And saved the warriors of three chapters and a battalion of Uncle Sam’s fighters from certain destruction. I’d been awarded my kutte, elevated in status, and honored. And then Pops died and the nanobots I had been infected with proved to be too dangerous. So, I vanished.
My nanobots—the mutation I carried and the infection I transmitted—were why it was already too late for Jagger.
Feeling the gloves on my hands, knowing they looked strange in this setting, I tossed Jagger a package of processed cheese crackers and sat opposite him.
“No fresh food,” I said, hiding the fact that I had a greenhouse, just as I hid so much else. “And no getting out of here. Not until the Puffers are all gathered and destroyed.”
“What about my bike?”
I shrugged. “Soon as the sun recharges my batteries, I can decontaminate it before you leave.”
“Leave? We leave together.”
“If that was an invitation, it lacked a certain charm, Asshole.”
“Shining—”
“That sounds like a name. It’s not mine. Eat your crackers.”
Into my earbud, Mateo said, “Make a decision and make it soon.”
I didn’t tell him the decision had probably already been made.
I drank my beer. Ate the cracker Jagger passed me, sharing from his pack. We settled back and watched the screens as the cats skulked around the junkyard in small groups, killing Puffers. Mateo followed the mayhem and destruction, gathering up the bot remnants and taking them to the AG Grabber to fry. AG Grabbers were pre-war tech. A lot of other stuff on the property was war tech and I was not supposed to have it. Like Mateo’s warbot suit, the only thing keeping my friend alive.
“Who’s the warbot?”
“Don’t know his real name,” I lied, speaking softly, slowly, pushing with my blood, continuing the attempt to alter his memories. “But I call him Matt. The boss, the owner of the junkyard, found him working as a slave in a town not far from here and brought him back here to live or die. He lived. Boss might know personal stuff, but Matt and I don’t share histories or private info. At all.”
“I like the modifications he made on his bot.”
“He’s good at what he does.” Which carried a lot of unspoken threats. Threats Jagger understood, if the fleeting, challenging smile was an indication. Really? He’d challenge a warbot? OMW-dude was an idiot, on top of being an Asshole. A good-looking, almost-charming Asshole. I clenched my fists at the need to reach out and touch him.
He gestured to the screens with his beer. “Don’t reckon you’d let me take pics of the scanners and screens.”
“Nope.”
“Don’t reckon you’d let me make a vid of the cats hunting.”
“Nope.”
“And I assume you have the means and capabilities to make sure I don’t take vid, or leave before you’re ready, without your permission.”
“Not bad, Asshole.” I grinned at him. “Matt. How’s our visitor’s bike?” I asked without raising my voice.
“Pretty li’l thing. Hope I don’t have to hurt it,” he said, over the office speakers.
Jagger’s eyes flashed at the mention of hurting his bike, but he smiled anyway.
“I’ll have to be on my best behavior.”
“Good idea,” Mateo said.
We sat in silence, watching the cats hunt and Mateo clean up. Time passed. Twice, Jagger spotted something and moved to the weapons. Shot a Puffer. Each time, Mateo collected and fried it. They were working together, silent. Which was a very bad sign for my own long-range problem solving.
The sun moved toward the west; the hottest part of the day passed into late afternoon. I made coffee. Opened a pack of dried apples to share. Jagger watched, his eyes on my gloved hands.
The med-bay light flashed three times and went dark. I got up to find Notch sleeping, breathing, his open wounds no longer open and most of his blood washed away. Med-bays weren’t perfect but they were very, very good when the nearest veterinarian was thirty klicks away. I popped open the bay and used the disinfectant sprayer to wash off Notch—thin, red-tinted fluid gurgling down the drain. I dried off the unconscious cat and tapped the panel, saying, “Instructions for rehab.”
The med-bay’s androgynous computer voice said, “Clear liquids tonight and tomorrow. Minced protein after forty-eight hours. Commence swimming therapy at seventy-two hours. Reevaluation in seven days.”
“Yeah. If I live that long,” I muttered, laying non-fibrous padding over the thin, glued line of wounds, and wrapping the cat’s torso in sticky wrap.
“Why wouldn’t you live that long?” Jagger asked, his voice coming from behind me. Too close.
My breath caught. That earlier