“I saw no weapons in theSunStarany time I’ve been inside,” I said.
Jolene said, “Well if you ain’t telling, CO Sugah, I will. That man done crawled down into the crevasse and rescued them from the wreckage of the back half of me. Nearly killed himself.”
I rubbed my scalp.I wanted him independent, I reminded myself.I wanted this. But he climbed into a mine crack a thousand-plus feet deep and back out. Multiple times. Carrying weapons. What if he had fallen? How could I have gotten him out? I moved my fist from my head to my chest, rubbing small circles to ease the pressure. It was a motion I had seen Little Mama make as I was growing up.
Then it hit me. I was feeling like a mother. With a kid I had to protect. A kid who was in a space-worthy warbot suit and who had survived battle, a spaceship crash, and being eaten alive by nanobots inside his suit. I totally deserved my emotions. I had a right to them. But they were uncomfortable the way new shoes were uncomfortable—they rubbed the wrong way, didn’t quite fit.
Oblivious to my discomfort, Mateo continued. “With Jolene’s help I can emplace the bunker busters within two kilometers, target the bunker precisely enough to destroy it, fire them at a prearranged time, and leave the WIMP weapon or power source intact. We’d have to be hell and gone before they fire because the military will see them via satellite cameras. But we have them if we need them.”
I wanted to swat Mateo for endangering himself, but I had to agree the risk was worth it. “Will the military be able to trace the missiles to theSunStar?”
“Negative. Jolene and I tinkered with all identifiers. Also, if needed, the Simba is equipped with close-range lasers and an MJR blaster which is capable of taking down aircraft, a platoon of warbot-suited warriors, even disabling another Simba should Warhammer have all that in the bunker somewhere our recon cats didn’t go. But using the blaster would undoubtedly alert the Gov. and involve the military she has in her pocket, and should be considered a last-ditch response.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. If the military caught us, especially military she had transitioned, we’d be charged with treason, if not shot outright. We were already walking a fine line. But I didn’t say that part out loud.
Jolene took over. “The Simba is provided with one rail gun and jamming devices capable of bringing down remote aircraft. Those can be used at any time without fear of military interest. The spy-sats shouldn’t pick them up.”
“Through Simba and Jolene in theSunStar,” Mateo said, “we’ll have access to, and the ability to, jam any incoming or outgoing EntNu comms, and any standard radio, laser, satellite, or old-fashioned cell-type communications. We have Maarsies and two portable IGPs for killing Warhammer’s nanobots. Simba and I are both equipped with the military’s best Chameleon skin for traveling unseen, and a dark mode that decreases the Simba’s noise to nearly nothing.”
“We can travel by day now?” I asked.
“Negative,” Mateo said, “unless we’re absolutely certain we’re a klick or more from any human or electronic observation. Or being chased. Even the interactive camo doesn’t stop tracks on dirt roads and the movement of trees. The Simba is invisible by day only when it’s not moving. Otherwise we’ll be tracked and caught.”
Cupcake was watching me, her expression apprehensive, her blue eyes on my Morphon and its mattress inventory. I often forgot that Cupcake still needed to please me. “Good job, you guys. And good job on the weapons inventory, Cupcake. It would have made a quartermaster weep with joy.”
Cupcake blushed a pretty pink.
Mateo and Jolene continued the Op planning, detailing logistics and timing, which were going to suck even more on this trip than the last one. “Just like the trip back last time, everyone will be riding in or on the Simba,” Mateo said. “ATVs strapped on unless or until we need them. We attracted attention last time, and odds are they’ll be watching closer than normal for incursions near the Gov. center.”
“Y’all will avoid Interstates 64 and 77 from Naoma, West Virginia,” Jolene said, naming the town closest to the junkyard, “heading south to Wytheville, Virginia. Like Mateo said, your only travel should be by night, and even then I suggest y’all need to avoid most secondary and some tertiary roads. Your trip time needs to include sitting in a copse of trees or pile of rubble and hidin’ out when the sun is up.”
“Maneuvering the Simba parallel to the back roads and overland,” Mateo said, “allows us to travel in such a way that we leave no trail. Unfortunately, it also means triple power output, and even with the MPP engines, it will be a strain—triple the prewar klicks, and a longer travel time. Think of our last trip as the warm and cozy version. We’ll be moving from tank tracks to mobile support struts and back depending on the terrain and the weather, which is expected to be sunny and hotter than hell by day, cloudless and cold as shit by night. Jolene?”
“After studying the sat-maps I borrowed from the military feed, I’m estimatin’ twenty-four hours’ actual travel time for y’all to cover the distance, again with all of it after dark. That means y’all have to leave soon to reach the rendezvous point on time.”
Three nights to get there. I blinked at the time involved and leaned forward to study the current sat-map on the wall screen and the different proposed routes. We had avoided detection the first time by luck. I didn’t believe luck hit twice. So . . . yeah. We had to be smarter when we crossed over the state lines into Virginia.
I turned to Wanda. “What about you and Alex?”
“Alex and I will be staying behind with Jolene to protect and care for the junkyard and the cats,” Wanda said. “And . . .” She stopped and turned her head away. “We’re both feeling a little sickly. Just like we did when we transitioned.” Wanda turned her penetrating gaze back to me. “Are we transitioning again?”
I looked at the kid, who was petting a juvenile cat and listening to everything with that feigned inattention that kids used when they were faking tuning out adult conversation. I’d used that same device when I was their age.
Twelve.
No kid should have to go into battle.
The cat in Alex’s lap looked at me. It was the yellow-eyed Little Kitten, the cat who thought she could take over from Tuffs and Spy. I looked around and also saw Little Kitten’s clowder, the juveniles inspecting my living place and my seat of power. I wasn’t sure why Tuffs had allowed Little Kitten and her pals into the office, and I also wasn’t dumb enough to fall for the cat just adopting the kid out of love, but Jolene had eyes everywhere in the junkyard, so Alex and Wanda would be safe. I hoped.
“Shining?” Cupcake asked.
“Yes. There were PRC nanobots in the Simba. We all went through an additional transition. I had hoped you two wouldn’t have to, but—” I stopped and rubbed my chest with a fist again, fighting the pressure building there. “I’m sorry.”
Alex grinned at me before sliding sly eyes at their mother. “Shit happens.”
“Alex,” Wanda said, admonishment in her tone.
Alex giggled and hugged LK. The kitten didn’t scratch them, so points to the juvie cat.
