VICK IS scared.
It takes a lot to scare Vick. I’ve watched her dive through flames to rescue a fellow soldier, leap from a twelve-story building to save a kidnapped child from an impending explosion. Vick faces fear like it’s a walk in the atrium.
According to her records, she’s always been this way, even before the installation of the implants made it simpler for her to ignore the rational fears most people listen to in order to prolong their survival. Her bravery, loyalty, and skill set made her the perfect candidate for the implanted upgrades. Notes in her file suggest she might have been offered them even if the airlock incident had never taken place.
And knowing Vick, she would have taken the mad scientists up on it.
So feeling the fear roiling through her now makes me question, again, if I’m doing the right things for her.
Ten months ago, Dr. Whitehouse, the man in charge of overseeing her “recovery” and her acclimation to her implants, tried to remove the last of Vick’s humanity, turn her into a perfectly controllable, unemotional, obedient robotic slave housed in a human shell. Combining the processing speed of the implanted technology with the human brain’s ability to adapt and create, along with the agility and mobility of her physical form, Vick would have been made unstoppable.
Except, according to Vick, the “perfect” soldiers Whitehouse tried to create retained bits of their souls and memories. At least some of them did. On our failed mission to rescue Vick’s father, the founder of the Storm, one of those soldiers saved Vick’s life and lost the last of his own while doing so.
And I felt his relief.
Memories of our encounters there still wake both of us up at night, shivering from the nightmares and holding each other until the tremors pass.
Whitehouse is in prison for crimes against humanity. His creations, deemed unsalvageable, were put out of their misery and given funerals with all the honors the Fighting Storm could muster.
There’s a new team assigned to Vick’s medical care and a specialist rumored to be arriving from the Storm’s ancillary base on the outer rim any day now.
Yet she shakes every time we set foot in the medical facility. And I don’t blame her one bit.
“Listen, Kel, about tonight’s incident,” she says, forcing the words out one at a time. “There’s something you and the rest of the team need to know.”
“You’re stalling,” I accuse. We’ve stopped just inside the doorway, Vick pulling me off to the side so we don’t block any other incoming patients.
“No, really. The attack, it was specifically targeted at—”
“Corren!”
The receiving nurse on call is Isaacson, I’m glad to see. He welcomes us with a big smile and a friendly handshake for Vick. Medical staff have quarters housing them right here in this wing of the Storm’s section of the base, and we probably roused him from a late dinner or bed, but he doesn’t show any annoyance or impatience. He’s part of Vick’s inner circle of support personnel, one of the handful who knows everything about her, including all the classified parts, though not that VC1 is an AI. They know what she goes through more than anyone does except me, and many of them suffer from a healthy dose of hero worship whenever Vick comes in.
“Good to see you, Corren. Alex called ahead so we’re ready for you. We’ll get you checked out and on your way as fast as possible, promise.”
She looks about to protest, like she wants to continue with whatever she was saying when we came in, but then nods, pressing her lips together. We follow him to the diagnostic and treatment room set aside just for her. Taking a deep breath, Vick steps over the threshold.
We’ve been in here many times before, but I still find it intimidating, and I’m certain Vick does too. An elaborate chair dominates the center of the space, tubes, sensors, and wires extending from its arms and headrest in all directions, then snaking across the tile behind it to disappear into the floor. Banks of screens, currently blank, fill the walls on either side beyond the chair, out of view of whomever occupies the seat but easily read by the doctors and nurses.
Vick stands off to the side, shifting her weight from foot to foot, keeping as much distance between herself and the chair as possible.
Isaacson grabs a datapad from a shelf and makes a few notes, taking some baseline readings with its built-in scanner and asking the basic health questions. “We received the civilians’ report on the Alpha Dog brawl and your treatment.” He takes one of Vick’s arms and rolls up the sleeve, ignoring her flinch. “Burns and cuts are healing nicely. They do good work, for civvies.”
It’s standard merc humor, but it earns him a small grin from Vick.
“We’re a little more concerned with the concussion and your mental/emotional status given the trauma involved in the incident.” He ceases prodding at one of the already forming scars, which will mostly vanish in a day or two, and meets her eyes. “The airlock couldn’t have been easy to take.”
She stares back, unwilling to admit to any measure of weakness. Pure Vick.
Her stubborn attitude doesn’t deter Isaacson. If anything, his smile brightens. Soldiers know soldiers, no matter which department they serve in. “All righty, then. Scanner shows high tension levels, stress just within the scale’s measurement range, pain manageable but uncomfortable. Your implants dose you?”
“Serotonin,” Vick admits.
He glances at me. “You do an emotion purge?”
I frown and shake my head. “Not yet. She wasn’t… comfortable doing that on-scene.” But we will. As soon as we’re alone, we will. I don’t mention that I could have gone with Vick into Sanderson’s office, that Vick’s struggling with her needs versus her independence. That would embarrass her, and I’m trying hard not to do that again.
“Understandable. Okay, hop in the chair and let’s get a good look at your processors. You’ve definitely taxed them. They should self-repair, but we don’t want to risk implant overload. Oh,” he adds as Vick grudgingly seats herself, her entire body rigid, “your new doctor arrived earlier this evening. When Alex radioed in, the system automatically included her on the call, so she said she was coming by to meet you.”
“I’m not exactly at my best,” Vick grumbles just as the hatch slides aside admitting a stranger in a white lab coat, tan slacks, and comfortable white shoes. The coat hangs open, revealing an off-duty blouse in fuchsia with the top three buttons undone and ample cleavage showing. Vick’s eyes go right to the gap and linger a moment before she flashes me a guilty look and averts her gaze.
“Don’t worry about anything,” the woman says, taking a thoughtful sip from the ever-warm cup of what smells like coffee in her hand. She studies Vick over the rim. “I’ve seen you much, much worse.” After setting the beverage aside, she reaches back to adjust a thick ponytail of straight platinum-blond hair and winks one of her bright blue eyes. Her voice drops to a sultry alto. “And much, much better. How are you, Vick? It’s been a while.”
Vick’s brow furrows.
“Ah, well,” the doctor says, undeterred, “that’s to be expected, I guess. Though given where her eyes were roving, part of her remembers.” While Vick blushes furiously, she smiles and turns to me, extending her hand. “Hi there. I’ve heard about you. You must be Kelly LaSalle, the empathic assistant and the latest in Vick’s long line of lovers. I’m Dr. Alkins—Vick’s last female ex.”