’s additional background noise now—guests on shore shouting out the emergency, a bell in the roof of the lobby building ringing out an alarm, but Locher’s screams still carry eerily over the water, distorted by distance but indicative of a live human being. I’m not yet too late. When I reach the recreational boat dock, I stop in dismay.

  Nothing. There’s nothing tied to the pylons. No motorboats, fishing craft, pleasure cruisers, not even a fucking rowboat or sailboard. Everything’s out, and I spot a number of watercraft in the distance, on the far side of the island from all the commotion.

  I race to the end of the pier, thinking to wave one of the distant boats over, knowing with every pounding step that if I have to wait for a boat to come in, I’ll never reach Locher in time.

  Then I see it—floating at the end of the dock and partially hidden beneath—a single-seater wave racer. It’s battered, solar panels chipped, paint worn off in patches, obviously intended for use by staff, not guests.

  But the key is in the ignition.

  I leap off the pier and land hard in the plastic instead of cushioned seat, driving the whole thing down a foot or two deeper and sloshing water over the entire craft before it resurfaces. The engine starts when I turn the key, puttering and stuttering, but it runs. Setting the pistol in my lap, I toss off the tether to the dock and twist the hand grips as far forward as they’ll go. The racer lurches ahead, listing slightly to the right and scraping the hull against the pier.