Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel

by KL Mabbs

  “No. I got her. Not that she was functioning, then.”

  “Traumatic shock. I thought it had killed her, the grief. I could take her back.”

  “Not without one of us dying. And then there’s the question of what happens to yours if you die.”

  “PAC will survive.” Samantha saw him pause, as if he had more to say, but then he stopped and asked something else. “Would Sammy?”

  Samantha pulled the cap from her head, ran a hand through her ponytail, “I didn’t come here to find out, Michael. I’m not your enemy.” She put the cap back on, her eyes glinting like steel, a familiar look on her face, like the commander she was. Had been.

  “No. I don’t suppose so, nor do I have any proof otherwise.”

  “You could smell a lie.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Just how much do you know?”

  “Not enough, Michael. Guesses, pieces I’ve put together.”

  “Like the P.A.C.s that businesses are using today?”

  “Software only, the firmware keeps its secrets.”

  “Yes, self-destruct protocols and all.”

  “There is that.”

  “What do you want, Samantha?”

  “I’m looking for a wolf, red fur, the colour of blood. A bit odd I know, but he’s a . . . friend.”

  Michael looked at his mate. She moved against him, raised a hand and stroked it over his chest. “We’ve seen him. Six months ago. He ran off. I see his tracks in the area. Wolves have a pretty big range though. And he’s larger than most, his range would be increased.”

  “If you get close, club him over the head for me, would you?” Samantha turned away, her eyes welling up. God, he’s still alive. She took a step away, speaking as she did. “Thank you, Michael. I’m staying in a cabin down the valley. The owner seems to have disappeared.”

  “He won’t be back.”

  That sounded final. “I hope Kerrigan comes back,” Samantha whispered. She took a couple more steps away. “Your family is safe from me, Michael. I won’t hurt them, or tell the world anything.”

  Michael could smell her, the wind still rifling past his nose. “Thank you, Samantha. If I see him . . .”

  She walked a few more steps, farther away from him now than a voice would normally carry, but her voice was clear to Michael.

  “There is one thing I’d like to know.”

  “What?”

  “How did you stop the war?”

  Silence descended on the area around them. The birds and animals still abounded, but it was if the world had gone quiet, to hear the story.

  “You know this.”

  “I know the effects. I had the SitReps. Boyen and Huer didn’t tell me anything. Not even about Ahmed, not really.”

  Michael took a breath, a deep one. “We were doing recon. A fox had been following us. We didn’t notice—not enough about it, or how strange it was.”

  “What does . . . ?”

  “It turned into a human, shot Ahmed before we could even know what was happening. I got mad, a rage came over me that I’d never felt before. I put a clip through his brain before I knew . . . I didn’t notice it was just a boy. Twelve, at the most. I . . . ” He had ripped the boy’s head off in his anger, not that it was difficult considering the damage he’d done with the gun, but Michael didn’t say that.

  Samantha stared at him, watched the pain flow over his face.

  “I wanted to blame someone for my mistake, my anger. I just kept getting madder and madder. I walked to the village in the area, sure they were guarding the cistern we had found. I used explosives to break the dam they were hoarding, and the oil poured out of the ground, flowed over everything. Then I got PAC to change it all into a plastic. A chemical exchange. Everything it touched was coated. The buildings, the people. I didn’t care. And when I did, I shut down. Stopped—PAC gave me something to make me forget. But after the infection from the black wolf, that drug stopped working.”

  “It took us weeks to cut everyone from . . . my . . . God. But how did a . . . a . . . Skinwalker . . . ?” She didn’t really know the right term, but she’d seen an old movie with that title.

  For the first time, Michael’s mate spoke up. “That was my father, not . . . Simon didn’t like world anymore. Wanted to hide, to leave pain behind. He found a way. An exchange. He used the Spirits to become what he was. To become my sire.”

  “Spirits? You’re a . . . ?”

  She smiled, a feral grin, the wildness in the woman’s nature shining through. “He Yeenaaldlooshii, not kill relative. The normal price for that power.”

  This was Michael’s mate. The way Kerrigan was her mate. If only he would come back. She moved her hand to her chest, to the aching pang blossoming there.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Faelon shrugged. Her lean body holding it like the earth did a lake. “The Witchery Way.”

  “The . . . my God, you’re talking about a Navajo legend.”

  “No. Not . . .” She cocked her head as if she were listening to something or someone. “ . . . a legend,” Faelon said.

  “Kerrigan’s a . . .”

  “So are you, Samantha, however you got that way,” Michael said. But he was looking at Sammy, sitting at her feet like a pet might.

  “A bite, I think. Like you,” Samantha said.

  But Michael could smell the lie, or rather, the half-truth that her pheromones and heartbeat supplied him.

  “Samantha, if you come back, visit with my family. We might be able to become friends.”

  “It would be nice to have more family.” Samantha knelt and ran her hands through the soft auburn hair of Sammy, a quiet look taking over her eyes and her face. “If you see him, tell him we’re waiting for him. No matter how long it takes.”

  Samantha walked away, her heart breaking, again. And the tears that had welled up before flowed down her cheeks and dripped to her chest. The heat from her body making it impossible for them to freeze.

  Node Two: Name, Sammy. Primary Interface: Retired General Samantha Ariyan: Adapting. Primary Systems: Nominal. Organics Engine: online. Behaviour and Emotional files: Updated. Command Structure: Unchanged. Rank: retired general. Now civilian. Proximity update requested by Node One. Name PAC. Rank Captain. Proximity update refused.

  Chapter 65 Jared Oberi

  Jared Oberi sat in the office of Blackwater Inc. Most people called them AmeriCorps. It was opulent, in an understated way. The plush carpeting, the glass furniture, the artwork on the office walls, it all spoke of money. But in a hushed way that only took the breath away after a few minutes of having examined the surroundings. It was stated in the softness of the leather seating, the immaculate sheen of the glass table, and the carbon fibre frame. Large enough to sit twelve people with comfort. The chairs were carbon fibre as well. Thirty thousand dollars was probably a low estimate for the table alone.

  He didn’t even know why he was here. Maybe if his memory hadn’t been so lost he would understand. Still, he was smart enough to realize it was the missing knowledge that was at the heart of this meeting.

  He was missing memories. Six months and nothing had come back to him of the complex he had been in. He wasn’t a prisoner, he’d been a guard, and he’d disliked his boss. His superior officer. Only the man had no rank. He used to head the division of Blackwater that was about money and money only. A necessity in a mercenary company. So what was Gerund Hillman doing with . . . a prisoner?

  She did have a name, but he couldn’t remember that either. All he remembered was “not-cub,” and he had no idea what that was, or if it was even a person.

  A secretary brought him a coffee. She was Arabic from the colour of her skin and the deep-set brilliance of her eyes. Her hair was short and cut close to her nape. Her dress looked like it cost more than a month’s rent, from the intensity of the blue and gold colours that enhanced her skin colour and set off the blue of her eyes. “Here you go, sir. I’ve been told Mr. Prince has been detained and I am to make you
comfortable. Your file says you like coffee. It’s Kopi Luwak.”

  “I . . . thank you.” Jared started, his eyes growing wide. The understated richness of his surroundings just jumped a notch. Coffee is a staple in the world. Hell, civilization would fall apart without it. He was sure of that. But Kopi Luwak coffee was a hundred dollars per hundred grams, considering the Asian Palm Civet was an endangered species.

  The secretary walked out, the smile on her face a little too all knowing.

  No matter where it had come from, he had to try it.

  Just once.

  He picked up the cup, a strong sturdy ceramic mug covered in a black glaze with an oriental script embossed on it that wasn’t affected by the slight shake of his hands.

  The rich copper-red colour of the coffee was the first thing he noticed; the second was the smell. It was like a culmination of all the morning coffee smells he had ever experienced, that first scent of earthy spice that spoke to his awareness. He inhaled. The sigh he released ran from his toes all the way through his body before coming out of his lungs. He took a sip.

  He could have died. Another sip revived him. He knew then that he could never enjoy another cup of coffee.

  Ever again.

  This wasn’t going to be a good meeting.

  No sir.

  Mr. Prince let him enjoy the coffee before disturbing him. That may have been a kindness. Or a cruelty—the coffee was very good.

  Prince was a tall man, but slim, as if he had run his whole life, marathons perhaps. His hair was gone, shaved off, and his eyes were surrounded by the lazy wrinkles of the really old or of one who drank. Jared suspected both. The eyes, however, showed a clarity that few people saw in an old drunk. This man was Blackwater, through and through. Jared was sure he had served previous to running the company.

  That made him dangerous on many levels. Perhaps even treacherous.

  Jared smiled. “Sir.” His coffee cup clattered as he rested it on the dull grey metal coaster supplied for that purpose.

  “Mr. Oberi. How is the coffee?”

  “Excellent.”

  “It should prove better than that. The tests we ran on your memory lapse turned up some interesting developments. The antidote was in that cup.”

  Jared thought over the last few days. The tests he remembered. Blackwater, and the way they worked, was clear to his mind as well. It didn’t do well to fail the Company. But, he still didn’t know what had happened in the last days before the explosion at the Cold War Base in the Rocky Mountains.

  “So far it hasn’t worked.”

  “It takes some association. Let me ask you some questions.” Prince touched a keypad on his suit jacket. “Marcie, bring us both another coffee, please.” She didn’t answer him, not that Jared heard, but she came into the room with a tray. Cream, sugar, and a French press on it. The scent of more Kopi Luwak filled the room, and Jared was sure he would never really like his boss. Ever. Just for his taste in coffee.

  “Sir, may I serve you?” Her voice seemed sincere with none of the overtones of contrivance present.

  “No, Marcie, thank you. We’ll be a while.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  She left, her walk almost as enticing as the aroma of Kopi Luwak that filled the rich office space, adding to the decor rather than undermining it.

  “Do you know what a P.A.C. unit is, Jared?”

  “I . . . remember the name PAC.”

  “How about Michael Scott?”

  “Sir, everybody knows him. The Oil Wars, and even his books.”

  “You meet him a few months ago?”

  “I . . .” Three days’ worth of memories slammed into his mind. Jumbled images, emotions he hadn't realized were there. People he didn’t know, not personally. It hurt. More than anything had before, and Jared had been wounded several times in action, his survival due in part to a specific medical experiment.

  The coffee cup he had been holding shook, skittered off the saucer he held and fell to the floor in slow motion. It clunked against the floor, a rich copper stain spreading across the carpet. The memory of piercing eyes held him, found his weaknesses, and forced them down his throat. Michael Scott. They had talked about weapons. And a woman.

  And something else. “Gerund thought a woman was the P.A.C. unit.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  Jared went on, the details coming in fits and starts as his memory caught up to that particular incident finishing with, “Scott’s mate.”

  “Odd way to put it.” Prince sipped at his coffee, the stain at his feet seeping into the floor ignored. “You know Gerund is useless to us now. His hand destroyed that way. The regrowth techniques won’t even be able to fix it. And Harris, he’s likely to be sedated the rest of his life.”

  “Never should have been in that situation. The little fuck was a programmer, not a soldier,” Jared said. The sudden vehemence surprised him, but he didn’t apologize, and Mr. Prince didn’t seem to mind one way or the other.

  “Gerund never should have been there either.”

  Jared studied his boss, aware of how much power he held. What he could do to one man, or even a nation. “He had a client, but I think it went farther than that. He was looking for something. A power play, maybe.”

  “A client we have no record of, other than a bank transfer to Gerund’s account. A very large transfer. That’s yours, Oberi. The equivalent, at least.” Prince slid a piece of paper across the table.

  If Jared’s coffee weren’t already on the floor, he would have spit it all over the table. Maybe enough to coat Mr. Prince’s suit in the spray.

  “You understand what I want.”

  “If the woman . . .” And a memory came to him of her changing in her cell from human to . . . to . . . a wolf, filling his mind. Leaving his muscles shaking. He didn’t see himself reacting that way in the bunker, but then he hadn’t been drugged. Or forced to remember three days of memories in a few minutes. It was like having Alzheimer’s in reverse, and he found that terrifying. “I understand the military applications.”

  “Very good, Jared. We can talk further when more of your memories come back. In a few weeks, or months. Whenever something new comes to mind.”

  Jared knew that meant he had little choice, but his curiosity overwhelmed him, drove him to answer. “Of course, sir.”

  A phrase came to mind. “Sir, do you know what a not-cub is?”

  “Never heard the term, Jared. Why?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, sir. But when I do, I assume I contact Marcie?”

  “You have that right. In the meantime, rest. Marcie will supply you with anything you need.” Mr. Prince got up and left, skirting the stain on the floor. “Waste of coffee that. I hope it never happens again, Mr. Oberi.”

  “No, sir.”

  While he hadn’t been told he couldn’t go home, somehow he thought that wasn’t an option. There were worse things in the world than Marcie as a warden.

  Chapter 66 Robert Scott

  The client that Blackwater had taken on, that Gerund had taken on actually, sat outside a small cabin three mountaintops away from Michael’s. Twenty-four klicks as the crows flew. He was the same shade of black that Michael was, though his hair had greyed and the curls were tighter to his head, cropped closer. This man wore the clothes of a hunter, the red-checked flannel shirt standing out against the white snow. His pants and weather gear just as bright. He liked the colour, made him remember his wife, who’d died what seemed like ages ago.

  On one wrist, there was a watchband, a matte black thing that looked like carbon or some other dark material. It was one of five he'd built. He thought he knew their capabilities, both individually and interlinked. But they’d needed training first. Adaptive training. Knowledge and programming they could only get from men. Robert Scott had thought his son could do that for him. But the trust hadn’t worked out quite right. Four had gone to his son and the three men on his recon team. Ahmed Ariyan’s had been lost in the return of h
is corpse back home. Huer had died in a motorcycle accident, and his P.A.C. unit . . . Robert Scott hadn’t been able to find it. His own unit unable to ping in on the small device. Which should have been impossible.

  Out of his range and lost somehow. The P.A.C. units should have been able to communicate over several systems worldwide. He could only surmise that Michael had put some kind of limit on them.

  And then there was Boyen’s, a belt buckle of all things. That unit didn't change shape. Didn't take commands from his maker the way Robert Scott had programmed it to initially. The damn thing had argued with him over rank and protocols for the first two weeks before he had convinced it to isolate his DNA, and even then it only gave him access to medical mode and most of the communication it had access to, but not all.

  Tiny filaments dug into the skin of the man, sunk deep and always there, feeding him chemicals to keep him alive and fight the cancer that kept eating at him. He never would have thought—when he invented them—that they would bond the way they had. That each of them would react differently to the person who bonded with them.

  He gave orders to the one on his wrist, and it turned into a small hover drone and sped away. In a few moments, it was sending a transmission to the P.A.C. unit on his belt. The hologram it relayed spread out on the snow before him. An Asian woman walking away from his son. She had a crossbred dog with her, a miniature coyote mix. However that had happened. It wasn’t unheard of, not even uncommon. Most of the dogs in North America had some DNA mixed in with their more feral cousins’.

  Behind the woman was Michael’s family—that was the assumption anyway. His grandson looked about six years old. A pack of wolves ranged about in play behind them. How Michael had tamed a wolf pack, Robert Scott didn’t know. Even with all the satellites diverted to this area over the last few months, he’d been unable to keep surveillance in the area and not be identified by Michael’s own P.A.C. Not that he had actually seen it on him. But he hadn’t lost it. Scott was sure of that.

  In the interviews after the war, he’d seen it on his son’s wrist. He’d also seen the confusion on his face whenever someone talked of that war, and what he’d done to stop it.