I am protective.
I’M HEADING out of our quarters to give yet another string of lectures on safe weapons protocols when my internal comm buzzes. VC1 shoots me an image of Officer Sanderson. No. Helen Sanderson, head of civilian security on Girard Moon Base. The facsimile wears a concerned frown, and I wonder if my AI knows something I don’t.
Kelly’s still asleep. As support personnel, she isn’t required to keep my hours, and I know my nightmares disturbed her last night, so I slip the rest of the way into the corridor, let the door slide shut behind me, and lean against the wall.
Kelly. I’m disappointing her in a big way. So much psychological progress gone to shit. I broke off our talk last night to retreat into my bedroom, and we haven’t spoken since.
Vick Corren. Mercenary hero. Girlfriend coward.
The comm buzzes again. Go ahead and open the channel, I tell VC1.
There’s a click, and I feel the connection open. I’ve asked Lyle and Alex. Regular humans don’t detect this sort of thing. They think it’s cool.
I don’t.
“Hey, Sanderson,” I subvocalize, forcing false energy into my tone. “What’s up? There a game this afternoon?” Good company, a couple of beers, and some Cirulean grass hockey at the promenade sports bar might be just the distraction I need.
“No games, and I’m definitely not playing,” her voice comes back, somber and low. “We’ve got a situation on the civilian side. It’s got my guys baffled, and I could use your and your… assistant’s… take on it.”
She doesn’t mean Kelly. Sometimes I wonder if she’s figured out VC1 is more than some advanced technology, that she has a mind of her own. Technically, I shouldn’t be working with any organization other than the Storm without the board’s permission, but I’m not programmed against it, and I owe her. Besides, I kind of like breaking the Storm’s rules when I’m able. It’s so rare that I can.
I bring up my schedule on my heads-up display. “I’m free later this afternoon. Where should I meet you?”
A pause. Then, “The Purple Leaf. It’s public enough, but they’ve got those secluded alcoves in the back. Meet me in the same one where we had our one and only sort of date. You remember which?” She stops and gives a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course you remember. And if you don’t, I’m sure VC1 does.”
“Um, okay.” The Purple Leaf’s a sex club. I hung out there a lot before the airlock accident, had a lot of casual sexual encounters, did some crazy shit. I’m not that person anymore. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing I can discuss over the comm, even if your counterpart is scrambling it. Just meet me around four o’clock.” A pause. “And don’t bring Kelly.”
I’m about to argue, but the connection drops.
Don’t bring Kelly. Which probably also translates to “don’t tell Kelly.”
Shit.
I’m going to a sex club. Without my fiancée. I’m meeting another woman who also prefers women, and I’m not telling Kelly anything about it. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I’m in favor of that plan.
An image of me digging my own grave appears on my internal display. Too close to home, I tell the AI, considering that I did exactly that on Elektra4 not that long ago. VC1 was in control, and I didn’t witness any of it, but I know it happened, and it still turns my stomach if I think about it too hard.
Sorry. But you are taking actions that will undoubtedly cause problems between you and Kelly LaSalle.
If she finds out about it, I send back.
When has she ever not found out about any of your its?
I sigh, pushing off from the corridor wall and hurrying toward Storm central and the class I’m supposed to already be in the progress of teaching. Sometimes I wish you were a little less of an AI, I admit. Your insights are too damn accurate.
I will take that as a compliment.
Needless to say, classes do not go well. I’m distracted by Sanderson’s upcoming clandestine meeting. The room I’m teaching in has one-way glass across the back—in other words, mirrors. So not only do I not want to look in that direction, the direction of my class of recruits, but I have the distinct impression that I’m under observation. Someone in the Storm hierarchy is keeping tabs on me and my recovery process.
Can you confirm? I ask VC1 while demonstrating the proper way to load an XR-7 Safety Net with its blunted rounds. I don’t say what I’m asking her to confirm. I know she monitors my thoughts even if she’s gotten better about not acting upon them without being asked.
You are indeed being observed.
Great. I can’t imagine what they’re seeing is earning me points.
We take a break for lunch, returning to the same room afterward. To make everything worse, there’s a power surge about two-thirds of the way through the second training session. The lights flicker, go out for a moment, and then flash back on. The brightness intensifies until the entire room of students is shielding their eyes. Some duck down in their seats, and I have a moment of realization, enough time to crouch behind the podium, before several of the fluorescent bar lights shatter, showering everyone with bits of glass. One arcs a visible jagged streak of electricity from the bulb to the floor, not far from my defensive position. I throw myself out of harm’s way, swallowing a shriek of terror, even though I know for a fact that it would have done no more than give me an uncomfortable shock.
It looked like lightning, and that’s all my psyche could focus on.
What the actual fuck?
The lights steady. Everything returns to normal. But my hands tremble throughout the remainder of the lesson, so much so that I fumble a box of ammunition and have to chase the rubber-tipped rounds across the tile floor, gathering them up in clenched fists to avoid dropping them again. I wait for the recruits’ mocking laughter. It never comes.
Even at my worst, I’m intimidating, my reputation enough to keep them in line. For now.
After class I send Kelly a message that I’m meeting Sanderson for a beer and let her fill in the blanks as she will. Partial truths are easier to sell than outright lies, and I’m quite certain alcohol will be involved in whatever the security chief has going on with the civvies.
The promenade dome is quiet when I arrive on that side of Girard Base. Too quiet. It’s midafternoon. Even if the day shifts haven’t gotten out yet, there should be more people around, tourists from the settled worlds, spouses of military personnel running errands, and the station school ends classes at 1500. A few teenage couples are necking on the benches at the central hub of the dome, but the usual echoing laughter and loud conversation are missing.
Whatever Sanderson’s issue is, it’s big.
I pause at the entrance to the Purple Leaf, handing over my Storm ID to the bouncer at the door, letting myself be scanned for weapons. He holds out a meaty palm, and I pass him my personal XR-7, grip first, then slip my matched set of knives from my boots and give him those as well. He in turn sets them on a counter in front of a window where an attractive blond woman tags each one and hands me a claim chit.
Once he’s satisfied, he waves me through the archway into the gaudy interior. The holdout pistol in my back holster, the imitation leather lined with sensor scramblers, goes unnoticed beneath my black jacket. No way am I entering a potential danger zone unarmed, and I’m willing to bet most of the other mercs milling around the circular bar in the center of the establishment and lounging on the deep violet plush couches are equally prepared for trouble.
Even here, the crowd is thin. Almost no civilians, only uniforms. A couple of waitresses clad in purple-leaf-covered bras and G-strings lean against the wall, chatting to each other. The manager, a tall, dark-skinned, elegant gentleman in a deep purple suit stands by the bar, arms crossed over his chest, surveying the two-thirds empty room.
I give him a nod and head toward the back, VC1 supplying a reminder of which alcove I’m aiming for, even if there’s no way I’d forget. One of the gray-camo-clad women at the bar gives me the once-over when I pass her and offers me a drink, but I shake my head. I’m here to see what Sanderson needs, help if I can, and get the hell out.
When I turn toward the alcoves once more, Sanderson has the curtain to the farthest one pulled aside. She’s standing in the archway, watching my approach.
“She’s hot,” Sanderson comments when I’m within earshot, nodding at the woman who flirted with me.
“She’s all yours,” I return, feeling a blush suffuse my cheeks. “I’m taken.”
That earns me a laugh, though her expression is sober. “Don’t I know it.” She beckons me into the private seating area, two overstuffed violet couches and a small round table between them the only furnishings. The curtain drops into place, giving us more privacy. Even so, I instruct VC1 to give the space a once-over for cameras and listening devices.
All areas of this establishment are monitored with security cameras, though there are no microphones present, she informs me. No surprise. Sometimes the Leaf’s customers get rowdy. The bouncers need to know where things are heating up, and not in a good way.
Thanks, I tell her, never wanting to take her services for granted. Turning to my human companion, I ask, “You want me to put the cameras in here on a loop?” A strange feeling passes through me when I make the offer. Like a touch of déjà vu, though I haven’t done that camera trick in a long time. Have I? I shake it off.
Sanderson’s eyebrows rise almost to the hairline of her buzzcut. “That’s right. You can do that, can’t you?” She seats herself on one of the couches, expression going contemplative.
I sit opposite her, my own eyebrows raised, waiting for a response and wondering what the hell is going on.
“Right. I never answered you. Yes, do it. Please.” She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can’t believe I’m a security chief violating station security, but desperate times and all that shit.” For a long moment she appraises me. I’m about to start squirming under her scrutiny when she speaks again. “Good to see you looking so well, if a little ragged around the edges. Scuttlebutt said you’d suffered some serious injuries on that last mission of yours.”
I shrug it off, not wanting to rehash it. “I’m fine.”
Someone raps on the wall outside our concealing curtain, and for a second I wonder if VC1’s tampering has been noticed. Then a sultry female voice says, “I have your drink order. May I come in?”
Sanderson gives her the okay, and the sexy blond sets two coasters and frosted mugs of ale in front of us, then departs. I take a long sip of mine, then another, appreciating the chocolate and coffee accents of the porter. It’s exactly what I would have ordered if my companion hadn’t beaten me to it.
Do you wish for the alcohol to have an effect? VC1 asks. She’s found a workaround for my initial programming that used to prevent me from ever becoming intoxicated. She’ll never allow me to get stinking drunk, but it’s nice that I can feel a buzz once in a while. Still, considering the seriousness of the apparent situation, I’d better stay sober.
Not right now. Maybe when we’re done here.
Sanderson chugs a third of her lager and sets her mug down with a soft thunk. Guess she doesn’t share my concerns. Or perhaps she has too many different things to be concerned about. I study her face with more intent. Dark circles and bloodshot eyes. She’s not sleeping.
I gesture at the beer in my hand. “You know me a little too well for someone I’m not dating,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
“I may need to know you better than that if you’re going to help me.”
That sobers me fast enough. “Okay, spill it, Helen,” I say, invoking the power of first names. “And I don’t mean the beer. That would be a shameful waste. What do you need from me that’s so secret I’m risking Kelly’s wrath to meet you in a sex club without her?”
“Oh, like Kelly would have come here even if you invited her along.”
I give her a grin, but I’m not so sure she’s right. Since the makeshift vibrator incident during our last mission, Kelly’s been hinting that she’d like to experiment more as soon as I’m fully recovered. She even tossed out the Purple Leaf as a possible date night destination, much to my surprise. I won’t say I’m opposed to her finding her wild side. My newly recovered memories tell me I have a crazy one of my own. My worry is that she’s doing this because she thinks it’s what I want, that she’s worried about competing with my past sexual partners. But that’s a problem for another day.
Helen retrieves a messenger bag from beneath the table and pulls an old-fashioned file folder from its depths. I’m reminded that she has a fondness for things old-school, like her Sherlock Holmes-ian office. Before I can tease her about it, she spreads a set of glossy photographs across the table, careful to avoid the condensation pooling around our mugs.
I don’t need to see details to recognize dead bodies—torn flesh, bloodstains; they practically jump from the half-dozen images. “Fuck,” I breathe, finding no more appropriate term. I take a longer pull on my beer. “That’s a lot of victims.”
“Six in the past two weeks. And we can’t catch their murderer. We don’t even have a lead. That’s not the worst of it. Look closer.”
I don’t want to. I have enough nightmares. But Sanderson is a friend, and I allow myself so few. I lean in.
And recoil, slamming my spine against the back of the couch.
“I know,” Sanderson says, shaking her head. “It’s uncanny. And it’s why I wanted you alone to see this.”
Kelly. Every one of the victims looks like Kelly. Not identical, but blond, green eyes, delicate features, at least the ones they have left. Worse than the resemblance, they’re all disfigured like the blond in the tunnels of the slaver hideout, faces flayed open on one side to expose the bone beneath.
The similarity to my own recent injury hits like a punch to the gut, and my beer threatens to make a reappearance. But even that isn’t the worst part of all this.
I’ve seen these girls before. I’ve seen them in my nightmares, though one at a time so I didn’t make the Kelly connection, but I’ve seen them. I’ve seen them, because in my dreams, I’m the one killing them.
Those nightmares didn’t just feel real. They are real. At least the victims. What about their killer?
Without another word I stand and bolt from the table, through the drawn curtains, nearly ripping them down from the ceiling, and race for the closest restroom.