CHAPTER ONE
“Just fucking shoot me.” Cavalon braced himself, fists clenched.
Owen stood a few meters away, sweat beading on her forehead as she sighted down the barrel of a heavy plasma rifle. Her light brown cheeks ruddied as her brow furrowed.
Cavalon thwacked the rough-hewn carapace covering his chest. The armor gave off a dull metallic twang. “Come on,” he grunted. “Right in the heart. Do it.”
Owen’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. “… No?” she squeaked.
Cavalon set his jaw, injecting as much threat and determination into his tone as he could muster. “Do I need to make it an order, Circitor?”
Owen’s brow flattened and she exhaled an exasperated sigh.
Cavalon shrugged it off—he’d learned to ignore those looks of disgusted disappointment years ago. “Shoot. Me,” he insisted. “Now.”
Owen’s aim dropped along with her shoulder. “Void,” she swore, brandishing the long side of the rifle. “This is a fucking Epoch 850. You’re three goddamn meters from me!”
“Fine. You can step back to four.”
Her narrow jaw tightened as she let out a warning growl. “This is self-destructive, even for you. Can’t you just put the armor on a damn dummy or something?”
Cavalon glowered. “The ablative and compaction properties are biometrically activated—we’ve been working on this for a month, you should know this by now!”
“No, I shouldn’t!” she shouted back. “I know you’re under the impression I exist solely to act as your lab monkey, but I have an entire actual job—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved her off. “Miss Important Right-Hand to the famous Mesa Darox. Are you going to shoot me or not?”
“It’s getting really fucking tempting.”
“Nooope,” a low voice drawled, pulling Cavalon’s and Owen’s gazes to the small lab’s entrance. Puck stood in the open doorway, his coltish frame radiating weary exasperation. He crossed his long arms, shaved copper head drifting back and forth languidly as if on a pendulum. “Nope, nope, nope.”
Cavalon frowned. “You don’t even—”
“Nope!” Puck stepped inside, jutting an accusatory finger at him. “I don’t care what your excuse is. No one’s shooting anyone wearing alien armor we found lying around in an abandoned Cathian fortress”—he held up a hand to stave off Cavalon’s protest—“whether or not you’ve ‘finally adapted it for human physiology.’ We have way too few hands to start using people as guinea pigs—especially our lead animus.”
Cavalon grimaced out a soft hiss and mumbled, “Don’t let your girlfriend hear you say that.”
Puck’s jaw flexed. “Co-lead animus. Whatever. Do you really want me to have to tell her you’ve crossed the line into R&D? Again?”
Cavalon huffed. “I never agreed to that line.”
“Back to work,” Puck demanded, then pointed a stiff finger at the ceiling. “Your lab, if you recall, is up ten flights. Remember the conclave later—1700, do not be late.” His gaze shifted to Owen. “Please return that to the armory, Circitor. No live weapons in the labs.”
“Aye, sir.” Owen nodded. “Right away. Apologies.”
Puck left a lingering haze of irritation in his wake as he vanished into the corridor.
Cavalon sighed. “I remember when I used to like him.”
Owen snorted. “Shut up. You love him.”
“All this power’s gone to his head.”
“Someone had to step up after…” Owen’s gaze dropped as she set the rifle on the counter.
Cavalon scratched the overgrown stubble on his chin, masking a frown while he crossed to the workbench near her. He knew all too well why she’d been hesitant to finish that sentence—too afraid she’d send him into a spiral at the mere mention of their former centurion, however oblique.
She wasn’t wrong. Considering the magnitude of the secrets kept from him about Jackin’s involvement with his grandparents, he should be furious. But after what Jackin did to save Rake—to save them all … Cavalon had no room for resentment. Only guilt.
He clamped his eyes shut and tried not to think about what his grandfather might be doing to Jackin right now. If he was even still alive.
The thin black nexus band on Cavalon’s wrist vibrated—a pulsing blue dot indicating a supervisor summons. He ignored it.
He unclipped the webbed harness securing the alien armor to his torso and slid his arms free. The chestplate shifted in his hands as it returned to its default form, a shape more closely resembling the contours of a tall, svelte Cathian.
He dropped the armor onto the workbench beside Owen’s rifle, rolling his neck and leaning both hands on the counter. A phantom pain pulsed in his left hand and he tightened a fist, the rickety joints of his “temporary” prosthesis buzzing softly as the mechanical fingers closed.
He bit back a wince, a familiar itch scraping up the nerves of his arm to the back of his skull. He wrung his other hand around the raw connection point on his left forearm, where the microprocessor resided just under the skin, the angry, red inflammation hidden under the long sleeve of his navy blue shirt.
He begged his brain to just accept the stupid thing was real, already. Or for the Corsairs to finally come through on sourcing him a decent one.
Owen cleared her throat pointedly, hoisting herself up to sit on the worktop near him. “Do you think medical has some extra hemostasis cartridges? Like what’s used for clotting?”
Cavalon scratched his jaw. Supply shipments came into the Akhet spaceport multiple times a week these days, and he’d lost track of the ever-expanding warehouse manifest. “Probably. Why?”
“If we pull out the collagen and gelatinize it, it can be used as an—”
“—extracellular matrix over a cotton layer. Void.” He pressed a palm to his forehead. Duh.
“Voila.” Owen flashed a bright smile. “One skin model. Then I can easily pulse in some bios to simulate a human. No live testing required.”
Cavalon shook his head. “How the hell do you even know that?”
She chuffed. “You don’t have a monopoly on pulling random fixes out of your ass.”
He gave her a flat look.
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I dated a Culloden for over three years, remember? Some of the medical BS rubbed off.”
“Ugh. I forgot about that guy.”
She ruffled the back of his overgrown blond hair. “Maybe just ask for help sometimes? We all know you’ve got the biggest brain here, you don’t need to prove it.”
Cavalon dropped his gaze, a hard nodule turning in his stomach. He really didn’t want to think about just how big—or how engineered—that brain of his was. Owen was one of the few people who knew what he really was, but she didn’t know the extent of it. No one did, not really. Even he only knew what his frantic mind managed to absorb while skimming through the maniacal logs in Augustus’s secret in-home cloning lab.
Cavalon was glad the data they’d stolen from the manor only contained information about his grandfather’s other nefarious goings-on. The fewer details he knew about his own clonehood, the better.
Owen leaned a shoulder into him. “Hey, man…” Her voice was all careful consolation, and Cavalon already hated where this was going. “What Centurion Puck was saying … about you working upstairs?”
Cavalon swallowed. “I’ve been up there plenty.”
“But only over third shift?”
He shrugged, eyeing the Cathian armor. “R&D requires requisitions approximately every five seconds. It’s easier to work here during daylight hours, and up there after.” He didn’t look at her, instead running his fingers over the rough, rimrock crags of the alloy armor.
“Cavalon.”
He shot her a glare. “Owen.”
She sighed and yanked the tie from her braid, combing her fingers through her wavy, dark brown hair. “Not that this ultra-tough, basically weightless armor that forms to your shape isn’t useful, but I think your grandmother could use your genetic engineering smarts about now. The excubitor did label it ‘utmost priority.’”
He chuffed. “Yeah, until a fleet of Guardian Drudgers drops on our heads. Then watch that ‘utmost priority’ shift to this armor real fast.”
Owen frowned as she sectioned out her hair to re-plait. “Any particular reason you’re avoiding Corinne?”
Cavalon rankled at the accusation in her tone. “I’m not.”
“Liar.” Owen’s nexus band vibrated. She retied her braid, then tapped it open. An orange holographic screen expanded over her wrist.
“What is it?” He leaned into her line of sight to peek at the screen. Owen elbowed him in the ribs and he retreated.
“I’m due in TAC-COM,” she said, minimizing the screen. “The remote gate access test for the atlas meshwork is later and we need to prep.”
“That’s today?”
“Yeah.” Owen’s gaze went distant, features pinched.
“Hey, now…” Cavalon pushed up and sat on the counter beside her. “Stop that. Emery will be fine.” He’d tried to sound assuring, but his own worry unavoidably leaked through. He couldn’t help it; he’d worried every time Emery ran off to lead guerrilla attacks on remote Guardian facilities or Mercer Biotech distributors. She was their youngest squad leader by almost a decade, but if Rake trusted she was ready, Cavalon trusted it too.
Owen picked at her nails, not looking remotely convinced by Cavalon’s shoddy pep talk.
He drew in a breath and channeled Rake, mustering up her brazen surety. “Seriously, O,” he went on with far more conviction. “She’ll be all right. It’s not even a raid—just a quick hop through an Arcullian Gate.”
“Sure, if the stupid thing actually works, and it doesn’t accidentally relay them off to some gateless system they can never return from.”
“Between the genius of you, Puck, and Mesa, there’s no question. It’ll pass with flying colors, then Emery’ll be on her way back and ready to make out again in no time.”
The concern smoothed from Owen’s forehead, though it didn’t leave her eyes. “Yeah. You’re right.” She let out a hard-edged sigh. “I guess this is why the Legion discourages emotional entanglements, huh?”
He gave a weak shrug. “Can’t stop yourself from loving someone, whether it’s regulation or not.”
Owen’s light brown skin turned violently crimson. “Love?” she sputtered. Her eyes darted, like she couldn’t find any safe place in the universe to land her gaze. “Void, Mercer—just relax, okay?”
Cavalon laughed. “Please, deny it. It’s hilarious.”
Owen’s lips remained rounded in a constant, open state of refusal, her cheeks still red-hot. She pieced herself back together with clear effort, smoothing her hands down her duty vest. “Well, you suck, and I should probably return that rifle.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cavalon sighed. “Scamper off back to Mesa. Do you need me to write you a hall pass?”
Owen snorted. “I’m good. Thanks for the pep talk, bud.” She leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on his stubbled cheek.
“Void—” he cursed, shoving her away.
“Biotech,” she reminded, pointing upward. Then her voice perked up, and in a bright, calculated tone like the narrator of a kids’ serial, she added, “Remember, young man: You are smart, valued, and worthy, and you can do anything you put your mind to.” She patted him on the head, then vaulted off the counter before he could punch her shoulder. She grabbed the rifle and trotted out the door, waving coyly behind her.
Cavalon scowled as he wiped her spit from his cheek with the back of his prosthesis. He stared down at the moisture beading on the too-smooth skin, a few shades paler than even his own extremely pale complexion.
His nexus buzzed with another blue dot. Corinne again.
This was her fourth summons. If he didn’t head up there soon, the system would dock him for non-responsiveness during duty hours. Which was bullshit. At times like this he wished Mesa had never unearthed that damn Cathian fortress AI. Sure, it helped them run a tight ship and had taken the burden of dovetailing the Sentinel and Cathian networks off Puck’s and Owen’s shoulders, but it also spied on them every second of every day.
Copyright © 2024 by J. S. Dewes
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