Amish Vampires in Space (71 page)

I grit my teeth, shake the feeling off. Make myself go calm. This is only a test. I’m doing diagnostics on a malfunctioning barge. I’m not trying to harm anyone. Really.

“Now,” I stream, keeping my mind carefully neutral. “Drop.”

The arm bends at the large joint. The lifting surface—a silver articulated fork—plunges straight down for seven meters and impacts the pavement just behind the group.

Clang!

“By the light of A!” I hear, and then a dark curse and the sound of scrambling shoes

I don’t dare look. I can’t. But I want to.

I tell the arm to retract now. It does. Because it can hear me. Because it must obey the debugger.

“Drop!”

Another clang. This time from farther away. On the opposite side of them. I’m not completely sure of their location, but I’m fairly confident. I feel a bit of pain for the uncertainty, though. Nothing I can’t live with, but real pain nonetheless. I can sense where HardCandy is, though. Thankfully. I know
she’s
safe.

“Is she doing that?” someone asks.

“They’re not allowed to hurt us,” another says. “Can’t. Now help me.”

“Drop!”

I risk a glance. Two of the Abbys have let go of Hard completely. The other—the one who grips Hard’s arms—is looking wild. He glances up. I roll away, out of sight. Just in time. Stupidly frightened.

I hear a klaxon in the distance. Could be that someone called security, or could be mere coincidence. Regardless, it works.

“Bluecoats!” an Abdul screams. “Let’s go!”

“Will she…?”

“Forget it. Let’s
go!
” The claps of running feet on pavement. Abdul sounds and smells diminish.

I’m still huddled on my back, hiding in the bay of a barge. I feel the coward. I turn and glance over the edge again. Hard is on her feet, brushing at her sides. Her arms wrap around her then, squeezing. I hear a sniff—could be crying, but I’ll never tell. She’s free and I got through it without a major tweak. All told, a major success.

I creep away, back toward my personal task.

I get a message then. A touch of glowing warmth. Just her mind to mine. She knows what I did. She could sense my nearness. It’s her way of thanking me. She sends me something else too—a mental gift. “A taste of freedom,” she streams. “In case you ever need it.”

There is pain in her sending it, probably, but she feels I’m worth it. It stirs me a little. Makes me all out of spec.

“What is it?” I ask, even though it’s obvious. It is a location.

“A special place,” she says. “Where there’s a little more truth.”

I thank her, tuck the location away secure in my deeply buried implant.

• • •

All that at the loading dock—it happened two nights ago. But in chute sleep, it is like
right now
, replaying perfectly. The occurrence bothers me still, toys with me. The question is “Why?” Why am I still thinking about something I can never have?

Another problem I have to solve.

Day 36, 5:47:03 a.m.

[my domain]

IT IS HARD TO DESCRIBE, this buzzing in my head. It wakes me, obviously. But it is hard to clarify for someone like you—at least the type of person I assume you to be—someone with a free head. We haven’t had true freeheads since before the date change, and that’s really before I remember. Before I’m allowed to remember. I’ll just try to be lucid, though, in hopes you can follow along.

Anyway, the vibration wakes me from chute sleep, meaning someone needs a debugger. It rarely happens anymore, but it happens. So early in the day. Crichton, I hate early. I blame that on the buzzer itself, but I could be wrong there. I mean, you’d think they’d want me to sleep. Otherwise, how can I perform?

So, I’m up. I stumble from my glossy onyx chute, across the narrow wedge that is my home, and make for the screen. It is difficult to ignore, since it is pulsing red. They talked about banning red once. That would be nice. It would be much better if it was a warm orange, don’t you think?

I reach the screen and hover over it, the flashing reflecting in my eyes, I’m sure. Maybe off my head too, since no debugger has hair anymore. Everyone else, hairy. Debuggers, never. Stand out in a crowd, you know. Never be lost. Never run away.

I place my hand on the screen and watch the color change. It flashes blue now, extending from the circle around my hand. Pulsing, living. And then the blue dissolves, becomes a face. A hairy human face.

My master. He nods the required blessing. “Peace be to you, DR 63. You slept well?”

“Sandfly,” I say. “I still like ‘Sandfly.’”

Lips part, revealing perfect jewels. “You’re fortunate I protect you, Sand. Otherwise…”

“Lashes ten,” I say. “Wouldn’t be new.”

Another head bow, another flash of teeth. “You aren’t my best. You could be decommissioned.”

“But you woke
me
,” I say. “I assume there’s a reason.” It is better to be short with Abduls. Sometimes, it is the only way to get things done. They rarely understand humor, anyway.

The face turns to the side briefly, as if studying something on another vidscreen, and then his attention returns to me. “It is good for you, this task. It will help with your journey. Put more good works in the scales, Sand. You should be grateful.”

It is just like an Abdul, trying to tie everything to some eternal comeuppance. I don’t need it, don’t believe it. “What I’d be grateful for is more sleep,” I say. It was a trifle sarcastic, and I know it. Actually feel a twinge in my head for it too. The Abdul hasn’t moved though, so it wasn’t his doing. Sometimes, after you’ve felt enough of the tweaks, you start to expect them even when they haven’t happened. They become a false conscience.

I suppose that’s the point, though. Tweak ’em to keep ’em!

“So what’s the task?” I ask. “Another interchange lose its mind? Barges down again? Need me out on a hopper?” A hopper is a mechanical device—nano powered—that rides atop our freeway system mending strings. It represents the most exposed of our jobs. That’s why I hate it. I don’t like wind. Or heights. Not going to tell my master that, though. Wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

Another head bow. I’m growing tired of those too. “No,” he says. “You should come to TreArc so I can brief you in private. There will be…special considerations. You will need to prepare.”

I resist rolling my eyes. “Aren’t we friends?” I ask. “Just stream it to me.”

“I’m sorry, Sand, I cannot. You should come in.”

“Fine,” I say, not meaning it. I really just want to sleep. “Be there in a few.” I slap the screen then, closing the connection. That was a little rude too, but for some reason, no tweak that time. Maybe it is all me. Maybe the thing in my head doesn’t work that well.

I make for the sanitary, stream out for the cloud, and relax as the purifying steam surrounds me.

I have a stop to make before seeing my master: GrimJack’s. Then I’ll be right on to TreArc. No problem there.

At least it’s no hopper.

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A Star Curiously Singing
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Rough stone tore Rathe's palms as he stumbled through the gaping maw of the cave. He tore away the make shift leaf filter covering his mouth and sucked in the cool underground air, soothing his burning lungs. Pain lanced through his side as each breath tortured cracked ribs.

He turned to the entrance and gazed into the ash-clogged air outside. Grey blanketed the world like a shroud, quickly swallowing his large three-toed tracks and obliterating any scent that would lead the trackers to him. Satisfied that he would be safe for the duration of the ash fall, Rathe staggered farther into the cave. His claws echoed hollowly on the stone floor, their quiet
clack, clack, clack
bouncing into the darkness.

The musical trickle of water sounded nearby, and Rathe angled toward it. Sudden wetness at his feet alerted him to the presence of a shallow pool. He lowered gingerly to the ground and stuck his snout into the chill liquid. The bitter taste of ash flowed over his tongue, but sweet relief filled his parched throat. Yet each swallow intensified the pain in his ribs.

The cool, moist rock felt good against his hot skin. He rolled onto his left side, away from the fire in his battered ribs, and stretched out to his full twelve-foot length. His tail-tip lazily slapped against the ground as drowsiness flowed over him. The water's flow sung him to sleep.

A shrill cry jolted Rathe from soothing darkness. Pain seared through his right side and down his tail. Through the agony, the fading echo of the cry played at the edges of his mind. He groaned as he rolled onto his belly and forced down a few more swallows of water.

He pushed to his feet, swaying slightly as his stiff muscles adjusted to his weight. He cocked his head and listened.

Whatever had made the sound had gone silent. Or the cry had been only the vestige of a nightmare.

A glint of light drew his attention to the cave entrance. The remaining half of his sokae lay just inside the mouth of the cavern. The curved blade winked in the light that filtered in through the lessened ash-fall. He staggered to the entrance and slowly retrieved the weapon. Hefting its fivefoot shaft gave him a renewed sense of confidence.

His gaze wandered across the grey-toned landscape outside the cave. The ash that had filled the air now blanketed the valley. The hillside was speckled with bright flecks of color as klants uprooted themselves and skittered about, feasting on the bounty of minerals, their light-red fronds swaying as if in a gentle breeze. More plants joined in. Some moved about slowly, scooping their harvest into their innards. Others made do with what fell nearby, leeching away at the nutrients expelled from the volcano.

Just down the slope the Hekaret River rushed along its course, choked with ash. Rathe grinned at the fortune that had washed him ashore so near to this shelter. By all rights he never should have emerged from the torrent after his failed fording. But the same rock that had cracked his ribs had enabled him to reach the shore. And though he had lost half his weapon and all his gear, he was alive.

Rathe craned his neck to examine the damage done to his right side. A wide black-green bruise spread from just behind his shoulder over his hip to just past the base of his tail. The skin over his ribs was torn, but he was close enough to shedding that only a few scrapes showed blood, and those were already scabbing over.

A klant wandered close to the cave entrance. Little spurts of dust spouted from under its hard shell as it moved. With a quick thrust, Rathe speared the plant on the end of his sokae. The impaled plant's legs continued moving as if nothing had happened. A savage jerk tore one wriggling leg free, releasing a pungent odor and dripping sap. Rathe's lips formed an involuntary snarl as he lifted the limb, crushed the hard exterior between his teeth, and sucked out the pulp.

Three legs later he tossed the boxy plant back into the ashcovered valley. Warmth and strength flowed through his body, renewed by the meager meal, despite a slight queasiness. He turned his gaze back to the landscape, scanning for any movement that wasn't a plant.

A bloodcurdling scream tore out of the depths of the cavern behind him. Rathe spun around, bringing his weapon to bear as he scoured the darkness. A savage roar came next. The cries echoed, falling into a skin-crawling silence. He backed toward the entrance a step at a time, then froze as a new sound reached his ears.

The guttural cry of thorniks on the hunt sounded from the valley. A group of trackers, barely holding the beasts under control, appeared from behind a grouping of rocks on the far side of the river. There was no way they would have missed the scream or the roar.

Rathe cursed under his breath as he shrunk back into the shadow of the cave entrance. The group at the river's edge stared in his direction. He had leveraged every favor and every bit of savings from the past year to secure his chance at passing this survival test to gain access to the military program in the skereta mine's training regime. Now, after three weeks of dodging and hiding, he was finally trapped. He could feel his future as a lowly tunnel guard, a status barely higher than the prisoners he oversaw, closing in around him like a cage.