surprised I stopped dead. He knew his way around, cleaning with disinfectant and refilling the surgical supplies from the marked cabinet to the side. He hit the right sequence for decontamination on the instruction screen and ultraviolet light lit the room. It was scut work, not the sort of thing a National Enforcer did.
“I live in Naoma,” I said, naming a nearby town.
Jagger made a noncommittal sound. As he worked, the sun set, and the office darkened. The modified, low-water-use air-scrubber plants closed their leaves and stopped removing pollutants from the air. The lights overhead should have blinked on, bright and gleaming. Instead, they came on slowly, with a dull glow, a brownout that indicated the office AI, nicknamed Gomez, had shunted power to the med-bay and the AG Grabber. I’d overused my energy supply and now I was paying for it. Between the Grabber’s power usage and healing Notch, my energy reserves were nearly tapped out. I could draw on the spaceship’s nearly inexhaustible supply, but . . . No. Not with Jagger here. I had already used the shields, but they were less obvious to humans; I was sure he hadn’t noticed, beyond a weird crawly feeling under his skin. But if I used the Weakly Interacting Massive Particle power from the SunStar’s engines or the office’s weapons array, he’d figure it all out. I didn’t think even my talents could make Jagger forget a WIMP engine, and if I couldn’t alter his memories, Mateo would kill him to protect us. And . . . I didn’t want Jagger dead. Bloody damn. I didn’t want him dead.
On the screens, I saw pride cats targeting a line of Puffers on Aisle Tango Three. I counted fourteen cats and six Puffers, most of them weaponized. Even with those numbers, that was not good odds for the cats.
“I have jerky and dried fruit at the bike,” Jagger said, tucking his fingers into his pockets, looking all relaxed and loose and easy, as if he couldn’t kill me with those hands in less than two seconds if he wanted. “But since the bike is outside and I’m not, may I impose on the hospitality of Little Girl to let me use her facilities and to feed me?”
That was about as formal as an OMW ever got. When he didn’t change his stance or his expression, I jutted my chin at my PTC, my personal toilette compartment.
“I’m not that little, but help yourself. As to food” —I tilted my head, thinking about my supplies—“Boss has pouches of tuna, canned shrimp, and goat’s milk. A couple of tablespoons of butter, a few dried herbs, onion powder, a little wheat flour, and roasted garlic.” As an afterthought I added, “Canned corn. Salt. Pepper.”
Jagger grinned ear to ear. The transformation was startling and intriguing and ho-ly cow.
“Little Girl, that sounds like the makings of a seafood stew, right here in the middle of the West Virginia desert.”
I had no idea why I offered my hard-to-replace and terribly expensive foodstuffs to the National Enforcer. A small voice—not the Berger-chip implant, but a recognizable, small voice—whispered into the back of my mind, Because you’re lonely. That stopped me cold.
The voice was right. Mateo and I had been alone for years. I was no longer human. And Mateo was a warbot, as much a machine as a man. Except for limited and brief times, he wasn’t someone I could see or touch or physically interact with.
Jagger was human. Jagger was here. Right now.
Chances were very good that he’d be dead or different—altered—in seventy-two hours tops. First time in forever, I had company. If I’d admit to being Shining Smith, he’d be company who knew the real me and what I had done, or at least some of my history. He’d be company who could talk to me about the Outlaw Militia Warriors and the outside world. Real conversation. Maybe a game of cards. An old movie.
But if he’d sent Harlan, if he was the traitor, he might also just shoot me and be done with it.
The loneliness ached. Take it, the small voice said.
I opened my mouth, still trying to decide.
“I don’t know who your Shining Smith is. My boss’s name is Smith but the only thing shiny on him is his bald head.”
“Your boss? Really.”
I ignored him and turned away, leaving him hulking behind me. He didn’t strangle me or cut my throat, heading for the PTC instead. Score one for Jagger.
Though it was hard to see in