Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel

by KL Mabbs

  The bang wasn’t very loud. Michael was used to that. Training wasn’t supposed to alert the neighbours. The steel pellets, though, they hurt as they punched past his clothing, the same way a dog’s bite will, not marking the cloth at all. His flesh would be peppered with heavy bruises by morning. A hard knock on his skull told him how lethal this trap had been.

  Gwen screamed.

  Blood trailed down her face, one beautiful eye burst open and ragged, that part of the body too soft and fragile. The guilt sat in his chest just as battered as the orb in her face.

  He stayed with her, all the way to the hospital.

  The doctors commended him on his triage. Told him he had saved her eye with the speed and care with which he had applied aid.

  He didn’t tell them it was his fault. Didn’t explain that it was training for his way into the army, or that his choices could have possibly killed someone.

  He knew that. Saw it in his mind every time he passed Gwen in the halls at school after that.

  She never smiled at him again.

  That hurt more than anything else did.

  Michael stumbled into the house with Faelon at his side, holding him up and guiding him to a seat. His breath was ragged from the exertion and the high altitude, and he didn’t have any more medication. Somewhere along the half a klick back to the house, she had shifted into her human form. One second she was a wolf—then, she wasn’t. It had been as fast and as instinctive as breathing for her.

  “How do you do that?” But she hadn’t answered him. She had just whined at him in that plaintive hurt tone of hers as if she was still a wolf and pushed him toward shelter, her body a gentle warmth beside him.

  Michael took the med kit from his pack and rifled through it. He found painkillers and took one to dull the pain running through his shoulder. It worked fast and he was able to breathe easier in moments as the pain settled down to a throbbing ache. Then he stripped out of his clothes so he had a better view of his wound, peeling back the bandage, letting in air so it could heal. He’d have to disinfect it again. “God, that’s ragged.” But looking at it, it was cleaner than he had expected. The blood had stopped flowing, and while it showed muscle damage, it wasn’t as much as he had thought it would be. And no broken bones.

  Michael walked over to the desk and his military P.A.C. unit there. It looked like an old style watchband, but the meta-materials it was made out of and the biologicals contained within it were a secret only his father knew about. He put it on his wrist; the unit needed to be touching for this. “PAC. Go to Medical Mode. Response and reply.”

  “You’re hurt,” PAC said, its voice holding just a touch of emotion.

  “Analysis?”

  “Considering . . . anti-biotic regimen. Starting. Why did you wait so long?”

  “I . . . it just happened.”

  “Healing is two days along.”

  “Funny, PAC.” But Michael knew the computer wasn’t lying. It was military grade support—better than a medic, able to manufacture almost any medication he might need, and capable of logistics and communications on a scale that most countries would envy in a war situation. He just didn't use it in a military capacity anymore. Hadn't for almost three years.

  “You’re stable,” PAC said. “No infection I can see. Unknown saliva sample in wounds. You have a low level of poison in your system. Flushing.”

  “Research both of those. Suppositional. Extrapolate from past events.”

  Faelon wrapped her arms around Michael carefully. “PAC?” she said.

  “PAC, this is Faelon. He’s . . . I don’t know how to explain him to you.” For all that, she seemed to accept.

  “She wasn’t with us earlier. Where did you find her?” PAC asked.

  “In one of my traps, from last year. Animal prints going in, nothing coming out.”

  “I . . . see.” Michael was sure PAC did. Though it was indeed a machine, it had a personality and was as smart as Michael, with the same experience to base logic on.

  “I want you to teach her.”

  “Conversational.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sleep, Mike.”

  “I didn’t ask . . .”

  “You invoked Medical Mode. Sometimes you’re a bit . . .”

  “Yes. You had better get to bed unless you want to sleep on the floor.”

  Michael felt the drugs entering his system and moved to the bed. “I’m going to sleep, Faelon.”

  When Michael awoke, the sun was just setting. He stretched, the pain in his shoulder blocking that action. His shoulder was stiff, but he could move his hand better than he could earlier. And the wound looked five days healed, at least. The edges were red, rounded, with a scab forming over the flesh. No sign of infection. The fever he’d expected hadn’t appeared either. The scratches on his arms were now pink scars as if scabs had recently come off, the skin still rough. He’d been asleep for at least six hours from what he could tell. Even PAC didn’t heal him this fast. So what was it?

  A weight rested on his feet, and then Faelon lifted her head, the amber eyes of a wolf staring at him. His mate. “How long have you been this way?” Wonder crawled out of his throat like a butterfly from a cocoon.

  If he blinked, he would have missed her change. The only thing the same was her eyes, the rich amber sparkling.

  “From cub, Michael. I am Naklétso.”

  “What is . . . ?”

  PAC answered him, his voice surprised. “It’s Navajo. It means the Grey Wolf People. You named her ‘little wolf’ in Gaelic. Did you know?”

  “I . . .” Michael shook his head, saving the questions for later. “Give her Home Advantage access to your systems. Add a medical scan to your profile.”

  PAC was silent for a few minutes. “There is an error in my systems, Mike. Faelon is . . .”

  “There’s no error, PAC. Classify that secret and don’t bring it up when any possibility of surveillance exists.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Faelon moved, then stretched, and leapt off the bed, taking to two legs with such grace that Michael was taken off guard, the breath hissing between his teeth.

  “Hunt now, Michael.” She shifted back into a wolf after she opened the door. Then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

  He shook his head again. Would he ever get used to that?

  “There is a military satellite over top of us. Would you like me to use it to follow Faelon?”

  “No. Military? PAC, is that the satellite’s usual course?”

  “No. It was diverted two days ago. There are currently no military targets in this area. The satellite is Blackwater owned.”

  “What does a mercenary company want with us?” The P.A.C. units hadn’t been designed by the military, even if Michael’s father had been in military R & D. Though they thought they had a right to his inventions, even if they didn’t know what they were. It was why he had left the Army, and none too gently.

  “Unknown. This unit has no confirmed presence in the military. Updating previous search requests. Obituary records show that Jackson Huer is dead. Captain Michael Scott is the last survivor of his army unit.”

  Michael’s voice broke over his next words, his chest tightening. “How did he die?”

  “A motorcycle accident.”

  That could fit, given Huer’s interests. But Michael’s entire unit had died in the last year. And he couldn’t remember the last days of his final mission. “Go to alert mode, PAC. Anything relevant to this area or the last mission of said unit.”

  Michael didn’t notice the lack of response from PAC as he went to the kitchen and started dinner late, given the time of day. He thought of Huer, Ariyan, and Boyen. All dead now. All from the past. And his father missing, in self-imposed exile, running from the army’s suspicions. Whatever—this all meant that someone suspected the existence of the PAC unit.

  “Are we writing today?” PAC said.

  “Yes.”

  “I have an idea.”


  “PAC, we’ve had this conversation before. I’m the writer, you’re the research assistant.”

  “There’s nothing stopping me from changing the file before I send it to your publisher.”

  “Too right. If my publisher was threatening my life.”

  He wasn’t sure how a personal adaptive computer formed its personality but it was related to the imprinting involved. PAC had Michael’s own ethical code, with a wry sense of humour Michael didn’t have. So there was individuality there. Did his dad know that when he built the original units?

  Recently, Business Models had emerged on the market, but they were only adaptive from a software viewpoint. Sophisticated yes, but still not his father’s tech—he didn’t think. None of the P.A.C. units his squad had owned had been appropriated, to his knowledge. Ariyan’s had been destroyed in Saudi when he died. The unit had gone into some form of post-traumatic shock and had never worked after his death. Michael had left it on the body, an inert band of cloth that could have been a T-shirt for all its activity. Boyen’s took the form of a belt buckle and left with him into retirement. Huer’s was probably a part of his motorcycle, considering. But all the software would be slag if Ariyan’s was any indication. And that meant the tech behind it was useless. Simultaneous inventions weren’t unheard of though. Had someone else been copying his father’s research?

  His chest tightened again, the emotion wanting, needing, a response. Tears were a good thing, releasing the pain, telling him what and who he missed. His men had died in accidents related back to him and PAC—a thought he had to consider at least. And now someone was trying to kill him. After twenty minutes of memories, moments shared, he pulled himself together, wiped the moisture from his face, and spoke.

  “Open a story file, working title, “Military Wolf.”

  The computer began a variety of search functions geared off the given heading, started a log file and a branching tree that contained the history of the animal, the last fifty years of military advances, and footnotes for where in history those inventions had any roots or cross references. PAC also introduced a search on Aboriginal legends relating to wolves, since the novel was a series. And that led to First Nations’ involvement in various wars. It also led to stories from other genres, but PAC filtered those out unless Michael asked specifically for them. The computer would fill in any other searches as Michael asked for them. Or would extrapolate from how the work grew.

  “Previous med analysis done. Saliva properties. Healing properties: enhanced Lysozyme, Peroxidase, and a Heme-cofactor. Non-infectious agent for a healthy immune system. Existing anomalies preventing further analysis,” PAC said.

  “What about a compromised immune system?”

  “Unknown.”

  “What anomalies?”

  “Bone ash, quartz, other.”

  “Bone ash and quartz? I haven’t been anywhere near those items. Widen analysis parameters and continue. Start file . . . what is “other,” PAC?”

  The door opened.

  “Home, Michael.” Faelon walked in. She dropped a small deer to the floor and walked over to him. Other than a few claw and bite marks, this carcass was whole. She leaned in, sniffed his neck, and then kissed the skin below his collarbone. “Mmm.” She rocked back on her heels and looked up at him, a hand brushing over his cheek as if she knew what he had been feeling just moments before. Her eyes looked concerned, but she didn’t say anything.

  He pulled her in by the waist and kissed her on the lips. Their softness responded to his touch. So did her hands. After a long moment, he pulled back from her.

  “That’s a lot of meat, Faelon. Here, this is how I do this.” Michael took the carcass—careful of his shoulder, even though it seemed mostly healed—out the back door and slung it from a hook, the forty kilos of weight driving the curved steel up through the deer’s jaw. He took a knife from its spot on the wall and cut out the scent glands from the deer’s hindquarters. Then blooded it. He changed knives, and proceeded to skin the animal, the blood draining into a pit in the ground, there for just that reason, all the while telling Faelon why he did things. After twenty minutes, he had the hide free of the meat. He threw it over a frame for later.

  Faelon picked up the utility knife.

  “Faelon, that’s sharp.”

  “Cheese, Michael.” She cut into the deer, slicing off a manageable piece. She handled the knife the same way one might a claw, as if it was instinctual.

  “So you like my cooking.” Michael grinned.

  “Cheese.” She cut a smaller piece of meat and popped it into her mouth. She smiled back at him and then rubbed her shoulder against his.

  “Smart ass.” He took the first piece of meat from her hands and then the knife. “We’ll leave this hang for a while. Not many animals come around here. The smoke from the fire keeps them away.” Michael knew she didn’t understand everything, but they also needed more references.

  “PAC, how much did she learn?”

  “Three hundred new words relating to normal human relations.”

  Faelon wasn’t human. “Continue teaching Faelon. Use my voice and visual for demonstrations. She might respond better.”

  “Very well.”

  Faelon started. Her eyes narrowed at the image that appeared in the living area of the cabin. Her stance became aggressive. Hips up and shoulder level with the floor, one hand supporting her, she crouched trying to find a scent that went with Michael’s image. Then she was a wolf again, faster than Michael could comprehend. She circled the room, wary and uncertain. Her eyes darkening with fear, shifting between the two men in front of her.

  “Grrr.”

  Michael understood the tone in her growl, but the confused note of it twisted something inside him, left him feeling wrong, as if he’d hurt her on purpose.

  “I’m sorry, Faelon. I . . . ”

  “Grrr.”

  He walked through the image, waving his hands, then knelt beside her, touched her shoulder, and ran his fingers through her brindle-coloured fur. “PAC, play the first time sequence from when we entered the cabin.”

  The hologram of Michael handing Faelon food was before them. The words and sequence playing out as it had yesterday. “Food,” Michael’s image said.

  “It’s for teaching you, Faelon. So we can talk to one another.” Faelon crept forward on her paws and sniffed at the image of herself.

  “An image, only.” He stood and motioned Faelon over to the bathroom area. She came with him, her shoulder touching his thigh the entire way. As she trembled, that twisted feeling rose into his chest to sit there, as if he had swallowed a hummingbird.

  “I need you to change, Faelon. Please. Human.” Even through her fear, she understood. Her form shifted, brushing his side upwards until her shoulder pressed against his. He could feel a slight vibration in her muscles. Michael pointed to the image of the two of them in the mirror. He touched his chest, then Faelon’s shoulder. Faelon reached out and touched the cool surface of the mirror. The fear had turned her eyes the colour of pale golden wheat. “It’s like water. Here, your reflection.” He ran water into the dark sink and leaned over it. He motioned with his hands, drawing them over the surface of the water and then upwards, towards his face. Faelon watched him, and then eased over the water slowly pushing him away. She still trembled, but her actions were about understanding. He wondered if he would have been as brave in her situation. When she looked at him again, he could see the understanding in her face, the smile that brightened her eyes.

  “Faelon.” She pointed to the mirror, then to the sink, and finally to the hologram playing in the living area. “Michael. Not there.” She brushed her fingers over the smooth texture of the mirror, “Pond on wall,” she said.

  “Right.” He cupped her cheek in his hand and leaned his forehead against hers. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He could feel his own muscles tremble as he touched her. “How did you come to mean this much to me?”

  Faelon kissed him, as
if she knew what he had just asked. She wrapped her arms around his neck and then buried her face into his shoulder and nuzzled at him. He felt as if her presence was melting into him, they stayed so still and silent with each other. When they broke apart, it wasn’t forced, but seemed as if in agreement. Faelon went and sat on the floor in the living room. “Not Michael, teach?”

  “Yes, Faelon, and I’ll cook.”

  “Cheese,” she said.

  He sighed.

  “She’s smarter than you,” PAC said.

  “Yes, but I have you to make up for it.”

  While the deer was cooking, and as he sliced up the vegetables, Michael started the story file that had been interrupted. PAC would know not to include the speech coming from Faelon as she learned. Already the machine had her moving through simple sentences, each one building intent, and context, for her to move through his world.

  He fervently hoped that the simple, quick joy she had would stay with her through the process. If that was lost . . . Michael knew then what had twisted in him earlier. It was his mind catching up to his heart, as he realized that he was in love.

  Simply, and irrevocably.

  Lost.

  Chapter 10 Faelon

  A whine escaped Faelon’s throat. Her bitch was lying on the ground, cold, the smell of death lingering over her. Decay and fecal matter. The faint smell of deer. Blood flowed from a wound in her chest. The edges of it were clean, unlike the ragged hole teeth or claws would make. Another wound mirrored the first, but it pierced her belly with a ragged hole, her entrails scattered on the ground. Her sire had his head buried in her fur. His pink skin was covered in dirt, his not-paws grasping at her pelt. When he lifted his eyes to Faelon, they were ringed with red and his breath came with a gasp as he tried to speak words at her. The second language he had taught her. After a few moments, he rested his cheek against his bitch’s shoulder again, the words disappearing and water coursing from his eyes. Deep heavy sobs racked his body.