Trustworthy

by Astrid Amara

  I headed back to the buggy.

  I half expected Mack to be gone, or ready to attack me, when I returned. Instead he simply waited in the driver’s seat, mumbling to himself.

  There was something so familiar about the image of him talking to himself.

  Then I saw him rub his hand over one of the pockets of his vest, like he was turning off a communication device. He smiled up at me innocently. “Well?”

  “Scavenged already.”

  “That’s too bad.” He held out his hand, and once I shut the buggy door, I returned the key lock to him.

  I watched him closely, trying to determine if he’d actually made contact with someone while I’d left him. If so, he wasn’t giving it away.

  As we continued toward our destination, the sky turned a murky yellow. Sand whipped around the buggy, and visibility dropped to only a few feet in front of the vehicle.

  “Shit!” I yelled, slamming my hand on the dash. Of all fucking times for a sand storm to hit—

  “That time of year, if I recall,” Mack said calmly, like he were reporting the weather on a telecast. “Storms used to hit every day up north around this time of year, so they must be even more prominent here.”

  I gripped my head, trying to ease the pain, trying to think.

  “We should stop,” Mack said. “We’ll only go off course and lengthen the trip.”

  I didn’t reply. The throbbing behind my eyes was incessant. I was now what—two hours past my hit time? Three? The longest I’d ever gone without a hit had been five hours, during a mission where I’d been locked in a shipping container that blocked all communication. I couldn’t remember much about it other than it had been hell, and I wasn’t looking forward to a repeat.

  My mouth watered in anticipation of that sour, powdery flood of joy. What would I do without it? I had to get it. I had to.

  “You okay?” Mack asked, glancing over at me with a frown.

  “We camp here then,” I replied.

  Mack continued until the sand leveled out some, then turned the buggy off. Outside the vehicle, the storm whipped fine particles through the air at a furious speed.

  I stepped out of the buggy and wavered with dizziness. I’d forgotten the mask. Sharp shards of sand and glass blew into my face, irritating my eyes, finding their way into my ears.

  As I staggered, Mack stepped out of the buggy. “Ivo, let me help you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  I winced, pinched the bridge of my nose, and tried to clear the pain. I reached into the buggy and pulled out the mask, cursing as I struggled to pull it over my head. The thumb splint got in the way of everything.

  I moved to the back of the buggy. As I tried to pull the tempcamp, I hit my broken finger and cursed.

  “Ivo. Nothing. 505. Let me help.” Mack suddenly appeared beside me. He grabbed the heavy tent from me and dropped it, pulling the inflation cord.

  As I waited, I leaned against the vehicle and tried to breathe slowly and calmly, like we were instructed to do in times of stress. One breath in, one breath out. Two breaths in, two breaths out…

  “I’ll get the supplies. Don’t move.”

  “Don’t fuck with me.” I wasn’t sure how effective my threat was, however, given that I gripped the side of the buggy for dear life.

  “Aye aye, 505.” He checked on the air levels in the camp. I stacked up the boxes of supplies, trying to keep busy to distract myself from my growing nausea.

  I pressed my Peak release button, repeatedly, but it never opened, and it never provided anything. I foolishly held my osys band upward toward satellites, hoping somehow a connection would be made.

  Someone grabbed my shoulder. I spun and punched. I hit Mack in the face, more out of instinct than intention. He grunted and flew back, slamming into the sand. My arm twitched.

  “Don’t touch me,” I growled at him.

  He didn’t move, and I thought for a moment I might have killed him. All agents had extraordinary strength thanks to the implants, and this was doubly true for me since my left elbow joint and hand were synthetic. It was easy for me to go too far.

  I moved closer and saw Mack alive, hand cupping his mouth, blood pouring from between his fingers.

  “Fuuuuh!” he mumbled, voice garbled. “Fuuu you!”

  I left him and went into the tent. I lay on the padded floor of the tent, fingers rubbing the spot above my eyes, concentrating on not throwing up.

  Mack opened the airlock and shuttled in the supply boxes. He spit blood at me, looking furious. His lip was split and bleeding, but I hadn’t broken his nose.

  Yet.

  I lay down and closed my eyes. I heard Mack complain about the punch as he ate a ration, went outside to piss, and returned, grumbling to himself. The sounds of him moving around while I lay there were oddly soothing.

  Home, I thought, then chastised myself. That made no sense. I really was losing it.

  I felt him kick me in the leg, not gently. I shot upright, tense.

  He said, “Drink some water, asshole.” He dropped a water pouch in my lap.

  I intended to glower at him, but I was very thirsty, so I drank instead.

  I tossed the empty bag aside and lay back down, clenching my eyes from the pain. After a while I could sense him sitting beside me, close enough that I could feel heat radiating off him.

  After a minute he asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Withdrawal,” I said, my voice rough. Every part of my body began to sting. I felt a fever coming on.

  “You gonna puke?” he asked.

  “Probably.”

  I heard him get up, muttering to himself. He returned with more water, and a plastic specimen tray that he put beside my head. “Toss up in this. You want some blankets?”

  “Fuck off,” I groaned.

  “Just trying to be nice, dickhead. Would something from the med kid help?”

  “Nothing will help me other than the powder in my fucking osys,” I told him.

  “Ah.” He was quiet a moment, and I heard him eating something again. “Only works with a comm link, I take it.”

  “Which you blew up,” I snapped.

  “Hey, that wasn’t me, that was Gerald. He loves those comm bombs.”

  I moaned.

  “If you let me examine the osys, I might be able to pry out the powder for you.”

  I opened my eyes at that. “Really?”

  He looked down at me, a worried expression on his face. “Withdrawal. Is it going to kill you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, truthfully, because as long as I could remember, I had received regular hits and didn't have to worry about such things.

  “Well, at least I can try,” Mack offered.

  “There’s a security mechanism.”

  “I can disable it,” he said.

  “Really?” I repeated.

  Mack snorted. “Are you kidding? It’s what I’m good at. Breaking into software systems. Fixing things. Or breaking them, as the case may be.”

  I hesitated. The idea of him breaking it and cutting me off from Peak forever terrified me. On the other hand, with a sandstorm and our southerly destination, the likelihood of being in communication range any time soon seemed unlikely.

  I watched him through narrowed eyes as I removed the osys from around my wrist. I struggled with the clasp, my braced thumb poking out inconveniently. I handed the band to Mack. His smile, even with a cut lip, was beautiful.

  That smile…

  I turned and vomited into the specimen case, whole body spasming with the effort. My hand shook as I clasped the container. I retched repeatedly, and when it was all over I flopped back against the floor, breathing raggedly. God, I wanted to die. No, I wanted a hit.

  A hit. Just one. Please.

  I didn’t open my eyes when Mack stood, nor when he returned, placing another water pouch gently in my artificial hand. I slurped at the pouch weakly.

  “You’re a
mess,” he said.

  “True,” I replied.

  “Get some sleep. I’ll figure out the dispersal system.”

  I curled on my side, body aching, and tried to do as he recommended.

  * * * *

  I had vivid, nauseating dreams. I wasn't sure how long I slept. My body burned, and my brain throbbed as if it had doubled in size and pressed against its skull prison.

  At some point Mack must have covered me in a blanket, and I woke shivering under it, drenched in sweat. The joints in my body where cybernetic implants met nerve, muscle, and bone throbbed in a way I could never remember them feeling before. I fumbled for the water pouch and drank it down, only to throw it back up.

  I had no idea where Mack was, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything other than each agonizing breath. He could have abandoned me in the tent and left in the buggy. He could have the pistol. He could have killed me right at that moment, and I would have welcomed the release from my pain.

  Instead, I felt another water pouch placed gently in my hand, heard him pick up the specimen tray, dump it outside, come back.

  When he returned, I could sense him close, but I didn’t dare open my eyes. They felt like someone poked them with hot needles.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Dying,” I said, writhing from the pain in my gut. I licked my lips, trying to bring moisture into my sour, parched mouth. “What time is it?”

  “Zero two hundred,” Mack replied. “It’s the middle of the night and storming like a son of a bitch out there. You should try and sleep.”

  I grimaced. “I can’t sleep through this pain.”

  Mack was quiet for a moment, the said, “If I touch you, are you going to hit me again?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can help your headache.”

  I snorted. The idea of anything being able to cure this pain short of a spike through the brain was fanciful at best.

  I could sense him moving in to touch me. I tensed in anticipation, expecting to recoil.

  But his fingers were surprisingly gentle as they threaded into my hair at the base of my scalp where it met my neck. He tugged my hair, almost affectionately.

  His fingers pressed into the back of my head, and despite myself I groaned. The relief was immediate and potent. I shuddered as his fingers kneaded my tense muscles, the dull, chronic pain of my skull easing under his touch. He began to gently rub at my temples.

  I couldn’t remember a time when my headache had been eased by anything other than Peak. My body relaxed slightly into his touch, and even though I shivered and sweated, even though my joints were on fire, at least the pain in my head eased off. Quietly.

  “I like you better with longer hair,” Mack mused. I could hear a smile in his voice.

  “I never had long hair.”

  “Sure you did. Last time I saw you, it hung down to your shoulders. You used to put it up in a clip. I called you my princess when you did that.”

  “I would have punched you for that.”

  “Yeah, you weren’t fond of that nickname.”

  Curiosity got the better of me. “I had other nicknames?”

  “Oh, a ton,” he said enthusiastically. His fingers splayed out and began to massage my forehead, and the muscles around my eyes. I was paralyzed with the sensation. “Cowboy was what I always called you, because you wore the same damn pair of boots for like six years straight. But you were also known as Asswipe, the Belvedere, Killer, No Pants, Sharpshooter, Dipshit—the list goes on.”

  “With names like that, no wonder I forgot you.”

  “Hey, I didn’t give you all those. Well, Cowboy and Dipshit, sure. But the rest were from the team.”

  “The team?”

  “Yeah. C Squad.” Mack’s voice changed. “Our unit in the Calypso Recon. We fought with C Squad for two and a half years and were with the general land force for three years before that.”

  I struggled to conjure an image of what he talked about. I still assumed he was mistaken, but sometimes, as he spoke, I’d catch a glimpse of something in my memory—a flash of uniform, or someone’s smile. No Pants conjured an immediate image of me dashing out from under some form of all-terrain vehicle with half a uniform on, dick out in the air for the world to see.

  I wanted to ask about it, but then I thought better of it. Why encourage him?

  “If it makes you feel better,” Mack said jovially, “you had about ten times the amount of nicknames for me. Romeo, Tiger, sugar, smartypants, motormouth, to name a few.”

  “I’m beginning to get motormouth already.”

  Mack chuckled, low and quiet, and I relaxed under his fingers. Part of me was tense as hell, but I couldn’t deny his ministrations helped. He got a particularly painful spot in my neck and I groaned aloud and he chuckled again.

  My curiosity go the better of me. “I thought you said you were a revolutionary.”

  “I am.”

  “But we fought for Recon?”

  Mack didn’t answer right away. The massage slowed. “I was undercover when I served with Recon.”

  I scowled. “So you were a traitor.”

  “If it makes you feel better to think of me that way, then yes. For me, I only joined because the revolutionaries needed contacts inside the land forces, and it made sense for me to enlist, coming from the CVP.” He was quiet for a moment, then added, “My only regret is that you joined as well, to be with me. My choice made you a killer.”

  His fingers slowed, and the massage altered. I could detect the moment it happened—it was like a change in the light, that obvious. One minute the touch was about releasing tension. The next, it was a caress, something more.

  I felt sick. I tensed and sat up. “Stop.”

  Mack immediately lifted his hands, holding them palms out in the air. “Sorry, sorry.” He tried a small smile, but I could see some deep emotion in his eyes. He was teary-eyed again.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” I told him, my voice gruffer than I expected it to be.

  Mack stared at me a long moment. “You are. You just don’t remember.”

  “I don’t want to remember.”

  Mack’s jaw tensed as he ground his teeth. “Yeah. That’s you, all right.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  He tilted his head, staring intently. “You remember anything about your childhood, Ivo?”

  My stomach lurched. “No.”

  “That’s what you’ve always said,” Mack replied. “When we were kids, every time I asked you to describe your family, your life before we met, you said you couldn’t remember. And every time I asked, you would do exactly what you’re doing now.”

  “Glare at you?”

  “Go white as a sheet and look moments from puking.”

  Which was true—I was very close to puking. But I chalked that up as withdrawal, not any latent and degrading childhood memories.

  “You’re lucky in some ways,” Mack continued. “You have this ability to forget the things you hate or fear. You block them out. But the emotions are there. Underneath all that denial, all that mental whitewashing, the memories are still there.”

  “Why the fuck do you care?” I demanded.

  “Because I have to believe, somewhere in that drugged brain of yours, I’m still in there too.”

  “You’re not.” I stood.

  For a second, he looked like I’d slapped him. Then he huffed. “Give it time, baby.”

  I swiveled and nearly slapped him, pissed at his infuriating presumptions. “Fuck you!” I stormed out of the tempcamp. The air was horrible, as I should have expected. Microscopic fragments of sand and glass hit me in the face, and I bent my head and gritted my teeth as I made my way from the tent to piss, sheltering my dick with my palms to avoid damage.

  I didn’t want to go back in that tent with that son of a bitch.

  But I couldn’t stay outside and get exfoliated to death. Besides, my body was on fire and standing took all my concentration.
<
br />   When I returned, Mack sat exactly where I’d left him. But his belittling expression was gone. He looked cold.

  “I’m turning off the light,” he informed me, returning to his cot.

  “Thank fucking God.” I grabbed the bedding off the floor and moved to the other cot.

  Chapter Five

  This Feels Familiar

  I drifted in and out of consciousness.

  I felt like I’d endured nausea, chills, and fever for one long, terrible night. But when I finally retained consciousness enough to ask the man who had been my prisoner, and now my caretaker, how long I’d been out, he laughed and told me almost three days.

  “Three days?” I croaked, voice raspy and parched. I tried to shoot upright but my legs buckled.

  “Calm down. There’s no need to hurry anywhere at the moment. The storm calmed two days ago, but I couldn’t get you to sit up, let alone move. Now another storm has taken its place.” He sat beside me and handed me a ration bar. “Good news is, we have enough food to last six weeks out here. Bad news is, we only have enough water for another week.”

  “I’m not staying six weeks out here with you!” I cried. I drank the water down and it tasted fantastic. Only then I realized I needed to relieve myself. I tried standing again.

  “Let me help you,” Mack offered. I was in no state to refuse assistance.

  He handed me a mask, put his on, and supported me as I slowly made my way to the airlock. Outside, the storm raged as badly as when I’d entered the tent. Sand piled high around the sides of the buggy, but the front access was clear.

  “I’ve cleared out an exit path every few hours with the emergency shovel, so we don’t get buried.”

  “Good thinking.” I leaned against him as I fumbled with my fly. Removing polymesh armor was never an elegant task, and in my delirious state, it took my twice as long.

  “Want more help?” Mack offered, his voice low against my ear.

  “No.” Wind whipped particles against my exposed neck, and I grimaced.

  “You need privacy?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He let go of me slowly, and I wavered but didn’t fall over. “I’ll be right over there with my back turned. If you need me, holler.”