Woven

by Elle E. Ire

  I jump. He’s right there. I knew he was right there. He still startles me. I need to get a grip on myself or I’ll be no use to Vick when she comes back. And she will come back. She always does, even from death, just in varying states of mental and physical health. She’ll need me.

  Someday she won’t. There may not be more clones. Someday, the Storm will send her to a permanent end. What are you going to do then, Kelly? Hmm? You’re deep, deep in with her and there’s no turning back. When she does die, you’ll die too, even if your body goes on living.

  I tell the voice in my head to shut up.

  “I’m fine,” I assure Alex. “Just worried. When you go back down there, I’m going with you.”

  He looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it and gives me a solemn nod. I follow him to the guest elevator and climb aboard with him and Lyle and Robert. The moment we drop beneath the surface once more, the emotional onslaught ends.

  So now I have some idea of where my unusual aggression is coming from.

  At least it can’t affect Vick unless she’s in physical contact with me and the source is still in the vicinity. She’s not an empath.

  Chapter 21: Vick—Karma

  I deserve what I get.

  JACKS IS armed. So I disarm him. He’s out of breath and disoriented from my tackle. Knocking the pistol from his grasp takes little effort. It goes skittering off into the deeper darkness of the tunnel and vanishes from my infrared view.

  He’s also got infrared goggles on, so I yank them off and toss them aside as well. Don’t need him figuring out who I really am. I have no intention of letting him leave this facility alive, but I’m not taking chances.

  “Valeria,” he pants through the breather mask. It comes out as a wheeze. I may have damaged the device or I may have damaged him. I don’t much care either way. “Are you angry about the drug sample I gifted you with? Really, Valeria, the men in the room recognized a boon when they received one. People will pay a fortune to feel that good.”

  “You didn’t warn anyone. And your ‘formula’ isn’t calibrated for female biology. It hurts women, Jacks. You hurt me. That’s not easy to do. And you’re going to pay for it.”

  Jacks struggles against me, then gives a grunt of surprise when he can’t shake me off. Yeah, I’ve got VC1-enhanced strength, an adrenaline burst keeping me in firm control of my captive.

  A wave of rage heats my face and roils through my body, my red-tinged vision having nothing to do with my night sight. I think of the captive men and women and slug him in the jaw. I picture their glazed, drugged eyes and obedient compliance and punch him in the gut. I remember the look of lustful intensity while he watched the drug’s effect on me, grab him by the hair, and slam his head into the stone floor.

  He shouts with pain. Something warm and sticky runs over my knuckles, forming a darker puddle in the wavering shadows around his face. His grip on my arms slackens, not that it had affected my range of motion before, but his hands fall away to drop to his sides with dull, meaty thuds.

  The strings of lights lining the tunnel ceiling flicker on, blinding me for half an instant before I can switch off the infrared view. I stand, one boot on either side of his torso, staring down in ultimate judgment. He’s still conscious, but his gaze wavers, eyes blinking too fast like he’s trying to clear his vision and failing.

  I think of the insufficient safety measures in place in this godforsaken hole, the lack of enough breathers for everyone, draw back one boot, and kick him in the ribs. They crunch beneath the impact. He screams in agony. My mind registers the sound, but my emotions are far, far away, buried beneath my suppressors that at some point I ordered on full.

  I picture the cold, dead eyes of the other buyers, eyes probably not unlike my own right now, but I’m too far gone to consider the implications—the way they analyzed each curve, bulge, blemish, imperfection, gave them numerical values, calculated their worth. What should they bid? What bargains might they strike? And Jacks, raising and lowering his asking prices as he evaluated his semicaptive audience and his fully captive merchandise.

  Uncoiling the electrowhip from my shoulder, I step to the side and give it a few practice cracks against the stone walls. The sound snaps Jacks to attention, whatever damage I did to his skull shaken off as his eyes narrow at me. He makes half a move to rise, groans, and flops to the floor.

  It takes several tries to get the hang of the unfamiliar weapon. Leaning forward or back, moving my feet, all result in the end of the whip falling harmlessly to the stone like a man’s flaccid member, with no visible or audible impact. Same thing goes for too much wrist motion. It takes a smooth arc of my arm to produce the desired crack of sound, and my heart beats faster, excitement at my success coursing through me, with each echo of it.

  Once I’ve got it, I flick the switch on the whip’s handle and light it the fuck up.

  Jacks moans in despair while his eyes trace the flicker of blue-white electrical energy moving along the length of tightly wound leather. I stand at his feet and remember.

  Crack—for the way your dick hardened when Cynthia felt the touch of one of these weapons. I land the first blow across his torso right where I broke his ribs. Jacks howls. Crack—for how the whip made me feel, under the influence of his enhancement drug. The weapon strikes his tearstained cheek, forcing him to jerk his concussed skull away. His eyes widen, then close. I kick him to regain his attention.

  And finally, crack, crack, crack at the juncture of his trembling legs for making me beg Kelly to bring me to orgasm, forcing her to degrade herself on her fucking knees beneath the table in the dining cavern, whether she saw it that way or not.

  Never, ever would I have wanted to put her in that sort of mental and physical position. Never, ever will I forgive the man who did put her there.

  He screams and screams, writhing beneath the whip’s electrified caress, pain warring with pleasure, back arching so his wounded head presses hard into the stone. Blood pours. Blood pools.

  “Stop, please, stop.” Shivers run the length of Jacks’s body. “I’ll pay retribution. I’ll cut you a special deal. Any of my stock.”

  “Your stock is dead,” I growl, not recognizing the sound of my own voice. “Your human beings are dead.”

  “Not my fault,” he argues. “I didn’t launch this attack.”

  My hand freezes, whip held aloft, ready to bring down once more. No. I did.

  Most of them, the great majority of them, survived. They are safe. Above ground. With others in the working breathers finding their way to the remaining elevator even now. VC1 slices through my hesitation, her voice snapping me into focus. You did not enslave them. You did not bring them here. You did not hold them against their will. You are not to blame for those who died. Do not let the fact that you possess a human conscience dissuade you from ending a man who does not.

  All the images hit me in a rush, slaves and sex, lightning and Rodwell, airlocks, explosions, and beneath it all, my helplessness to change a single goddamned thing, my impotence, my bondage to the Storm. My utter lack of choice.

  I flick the switch to a higher setting, moving the whip from the power output of a pleasure-pain sex toy to a true torture device. Jacks screams again and again, his eyes never leaving the play of electrical fire racing up and down the cord. When the sound of his voice annoys me, I press my boot on his throat, cutting off his air from the mask he wears. Then I unleash the whip upon him.

  If Kelly could see me now, I would terrify her.

  I don’t know how much time passes. I should. My internal chronometer is infallible when I’m functioning, but I’m not really functioning, am I? All I know is that VC1 eventually cuts through the haze of blind rage I’ve plunged into.

  Stop. You need to stop. He is dead and has been for three point four minutes. Your actions are a waste of useful energy.

  I will my arm to cease its motion, but the whip touches down twice more before I succeed. I’m out of breath, panting into the br
eather, the whine from its cannister telling me I’m overtaxing its abilities to produce enough air for my heaving lungs.

  My vision clears, focusing on the destruction I’ve wrought upon the body.

  A bizarre calm settles over me. With extreme precision, I flick off the power and coil the whip, then loop it over my neck and shoulder. I step to the nearest wall and brace myself against it with one forearm. My other hand removes the mask from my face so I can heave the contents of my stomach onto the stone.

  This is worse, so much, much worse than what I did to Rodwell. Worse than whoever attacked that slave girl Robert found. It’s like something took over my mind, my body, my—I won’t think “soul.” How can I possibly have one after what I just did? How am I any different from that monster dismembering small children that I took out a few weeks ago?

  Those children did not deserve what was done to them, VC1 murmurs in the back of my mind.

  I risk another glance at what remains of Jacks and swallow hard. No one deserves what I just did, either.

  I would disagree. However, I do not possess your human perspective.

  I’m not sure my current perspective is entirely human.

  Violent tremors wrack my body. Not the cold. Something much deeper, primal. I can’t move, and VC1 takes control of my arm and forces me to replace the breathing apparatus over my mouth and nose before I suffocate. Am I redlining?

  My medical analysis display appears in my inner sight, seven of the ten indicators well into the red zone. And VC1 is no longer verbally responding, meaning she’s overtaxed and needed elsewhere.

  Another tremor rocks me, and it takes a moment for me to realize this one is external. The entire cave system shifts, tossing me against one wall, then to the floor like a dog’s discarded chew toy. I throw my arms over my head, protecting myself from a shower of stones, shattered lightbulbs, and a security camera come loose from its ceiling clamps.

  A new terror grips me, almost as bad as my horror over my actions—I’m about to face one of my worst fears. I’m going to be buried alive.

  The freight elevator. Is it still reachable?

  No verbal response, but a blurry image of the service lift, crushed, its gate thrown into the corridor, comes up on my internal display. VC1 must have captured the shot through one of the few remaining working security cameras.

  I’m going to have to use the primary guest elevator.

  I stagger down the tunnel, taking the turns more by feel, careening off the walls to remain upright as I race time to get to people who can help me—Kelly and the Storm’s medical personnel. Thoughts come in dramatic polarized waves, slowing me, then propelling me forward. What will Kelly think of me when she connects, when she feels the horror and terror of what I’ve done? Will she finally see me for the monster I am? Which step is one too far for our relationship?

  I slow down.

  VC1 pushes me on.

  Static erupts in my head, communications attempting to break through interference and layers upon layers of rock. Kelly or Carl or one of the other Storm mercs trying to reach me.

  Or something else. VC1 sounds strained.

  Why would she push herself to communicate right now? She must be struggling just to keep me alive.

  It may reduce your stress if you understand the cause of your actions. Reducing your stress would be helpful to me.

  I know the cause. I’m a horrible excuse for less than half a human being. But she has my attention, what’s left of it. Gritting my teeth, I tell her, “Go on.” Speaking out loud helps me focus, at least a little. I’m almost to the lake. Not sure what I’m gonna do when I get there. Robert took the raft. If no one has come to back me up, I’m really screwed.

  There are… transmissions… from an unknown source. Tracing has proved unsuccessful. They may be influencing you.

  Or it might be wishful thinking, if an AI is capable of such. I shake my head. It makes me dizzier, and I trip on the uneven surface, stumbling three steps before I regain some balance. “Nothing’s influencing me. I do violent things. I have nightmares and hallucinations of doing more violent things. Sooner or later, I was gonna cross the line again.”

  Will this be the line Kelly won’t be able to pull me back from?

  Chapter 22: Kelly—Helpless Abandon

  Vick needs help.

  THE GUEST elevator reaches the bottom of the shaft, depositing us where we began this crazy mission, except the scene below is much worse for wear. There’s power, which is nothing short of miraculous, but the explosions, even distant as they are, have shaken many of the hanging lights loose from their wires. Their shattered bulbs cover the tunnel floor in diamondlike glittering sparkles, catching the glow from the lights that remain.

  There are bodies here too. Corpses that, according to Robert, weren’t present when he and the secretary and her daughter ascended only moments ago. One guard’s unbreathing figure lies with his arm outstretched toward the lift’s controls. He must have died knowing that he was within inches of his salvation. My natural empathy cries for him, even with him being our enemy, though my psychic ability picks up no trace of his emotional state at the time of his death. It’s been too many minutes, and I was too far away for the impact to reach me.

  “What happened?” I ask as Robert and Lyle use their strength to flip the body. He’s wearing a breather. There’s no sign of external injuries.

  Alex bends down and removes the mask from the bluish-tinged face. He swings the medkit off his shoulder, removes a scanner, and aims it at the body. I look away. “His breather failed,” Alex says. “Well, it ran out of power. These older models don’t hold a lot of charge, and considering the poor maintenance Jacks was supplying, all the ones down here are probably running out about now. They were designed to get people to the surface and a ship with its own artificial atmosphere and no longer than that.”

  I experience a moment of panic for Vick, then remember that I gave her a Storm-issued breather that should be fine for several more hours.

  Except she’s not fine. The dampening drugs are wearing off. Adrenaline makes me burn through them faster, and I’ve had a lot of that. My senses are prickling at the back of my neck. Goose bumps rise up and down my arms beneath the parka, though I’ve got the built-in heater turned up to full. “We need to hurry,” I tell our group.

  Lyle opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it. He’s probably remembering Vick’s irritation when we showed up to “rescue” her from Robert and she had it under control. But she’s not in control now. I’m certain of it.

  Without waiting for agreement, I set off at a brisk pace along the corridor toward the lake, not even bothering to check corners or use caution. If the breathers are all failing, I doubt anyone will be putting up any resistance at this point. To my satisfaction, the men fall into step behind me. I wonder if Vick feels this way about being in charge.

  My unease increases all the way to the end of the still and silent dock. Though we have minimal light on our side of the lake, the opposite shore is shrouded in complete darkness. Somewhere in the distance, heavy crashing sounds echo over the water.

  Alex presses one finger to his ear, frowns while listening to whoever is on the other end of his comm unit, and shifts his attention to us. “The boss broke through the interference. The entire installation is caving in on itself. Scans say we’ve got twenty, maybe thirty minutes to retrieve Vick and get out.”

  I nod, then stare across the water. Nothing. No sloshing or splashing, no calls for help, no bobbing lights to indicate she’s on her way. But my anxiety is spiking in response to hers, and the blue glow of the line that connects us burns bright and fierce, stretching over the glossy black liquid surface.

  Then, “There!” Alex shouts. He’s pulled a set of macrobinoculars from inside his jacket, and he’s got them trained on something out on the lake.

  I strain my eyesight to spot what he’s seeing. Nothing… nothing…. Two pinpricks of light appear, at this distance a millimeter ap
art, but I know what they are—Vick’s eye lamps.

  “What the—?” Robert says, incredulous. “Are those her… eyes?”

  “Deal with it,” Lyle growls, cracking his knuckles. “She’s ours.”

  Even in these dire circumstances, I can’t suppress a smile at that.

  A few moments later, the blurred shape of the raft crawls into view, a single figure at the helm, crouched down low, keeping close to the rail, no other sign of life aboard. I wave my arms. We all do, but she doesn’t return the gesture, and I hope it’s because she’s too intent on guiding the craft across rather than due to some injury she’s sustained.

  When she’s a little closer, about halfway, her stress and guilt become more than I can literally stand, and I allow myself to sink to the wood of the dock, Lyle’s hand on my shoulder. She’s done something. Something she feels horrible about, or something she perceives she should feel guilty over. Vick’s always been heavy on the self-punishment and blame even when she doesn’t deserve it.

  I’ve also seen her lose control.

  It then occurs to me that if topside can reach us, I should be able to contact Vick, so I pull my comm and flip it open, transmitting to her personal code. She answers on the first buzz.

  “Kel? That you?” She sounds tired, worn out even, but not in pain.

  “Yes,” I say on an exhale of relief. “We don’t have much time. Can that thing go faster?”

  A pause, and I spot some slight movement on the raft, the beams cast by her eyes shifting with her motion. “No. Even if it could, I don’t want to attract attention.”

  I frown. Everyone else is dead. Attention from—oh. The flying kind. Right. “Wouldn’t they be dead without breathable air?”

  “They’re native to this moon. We’re not entirely without oxygen, by the way. It’s just thinner than we can take, but not the lizard things. They were here before the mining company opened this facility, and they’ll likely last long after we’re gone.”