Pain Bringer (The Constant War Book 2), page 7
Once clear of the construction bots and protruding robotic limbs, she sprinted through the darkness, her steps echoing a metallic rumble.
She skidded to a stop at the base of a recharging unit. Her arms and legs vibrated, but she barely noticed over her heart thumping in triple time.
She felt electric. Alive.
She grabbed a handhold on the mecha’s kneecap. Her biceps tightened as she hauled herself up its leg, but her arms continued to shudder under the load. She tried to will the shaking away, but unlike the Painbringer, her limbs ignored her thoughts. She tried to ignore the vibrations completely, thinking only of interfacing with the Painbringer, anticipating its euphoric rush. She practically felt the cold steel jacks sliding into her. The electricity racing through her brain. The union of flesh and machine.
Thunder echoed overhead, startling her. She lost her grip on the leg, slid down the armor plating, and collapsed at the foot of the Painbringer. Floodlights snapped on in single-file rows, drowning her in light. She raised an arm, shielding her eyes from the blinding luminance.
A voice roared above her. “Char, what are you doing in here?”
“God? Is that you? I, uh, I don’t know what to say. It’s been a long time.”
Hesitation gave away his identity. “I mean, sometimes I like to think I could be, but uh, no, I—what are you doing in here?”
As her eyes fully adjusted to the illuminated laboratory, she made out a familiar silhouette in the control booth. She plastered a grin onto her face. “Einy! Just the man I was looking for!”
“No. I do not think you were.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Of course I was!”
“Really?”
“Why does everyone think I have to want something to pay a visit? Can’t a girl just want some hang time with friends?”
“I didn’t realize we were friends.”
“Of course we are.”
Silence filled the room. For a moment, static crackled over the comm, and then Einhorn cleared his throat. “Well, then…I’m glad you’re here.”
“I wasn’t going—wait, you are? I mean, of course you are.”
“Truth be told, I could use the help. The council always frowns on providing Dr. Black or myself with additional resources and manpower. Classified projects and what have you is always the excuse, but I know the truth—they’re just lazy. You’re already privy to our operations, so I can’t see them making a fuss. Well, I mean, I can. The council will make a fuss over everything, won’t they? Why don’t you come up to the control booth and assist me?”
“The control booth…” Char’s excitement plummeted. Her gaze lingered on the Painbringer inches away. Tall and shiny in the recharging unit. An empty cockpit, desperately begging to be filled. Char looked at the figure in the control booth window. “You want me to come up there now?”
“No better time. I could use a hand.”
Char felt like she had fallen into the algae vats on the central level, stuck in thick, frothy sludge, unable to move. Her body churned against her will, raising a foot of its own accord. One incremental step away from the Painbringer after the other.
But her mind was still there. Still dwelling on the cockpit.
The connection.
Or lack of one.
She was missing out.
She moved toward the control booth—in the complete opposite direction of where she wanted to be. Stop! No! Back there!
She shushed her inner voice. He’ll know if we don’t play along.
But…
Her hands trembled with every step away from the Painbringer. Scratching noises rose from the vibrations of her skin against her uniform’s harsh nylon. Her heart once again beat in triple time, trying to thump its way out of her chest. Her brain screamed, We are never going to be in the Painbringer again! Sweat beaded at her temple, hot and sticky. She closed her eyes and willed herself to the base of the stairs. Immediately, her stomach did somersaults. She paused, doubled over, put both hands to her mouth, and tried to contain her lunch.
Mind and body were not in agreement, at all, on this one. To make matters worse, she had no idea which side was winning.
All she knew was that she was moving. Away from the Painbringer.
And she felt awful.
She put her weight on the handrail and stumbled up the corrugated steel stairs. Her footsteps echoed metallic and loud. A migraine grew, pulsing to the beat of her own steps—hammer throws against an anvil.
At the top of the stairs, she eased open the door. It whined on rusty hinges, so singularly loud that it startled her. But Einhorn seemed unaware. He was a flurry of fingers in front of a monitor that overlooked the construction table and various failed prototypes in the laboratory below. “Just a sec,” he said.
“No worries.” Char barely got the words out. She felt as if she was shouting across the room. Or did it only seem that way in her head? Maybe she had been whispering. In fact, she thought she had whispered. Had Einhorn even heard her?
And then she saw it, all by its lonesome.
On the workbench behind Einhorn, mixed in with technological bric-a-brac, on top of a pile of tablets and sensor pens, was the device Einhorn had used to shut her down.
The Painbringer’s remote control.
Despite her stomach doing cartwheels, she begrudgingly trudged into the control room. As soon as she made it to the workbench, she placed her hands flat and leaned her weight into it for support. From that minor exertion, she felt flush. Her cheeks blossomed with fire and her entire upper body was damp with sweat.
But the remote was so close.
She inched toward it, hunched over, using the edge of the workbench as a walker. Every footstep was a struggle. Every sensation shot pain through her body. But she knew the effort would soon be worth it. With a shaking hand, she reached out for the device.
The chair screeched as Einhorn slid away from the monitor.
Char whipped her hands behind her back and spun, trying to look as innocent as possible.
Luckily, Einhorn’s attention was still on the monitor. On his work. He hammered a few keys on the keyboard, nodded at his handiwork on the screen, and faced Char. “Glad to see you’re taking initiative,” he said, “and not letting a little thing like failing your combat sims keep you down. You should know, I put in a good word with the brass. They want you back in the pilot seat ASAP.”
“Yeah?” As much as she wanted to grab the remote right in front of Einhorn’s face and bee-line for the Painbringer, curiosity got the better of her. “When do you think I’ll be able to pilot it again?”
“Soon,” said Einhorn.
“How soon is soon?”
“I pulled some strings.”
“How long are these strings we’re talking about?”
“About a week or two.”
“A week!”
“I know. I couldn’t believe how quick the turnaround is. The council is really on the ball with this one.”
“Yeah.” Char rolled her eyes. “Quick.”
Pinned between the workbench and her back, her hands started shaking again. Loose papers rattled. A few of the tablets vibrated so vigorously that they slid toward the edge of the table. She straightened her back and bumped the table with her butt, knocking the tablets safely away from the edge. She held her breath, trying to stay calm. But how could she? Inches behind her back, just out of reach, was the key to her salvation.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked.
Her left hand crawled across the table like a pink fleshy spider in search of prey. It slid under papers, pushing tablets out of the way, reaching for the spot where she had seen the remote mere seconds ago.
“I was thinking you could—” Einhorn stopped midsentence. His brow furrowed and his head tilted to a side. “Are you alright? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.” Char broke eye contact. “Why?”
She probably looked like something out of a horror movie. Her body was damp. Her skin on fire. But a chill kept sending static pulses up her spine. Every drop of sweat was ice cold against steaming flesh. She felt closed in, claustrophobic, as if her entire world was contained within a two-foot aura. Her surroundings were distorted, and it took all of her concentration to see anything outside of her immediate vicinity. A wave of nausea kicked her focus back to her stomach. Hot and cold flashes cycled through her body. All she could do was feel awful and occasionally steal glances at the remote control.
It was right there.
Run in! Grab it!
“You look pale,” said Einhorn.
“I’m just excited is all,” Char lied. She took one faltering step toward Einhorn, covered it with a skip, as if it was the most natural motion in the world and placed her hands on the back of his chair. “Show me what you’re up to.”
On the computer monitor, Char recognized the wireframe layout of the Painbringer. Statistics, percentages, and bar graphs depicted something or other—Char had no idea what they were for. Lines of code endlessly scrolled on another open window. A third had a familiar picture of a young blonde woman.
“Hey, I know her.”
“It is you.”
“That would be the joke.”
“Oh, right. Joke. Yes.” Einhorn looked at her picture, then back up at her. “Funny.” He repositioned in his seat. “I am currently running a diagnostic on the B-77—”
“—the Painbringer—”
“—the prototype,” he corrected, “to try and find the root of the bugs you have been, uh, what is another word for complaining?”
“Critically praising?”
“Yes, well, I am attempting to address your critical praises in the code. However, as you can see, it is quite the mammoth undertaking.”
Einhorn continued to drone on about some technical jargon, but Char was already tuning him out. In the middle of his spiel, the comm rang. Not a moment too soon either, as Char’s fever dreams about the Painbringer were coming to a crescendo.
There was only one problem. Einhorn didn’t seem to hear the ringing comm.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
And continued right on ringing. Einhorn belted out his dissertation over the comm’s shrill reverberations.
Char glared at him, long and hard, figuring he’d take the hint. But he didn’t. So she poked him in the shoulder half a dozen times. “Uh, Einy, as entertaining and informative as all this is, isn’t that for you?”
Without looking up from the monitor, he said. “Who else would it be for?”
“I mean—don’t you think you should answer it?”
Einhorn paused for a millisecond. “Probably.” And then turned back to his computer, reading off statistics and issues with the code.Char bit her lower lip. She glanced at the remote control on the workbench behind them. It was so damn close. And tugged Einhorn’s sleeve. “What if it’s urgent? You should see what they want.”
Einhorn sighed. “They’re just going to ask me to do something I don’t want to do. I have enough of a workload here, ironing out the kinks in the prototype. It’s like a magic trick. If I don’t answer, they can’t ask.”
Char found herself nodding. She couldn’t argue with that logic. In fact, she could relate. She didn’t like doing what people told her. In fact, she had a track record of doing exactly the opposite.
A new sensation rippled through her. She began to feel dizzy, when an eruption of bile rocketed up her esophagus. Her hands went to her mouth, and she swallowed it down before anything escaped. She was both relieved, having managed to keep it down, and disgusted that she had.
Through splayed fingers, she looked up at Einhorn. He was still working. Wiping the corner of her mouth, she said, “Maybe it’s an accommodation? You know, you’ve been busting your butt and whatnot. Maybe they want to congratulate you?”
The rat-a-tat of keys came to an abrupt halt. “You think?”
“Of course, I think. Look at all the amazing work you’ve done.” She waved her hand toward the old prototypes on the construction floor below—most looking like an exhibit at a robot graveyard, but she tried to avoid highlighting that part.
Einhorn’s eyes flitted to the receiver again, and then back to Char. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
“Don’t mind me.” Char backed away. As soon as Einhorn picked up the receiver, she turned to the workbench; more stumbled backwards into it. Her hands rummaged under papers and tablets and sensor pens.
She felt hard metal and grabbed the square device. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. A smile bloomed as her symptoms dissipated. It wasn’t that they were gone. But now, she felt as if she was only aware of her body’s condition as an outsider looking down upon it from above.
She heard a click of the comm, and Einhorn’s weight shifting in his seat. Quickly, she turned to face him, hiding the remote control behind her back.
“So?” she asked.
Einhorn’s gaze flicked to the floor. “It wasn’t an accommodation.”
Char wasn’t exactly surprised. But Einhorn’s sad puppy-dog expression made her feel bad for him. Being deceptive with Einhorn always felt a bit like taking advantage of a very naive, very small child. “Sorry,” she said.
“I, uh, they need me to…” Einhorn lingered over his words.
“Spit it out, Einy.”
“I need someone to watch the control booth for me.”
Char perked. The ill effects she felt became vapor. Momentarily, she was buoyant, floating on air. “Of course I could keep tabs on things for you.”
“If it’s not an—”
“Of course it’s not.” Char shoved a tablet and sensor pen into Einhorn’s hands, completely unaware whether he needed them or not. She grabbed him by the sleeve and marched him toward the exit. “Don’t even think about it. I have everything all taken care of here.”
Einhorn halted in the doorway. “You’re certain?”
“You said you needed my help. Let me help you.”
He pointed toward the monitor. “I was going over the simulator logs, looking for erroneous code. If you’d like—”
“I told you, I’ve got it.” Char gritted her teeth, standing as rigidly as possible. She was certain that Einhorn could see her body vibrating. A smile blossomed, and she made a grandiose sweeping gesture, hoping the exuberance would cover up her shimmy. “You don’t have to worry your pretty little head about a thing.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Take your time.”
Before Einhorn had left the laboratory, the Painbringer’s remote control was in her hand. The security doors had barely clanked shut, and she was climbing up the Painbringer’s leg. Without thought, the remote was pointed at the mecha, the button pressed, the canopy released, raised, and Char slipped into the harness before her feet could hit the floor.
The jacks slid in.
She inhaled, readied for the euphoric rush, her senses primed. But she only felt the dull ache of nothing and the sickness from the Painbringer’s absence.
“The hell?”
She wriggled in the harness, leaning back into the jacks. But still, she felt nothing. She hit the remote control with the side of her hand a few times. Still nothing. She turned it over and checked the battery. It still had a charge.
“What the—?”
She pressed the button a dozen times. “Work, you stupid thing!” And started punching it when that failed. Frustrated, she tossed the remote into a side panel. With both hands, she grabbed a support wire on either side of her head and rocked back and forth. The Painbringer swayed in its recharging unit. “What is wrong with you?! Give me what I need!”
Recharging… blinked across the canopy in green letters.
“Oh.” She felt stupid. “Right.”
A simple thought, and the recharging cycle ended. She concentrated on the power status. Before the HUD blinked 91%, she knew the status was green and the Painbringer was good to go. A millisecond later, electricity surged through the jacks in her spine.
“Oh yeah, there it is.”
The Painbringer bucked, coming to life.
Sensors came online. Mission reports loaded, blasting information directly into her cerebral cortex.
Every electrical impulse hopped, skipped, and jumped across her neurons like a river stone across a glassy lake, sparking that oh-so-pleasant biochemical leap in her brain. This was what she had been missing.
Chapter Eight
“You what?!”
Clothes were strewn about the bedroom. Mostly T-shirts and jeans. A skirt hung off the doorknob and several blouses floated in the air like bloated jellyfish before settling on the shag carpet.
“He offered me the job.” Wilkins dumped a laundry hamper onto the bed. “What was I supposed to say?”
“No.” Fairhaven collected her skirt from the door and folded it under an arm. “You could have said no. That’s the sane response.”
“I mean, yeah, I could have said that. But I want to go.”
“Of course you do,” grumbled Fairhaven.
Wilkins shoved the hamper aside, sifting through the pile of clothes beneath it. “Fine. You’re right. Of course I do. Have you seen my flight spandex?”
“Why would I have seen your flight spandex? Isn’t it where you always keep it?”
“If it was where I always keep it, I wouldn’t be asking you where it was, would I?”
“You’d think that’d be the case, but you ask me where your shit is all the time. I mean, like, all the time.”
“Deployment is in ten minutes. Can you help me or not?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, love. I don’t know where your flight spandex is. Maybe if you took better care of your things, or put them away after using them, you’d know where they were.”
Her answer was a poisoned dart. An invitation to a fight. Wilkins knew enough to dodge.
Instead of engaging, he dropped to his knees, raised the dust ruffle, and checked under the bed.
Without a word, Fairhaven joined the search, checking the chest of drawers.
