Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus)

by Robert McCarroll

  "Aren't you the least bit worried about what your father might think?"

  "My father's an asshole," Fae said. "And fathers never approve of their daughters' choices. They can't accept their little girl as grown up."

  "He controls the money, and you know I can't afford the style to which you are accustomed."

  "What do you have against me?" Fae asked.

  "Nothing," I said.

  "Then you'll take me to dinner, even if you have to bring that Catholic schoolgirl along." I decided not to mention that Leyden Academy was a secular school, and Ixa was as far from Catholic as you could get without having converted to the Scyan faith.

  Part 37

  Driving along the Gruefield Highway, state route fourteen, we passed several signs hanging from the chain link fence reading "Transformational Network Technologies Property, trespassers will be prosecuted." TNT Research officially bought Gruefield Eighteen and served as our cover for the base. Of course, it was all owned by the Fund in the end.

  "I think I've figured out why Fae Fowler wants to go out with you," Nora said, leaning on the back of my seat.

  "Oh?" I asked.

  "She doesn't know you."

  "Thanks."

  "Jack described her as a hero fangirl, right? And she hasn't actually spent all that much time with you, so she is acting on her preconceptions of who you are instead of who you actually are."

  "Dad, are you going to sit there and let her insult me?"

  "You two can sort it out, I'm driving."

  "And Ixa is settling because she knows you won't blab her secret to the world," Nora said.

  "Are you trying to add bruised ego to my list of injuries?" I asked.

  "If someone else doesn't, you'll just bruise it yourself. I know you."

  "So this is a public service?"

  "You're welcome."

  Dad swiped a key card at the gate, which stood out from the rest of the fence by being shiny and new. The gate opened and let our car through. The driveway up to the main pad had been repaved in fresh concrete. I'd expected blacktop, but the renovation team had different plans. Not that I could really find a reason to pick one over the other. Though blacktop would have been ready to drive on faster. I almost didn't recognize Icerazor in baggy civilian clothes. His distinctive hair color and the fact that he was leaning on Jennifer were what tipped me off. He still looked half-dead, but his normal complexion wasn't all that healthy anyway. At least he could stand.

  "Nora, wake Xiv," Dad said, pulling up in front of the garage. She pulled back the blanket covering a lump on the back seat and shook Xiv's shoulder.

  The dragon boy sat up, bleary-eyed. "I was having a nice dream," he said.

  "Sorry squirt," Nora said. "There was no way to tell."

  Dad was already out of the car, recovering my wheelchair from the trunk. I opened my door and did my best to shift into the seat with only one good arm. Fortunately for me, I was already strong enough to hang by one hand, so the hard part was not stressing my injuries. Nora and Xiv climbed out and the four of us headed over to where the others waited. "Hey Nick," Nora called. I still couldn't get used to thinking of Icerazor as 'Nick,' but he'd realized that there was no one else left who'd be endangered by telling us his real name. "Look what I found in a used book store."

  "I'm surprised you found a used book store," Jennifer said. Nora ignored her and handed the battered paperback to Icerazor.

  "Saving Time, Volume Four," he said. "I remember this, Agent Six and I guest starred. Dad was pissed at the characterization of him in it." He cracked a thin smile, the first time I'd seen that reaction from him when talking about Agent Six. "We had to convince him it was his reputation instead of a reflection of how he really was. Can I keep this?"

  "Go ahead," Nora said. "It was a dollar."

  Ben's battered sedan pulled up alongside Dad's car with Ixa at the wheel. She looked scared out of her wits. Ben was saying something reassuring as he put on the parking brake for her. Pam hopped out of the back seat. "We need driving lessons," Pam said. "Your girlfriend almost took out the gate."

  "It is already in the works at Torquespiral's suggestion," I said. "I'm shocked you don't already know how to drive."

  "I couldn't afford a car, how could I have learned to drive?" Ben and Ixa got out of the car, Ben's arm still in a sling.

  "I hate driving stick," Ixa said. "Why do they even still make them?"

  "Some people prefer it," I said.

  "And some people are insane."

  "Shall we take a tour of the base?" Dad asked. "They finished the asbestos abatement and hauled out the obsolete hardware. None of the new stuff has been moved in yet, and they want to rework some of the fixtures, so it's not ready to move in yet. But we can take a look around."

  "Beats this cold air," Jennifer said.

  "Cold?" I asked. "It's barely even brisk."

  "Try living in south Texas some time, this is freezing."

  "I thought you were from Florida."

  "We moved around a lot."

  The entryway to Gruefield Eighteen was a small, unassuming cinderblock shell over a hardened concrete bunker. It was supposed to still be functional after most near-miss nuclear attacks. A direct surface blast would take out the whole base. But, by the time the Soviets got that accurate, the primary offensive arsenal lived on submarines. Now the government no longer needed a fixed launcher with a giant target painted on it. Jennifer created a chair lift and carried me down to the first of the massive blast doors.

  "Are we ready?" I asked.

  "Let's go."

  I keyed in my access code on the brand new panel next to the door, and the aging structure started to swing towards us. We backed up to let it past and found ourselves looking at the top of a spiral stair.

  "So this predates the ADA?" Ben asked.

  "Does the military even have to obey that?" Nora asked.

  "Uh, yes, and I don't know, respectively," I said.

  "It might not be a good idea to bring so many injured people down there," Dad said. "Perhaps we can find a place to install an elevator at some point."

  "Or you can use the freight elevator," Pam said, hitting a call button on the wall. "I thought you people were supposed to be observant." A few moments later, the elevator arrived. It was large enough to move heavy equipment in and out, and the nine of us just about filled it up. I'd hoped for only two floors, but there were several. I pushed one of the lower buttons. The doors closed and the elevator sank. The sight at the bottom was abysmal, aged concrete walls covered in peeling green paint that was doubtlessly lead-based. Another blast door barred our way to the interior and took a different security code to open.

  Faded, peeling signs on the wall pointed towards the command center, the power plant, the barracks and the launch facilities. We headed towards the command center. Pausing long enough for another heavy door to yield to a third security code, we entered the empty steel and concrete space.

  Only it wasn't empty.

  Someone had hauled a leather swivel chair in and plopped it down in the middle of the room. That someone rested a short shotgun on her knee and scratched behind her ear with the butt of a Taser. She'd foregone the usual balaclava and night vision goggles, so I almost didn't recognize her save for the long braid hanging over her shoulder. Icerazor drew his blade as most of the team hopped into a ready stance. I held up a hand to ask them to wait.

  "About time you showed up," Nikki said. "I've been waiting for hours."

  "What are you doing here?" I asked.

  "I'm a tad short of cash after Jasmine bankrupted my dad, and then mom cut me off," Nikki said. "I heard you had a job opening for a training coordinator. You've already seen my portfolio, but you didn't exactly have an address to send a resume to, so I decided to app
ly in person."

  "You beat up half the team," I said.

  "Proving that I can identify your weaknesses and provide advice on how to compensate for how people will try to exploit them."

  "You've got some balls," Nora said.

  "I prefer chutzpah; it's got fewer gender-based connotations."

  A grid of glowing golden bars wrapped around Nikki and pinned her to her chair. "We don't need your help," Jennifer said.

  "Should I erase her memory of us?" Ixa asked, smirking.

  "That would be a bit extreme," Dad said. "And far from the ideals you're supposed to represent."

  "Kindly place her outside the fence," I said.

  "Sure," Jennifer said, her construct hauling Nikki and her chair to the elevator. Hate burned in Nikki's eyes as they left. Pam followed them out.

  I let out a sigh. "You were only kidding, right?" I asked.

  Kneeling next to me, she switched to the Stephanie accent. "Maybe, but does she know that?"

  "Maybe?" Nora asked. "If that's the kind of thing you'd do as leader, I guess we have to keep Travis around."

  "You're thinking about getting rid of him?" Stephanie asked.

  "Well, there was this whole bit about him leaving after we'd caught Doctor Omicron," Nora said. "If he still feels useless that is."

  "Don't go," Xiv said, hugging me from the side.

  "Don't worry, kid, I'm not leaving," I said. After all, what would I do with myself?

  Reforger

  Part 1

  It began with an ending. The end of Zsh-ya's ultimatum, when the Lord Captain was forced to flee before the community and the army had fully overrun his vessel. His escape craft didn't have the range to cross between the stars. Not yet, at least. Instead, engine damaged, it fell to the world below, seeking a remote spot to begin repairs. It found a lake. The sleek, winged craft skimmed along the surface as it bled off speed, sending up a vast spray of water. Zsh-ya's gripping hands held the edge of his dais as his remaining organic manipulating hand interlaced its fingers with those of the prosthetic. His hooves were planted firmly on the dais as he watched the spray of water on the view screen. His left eye was a multifaceted metal gem set amidst a knot of scar tissue in his yellow-green face. His right was a gel-filled sac housing an inverted cone containing a hundred tiny eyestalks.

  With a shudder, the small craft found the rocky shoreline and came to a stop. +Lord Captain,+ one of his chosen lackeys said. +We will not be able to lift off until repairs have been completed. The humans will be sure to find us before then.+

  Zsh-ya did not look at the lackey who'd spoken. +How far can we shift the vessel?+ he asked, his deft control of his vocal sacs erasing any trace of emotion from the question.

  Not far, only a few lengths at most.+

  Back us up, and let us sink below the water line. It will slow down their search.+

  Yes, Lord Captain.+

  And when they do find us?+ another voice asked. A darker green than most Ygnaza, Uth-sk wore the white singlet of a fleshcrafter. He hobbled around on his hooves with fresh orange gloves on all four hands. The cavity for his right eye sac had been crudely stitched closed, awaiting the opportune moment to install a replacement for the ravaged flesh that had once been there. One of his vocal sacs bore similarly poor needlework along a rupture line. It was a credit to Uth-sk's control that he was able to speak without use of the damaged sac.

  We will see how far we have gotten with repairs,+ Zsh-ya said. +I will bring the nanoconstructor online once we have settled to the bottom of his pond.+

  You would trust that alien contraption?+ Uth-sk asked.

  Zsh-ya turned his gaze to the fleshcrafter. +Can you weave us the parts with your knives?+ he asked. Uth-sk's silence was all the answer he required. The fleshcrafter hobbled back into the shadows. With a lurch, the ship fired its forward retros. A scraping noise ground through the hull as the vessel's belly dragged along the rocks of the shoreline. Inundated with chill water, the retros jetted steam as they continued to push the vessel deeper into the water. The ship creaked as new pressures enveloped it.

  No leaks detected,+ one of the lesser lackeys called out. +Hull integrity not compromised.+ The deck tilted as the rear end of the craft sank further below the water. +Artificial gravity has failed.+

  Ignore it,+ Zsh-ya said. +We have other repairs to focus on.+

  "Heph-ee-stus Rokard the Third?" the gas station attendant said with mild amusement, reading from Hephaestus' credit card. Some of the ink had rubbed off the raised lettering rendering the characters unclear.

  "Hephaestus Rickard," he said.

  "Do you go by Heph?"

  "No." Dressed in a blue-and-gray plaid shirt and brown denim pants, Hephaestus Rickard III looked like the sort of person who might have trouble scraping together pocket lint, let alone cash. Twisted and bent, his neck was almost horizontal from the pronounced bend in his spine. Gnarled hands with knotted and curled fingers clutched a simple disposable pen as he waited for the receipt to spit out of the point of sale device. Hatchet-faced and hawk-nosed, his eyes burned with an angry intensity.

  "Does this mean there were two other guys named 'Heph-ee-stus'?"

  "If you must know, there was a senior, a junior and a fourth," Hephaestus said. "But it doesn't make any difference to you."

  "I'm just making small talk. That's the sort of name that must have gotten you picked on in school."

  "If you think that, you'd be wrong," Hephaestus said, the icy menace in his voice finally slicing through the clerk's obliviousness. There was an awkward moment as Hephaestus' gaze caused the cashier to shrink before the register spat out a receipt. Wordlessly, the clerk held out the slip out for the old man to sign. "A hundred and twenty dollars to fill a gas tank, what's this country come to?" Hephaestus muttered.

  "You are driving a pretty big pickup there," the clerk said. "It's got a big tank to match."

  "Why did I have to wait for a Smiley and Sons' station?" Hephaestus muttered.

  "Our winning service?" the clerk asked without a hint of irony.

  "No, it's because you're owned by Hephaestus Mineral and Oil. If you've got half a brain you'll put two and two together before I drive out of here." Hephaestus took back his card and left, climbing into the cab of an oversized pickup truck with a hard shell bed cover. The white pickup looked like it might have been expensive in the year it was bought, but it was also more than twenty years old. The four-door cab and eight-foot bed made it a miniature behemoth. Rumbling from the gas station lot, the side view mirror barely caught the shocked expression as the clerk put together the uncommon name of the old man and the company. Hephaestus didn't personally own HM&O. but he was related to the owner. A twinge at the corner of his mouth threatened to become a smirk, but faded as he turned his attention to the road ahead.

  A few dozen more miles of asphalt rolled away below his wheels before he reached one of his scheduled stops. A scowl creased his lined features as he looked at the dilapidated shed that once called itself a farmhouse. Sagging rooflines swept down towards gutters only half attached to cracked eaves. Faded vinyl siding fell away from rotting facing boards in scabrous chunks. Crunching along the gravel at the achingly slow pace his arthritic knees set, he approached the steel door and knocked with enough force to rattle the house, although it looked like a stiff breeze would rattle this house.

  A young man with an Adam's apple almost as pronounced as his chin answered the door. He had russet hair and a build like a windswept twig, virtually all limbs and no trunk. Faded blue eyes peered from a surprisingly acne-free face, and a few scraps of fuzz clung to his upper lip. There was not enough hair to call it a mustache.

  "Where's Eugene?" Hephaestus snapped.

  A chuckle emerged from behind the young man. "I know that voice," the same speaker choked out a
wheezing, breathless spattering of words. "Let Mister Manners in."

  With a nod, the russet-haired youth stepped back and let Hephaestus enter. Green lead-based paint peeled from crumbling plaster. Patches of bare lath showed like open sores on the walls. A brown splotch of water damage marked a sagging ceiling. Most of the furniture had been covered with sheets of various patterns and hues to protect it from the dust. A single wheelchair sat in the middle of the room, staring at a small, static-riddled television with the volume turned off. The chair's occupant was all but skeletal, his limbs withered away. A respirator mask was strapped to his face, pumping additional oxygen into each labored breath. A cluster of IV bags glinted in the light of the static, dripping medication and simple fluids into his ravaged frame. Jaundiced yellow eyes peered out from sagging mahogany skin.