Woven

by Elle E. Ire

“YOUR BOSS is making this hard,” I mutter as Robert and I put more distance between ourselves and the safest way out. The betrayed look on Kelly’s face is imprinted on my mind in its implant-enhanced perfect clarity.

  “This was your plan all along.”

  Not my plan, no. But that doesn’t mean my bosses didn’t have this in mind.

  From the moment his greedy, controlling, scarred image appeared on our transport’s vidscreen, laying down the rules for our arrival, I thought I was going to kill Jacks. In general, I don’t like assassination jobs. This is different.

  This is personal. Jacks is never enslaving anyone again.

  I glance to my right, where Robert strides with purpose and determination, his jaw set in a hard line that mars his otherwise attractive features. Definitely hadn’t planned on doing this with a member of the OWLs as backup.

  The bombardment from above continues, though the booms and rumbles echo from farther away—supply storage areas, security team quarters. Dust and pebbles shower us in a gray/brown mist with each distant explosion. The remaining working lights flicker off, then on again. Robert pulls a small but powerful flashlight from his belt.

  If I use my eye lamps, I’ll scare the living shit out of him. A chuckle threatens to erupt from my throat, but I swallow it down. Better to save that bit of fun for when it’s really necessary.

  We aren’t the only ones in the tunnels, but we are the only ones alive. We pass a number of corpses collapsed against the walls, sprawled across the walkway: staff members, buyers, the occasional slave who wasn’t in their quarters when the end came. Those hurt. We knew there would be casualties we didn’t intend. We tried to minimize them. But we had to do this in one quick strike before Jacks moved his base elsewhere. The ones lying face-up are the worst, with their blue faces, distended throats, and sightless eyes. More nightmare fuel, like I don’t have enough of that already. The facedown victims aren’t much better, since any female form bearing a passing resemblance in hair length and physical build to Secretary Hothart or her daughter, Cynthia, necessitates Robert toeing the body onto its back so he can be certain it isn’t either of them.

  Every few minutes, he tries his commlink to Hothart with no success, while I maintain communications with the strike force, but the signal is spotty even with VC1’s assistance, and the primary messages I can make out between bursts of static, from the boss man Carl, himself, are “What the fuck are you doing?” and “Get the fuck out of there, now.”

  The direct order should override my vendetta. It doesn’t. Which implies that the board implanted Jacks’s death as a secret secondary objective even Carl isn’t aware of. And now I’m wondering if my murderous intent is my own or a byproduct of the programming.

  I am so fucked-up.

  I’m attempting to send a curt reply when Robert, who’s gotten a turn in the passage ahead of me, gives a startled yelp followed by one of his colorful strings of inelegant yet appropriate curses, this time involving oversexed plant life and flat beer. I cut my connection to Carl and race forward, almost colliding with my temporary partner running toward me.

  “What is it?” I ask, eyes narrowed. He’s paler than pale, the shaking in his limbs having nothing to do with the cold. The only color in his cheeks is greenish gray, and for a moment I fear he’s going to puke on the rock floor at my feet.

  I take a step backward, in case.

  What could make a highly trained member of Earth’s most elite security force toss his metaphorical cookies?

  Robert swallows once, twice, his Adam’s apple bobbing while mind overcomes stomach matter. “You don’t want to know,” he manages, voice hoarse.

  I disregard the warning and stride past him, turning the corner into a dimmer passageway and almost tripping over the corpse sprawled across the corridor. The lights flick off, then on, and even with my enhanced eyesight, I’m scrambling to adjust. At first I notice nothing more grotesque about this body than all the rest.

  Until my vision clears.

  In stunned silence, I study the face. The young blond woman is beautiful in a sweet way that embodies innocence. In fact, she looks a lot like— “Kelly,” I breathe softly. But that isn’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. Someone or something has torn open the skimpy lace-up bodice (a slave, then) and carved deep into each ample breast with something very sharp.

  The short skirt also bears rough, hastily made tearing, but I don’t follow the damage any farther. My brain registers bloodstains on the victim’s lower half, and that’s quite enough. I can’t help overlapping Kelly’s face onto the girl. Bile rises in my throat. I force it down. Embarrassing myself in front of Robert won’t help.

  It’s not her. I know it’s not. But the resemblance puts me on edge. I trigger my internal comm. “Kel? You out? You okay?”

  Nothing.

  Too much interference from the attacking force, VC1 explains.

  I nod, more to myself than in acknowledgment. If I want to assuage my anxiety, I’ll need to finish my business down here that much faster.

  I sense rather than see the OWL move to stand beside me. When I turn, he’s staring straight ahead into the darkness of this side tunnel rather than down at the body. “It’s butchery. Pre or postmortem?” he asks me, like I would know.

  “Do I look like a doctor to—”

  Both, VC1 says, her voice bouncing between my ears. Some before death, some after. And recent. After the loss of atmosphere. A few feet away, I spot a discarded breather mask with its strap snapped in two and nod.

  “The implants say both and not long ago,” I tell my partner, who’s staring at me quizzically. “Someone down here is a sicker fuck than the rest.”

  “If it was a person at all. Some kind of cave-dwelling creature, maybe? Those lizard-dragons I’ve heard talk about?”

  I snort in response. He wasn’t on the raft with us when we crossed the underground lake. He doesn’t know I’ve got personal experience with the little flying bastards.

  I shake my head. “Not animal. At least I don’t think so. Those slices in the… torso… are clean and precise. A bladed weapon of some kind.” Or really smooth narrow claws, but the lizards’ talons were curved, not straight, and we aren’t close to the lake, so it wasn’t them. The other injuries, judging from the brownish-red stains on the skirt, I refuse to speculate on out loud. I swallow hard, mentally kicking myself for judging Robert earlier. This is definitely puke-worthy, especially with my history.

  When something stumbles out of the darkness, I almost shoot it. I jerk my gun arm to the side, then down, and move to help Robert grab the two women hanging on to each other, barely keeping their feet.

  “Secretary Hothart! Thank God.” Robert eases the older woman to the floor while I take her daughter, Cynthia, by one arm.

  “She can’t breathe,” the girl informs me matter-of-factly, no panic, no concern. Her voice is monotone, the resemblance to VC1’s speech making me take a closer look at her. Pale face, blank stare. Her motions are lethargic, like she’s on autopilot. It’s not the drugs. Those would have worn off by now, especially with all the adrenaline that must be racing through her system. It’s the trauma. Good thing her political connections will get her the best treatment money can buy.

  I hope it’s enough.

  “She’s right,” Robert says, bending down beside Secretary Hothart. “This breather’s got a hole in it, and the converter is crushed.” He points to a tear in the woman’s mask and the dented two-inch-long canister hanging from it.

  Moving fast, I retrieve the dead woman’s mask, make short work of yanking its torn strap free, and replace it with the strap from the secretary’s breather. Then I slip it over her head.

  She heaves a few wheezing breaths, settling into a smoother pattern after a few moments. Nodding her thanks, she allows Robert to draw her to her feet. I’m standing between them and the mutilated body behind me, blocking as much of their view as possible. Robert guides them both around the corner, away from the gruesome s
ight.

  “Sorry,” I whisper before leaving the slave girl’s body behind. “I failed you.”

  An image of all the rescued men and women going up on the freight elevator fills my inner display.

  None of that matters to her, I tell my counterpart.

  The display goes dark.

  We reach the cavern with the underground lake without running into anyone else alive. Robert and the two women step through the archway. I don’t. “You’re not coming?”

  “Rescue and destruction were only half my assignment,” I say through clenched teeth. It’s cold in here even for me, but that’s not the only reason.

  “You’re really here to assassinate Jacks.”

  I nod. One more bit of my soul chipped away. He doesn’t need to know it was a last-minute addition. He wouldn’t understand how that works. “I need confirmation he’s dead. I don’t have it.” I turn back toward the darkness and the guest and staff lodgings, then pause with an afterthought. “You’re gonna need to leave your pistol and anything else significant made of metal you’re carrying,” I tell Robert. “The lizard-dragons will go after you if you don’t.”

  He raises an eyebrow, his hands fumbling with the ropes tying the raft to the dock. Fortunate that it was on this side of the lake. “You’re serious?”

  I unzip enough of my stealth suit to reveal the healing scars. “Dead serious.”

  He leaves his gun with me. I attach it to my belt.

  “Thank you for your assistance,” he says. “I know the secretary wasn’t part of your mission. If you need anything, I owe you one.”

  An OWL owes me. How about that? “You wanna pay me back? Lean on your bosses to give me basic human rights.”

  Before he can respond, I jog off the way we came, back into the darkness.

  It swallows me whole. The power’s down farther in, and I activate my infrared vision. Everything becomes tinged with blood.

  Geez, where the fuck did that imagery come from?

  VC1 sends me an image of myself with vampire teeth, droplets of red hanging from each pointy fang.

  Not the best time for your humorous side, I tell her.

  I am still learning the nuances of your human interactions. With practice, I will master them.

  I chuckle under my breath. Yeah, you just might.

  She says nothing else, but I get a sense of pride, almost in the way I feel Kelly’s emotions through our bond. This relationship between me and VC1 just gets weirder and weirder.

  Continuing down the tunnel, I pause at every juncture to check my corners. Jacks might be dead, but whoever mangled that poor slave is in here somewhere. And I have a feeling the slave boss is alive. If anyone would have quick and easy access to a fully functional breather mask, it would be him, and to hell with everyone else.

  I go a few more steps before VC1 says, My fragment in the installation security system says we have company coming. Not, “I am detecting another lifeform.” Yeah, she is getting more human every day.

  “Is it Jacks?”

  I can determine motion, but not details. The lighting is too dim.

  “Thanks,” I subvocalize, then drop into a crouch. My enhanced hearing picks up the footsteps a second later, echoing in odd counterpoint to the ongoing distant explosions and rumblings. I suppress a shiver at the continuing temperature drop and hold position. It could be anyone, so I holster my weapons. When the red-glowing heat signature turns the corner, I tackle it to the ground.

  We roll over and over until we slam into the opposite wall. “What the hell?” says the figure beneath me.

  I’d recognize that arrogant tone anywhere. “Hello, Jacks.”

  Chapter 20: Kelly—Missing

  Vick is alone.

  AS SOON as the freight elevator raises us to the surface of the small moon, Alex, Lyle, and I usher our rescuees through the empty façade buildings to where Storm transports have blasted their way into the landing hangar. Backup teams meet us halfway, picking up and carrying most of the drugged, freezing victims, who can barely take another step. I’m not much better off, but I refuse Alex’s offer of a shoulder to lean on. I do accept a heavy parka from one of the similarly dressed mercs, and a fresh breather apparatus.

  When we reach the hangar, I head straight for the guest elevator… where three shivering figures watch me approach.

  Three. And it doesn’t take me long to figure out that none of them are Vick.

  I pick up my pace, not pausing until I can wrap my hands around the lapels of Robert’s jacket. “Where is she?” I shout into his stunned expression. Yes, this little empath has claws, especially when it comes to Vick. “What happened?”

  He tells me, prying my fingers gently but firmly away from his clothing. With each word he utters, my eyebrows rise higher.

  “You left her? Alone? You just left her down there?”

  The mine is collapsing in on itself. I overheard the mercs talking about it as they passed us. It won’t be long before the entire installation is one big underground pile of rubble and dust.

  “Your partner is rather persuasive,” Robert says. Two medics arrive and take Secretary Hothart and her daughter to a waiting ship. He moves to go with them, but I grab on to his arm. “Really, you need to stop doing that. I merely wanted to fetch a warmer coat and get a replacement weapon. I’m not taking off just yet.”

  I let him go, realizing my panic isn’t helping anyone prepare to go back down there for Vick. I reach out with my empathic sense, but she’s too far away. I can’t sense her at all. Or she’s already dead.

  No. Peering at the flooring at my feet, I can just make out a faint blue line that disappears beneath the surface. She’s alive. But she might be hurt or captured. And she’s alone.

  I pull my comm off my belt and try to reach her. Nothing but static answers my call.

  If she gets out of this one, I’m marrying her as soon as we return to the base. Legal or not, we’re having a wedding. I’m making her mine in everyone’s but the lawmakers’ eyes. Before I lose her again.

  “Let me get some additional firepower. Don’t worry. We’ll find her,” Robert says, reminding me he’s still here.

  I grit my teeth. If he doesn’t hurry, I swear I’m going to punch him the way Vick taught me—no holding back, going for the most damage I can inflict in one blow.

  Something whispers that this aggression is unlike me, and I should worry where it’s coming from, but I ignore the concern. This is Vick. She needs backup. The Storm and everyone else put so much faith in her skill set, and it’s well-deserved, but no one should be expected to overcome such odds all the time. The Storm is supposed to be a team.

  Alex and Lyle jog up behind me, having delivered their charges to the transports. Alex has a medical bag and a repair kit slung over one shoulder. They pass a coat to Robert, and Lyle gives him an extra pistol. At least Alpha Team is on this. “Vick go after Jacks alone?” Lyle asks.

  “Indeed,” Robert admits, shrugging into the insulated parka. He depresses a button on its exterior. Red lines light up throughout the material, extending across the front and back and down both arms.

  I stare at him, then find my own button and press it. Additional warmth floods my frozen body.

  “Self-heating,” Alex explains.

  “Where is Vick?” I ask again.

  Robert repeats his explanation, admitting that he wanted to go with her. “I’d like to take a few shots at that bastard Jacks myself, but someone had to see the secretary and her daughter to safety, and that duty was mine.”

  He’s right. I know he’s right. It would have been irresponsible of him to leave the two inexperienced women to fend for themselves. They could have run into more guards on the other side of the lake from where Robert says he left Vick, or on the elevator, or even up here.

  “I did send the raft back to her,” he says. “Or I sent it in that direction. It’s got a deadman’s pedal, but I held it down with a chunk of stone. It should bump the opposite shore and run
onto the rocks. With her strength, I’m sure she can manage a push-off.”

  If. If. If. If she’s not hurt. If the raft doesn’t just stop in the middle of the water. If the entire complex doesn’t collapse before she can get away. I make an exasperated sound, then stomp off a few feet away to regain my composure.

  After giving me a minute, Alex eases up beside me. He rests a tentative hand on my shoulder. “She’s very capable of taking care of herself,” he says, echoing Vick’s own words only an hour or so ago. Has it been that little time? “We’re going down there, but she’ll be fine. Are you okay? You’re usually calmer than this.”

  “I—” What is wrong with me? When Vick’s in trouble, I’m not calm. I’m panicking on the inside. But he’s right. I don’t show it like I am now. If it’s really bad, my empathy takes me out of the equation altogether and I go into emotion shock. If I can function, I’m cool-headed. So what is going on?

  A surge of aggression and frustration blasts me then, like a shuttle’s backdraft on takeoff, and I spin around, shaking off Alex’s hand and searching the hangar for the source of the powerful emotions. At first I wonder if it could be coming from Vick, but no. The blue thread representing our connection still drops below the taxiing tarmac surface of the flooring, and the balance of feelings… it’s similar to Vick’s signature aura, but it’s not her. It’s wrong. It’s unstable.

  Like what I picked up in the underground installation.

  Whomever it’s coming from, the emotional output is strong enough to break through the barrier of the dampening drugs Vick gave me.

  I scan all the figures milling about, too many to pinpoint the source. Most have the hoods up on their jackets, keeping in as much warmth as possible in the absence of heat shields, and those who don’t still have their faces partially obscured by the breather masks. There’s no one familiar, though I’m not sure why I expect the person producing those emotions to be someone I’d recognize. Emotional responses aren’t connected to physical appearance. And yet….

  “Kelly?” Alex says.