Silent Tracking was something left to me by my father. At the time, it was the very latest in military R&D, a way to track most anything that created a visual, audible, or thermal trail even through the military’s own shielding. Pops wasn’t supposed to have that kind of tech, and I had no idea how he got it; I had no idea how he gotanyof the stuff I’d found here. The Silent Tracking had been stored in a kiosk in the middle of the junkyard when I returned, half dead and with a stolen, deranged warbot in tow. Then, I had discovered the other devices—the weapons systems, the AntiGravity Grabber—a stockpile of illegal weapons to which I had added significantly. The USSSSunStar—a spaceship built by the western alliance, led by the US—had crash-landed at some point prior to my arrival.
And then there was the office. The main reason I remained here, in a junkyard Pops had kept off the books, was the office.
And then the meaning of what Mateo had said hit home. Visual shielding on the bike meant military connections or a wannabe soldier. Either way it meant trouble.
“Calculation of burn time in the Tesla?” I asked Mateo.
“Two hours and sixteen minutes to clean bone. Four hours additional, give or take, to full ash.”
Cremation would have taken about one hour. Maltodine was just as effective but it took longer. Six and a half hours. The sun would be down by then and the solar panels offline. I didn’t have the battery power to run the Grabber into the night. I’d have to set the Tesla down soon and let it burn on the ground. But not while I had company.
“Speed of approaching vehicle is increasing. Suspect our ARVACs have been made.”
“Fine. Bring them home and dock ’em. You geared up?”
“Little Girl, I’m always geared up.”
Which was true. Mateo was semi-permanently attached to his bot. If he left it, if he was disconnected, he’d be dead inside a week. And he’d die badly. I’d seen him out of the suit when I placed him into the med-bay the week we met. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.
At the closet, I ignored the dresses, which would not fit with the persona I was envisioning, and pulled on a bright pink tank, the color I chose surely inspired by the hot-pink of the AGR’s paint job. The color made me look sweet and defenseless. Not like me at all. The tank and the matching cargo pants had belonged to Little Mama, my mother. They still smelled like her, and though it had been years since she died, tears threatened. Little Mama had looked cute when she rode bitch-seat on Pop’s bike. But she had manned the guns for him when the war started, and had gone down fighting when the soldiers of the People’s Republic of China’s Central Military Commission landed in Port Angeles, Washington, with the first warbots. The Outlaws had been mid-rally when the PRC warbots walked ashore, and the motorcycle club had defended the public until the nearby cities had been evacuated.
That was the start of World War III and the end of the world as I had known it.
I was hell and gone from the war, I reminded myself. Hell and gone. But my nerves buzzed with adrenaline and fear as I slid a sweat-wicking, UV-protected, sheer dupatta over my tank. It wasn’t cold clothes, but the dupatta fit the persona I was adopting. A civilian, a transplanted city girl who still looked to fashion. Dark tanned from sun exposure under the thinned atmosphere, weird eyes hidden under the 2-Gens, a stray lighter streak in my short, spiked hair from too much sun exposure. The grease under my nails and the chipped polish told the truth about me, and I probably should have repainted them, not that there was time.
No female ever went unarmed in the wild, so guns were okay even with the outfit. Under the dupatta I slung a harness around my shoulders and hips, and tightened it on my waist. Considered pulse weapons, but a scrapyard employee would more likely have explosive-based weaponry, not high-end military stuff. I checked the three 9-millimeter weapons the harness was built to hold, reconsidered, and clicked just one into place in its hemp-plaz holster. Added extra mags into the pockets. Basic minimal wear for a female employee in the wilds, like I was now pretending to be. I pulled on a pair of gloves to protect my fake persona and to protect the visitor from me, just in case he got close enough to touch.
“ARVAC data reveals the bike is a new variation of the OMW One Rider,” Mateo said.
My hands froze. I stopped moving entirely.
“Silent Tracking scans reveal the One Rider has been militarized with after-stock equipment and weapons. Listing: One 9-millimeter Heckler & Koch MP8 UMP. Two 9-millimeter Heckler & Koch MP8 machine pistols. Two semiautomatic weapons on his person, make unknown. Though it’s currently offline, the bike is equipped with a camouflaged miniaturized pulse weapon.”
Bloody hell.
He was equipped to start a small war and half the bike stuff made no sense. Miniaturized pulse weapons were practically unknown outside of the military, and it was just weird on a Harley. The burning Tesla had been retrofitted with pulse weapons, based on dark matter, for battles in space, but no one—even Outlaw Militia Warriors—had access to it in peacetime. Unless the bike had been part of a government contract. OMW always had government contracts.
“Bugger,” I cursed.
“The Harley has defensive shields available but not activated,” Mateo said. “Bike’s visual shielding is good. Maybe as good as mine.” He hesitated. “Maybe better.”
Mateo’s military bot shielding was the very latest design from the end of the war. No one should have defensive or visual shielding as good as his. All the details meant that the dude riding up to my place of business and arriving just after Harlan’s untimely demise and appearance wasn’t a fluke or coincidence. Whoever the traitors to the war effort were, they had found me. Unless . . . Unless I’d been found by more than one group or person, because worst-case scenarios were just my dumb luck.
If so, then one group had killed Harlan. Another had sent a rep carrying a Universal Machine Pistol and the latest in OMW weapons. Within minutes of each other? A different kind of message or the OMW responding to the first message?
Bloody damn.
I could kill the rider. I could toss him in with Harlan, whose body was currently powering the Maltodine burn. But my newest visitor was surely tracked and others would come.
In his wonderful British accent, Pops had once said to the OMWs, “The world is changing, lads. We have to adapt. We have to evolve. To remain static is death.”
“Pops,” I had said from the front row, where I was watching his speech. “Even corpses change.” I knew. I’d seen enough of them.
Some of the warriors had laughed. Pops hadn’t.
And then Little Mama had died. And I had been swarmed by bicolors. And we had done the unthinkable, a lot of unthinkables. And Pops had started dying, slow bit by slow bit as the Parkinson’s ate his body and his brain. I had tried but been unable to save him. Nothing had saved him.
I slammed my feet into cute, heeled boots and ran a finger up the seal. Crammed a clean hat, with a wide brim and a faded silk rose, on my head. I snatched a nail file out of the flowerpot that had once held Little Mama’s orchids, wiped two insulated bottle keepers, and plucked two iced drinks out of the fridge, wiping them as I raced out of the office through the first and then the second airlock doors. Sealing both airlock doors on the cold air inside, I walked out to meet the rider. The heat hit me like a wrecking ball and fresh sweat broke out all over.
