“I’ll bring the truck up, then. I did a full eval on the electronics and a mech assessment yesterday. We’re ready to go.”
I stared at her. “You do evaluations and assessments?” That was new.
“Mateo loaned me one of his Berger chips. Once I plugged in the info, it was a piece of cake.” Briskly, she gathered up my dirty dishes and placed them in the sink where she wiped them with a rag and spritzed them with cleanser before leaving them to dry, the citrusy scent almost overriding the rotten-meat smell. She grabbed the tray and the tablecloth one-handed, carried kibble out the inner airlock, and rattled cat food into the metal pans before opening the outer airlock. I heard eager cat sounds as they came running. Cupcake closed the inner airlock and left me alone.
A little nauseated from the stench, I carried the bubble-wrapped finger to the med-bay, opened the hood, and set the unit to T.O.D and C.O.D—time of death and cause of death—and Identify. I could have used the portable viber, but I needed more info than it would provide.
I closed the clear plasticized med-bay hood, started the process, and waited. The finger was small and bloody and dead. I had no actual proof yet, but the finger delivery had to be related to Harlan and his death.
I’d taken out most of Warhammer’s no-longer-human nest, but she and her primary mate had gotten away. I couldn’t let that stand. As soon as I had the weapons and the location, I was going to war. Part of that would be a complicated, dangerous, and beyond expensive fight-my-way-through-to-Charleston expedition.
If this finger belonged to the person I feared it did, I was going to have to adjust my plans, incorporate a rescue into the war, and move up my timetable, fast.
The med-bay dinged. On the screen, I read the name I had been fearing: Captain Evelyn Raymond, second-in-command of the USSSSunStar.
“Bloody damn,” I whispered. I fell onto the dinette seat and put my head on the old laminated tabletop. “Damndamndamn.” I sucked in air against my anger, wishing I hadn’t promised Pops I’d never sayfuck. It would be so satisfying right now. “DamndamnBloody…Gaaah!” I raised my head and stared, unseeing, into my living space, breathing through the fury and frustration. As Mateo and I had long feared, Clarisse had captured Evelyn Raymond. We had to rescue her.
I rested my head on the cheap tabletop until my temper cooled, sat upright, blew out a breath, and centered myself. I envisioned Tuffs, the original queen and Guardian Cat of the Junkyard Cats. Within seconds, Tuffs and her court were at the inner airlock, chasing all the hungry cats away, claiming territory.
I let in the cats and they raced everywhere, exploring. Tuffs brought a different batch each time she came to visit, the Guardian Cat making sure all her pride members knew the layout of the office and where the food was kept. I also knew that if I somehow died, they would devour my body until there was nothing left but bones and teeth. They had feasted on human flesh. They liked it.
Tuffs jumped onto the table and sat. I retook my place across from her and lowered my head. She put her head against mine. We didn’thaveto touch to communicate, but it helped. I sent a picture vision of our heads touching, followed by a picture vision of the world as viewed from the front gate, looking away from the junkyard. Then a picture vision of a big truck rolling down the road in a cloud of dust, me driving and Spy, a pride member, sitting on the dash. Last, I sent one of my head and Spy’s touching.
Tuffs reared back and said,Sisssss, hissing at me, showing her teeth, saying in her very pissed-off cat-speak,No!
I had been afraid of that. Spy would not be joining our mission.
???
The sun wasn’t up yet when I stepped into the cool West Virginia air, tapped my comms, and said, “Mateo. Got a minute?”
“Bad news or worse?” his bio-metallic larynx ground out.
“Eh. Could be worse, but not by much. It’s Evelyn.”
Mateo didn’t answer right away, the silence between us the smooth background quiet of EntNu communications, courtesy of the USSSSunStar’s comms.
Over the connection, I heard the faint whining movement of servos and the even softer sound of a warbot’s foot-pegs touching down in sequence—Mateo in stealth mode, approaching my position.
Three junkyard cats raced out of the darkness and sprang up onto piles of scrap metal, curious, watching in the darkness. Waiting.Hhhhah mmm, one of them said. That meantyes,orthis is true,orthis is goodin cat-speak. I figured they were expecting entertainment. Maybe a human version of a catfight? Me and Mateo? He’d squish me like a bug. And the cats would get protein.Thatwouldexplain their excitement.
Mateo had gone down with theSunStar. He had thought he was the only one on board when the battleship plunged out of the sky during an intra-system clash with the Chinese, the Russians, and the Bugs—the aliens “visiting” Earth. Only recently had we figured out that Mateo’s second-in-command, Captain Evelyn Raymond, had still been on board theSunStar, in direct contradiction of orders, backing up her CO from a hidden location in the stern.
The forward half of theSunStar—a spaceship built by the western alliance, led by the US—had crash-landed at the back of Smith’s scrapyard at the end of World War III. The stern half had broken off and crashed on top of an old mine, creating a new crevice. The stern of the spaceship had ended up smashed, a long way underground. Out of sight, out of contact.
CO Mateo had survived.
And so, apparently, had Evelyn, who was now in the hands of our enemy, being tortured.
One cat, a tabby with a white chest, glanced slant-eyed at me in the predawn light and chuffed before looking away. I heard a faint sound in the night, right where the cats were staring.
Seven and a half meters of warbot suit appeared, looming, blocking out the last of the night’s stars, as Mateo stepped almost daintily over piles of old scrap. His suit looked and worked like a huge spider—his three, five-and-a-half-meter-long legs telescoping and folding down until the matte-black torso and head of the suit were on a level with mine. A warbot could fit into much smaller spaces than it might first appear. He could fit through the back airlock to the office if he didn’t mind getting his pretty chitosan paint job scratched. Mateo’s scarred and misshapen human visage was visible behind a meter of horizontal silk-plaz view screen, vaguely like a single massive spider eye.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“We’ve speculated that Warhammer captured and enthralled Raymond.”
“Possibility acknowledged. Continue.”
