Zero Factor: A Cybershock Story

by Stacy Gail

  There was no way to sneak anything by a guy like this, Via decided, looking at those giveaway dead-flat eyes. And that meant she was in a compost-load of trouble.

  I never should have left the bubble.

  With an economy of movement that still managed to keep his Widow-Maker in the forefront, the man hunkered down beside her, close enough to make her every nerve ending crawl as far away from this mechanized freak as possible.

  “I asked if you were injured, citizen.” He nodded his jarhead toward her hands, and she noted a jagged scar slicing up from across the bridge of his nose to bisect an eyebrow right down the middle. “I’m well-versed in dressing wounds of all kinds. If you’d let me—”

  “No.” Inside, Via cringed at the tremor in her voice. She didn’t have to have the polygraph/stress software he undoubtedly had onboard to hear her fear. If she wanted to get out of this unscathed, she’d have to do way better than this. “I, uh, just tore my glove on the crate as I fell. It’s nothing.”

  “To not treat an injury is irresponsible, to yourself and to the people who count on you to perform.”

  “Guess I’m not a good little soldier, then,” Via muttered, only to jerk back when he reached for her hand. “Hey—”

  “Let me see.”

  “No!” Panic speared through her like lightning, so fast she had no hope of checking the reflexive reaction. Her free hand grabbed his thumb and pushed hard back into the joint, while every nerve inside her screamed, Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me…

  “What a nice move. Too bad for you it’s on my meched-out side.” Without warning his other hand came up to clamp like a shackle around her wrist, and her heart froze when the heat of his hand soaked through the cuff of her sleeve. He was so close, so very close, with nothing but the thinnest barrier keeping her shielded from physical contact. “Who are you?”

  “Via. Via Brede.” Terror made her throat lock up so completely she was shocked she could make any noise at all. “I…I’m a horticulturist.”

  “You’re more than that.” He gave her wrist a little shake, a vague threat of tremendous physical power held in titanium check. “You’re not what you seem.”

  What little ability she still possessed to breathe squeaked to a stop. He knew. “I-I don’t know what you mean…”

  “Who trained you, Via Brede?”

  “What?” Her panicked thoughts piled into each other like derailed cars in a Maglev train wreck, so much so she could only stare at him. “Wait, you…trained? I don’t—”

  “I’m not into games.” His fingers contracted, a calculated show of force that made her wince while her frantic pulse pounded against his fingers. “You’re no hick bubble-farmer.”

  “I am, I swear! That’s all I’ve been for years, my whole life—”

  “Not your whole life. Just some of it.” He leaned in close, close enough for Via to see his cyberoptics were almost perfect from an aesthetic point of view, with the exception of the flat-light lack of reflection. The iris lenses were a deep morning-glory blue, and in the part of her brain that was slipping into abject hysteria, she wondered if that had once been their natural color. “No hick bubble-farmer walks on the balls of their feet, or knows how to dislocate a thumb with that little quick-release move you just executed—not unless they’ve been trained to fight.”

  Shyte. “Agridome #4 is a lot rougher than you might think.”

  His expression tightened. “Huh. You must think I’m stupid—”

  “Locke, you are out of position!” A rail-thin man marched over to the transport’s open cargo door to glower down at them, and to Via he appeared so stiff she wouldn’t have been surprised if he took a daily dip in starch. A shiver touched her spine at the emptiness of the newcomer’s eyes—real eyes, and not the bionic things the soldier named Locke used to see with. She’d always believed the eyes were the windows to the soul, but if she had to hazard a guess, she’d bet this newcomer didn’t have one. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Colonel Fynn—”

  “Your job is out there, keeping those riot-hungry no-goods from dragging us by the short hairs into anarchy, do you read me?”

  Riot? Bewildered and alarmed anew, Via listened for sounds of chaos around the gates, but all she heard was the hum of the off-loaders and Weddo yelling for Patricio to come help restack the spilled cargo.

  Was there really a danger of a riot?

  If there was, no force on earth would stop her from stringing Weddo up by his toes for dragging her out of the dome.

  The soldier named Locke straightened away from her at last, and she wanted to cry in relief when he dropped her wrist. “Colonel, I believe this worker isn’t what she seems—”

  “You’re worried about one single woman with security clearance, when this whole place could be overrun by a mob of no-good anarchists at any moment? Your neuro-software must have a frigging glitch.”

  “Sir—”

  “You want to focus on a sweet piece of tail, you save it for the Pleasure Palace, soldier.”

  Via’s chin shot up, her fears of riots and being touched forgotten. “Excuse me?”

  “But if you can’t keep it together and be the professional I expect you to be, allow me to get the distraction out of your sight. You,” he barked at Via. “Pick your ass up from there and get into the transport’s cab, double-time.”

  “Uh, okay.” Flabbergasted at the turn of good luck, Via pushed off the floor, but apparently she didn’t move fast enough. Even as she found her feet, the man named Colonel Fynn grabbed her by the hand and yanked her toward the loading dock with all the careless contempt one would use to shove a wayward sheep down a chute. Via would have muttered a curse, but in that moment when Fynn’s hand grabbed hers, the tear in her work glove allowed her skin to touch against his for a fraction of a second.

  For someone like her, a fraction of a second was all it took to make the visions flood in.

  No, not now, please…

  As silent and unnoticed as a ghost, Via found herself in the loading dock beside Colonel Fynn. Surprise moved through her when she realized her vision had taken her only a few minutes from where she knew reality was. Just beyond the transport she could see that most of the spilled crates were now stacked back in their rightful place. Adelaide was flirting with one of the militia members instead of doing her job of downloading the inventory list into the warehouse’s computer. No more than a foot away from her, Weddo apologized to the starch-stiff Fynn, who waved Weddo away as if he were an irritating fly. Via wanted to mutter to the good colonel to loosen the hell up, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. That was the way of it when she was plunged into these horrible visions. There was no choice, no eject button, no way she could call a time-out. All she could do was see a past, present or future that belonged to whatever—or whomever—she touched, and pray that no one noticed when she came out of it.

  Considering she was surrounded by militia, she didn’t like her chances for a clean escape this time around.

  The militia member decked out with cyberoptics—Locke—was once more standing near the mouth of the loading dock, pulse rifle in hand, attention trained on the crowds outside the gates as if his life depended on it. Via then saw just a glimpse of her other self, huddled in the transport’s cab, curled up and looking as though she wanted to disappear.

  Seeing herself through another’s viewpoint. Now that was a new one.

  “I assure you, Colonel, we’re almost out of your hair,” Weddo was saying, his kind face wreathed in a smile that both asked for forgiveness and invited understanding. Via could have told him it was wasted on the likes of Fynn. “If you could just sign off on receiving this delivery…”

  “Fubar delivery from a fubar crew,” Fynn grated, taking the touchpad from Weddo and scrawling the stylus across its surface. “You don’t seem to understand how tenuous things have become here in the city, bubble-farmer. Next time you decide to leave your safe little agridome
to deliver to the militia, try to keep in mind that we’re this close to becoming a war zone, and this mishap could have been construed as a terrorist attack. You’re lucky I didn’t order my men to shoot your entire crew.”

  Weddo swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to write an official report detailing your crew’s unmitigated incompetence,” Fynn went on, and shoved the touchpad at Weddo in a clear sign of dismissal. “My crew was distracted by your people, make no mistake, and in our business distraction kills. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to get the hell out of here before I have a body count on my hands.”

  Weddo mumbled an indistinct farewell and did a quick fade back to the transport just as another militia member eased up next to the colonel.

  “Colonel Fynn, the no-goods seem to be dispersing.”

  “Oh?” The colonel’s sharp eyes looked out past the loading bay. Then he nodded once, as though coming to a decision. “Armstrong, I need you to try and hose down Kyloe. That little blonde whore has made him forget where he is. I’m counting on you to make him remember, in no uncertain terms.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jaw locked, Fynn headed toward the edge of the loading dock where Locke stood while Weddo tried to get a sullen Patricio into the transport a few feet away. Locked in the vision that was Fynn’s future, Via had no choice but to move along with him.

  “Locke.” Hands folded behind his back, Fynn gave the area a quick once-over. “Any problems to report?”

  “Sir. No, sir. It’s getting late, so most of this mob is probably headed back to the shelters for the night.”

  “I agree with that assessment.” Reaching into his pocket, the colonel offered the younger man what looked to be a cigar. Tobacco was one of the scarcest commodities on the planet, so Via could only stare at it, impressed in spite of herself at the unexpected gesture of apology from a man who epitomized the term hard-ass. “I just wanted to say I know you’d never shirk your duty, Locke. Duty to the citizens of this territory and, of course, your personal duty to me.”

  For his part, Locke kept it laser-locked on the people beyond the gate while he tucked the cigar into his breast pocket. “Damn straight, Colonel. There’s no sacrifice too great that a Lifer won’t make.”

  “You’ve always been one of my best Lifers, Locke—a good soldier through and through.” With that, Fynn turned abruptly away and moved with surprising alacrity to the end of the transport just as a huffy-looking Adelaide bounced over to load into the transport.

  As Via glanced over her shoulder at Locke, the meched-out militia man’s cyberoptics narrowed. “Colonel, wait—”

  A blinding flash of white-yellow light dazzled her vision, and a deafening explosion a nanosecond later rocked the building. The heat of it washed over her like a blistering breath from Hell, while the concussive force threatened to turn the air molecules inside out. A flash of fire billowed outward, only to collapse as if swallowing itself whole in the very spot where Locke had been standing. Dust, smoke and shouts all around turned the scene into chaos, and for one surreal moment Via stared at where she knew the militia man had been, but now only a crater and a boot remained.

  A boot that still had…something…in it.

  Her gorge rose along with a mind-fracturing horror, and she turned blindly away, only to have her terrified eyes assaulted with something she could not comprehend. Weddo. She knew what he looked like as well as she knew herself. So why…why couldn’t she understand what he looked like now? Why couldn’t she see what was missing?

  Missing.

  Oh God, half of Weddo was missing.

  The need to vomit was overwhelming, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All she had was the merciless curse of seeing.

  Seeing Patricio lying in pieces and wedged halfway under the transport.

  Seeing Adelaide scream a never-ending scream while her burned face began to blister and slide off bone before she too fell to the ground.

  Seeing, as Colonel Fynn pushed to feet he’d been knocked off of, his hand on the smart-link strapped to his wrist before yelling, “It’s an insurgency! Fire at will! Fire at will, we’re under attack!”

  Seeing her other self—perfectly fine in that hellish nightmare—burst from the transport, her face green with shock, only to be grabbed by Colonel Fynn while his militia opened fire on the people outside the Zapper fence.

  “You saw what happened, didn’t you?” There was a ferocious light in his eyes while the screaming began and bodies started falling in the street. “I’ll need you to give a full account of what happened. You read me, girl? You owe me after I sent you into the transport and saved your pitiful life.”

  “I… Weddo… Those people…”

  “You know I saved you. You know you owe me.” He gave her a fierce shake. “The least you can do now is help me make sense of all the loss we suffered here today. I lost a good man, and of course my heart breaks for your loss. But we can avenge them. Today, we go to war!”

  War, Via thought, watching the hideous, blood-washed vision finally fade under the weight of blessed reality. How could such a terrible thing like a war be started so easily?

  This was turning into one craptastic day, Locke thought on a short sigh. At least it couldn’t get any worse. Nothing could be worse than getting accused of falling down on his duty to protect the citizenry of the New West Coast. From the time he was ten years old, it had been drummed into his head that there was nothing more important to a Lifer than that. No sacrifice was too great that a Lifer won’t make for the citizens he protected. Everything else was a zero factor.

  His attention slid toward the woman who moved like a ninja, now sitting statue-still in the transport’s cab. Via Brede. For what it was worth, she looked like all sorts of hell. That alone made him even more convinced there was something about the lady that his cyberoptics couldn’t see. Only someone who had something to hide reacted the way she did when confronted with the militia.

  But she wasn’t wanted, nor did she have any kind of record. Maybe she’d gotten hold of some bad propaganda about the militia. Locke frowned as he scanned the thinning crowds beyond the gates. Now that was a possibility. Though no one liked to talk about it, back in the day when the world was an unstable cesspool filled with violence and anarchy, the beginnings of the militia had been little more than roving rape-gangs with self-proclaimed authority that came at the end of a gun. But it hadn’t been that way for decades now. Order had crawled out of that chaos, and basic humanity was something people had begun to remember. The militias of UNAS fought and lived and died to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

  Too bad Via Brede didn’t seem to know that.

  Despite his best efforts to keep his attention laser-locked on his duty, Locke glanced once more at the green-eyed woman, only to find her looking right at him with an expression that seemed to somehow scream in silence, and the intensity of it surprised him. Shyte, did she really fear him that much?

  Apparently.

  It didn’t matter, Locke told himself while an unnamed discomfort squirmed in his chest. The terror in her eyes wasn’t his frigging problem. What mattered was that she was safe in her little agridome bubble thanks to the militias. He sure as hell didn’t do his job so the likes of Via Brede would be appreciative of the peace he and others like him sacrificed so much to achieve. He did it because no one else would. So what if all he ever received from the citizenry was resentment and mistrust? So what if Via Brede looked at him as if he were a monster? What she thought of him didn’t matter.

  He just wished she’d stop looking at him like he ate babies for breakfast.

  Out of the corner of his vision he saw Colonel Fynn scowling at one of his men flirting with the buxom blonde agridomer, before he turned in Locke’s direction. Determined to make up for his earlier lapse, Locke trained his attention on the perimeter, though it was obvious the disheartened crowd was dispersing and off to look for greener pastures. No doubt many of them wou
ld wind up waiting in line at the shelters for MREs, he thought, idly listening to the male agridomers argue as they headed toward the transport. But as awful as those MREs were, at least it was better than starving to death.

  “Locke.” Colonel Fynn came to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, his all-seeing eyes giving the area an eagle-eyed sweep. “Any problems to report?”

  Glad of the normal tone, Locke stood at attention. “Sir. No, sir. It’s getting late, so most of this mob is probably headed back to the shelters for the night.” He wouldn’t speak of the raw-boned woman holding a baby who had collapsed near the southwest edge of the perimeter, or of a raggedy child who had cried out of sheer exhaustion and hunger, with no one in the mob sparing him so much as a glance.

  These observations, after all, were nothing more than zero factors.

  “I agree with that assessment.” The colonel nodded once before reaching into his pocket for a cigar. Surprise moved through Locke when his commander offered it to him. The colonel knew as well as anyone that smoking was prohibited amongst the Lifers. “I just wanted to say that I know you’d never shirk your duty, Locke. Duty to the citizens of this territory and, of course, your personal duty to me.”

  On automatic, Locke lifted his hand to accept the peace offering. “Damn straight, Colonel—”