Fort Liberty, Volume Two (16 page)

Air hisses from his helmet.

The visor display shuts off.

Petra winces, pressing her lips together experimentally.
Who the…?

It takes a minute to remember where she is, because the inside of an NRM skimmer is unfamiliar territory to begin with, and she’s viewing it at an odd angle… that is to say, from the floor, curled onto her side, full fetal, with her head squeezed between her elbows.

The Assaulter laughs at her. “Ball up any tighter, and you’ll bounce.”

“Explosions.”

“Yes, there were.”

“And you’re set to joke?”

“Easy now.” It sounds like he’s grinning though she can’t see his face. He’s crouched down in front of her, and backlit by the soft blue glow of the cockpit, a bulky black shape among benches and pipes. “It all worked out.”

“Voss---”

“Had to go. I’m Wyatt… the… First Sergeant Wyatt?”

“I passed out. I didn’t lose my memory.”

“Okay, well, pain meds, stress…” He seems genuinely disinterested. “Anyway, I’m hoping you can help me out here. We’re sitting blind in this hangar. These birds are beat up, but their tracking systems still work. All the pilots are down below, and there are no comms, maybe a problem with the station systems. I’ve tried to converse with the flight software, but it appears that we do not understand each other. Being a smuggler, I thought you might be familiar with the art of piloting.”

“Don’t need to be,” Petra sucks in a breath. “Not with a vessel this new. It’s automatic. Monkey could do it.”

“Meet the monkey who can’t.”

She nods, and forces herself to move, easing out of the tight hold she’s got on herself, and pushing up against the plastic floorboard. Her blood is everywhere, so thick that the air smells of it, as if it’s a knife fight she’s endured. The deck is littered with the hard-slimed bits of shrapnel that have bled out of her, and discarded tissue, slick and shining, the remains of fluid micro-robotics, an oozing, and artificial rebirth.

Disgusting, and no clear way out. She’s sitting in a pool of it with nothing to dry off, and not enough clothes to cover bared skin. And it occurs to her---though it shouldn’t---how she must look, her arms frail, like all those who live in Red Filter, her hips mostly bone, her breasts flat with no swell, no pleasing curves, nothing soft, or inviting… just harshness and difficulty.

Wearing a suit, she looks good, all herself and no one’s set to argue a damn thing. But like this, stripped of a collar, zippers, and pockets, and the comforting fabric of rank, she’s scarred and bruised, holding her arm against her ribs because it’s still so sore it hurts to breathe.

Shame is the one thing nanos got no power to fix. All too easy to take a woman who’s cut something out of nothing, and remind her she’s not worth the air she’s breathing. It’s easy to turn the things she’s built, the people she loves, into the illusion of sunlight from under ten feet of water, everything losing its sparkle as the body surrenders to the brutality that tethers it.

Pretty Petra.

Just tired, wild thing, and not keeping things straight in your head, when the danger’s still close. You got more fight in you bare-ass naked, covered in blood, and full of holes, than most do in armor and don’t you ever forget it. No time for giving in to the darkness, like someone who’s got no knowledge of how it’s ensured her own survival. Don’t let the monster turn on you.

Don’t let the monster turn. She nods though the First Sergeant hasn’t said a damn thing, and the only person talking is the Clara spirit-voice inside her head. Concussion, or spiritual connection. It’s one of the two.

Reaching for the closest bench, she hooks her hand over the seat, and pulls herself up. Pain, sharp and bright, makes it clear she’s not done healing, no matter how many millions of robots are still trying to get the job done.

“Are you… good?” Wyatt asks.

“Skimmer’s already powered up,” she mutters, straightening to stand as tall as she might, while ignoring the fact that she’s almost altogether naked, which takes a good captain to do.

“Yeah, it’s been on.” Wyatt replies. “They left it on, in case we needed to move skimmers again, but I tried tapping the controls, and nothing’s working. The pilot just left it here powered up and locked.”

“Not locked. The pilot left it to think for itself because you’re no pilot. Unless you’re saying the right things, it’s busy ignoring you.”

“Not helpful.”

“Only accepts a certain logic,” Petra clarifies, knowing that he’s still new to INDRA, the operating system that runs Red Filter. “Same software you been talking to in your compartment, and this med computer. Underneath, it’s the same for everything, no need to think it’s any different. It seems trickier when machines are ignoring you, but once you master the way, you can talk to any device, or computer, or piece of equipment, even if you know nothing about what it does. It’s a matter of valid clearances, those who have earned them, or those who have bought such at a good price.”

“And I guess you’ve… bought.”

“I have.”

“Wait a sec, I’ll… get you something to wear.” Wyatt turns around, and she can see now that skin of his back is torn. Wounds gape from under his ripped uniform, his body bloodied, smudged and grimed the same as hers, though he’s not giving it any purchase either, both of them moving like unbeaten champions in an empty arena.

Wyatt walks down the ramp. “Fulson!”

“First Sergeant?”

“Strip down to skivvies. The lady needs your uniform.”

“Yes, first sergeant!”

Petra limps to the cockpit hatch and opens a few of the skimmer’s cabinets, finding a canteen of water and clean rags to wipe the muck off. She unscrews the bottle and douses a cloth. She rubs her face, the back of her neck, her stomach, new scars on top of old ones.

Voss’s pistol is still lying on the deck at her feet, along with his extra magazines, proof that he was really there, as tender as he gets.

Wyatt continues talking to his subordinate. “There you go. Are you cold?”

“Yes, First Sergeant.”

“Good, because those are not regulation skivvies. What the fuck are you wearing? Did your girlfriend give you those? Hearts and shit?”

“Wife, First Sergeant.”

“Put your armor back on, like…just with… yeah okay, do it your way.”

“I’m good, First Sergeant.”

“Good? Prettiest asshole with a rocket launcher I’ve ever seen, but that is not a compliment. Now go back to the hangar entrance and watch the sky.”

“Yes, First Sergeant.”

Wyatt returns up the ramp and offers her the dry uniform.

“Voss left it here,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“The gun.”

Wyatt follows her gaze. “Well, he’s got mine.”

She doesn’t say anything, but not saying anything says enough.

“Don’t go there,” Wyatt says. “Don’t you go all woman on me. Colonel is a warfighter. He’s old, and he’s fucked up, but you can’t keep him from it. No one can, and he wouldn’t have risked anything for you if he thought you couldn’t man-up and hit these fuckers where it hurts. You got me?”

She stares at him, holding back a sharp reply because it’s clear he’s got no more diplomatic way to say it, and he’s treating her no differently than he would any other of his subordinates. He’s not cool water like Voss but bound up with purpose, and far too intense in his natural state to give great pretenses of empathy or comfort. He’s the type who lays it out without apology, and offers no forbearance towards those who expect kinder words.

He’s watching her now for signs of agreement. His face is intent, aged a bit for crow’s feet and laugh lines, though none takes away from what confidence he’s got, some innate charm.

She shrugs. “Being all woman is no barrier to hitting men where it hurts, First Sergeant. It’s a prerequisite skill for our gender, and plenty of you have been laid to rot for mistaking tears for weakness.”

He lifts a dark eyebrow “Really?”

She takes the uniform and ducks into the cockpit. The holo screens brighten as the skimmer detects her presence.

“System user change,” she commands.

“Please say your name or registration number, now.”

“Smith4546.”

“Voice confirmed. Skill level set to ten.”

“Assess damage.”

“Puncture, fuselage. Puncture, flight shield. Puncture---”

“Flight status.”

“Environment system inoperative.”

“Flight Status, without environment.”

“Operative.”

She pulls on the dry uniform, her movements pinned with the pain. The suit hangs on her, but it’s warm, and securing the clasp at the collar brings a captain back from blood and bare skin. “Display comms.”

The wrap-around holo deck fills with light, system readings scrolling through status windows.

“Track all inbound.”

Another window brightens, displaying a tracking circles on a dark grid.

She slides into the pilot’s chair. “Connect to BIOSTAT.”

“Connection failed. Possible system compromise.”

“Identify compromise.”

“BIOSTAT system locked, authorization… unrecognized user.”

“Hacked,” Petra mutters, then modulates her voice, changing the pitch, adding lighter inflection, and Red Filter elite polish. “Re-authorization code Wexler229856. Emergency restart BIOSTAT, protected mode, this user.”

Wyatt swears under his breath behind her. “You can’t have the president’s code. Are you nuts? He’s a guy. Voice auth---”

“Voice confirmed,” the computer announces. “Skill level set to ten.”

“Not the president’s code,” Petra answers in a whisper. “Different Wexler. President’s daughter is director of the NRM Science Agency and a regular client of mine. She’s the only one who could completely reset BIOSTAT. You can learn a lot about someone from what’s in their holo unit.”

“Like their personal authorization
codes
?”

“Call it market research.”

“I call it theft.”

“Same thing. The code won’t work after this anyway. It was one use only, saved for dire emergency on my part, and might just get me locked in a cell, but there it is, and nothing for it.”

A connection graphic displays, then the screen for BIOSTAT flickers in one of the holo windows. The system quickly resets, displaying a stream of line checks, then location images with emergency alarms. “Gunfire detected. Monitoring station. Explosion detected. Monitoring station. Fire detected. Monitoring station. Gas Release Activation, Observation Deck---”

Petra feels sick, stomach squeezed tight on nothing.
Voss, which one of these disasters are you caught up in? Where are you?

“Secure station,” she interrupts the list, mouth catching up to mind. “Close hangar blast doors.”

“Blast doors are non-functional. Damage detected.”

“Restart auto-gunners.”

“Processing.”

“Locate registered user,” she continues, almost forgetting the appropriate inflection for the command, because of the terrible weight of what might come back through the holo ether. “Locate Colonel Jared Voss.”

“Colonel Jared Voss located in secondary elevator shaft, level zero.”

“Status?”

“Armor status… life support, bio status… multiple injuries.”

“Fuck,” Wyatt says. “Display.”

“Display,” Petra echoes.

The system takes a second. “Camera unavailable.”

Petra nods. “Open comms to Colonel Jared Voss.”

“In progress.”

Petra touches and expands the holo screen for BIOSTAT, navigating glowing levels and compartments, searching out vid. The monitoring station shows smoke, bodies, damage. A few men are trying to clear wreckage.

The Vault level shows a group of dark figures moving through the entrance corridor, clustered together and half-stumbling, blinded by the gas. There’s a guy in a contamination suit waiting for them on the other side of the corridor, pressed against the wall and armed with an axe.

An axe.

“That’s gotta be Logan,” says Wyatt. “I’m going down there.”

Two blips appear on the tracking screen, two ships inbound, and moving fast. Petra swears under her breath, dire panic hazing thought.

Clara.

“Enemy inbound,” she forces the words out. “Two minutes out.”

“Auto-gunners?”

“Offline. Still rebooting and won’t start-up in time.”

“Missiles?”

“Same,” Petra hisses in frustration. “My crew might be on those aircraft.”

“Get someone to help Logan,” Wyatt says. “You let me worry about those aircraft. You have no responsibility for what’s about to happen. It’s my call. You understand what I mean by that? It was my call.”

Petra nods, and grits her teeth in pain, because she understands exactly what he means by that.

 

Logan waits around the corner from observation deck’s entrance, gripping the damn axe, fingers numb inside thick rubber gloves. He’s wet, sweating inside the contamination suit, his heart kicking too fast, breathing too loud.