* * *
We had been waiting at the rendezvous site since dawn, for the appointed time—which was supposed to be noon. It was now near sunset, and the clubs hadn’t shown. A long afternoon of planning and worry, and finally acceptance that they weren’t coming.
Spy didn’t offer any intel from the clowders of cats with the other bikers, and turned her head away when I asked what she knew. I figured that meant our cohorts and backup in battle had chickened out. I’d accuse them of cowardice when I saw them again, if I lived to tell them anything at all.
Mateo was hell-bent on rescuing Evelyn, no matter what. Without reinforcements, all our plan options were off the table, so we adjusted our strategy accordingly. Our only alternative was auto bombardment of an exterior blast door by the Simba and similar bombardment of another entrance by Mateo in his warbot suit as a diversion, while the rest of us attempted to enter and rescue Evelyn. My small team would be alone.
Still operating the Simba cloaked and shielded, running silent mode, Mateo was positioned two klicks from the bunker at our six, programing its weapons for bombardment. Amos, Cupcake, and I were in armor, full bodily functions introduced—whichtotally sucked—helmets on and faceplates down, standing near the access air duct Spy had used before. We had battle screens and the 3D map of the bunker created by Jolene—visible, interactive, and operational on the upper left edges of the helmet faceplates. When the face shields opened, the screens would rearrange to the edge, still visible. We were standing at a triangle position with me twenty meters ahead in the center, the others behind, Cupcake at my left and Amos at my right.
The airduct covering lay at my war-booted feet, along with a clowder of cats. The leaders, Spy and Maul, were wearing full camera and comms sets on their tac vests. The other cats were fitted with GPS tracking devices on collars so Jolene could find them.
“Jolene. You got the bunker’s defensive alarms, cams, and sensors locked down and looped?” She had spent the day copying the intakes and output from every one of the external and internal devices and taking over the security nodes.
“Affirmative. Ready to initiate.”
“Initiate,” I said.
“Copy that. Looping is in place. I am established inside their systems.”
“Okay. No one else is coming—”
“Shining,” Mateo interrupted. “My audio sensors are picking up muted bikes.”
I stopped.
“I count five Harleys,” he said, “all in full combat mode. Jolene has sent them entry coordinates, and they are approaching from the bunker’s five o’clock.”
Tears gathered in my eyes. All the day’s frustration and fury drained away. I had been afraid. Afraid that, once again, the OMW would send me in alone to face a battle and an opponent that was sure to get me killed. And the people I loved.
“Nine more bikes, all in full combat mode, approaching fromfouro’clock,” Mateo added. “Jolene has provided them with their entry coordinates as well.”
“Update,” he said a moment later. “An additional twenty-three bikes, all in full combat mode, are approaching across the dried-out scrub from the bunker’sthreeo’clock. And . . .” He gave that weird metallic chuckle. “There are six bikes, all in full combat mode, approaching fromnineo’clock.
“All riders have checked in with Jolene. She has recognized and ID’d nine Hells Angels, a mixed party of Black Sabbath and Boozefighters, and the OMWs. The group of six are . . .” He stopped, and I heard the muted bikes over the sunset air now. “The group of six have been given your coordinates. They are Old Man Marconi, McQuestion, and Logan Jagger, with Jacopo Marconi, Mina Marconi, and Camilla Mary Gamble at their six. Jagger and the Marconi kids are armored for war.” If Mateo could have sounded relieved, he would have. “Spy,” he said, “send out your cat clowder members to each of the newly arrived teams.”
I opened my face shield and wiped my face. I was not going to meet warriors with tears in my eyes.
“Logan Jagger’s small group has just joined with Charles Whip and the presidents of the Boozefighters and the Sabbath. The leaders are moving to your twenty and have signaled that they are to be placed on a dedicated comms channel with . . .” He stopped again and started laughing. Mateo’s metallic laugh was always disconcerting, but this time it carried more than a hint of mockery. “With Commander Shining Smith.”
I stopped moving. My armor, reacting to my shock, went into hard mode, and I had to disengage the shielding and hard-mode functions in order to actually breathe.Commander Shining Smith?What the. . . The largest biker clubs in the US were placing themselves under my orders? “No. No way the leaders of biker clubs are putting themselves under the command of a female, made-man or not.”
Mateo laughed again. “Privately, Jagger said the leaders initially agreed with the battle plan we sent, but later bitched about who was to lead the advance team, coordinate the actions of the main teams, and have first access to the weapons and the power source. Since your stated objective was to rescue a prisoner, and you have no intent to take any spoils or resources, that makes you a neutral party, Little Girl. They decided you should go in first because of that neutrality and because the first one in was the most likely to die. They also wisely decided that Jolene—who they think is human—and I would coordinate comms, and their warlords would follow your advance team after you have established a secure position.”
“Yeah. Let me stand the greatest chance of dying. That sounds more like it.”
“Commander Shining Sugah,” Jolene said gently on a private channel. “Your suit is registering stress and increased blood pressure.”
I laughed, which sounded of tears more than amusement. “Yeah. Stress.” I wondered if it was weird that I wanted to talk to a sentient, sapient AI as if she was a counselor or a girlfriend or something. “Jolene, I smell like a sweating hog, my hair looks like it’s been soaked in engine oil, I’m wearing military armor created to die in, and—Bloody hell. I have no command experience. Why should Ibecommander? Even as a token die-first female.”
Her voice changed, dropping some of the Southern drawl. “Eventually, Shining, you’ll remember that you climbed into a Mama-Bot and fought off its Puffers, breaking them to pieces. You’ll remember that you killed Perkers, slowbots, repair-bots, and then survived the PRC’s nanobots. And you left the mini-sized nuclear weapon in place, which killed the Mama-Bot. And you got out alive. All when you were twelve. You were able to amass a huge arsenal, which they know but can’t prove. You brought them together. You created all this. All of it. Without you, there would be nothing here today and Warhammer would take over the world. Eventually, you’ll realize that because of who you are inside, you are a queen, even without nanobots. Accept the warriors who want to fight at your side, even if you are a sacrificial lamb.”
I wiped my face again and blew out the words, “Bloody damn. Open the general channel.” The ambient noise changed—an undertone buzz of muted bikes, like wind in a rainstorm, though I scarcely remembered such a thing from my youth.
“You are live,” Jolene said. “Tap your mic when ready.”
I took a breath and let it go. I tapped my mic to the general channel with my gloved hand. We needed to talk, make sure we were on the same page, assure each other of mutual cooperation. But we needed to get the attack under way, too, before Warhammer’s defensive systems bypassed Jolene, saw us, and turned their weapons on us. So while I had to do a commander’s speech, I skipped the formalities.
“This is . . . This is Little Girl. I welcome you all to a little bit of hell. You were sent the schematics. Each of you accepted a level of the bunker to infiltrate and an objective to secure. You have instructions on how to approach your assigned entrances, and Jolene will hack the security systems in each teams’ location as needed.
