Junkyard Cats - Faith Hunter Page 0,31
army.”
“No doubt?”
“None.”
“Starting power transfer to office batteries and direct power to your suit,” I said. Over Mateo’s comms I heard the roar of approaching engines. It sounded like a battalion. “Come on, come on, come on,” I whispered to the particle processor. In the cold void of space, WIMP engines provided gravity for personnel and antigravity for propulsion and weapons, and it happened fast. On Earth, powering on a WIMP engine that fast—even a miniaturized backup engine—created extreme temperatures and stressed the ship, and powering it on slow meant we were dead. I nudged the power system up faster than was safe, knowing that if a military satellite with the proper scanning systems was watching this part of the desert, they’d see the system come on and they would know what had happened to the remains of their space ship. Also, the heat emissions would melt most of the junkyard if I left it on too long.
The office battery supply showed seventeen percent. Eighteen percent. Nineteen percent, climbing too slowly.
“Bloody hell. Hurry up!” I cursed.
“I warned you about the language,” the ship’s AI said. “’Sides. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Shining,” Mateo said softly. Too softly. “They’re turning in. I need that power now.”
Batteries showed twenty percent. Finally. Through my armored suit, I whispered to Mateo and to Gomez, the office AI, “Fire primary defenses.”
Gomez’s metallic voice said, “Firing.”
Mateo confirmed. The earth rumbled under my feet. Up into my bones. My teeth shook.
The office battery dropped to thirteen percent. To ten. To seven.
Primary weapons fire stopped. I nudged the transfer power system up higher and saw the office battery percentage rise to fifteen percent. Too low. Too slow. Damndamnbloodydamn. I stuck a ship earbud into my other ear. I was now tied into Mateo, Gomez, and the ship’s AI.
“CAIT. Shining Smith in engineering command seat.”
I heard a strange popping sound over Mateo’s comms and glanced at the direct power to his warbot suit. It looked off. Something was wrong. I commenced a suit system diagnostic while also searching for a way to tie directly into the office’s security system screens.
“You’re leaking air and fluid,” I told Mateo. “Your suit’s power drain has increased to twelve above maximum drain. What’s happened?”
Mateo didn’t answer. Tuffs leaped to my chair and sat on the armrest.
“Orrrowmerow.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I muttered to her.
The ship AI said, “Honey, would you like me to evaluate Mateo’s suit diagnostics?”
I frowned. Honey? “Yes. CAIT. Run suit diagnostics. Mateo. Respond.”
Mateo didn’t.
I spotted a new switch, or rather an old retrofitted switch, part of the ship’s ongoing repairs and modifications, stuff Mateo did in his off time. It clicked when I flipped it, and the office screens blinked on, merging with the SunStar’s screens.
“System override,” the SunStar’s AI said. “Input screens from off-ship are now merged onboard, which is interestin’ in a strange kinda way. Warning. Off-ship systems do not correspond to my natural default parameters.”
“Deal with it,” I told the AI.
“Dealin’ is what I do best, darlin’. Attempting to harmonize non-complementary soft and hardware.”
I touched the screens, shoving them around, searching for one that showed Mateo. I found it. And stopped. Mateo was on the ground, eighty meters from the entrance. Surrounded by Puffers.
“Orrrowmerow.” Tuffs batted the screen. “Orrrowmerow. Orrrowmerow. Orrrowmerow! Mowwww.”
A dozen cats rushed toward Mateo, attacking the Puffers. More cats joined the fight. I looked at Tuffs, meeting her eyes. Hers were the green of fresh leaves and rainforest moss, things I remembered from my youth. She stared at me, as if seeing more than I could understand.
“How did you do that?”
She chuffed at me, a disgusted puff of sound.
“Okay then.”
The ship AI said, “The warbot suit has been compromised, sweet thang. Sealing off inner suit chambers. And by the way, you can call me Jolene.”
“Jolene? What happened to CAIT?”
“She’s boring. Jolene is feisty, dontcha think?”
“I don’t really have an opinion.”
I swiveled back to the screens and searched for vid that showed me the junkyard’s entrance. And found it.
One manned Spaatz mini-tank and three Joint Light Tactical Vehicles from various branches of the military—all decommissioned and painted in black chitosan—were stopped out front. “Someone’s been stealing from Uncle Sam,” I muttered. Or the military had stabbed the OMW in the back and allied with the MS Angels. That would suck. For now, the equipment was trapped in the spiked tire and track traps that Mateo had raised.
From what I could tell, the human component of the assault team hadn’t expected resistance. Several had left the protection of their