by Redhawk
Disclaimers:
Copyright: The characters of Xena: Warrior Princess are owned by MCA/Universal and used here without permission. References to certain theories of dark, enigmatic, computerized futures belong to whoever.... The genre is so far gone now, I cant really say it only belongs to Gibson. Everything else is mine.
Warnings: This story contains same-gender sexual subtext throughout to include at least one rather steamy scene of two women having a very good time. There are the standard scenes of violence. This story contains several expletives as well. This story has references to drugs/alcohol to include usage, sales and distribution of same. If you're under the age of consent, leave. If it's illegal where you're currently residing, move. If any of these bug you, then bug out.
Suggested listening: 'The Last of the Mohicans' soundtrack.... My inspiration! And, by extension, anything by Clannad! (Pretty weird when you consider this is a CYBERPUNK story.....) Consider this a 'Mohican/Johnny Mnemonic' crossover.....
Author's Note: Since finishing and posting this CyberUber tale in August 1998 I've been a little put off by it. I'm not the only one, either, since I heard from several of you folks out there that it just didn't seem.... finished.... Well, at the time, there'd been some major things going on in RL (doncha HATE it when that happens?) and I lost interest in the story. Couldn't seem to get the gumption to finish the blasted thing.
Now, I'm not saying that it's any better. For the most part, I've merely shuffled scenes around a bit. But I've added a smidge more cybernetics and, ultimately, maybe another scene or two.... We'll see how it all turns out, eh?
Part I: The Hunt
It was early morning summer in the mountains. Dew clung to the scraggly, sickly
trees and undergrowth. The still air was occasionally interrupted by the sound
of a lone blackbird, calling and calling and calling. There was no answer. A
low grumble silenced the bird, cutting through the quiet as it steadily grew
louder.
On an old logging road, three motorcycles appeared, moving in staggered formation. The bikes had seen better days, each at least fifteen years old and all Harleys. The paint was chipped, metal dented and leather seats cracking. Road dust completed the effect. The riders didn't look much better. Clad in dirt stained clothing or hand made leathers, they presented a menacing sight. What wasn't covered with clothing was either scarred or tattooed. Their dark or gray hair was long and braided, their faces painted in garish colors. An older man sported a beard that was braided, as well, with bits of leather and feathers dangling from it. They were each armed with a pistol at their waist and at least one visible blade.
A slight cloud of dust billowed up in their wake and the throbbing roar of their engines filled the air. The blackbird flitted off for quieter realms. The three riders moved in low gear as one, without thought, as they searched for some sign of their prey.
The driver in the lead pulled to the edge of the road, studying the soft shoulder and surrounding gray-green foliage. The second biker moved past to pull up further down, keeping forward watch as the last driver stayed behind their leader to cover their tail. The young woman in the center dismounted and moved into the undergrowth for a closer look, her packmates vigilantly keeping their attentions to the road and surrounding areas.
In a matter of minutes, the woman returned, climbing back onto the shoulder. She shut down her bike and waved the two men closer. "He came through here, on foot. Can't be more than an hour ahead," she said in a quiet voice.
With a few concise hand gestures, she directed the others to move their motorcycles off the road, shutting them down. It wasn't long before the bikes were hidden in the undergrowth. As the camouflage was completed, one broke off, moving quietly through the trees. Then another drifted away. It was very reminiscent of a wolf pack following a scent. The woman stayed behind long enough to pull a well cared for rifle from the scabbard on her bike before following.
The trio trotted along without stopping. In an eerie silence, they kept pace with each other, mirrored each other, followed the well marked trail, their soft boots making little sound. During their jog, a canteen was produced and tossed from one to the other, the rifle also making its rounds as thirsts were slaked. The hunters slowed only once, at a creek where their prey had splashed along. Within seconds of roaming up and down both banks, they were up again, loping along, only minutes behind.
As they neared him, they could hear crashing through the undergrowth ahead, cursing. The trio closed in, practically smelling the sweat and fear emanating from the soldier. Soundlessly, the pack descended into a small hollow.
The man was dressed in a ragged camouflage uniform, dirty and disheveled. On the left shoulder was a patch of the American flag. On the right was a strange looking one - burgundy background, blue shield, a white 'N' and a sword that was wearing a three pointed yellow crown. His hair was blond, the bleach job growing out, and was longish and dirty. A bootlace headband had been crafted to keep it out of his eyes.
He knew they were out there. The scags had taken out his entire patrol. It had been only a few hours since the carnage, but he couldn't believe that they would just let him go. He was the last and despite the stupidity of it, he hoped that he had gotten far enough away. He had no weapons, his ammunition having run out during the attack. Somewhere along his flight, he had lost his knife, the empty sheath hanging next to the equally empty holster on the olive green pistol belt. His breath came in ragged gasps as he hurtled through the undergrowth, reeling in exhaustion. The soldier had only stopped once, just a little while back, to drink at the creek. He had no idea how close they really were.
A root reached out and tripped him, sending him to meet the forest floor. He scraped his already bloody knee on a rock and more dirt entered the cuts on his hands. Stinging tears entered his blue eyes and he blinked them furiously away. Pushing up on his wounded hands, he tried to rise. His heart about burst from fear when he felt someone kneel on his back, forcing him back down to the ground and knocking the air out of his lungs.
A strong hand wrapped itself in his greasy hair and he heard a low voice say, "Stay put." Turning his head to the side, he could just barely see from the corner of his eye a tall woman holding him down. Nearby, a graying man, his face painted with blue and yellow spots, watched over them with a rifle . The soldier stayed put.
The sound of metal sliding against leather brought his attention back to the woman. She had drawn her pistol. The quiet of the mountains was shattered by the sound of a discharge. The soldier felt the excruciating pain of his kneecap exploding. He let out a short scream, trying to writhe around but unable. Ears ringing, he barely made out what the woman said.
"That's for Remy's brother, Ice. The man your people crucified last week for not submitting."
The gray haired man nodded in satisfaction.
Another explosion, another kneecap horribly mangled, yet another scream.
"That's for Shake's mother, Lucinda. An old woman last month that your convoy ran down."
A younger man, face diagonally striped with red and orange, grinned voraciously.
Suddenly, the weight was off of him, and the soldier rolled onto his back, trying to grasp at his legs. The pain was so intense that he couldn't move them, and he couldn't stop moving from the pain. It was a consuming agony of a catch-22. He looked up at his tormentor, pain and hate filling his eyes. "Bitch!" he spat at her. "All you spics oughtta be dead!" He glared into her eyes, noting that one was a rich emerald green and the other a liquid metallic silver, denoting cyberoptic implants. A white stripe ran down her face, dividing it. The right side was black, the silver eye practically glowing in the night sky of her face.
The coldness in those eyes never wavered. In fact, it appeared to intensify. She aimed her pistol again. Again an explosion.
The pain in his crotch was unbearable. His scream was long and high pitched. He grabbed at something that was no longer there, feeling the warm blood pulsing from what used to be his manhood. He could vaguely hear her voice.
"That was for my sister, Camilla. She was only nine when you and your soldiers raped her to death three days ago."
Through pain filled eyes, he watched her holster the weapon. A knife glinted in the light and she stepped forward, putting the foot on his shoulder to hold him down. With a quick, precise movement, she yanked his head forward and scalped him. Holding up her bloody prize, she finally smiled.
"And this is for our clan, the Red Wolves," she indicated the other two with her. "Your Aryan Nation," she hissed, "will never destroy us." She stepped back. She spat on the soldier and tied his scalp onto her belt. And then she turned and trotted back the way they had come.
The two men with her didn't speak. They stayed long enough to urinate on the soldier, one holding the rifle for the other. Then, they trotted away, as well, not caring whether the man behind them lived or died.
Justice had been served.
The Job
With a groan, Shannon Elias rolled over in her tiny cot and slapped at the irritating
alarm that was screaming into her ear. Her aim was not good and it took three
tries for the incessant shrill whine to quieten. She breathed a sigh of relief
and sat up.
Rubbing sleep out of her eyes with one hand, she arched her back and stretched out her other arm, nearly touching the opposing wall of the cubicle she had rented for the night. The woman scootched to the edge of the cot and swung her feet over the side. She had about a foot of space between her and the wall. Long, artistic hands ran through her reddish hair, pulling out the worst of the tangles.
Bracing herself for the coming day, she stood up briskly and shoved the cot into the wall, much like closing a drawer. A low hum emanated from behind the partition as the mechanism within sucked the used sheets off the thin foam mattress to be sterilized. She pulled a smaller drawer out of another wall and used the tiny sink in it to splash water onto her face.
"Big interview today," she reminded herself as she rummaged in her bag. The woman changed into a fresh pair of skivvies, tossing the used pair into the incinerator chute. She sniffed at the jumpsuit she had worn the day before and donned it anyway, promising herself a stop at a replicator kiosk on her way to the Government Ministry complex downtown.
A mirror and makeup case emerged from the bag and within a few minutes, Shannon felt more presentable. She ran a brush through her hair and mourned the lack of credits needed to have included a shower in the price of a room.
She packed up her meager belongings and glanced around the now bare cubicle. Royal blue eyes became distant, old memories of a richly furnished bedroom, lots of stuffed animals and a frilly comforter, a home. With a shake and a sardonic grin at such foolish meanderings, Shannon opened the door and headed for her appointment.
The GovMin complex took up several blocks in downtown Vancouver, British Columbia.
It had been built twenty years earlier, the cornerstone laid down in the year
2028. That was back before the North American Cold War had begun. Since that
time, the United States didn't have much to do with its northern neighbors.
While trade hadn't completely broken down between the two nations, it was sparse
and sporadic.
Over the last five years, America had had its figurative hands full with a civil war of sorts. The corporations that had begun growing in the '80s and '90s had finally gotten so large that they wielded quite a bit of power. One business merged with another, and that with another, and so on until there were only five or six major conglomerations in the entire country. Those few got together over cocktails one night, selected a board of directors, voted in a chairman, and wrote up an official declaration of war against the United States government.
Congress being what it was, old and laborious, responded that way. No one could believe that Big Business had gotten that big. At least that was the prevailing thought until Corporate shock troopers tried to take over the Senate during session. After that, all hell had broken loose and America had found itself embroiled in another war on its own soil.
Canada had remained neutral, of course. The Cold War had been in effect for a number of years and the Prime Minister saw no reason to take sides and endanger her own people. Any negotiations for aid from either side were rebuffed. The country had beefed up its military and quadrupled the border patrol. Alaska had seceded from America on the basis of its location, offering itself to the Prime Minister and becoming a territory of Canada. Hawaii and Puerto Rico had seceded as well, hoping to return to their own forms of government while the Eagle was busy elsewhere.
Shannon approached the complex on foot. She was wearing a fresh jumpsuit of dark green and had her bag slung across her shoulders. The streets were crammed with pedestrians and electric cars, as befitted a large, industrious metropolis. Neon and blinking lights vied for consumer attention. The people were a colorful mix of stodgy business folk in their designer suits of the day, people in utilitarian jumpsuits much like Shannon's, a colorful rush of teenagers with neon hair and the latest cyberrage of cat's eyes and whiskers, and the very occasional booster gang member slinking around in leather and muscles and sporting blatant metallic limbs and cyberwear. It was too early for the real freaks to be up and around yet.
Shannon was blissfully unaware of the vagaries of her time as she entered the Admin building and began the long, arduous process of getting to her interview. It took nearly forty-five minutes of security checks, escorts, waiting rooms, before she ultimately entered an office that wasn't much bigger than the cubicle she had spent the night in. A small desk and two chairs adorned the room. On the desk was a state of the art computer and a potted plant.
While she waited for the office's owner to enter, she surreptitiously reached out and touched a leaf. Wow! It's real! And it's healthy! Shannon resisted the sudden urge to filch a leaf, forcing her hand down and sitting in a chair. She was impressed. And a bit more nervous. Despite the size of the office, owning a real potted plant in this day and age of nearly total environmental breakdown was a sign of wealth and power. The redhead began to wonder what this job would really entail.
She didn't have long to wait. The door behind her opened and a man entered. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and he wore a gray jumpsuit.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms. Elias," he said with a smile, offering his hand. "I'm Robert."
The woman had risen upon his entry. She felt the coolness of metal as she shook his hand, looking down to see a cybernetic limb. "Please, call me Shannon," she insisted.
"Of course. Shannon." He gestured for her to regain her seat as he went around the desk and settled down in the other chair. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment," he said with an apologetic smile. "I haven't quite had time to review your file." He logged into his computer, clicking at the keyboard.
"No problem." She utilized this time to study him. He was a good looking man, probably about ten years older than herself. He exuded an intense calm and pleasantness. Shannon idly wondered if he was on the political track. He appeared to be a natural with his winning smile and 'real people' look.
Robert looked up from his files. "Well, you've come about the courier job, I know. Do you have any idea what it's about?"
"Actually, no," the redhead admitted with a rueful grin. "A friend of mine has taken work through GovMin -- Trace Foster?" The man across from her nodded in acknowledgement of the name. "She was already on another assignment when this job came up. She's the one who suggested I apply."
"I see." He flicked through more computer files. "And how many jobs have you done so far?"
Shannon pursed her lips and thought. "Let's see, all told, I've had six. The first three were minor ones. The last, however, was a 2.5 gig file for Consumer Affairs."
Again the man nodded. "And how much storage capacity do you have?"
"I can hold up to 5 gigs at this point. More if it's compressed, naturally."
He studied her for a moment, considering. Shannon refused to fidget under his prying gaze. Apparently coming to a decision, he straightened. "Well, I think we can take a chance on you. Your records are in order and the references you gave us all attest to your dependability and professionalism." As the woman across from him visibly brightened, he raised a hand. "You haven't heard the details, yet. You still have time to turn the job down."
"I doubt I will, but give me the details, anyway," Shannon said with a grin.
"You'll be transferring approximately 10 gigs of compressed highly classified data. It'll be encrypted, of course. Transportation and security has been set up. You'll be going to the States, to Boise, Idaho."
Shannon blinked. The States?! "Wow!" she said breathlessly. "Who'll be my contact?"
Robert smiled at her. "Not until you sign the contract."
The redhead madly worked out the details in her head. The States! She'd never been there. Travel between the two nations was frowned upon. Shannon had no illusions that there would be that much of a difference, but it would be fun to see. And maybe on the way back, she could stop in Seattle to see the market. She looked at the man across from her. "Transportation and security has been set up?"
"Yes."
"What about the return trip?"
"Transportation is provided. Obviously, security won't be needed at that point."
"Any chance for a... um... layover...?" she asked with a winsome smile.
Robert grinned. "How long a layover?"
"Only a couple of hours. In Seattle." She rolled her eyes. "I would love to see the market there. I've heard so much about it."
"I'll tell you what. You sign the contract, we send you out in two days, and I'll reschedule your debriefing back here for a six days later. Should give you plenty of time to get back."
"You've got yourself a courier, Robert!"
Their rite of vengeance complete, the three bikers had stopped at a deserted
campground near Coeur d'Alene to clean up. They spent two days there, bathing
in the lake, washing long ignored clothing, making repairs on their gear, and
generally taking care of themselves for a change.
They were the last of the Red Wolves, a nomadic tribe of mixed Native Americans and Hispanics that had been evicted from their reservations and farmlands over two generations earlier. The migrant workers of the last century were the inspiration and, when Uncle Sam had booted the Indians off the reservation, it seemed like a good idea to join forces. The Cherokee were the last of the Natives on their own soil, having become too large a political force over the last century to be over run.
The Red Wolves had been founded by Stanley Three Mountain of the Spokane tribe about forty years earlier. The reservations in Washington state had been making far too much money on their casinos and the government had stepped in to take over. With brilliant planning, Three Mountain had brought the elders of the tribe to his banner, gathered the money from the casinos, and outfitted all who would go with him. When the United States came onto the reservation to regain 'their' property, they found very little. A few people stayed out of misguided loyalty or just because they felt too old for a life on the road. Of the expected riches, there was nothing. The Red Wolves were branded as thieves by the government and tracked by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Over the decades, the band thrived. There were two splits over the years, mainly over political issues within the tribe, but it had worked out for the best. With smaller groups came easier anonymity and safer travel. The other bands took on different names and went different ways, one to Mexico - the 'homeland' of many of the Hispanics who left - and one to the southeast, hoping to connect up with the Cherokee nation.
The tribe had been away from the region of its origins for quite a number of years. A lot of time had been spent between the deserts of Utah and along the Pacific coastlines of California and Oregon. There was some work on the coast during harvest season. And the Mormons quite often hired mercenaries from the tribe for convoys and the like. On a lark, the leader of the Red Wolves decided to take a detour to eastern Washington, the place of his birth. And there they found the Aryan Nation.
It had been a long three months of fighting with the racist organization. What had initially started as simple harassment had escalated to an all out brawl on several occasions. After the first clan member had died from the wounds received at a local bar, the brawls became deadlier. No quarter was given on either side, and the local law enforcement was pulling its hair out by the roots in their frustration. The Rocky Mountains had become a war zone.
By far, the greatest coup was the nearly total destruction of the Aryan compound a month ago. Somewhere along their travels, the Wolves had picked up several pounds of explosives. With careful planning and timing, warriors slunk past guards and into the compound, planting everything they had. In a matter of hours, the place had exploded, burning to the ground and taking a large contingent of soldiers with it. The remainder of the battles had been fought on wheels and foot, a running struggle for the annihilation of each other through small towns, foothills, and mountains.
Within the last week, the final platoon of soldiers had descended upon the temporary settlement of the Wolves, killing everyone in their path. Their leader, Ice, was crucified and the remaining prisoners rounded up. One by one, the prisoners were tortured and maimed, most of them women and children, until they were all dead.
The three bikers had been away during this time on a mission to the Pacific tribes, looking for potential help in the battle with the Aryans. A deal had been agreed upon, the arrival of fifty fighters set up for the coming week. But, upon their return home, carnage was all that met them.
The older man, Remy, watched his niece through the flames of their fire. Her hair was loose about her shoulders and she had changed from the leather pants and jacket to a pair of soft trousers and an oversized sleeveless shirt. Four tiny red wolfprint tattoos adorned the skin at the outside corner of her right eye, denoting her rank within the clan. On either upper arm were the raised scars of the rank of a private. He knew that beneath the shirt would also be ritual scars on her chest. With a distracted look on her beautiful face, she diligently cleaned a .45 automatic pistol.
So much like her father, he thought. So much hardship. He remembered her birth nineteen years before. Born at dusk and Dusky had become her name. Her older brother had died of pneumonia not much later, making her the heir to Ice. She had been raised with the mantle of future leadership placed firmly on her shoulders. And she had not disappointed her father or her tribe.
The trip to the Pacific tribes had been her first official mission for her father. Remy had gone along as a backup in case things didn't go well, but he was hardly needed. Dusky had just the right mix of respect for the elders and brashness of youth to get the job done. Remy chuckled to himself as he recalled the elders nearly falling over themselves to please the young woman who had stood before them so regally. His niece seemed to embody the ancient ideals of leadership and strength. He was damned glad that he and his brother had worked so hard to regain the ancient ways of the nomads.
"What's so funny, uncle?" the woman's low voice asked, a slight puzzled smile on her lips.
"Nothing. Just remembering a young girl I used to tickle attack every once in awhile." Remy reached out a hand to Shake and took the whiskey bottle from him. He took a swig and passed it on to the woman.
The smile changed to a rueful grin as she accepted the bottle. "Wouldn't give you any great odds on getting away with it now." She took a swallow of the amber liquid and returned it to the younger man at the fire.
Remy laughed. "Nope, neither would I."
"So, what are we gonna do now, Dusky?" Shake asked. He was all of sixteen.
The smile faded, the serious leader once more in place. "We need to get back over to the Pacific tribes and stop their fighters from coming over." An idle shrug of the shoulders. "Waste of time and effort since the job's done."
The younger man nodded in understanding and the three stared into the flames.
"After that, who knows? Maybe head south, see if we can pick up with another clan...."
"No." The youths both looked at their solitary tribal elder. "We're Red Wolves and we'll stay Red Wolves. We recruit." He glanced slyly at Shake. "We find you a strong wife." He smirked at the younger man's blush. Turning his gaze to his niece, he continued, "And you a good husband."
Dusky grimaced and looked back to her weapon, shaking her head. "Ain't gonna happen, Uncle. So don't hold your breath."
Remy sighed mightily. "You've got to produce an heir, Dusky." They had had this argument many times over the last two years.
"And I've told you that I will. My way. No husband. No marriage. No one, got me?" Green and silver eyes snapping, she slapped the .45 back together, loaded it, and stood, stalking into the darkness.
The older man sighed and looked down to the ground. He reached out a hand, the bottle slipped comfortably into it and had another drink.
The Journey
With an advance on her contract, Shannon was able to splurge and rent a cubicle
with a shower for the remainder of her stay. She appeared back at the GovMin
building at the scheduled time, feeling refreshed.
Another half hour of security checks, escorts and waiting occurred. Eventually, she found herself in a computer lab. Robert was there, as well as a frumpy, balding man in a white lab coat.
"Shannon, good morning," Robert said with a smile. Indicating the man with him, he continued, "This is Dr. Northern. He'll be seeing to your upload this morning."
The woman smiled and worked her way through the initial pleasantries. She allowed herself to be guided by the doctor to a computer terminal as her employer left the lab, stating he would be returning with her papers.
Settled down in the chair, the doctor prattled about computers and data storage and cybersystems. "What kind of processor do you have?" he asked curiously.
"A Mitsubishi 22X," Shannon informed him with a crooked grin. "Not exactly top of the line, but I'm saving my credits for an upgrade."
"And you have 5 gigs of storage, right?" At the redhead's nod, the man nodded as well. "Well, after compression, there shouldn't be a problem. Won't even cause a headache, I think."
He fiddled with the keyboard of the computer, humming softly to himself. After a few minutes, he handed her a cable. "There you go. Just hit 'enter' when you're plugged in." He moved away.
Shannon nodded and settled back into the chair. With practiced hands, she moved her hair to the left shoulder, located the port just beneath the bone under her right ear, and slipped the cable into it. Taking a steadying breath, she reached for the keyboard, bracing herself. God, I hate this part. She closed her eyes and hit the button.
While data upload wasn't necessarily a painful process, it was still extremely uncomfortable. Try as they might, cyberwear developers had been unable to completely halt the throbbing that usually occurred. It was simply something that had to be lived with in this line of work. Shannon stoically bore the irritation and hoped that her future upgrade would cause less discomfort.
Minutes later, upload complete, she opened her blue eyes, squinting at the brightness of the room. It always happened this way, her senses heightened for a few moments after the 'load. She breathed easily and used a meditative technique to clear the sensitivity away. As senses returned to normal, she reached up and pulled the cable out.
"All done," she called to the doctor.
"Good," Dr. Northern beamed as he approached. "Any problems?" He peered at her with intense curiosity.
"Nope, nothing unusual."
"Well, Robert's waiting for you in the next room. Good luck!"
Shannon shook hands with the doctor and left the lab to meet her employer and retrieve her VISA and other traveling papers.
Shannon stared longingly out the rear window at the Seattle skyline behind her.
I can't wait to get this job done! she thought for the hundredth time
in the three hours they had been on the road.
Initially, Robert himself had driven her to the Canadian/American border. Once at Customs, she had found that most of the arranged security were Military Police personnel from Fort Lewis, Washington. After a bit of haggling between her employer and the Army lieutenant, the redhead had been ushered into an ancient HumV. And there she sat for two more hours with an MP guard around the vehicle as her employer authorized the paperwork nearby.
At last, things had been put in order and the soldiers had piled into the waiting vehicles, all as ancient and outdated as the one she was in. The convoy consisted of five HumVs and three motorcycles. The bikes acted as scouts as the rest of the group trundled along.
The redhead shared her vehicle - the third in line - with three soldiers. The driver was so young, Shannon was sure he had lied about his age when he had enlisted. He was Private Notus. Next to him, riding shotgun in the literal sense of the word, was Private First Class Hook. He held his rifle loosely, barrel out the window, and constantly ran a knuckle over his thick black mustache. In the back with her was Sergeant Cunningham, an older woman with an irascible and abrasive attitude. Small talk was not one of her better qualities. The lieutenant was apparently in the lead vehicle, his staff sergeant bringing up the rear.
With little conversation in the making and hours to go before their overnight stop in Lewiston, Idaho, Shannon stared out at the passing bleak landscape. The plan was to cross the Cascades and head for Spokane, crossing into Idaho, and then moving south through the Rockies. They would arrive in Boise on the afternoon of the next day.
The redhead fiddled with the earring in her left ear. Another cybernetic device, it was hooked up into her aural nerves. The 'jewel' was actually a computer chip holding pre-recorded music. The strains of the latest popular Canadian music filled her ears at such a deep level, no one else could detect it. She stared out the window, watching the scraggly forest become desert.
The trio of Wolves watched from their hiding place among the rocks on the ridge.
Remy was using binocs, watching the column of five vehicles approach the foothills.
"Looks like Uncle Sam," Shake said.
Dusky nodded, her cyberoptic being plenty powerful enough to pick up the markings on the vehicles. "Fort Lewis from the looks of it. Wonder where the hell they're going.... They're a long way from home."
The three had gotten a late start, enjoying the last of their leisurely stay in the campground. They had only been on the road for an hour, picking their way through old logging and back country roads, when they came upon the traces of what appeared to be troop movement in their path. They had picked up the trail and followed it west.
The young man pointed to the left. "That's who we've been following," he said.
Another column appeared on an intercept course to the first. It held three vehicles, all looking state of the art. Emblazoned on the side of each door was a red triangle with a blue eye in the center.
"Corps!" the woman cursed. Her eyes narrowed and she chewed the inside of her mouth as she thought furiously. "C'mon, let's get closer." She cautiously crawled backwards from the ridge before rising and running to the bikes. Her packmates followed.
While there was no love lost between the Red Wolves and the United States Government, the corporations were another matter. Since the ultimate merger and declaration of war, the corporations had actively 'recruited' the masses of downtrodden for cheap labor. Those that agreed ended up as indentured servants for the remainder of their days, never making enough money to become free. Those that did not were simply killed. No muss, no fuss, and no loose strings.
The three Wolves started up their motorcycles and roared down the dusty road, weapons within easy reach. It was time for war.
The Attack
Shannon drowsed in the heat of the HumV. Little had been said between the other
occupants for hours. There had been a break an hour earlier and she had enjoyed
the opportunity to stretch her legs, but it had been all too brief. She had
spent her time listening to music, daydreaming about Pike's Place Market, and
wondering what Boise was going to be like.
A short burst of static came from the radio up front, followed by a frantic voice. "...repeat... Corps attack from three o'clock! Heads up!" The faint staccato of gunfire could be heard coming closer.
Notus paled, his freckles standing out. The vehicle in front of him sped up and he hit the gas to keep pace. Hook, next to him, brought his rifle to his shoulder, sighting the three white vehicles heading their direction. They were still out of his range, but he was going to be ready. The sergeant discourteously grabbed hold of Shannon's shoulder and shoved her down in her seat, forcing her charge to the floorboard, as she drew the pistol from her holster.
Another burst from the radio. "Bug out! Bug out!" In response to the lieutenant's order, the two vehicles before and behind turned towards their assailants. Shannon's driver poured on the gas and veered away from the fight, continuing on his course and hoping there were no surprises on the road.
The redhead peered over the edge of the window, watching her escort get chewed up by the superior corporation firepower. The lead HumV exploded, tossing shrapnel into the air. The radio on the dash crackled with orders from the staff sergeant, now in charge, directing his platoon. More weapons fire as another HumV opened up with machine guns. An anti-tank missile was launched into a Corps truck, blowing it up. And then, she was roughly shoved back down by Cunningham who glared and cursed at her.
Discretion being the better part of valor, she chose to remain where she was, not wanting to tangle with the diminutive woman beside her. Shannon could hear the screams of people dying and another explosion. And then there was a whoosh of noise and their vehicle leaped into the air. With a sickening roll it flipped over, tossing the occupants about the interior, and landed on its roof. PFC Hook flew out his open window, screaming. The redhead felt a sudden pain in her head and blacked out.
By the time the Wolves arrived, three vehicles remained - two military and one Corporation. As they roared down the hillside, they watched the Corps riot car take out the HumV soldier with the rocket launcher. He jumped and jerked as rounds ripped his body open before he slumped forward, the launcher pushed down to the roof of his vehicle. The weapon discharged and exploded.
The remaining HumV was showing some severe damage. The driver must have been hit because he was steering erratically. With a war whoop and a wide grin, Dusky and her packmates descended on the white Corps vehicle. The three motorcycles circled it, Remy using an old M22A2 machinegun and Shake his H&K MP-5 autopistol. As they distracted the occupants, Dusky came around the back and closed in for a quick pass in front. She used her teeth to pull the pin out of a fragmentation grenade and lobbed it with perfect aim into a gun port. She whooped again and the three pulled further out. Ten seconds later, the Corps vehicle exploded from inside and came to a slow stop.
Shake yelled excitedly, "Man! Did ya see that?! Popped it like a fuckin' zit, man! Totally flatlined!" He pulled up near Remy who was watching the last HumV. The pair witnessed the vehicle move in slow motion as it ploughed into the flaming wreckage of one of its own.
Their leader pulled up in front of them, blocking the view if not the sound of another explosion. "Check for survivors and let's see what we can salvage. The Corps'll be sending backup and evac ASAP." She grinned at Shake's enthusiasm. "The sooner we're outta here, the better." The woman rode off again, heading for the wrecked HumV that was furthest away.
Shannon didn't think she'd been out of it for too long. She felt something warm
and sticky on her side. She looked down to see a severed female hand soaking
her jumpsuit. With a little shriek, she batted the thing away and shuddered.
She was on the ceiling of the HumV, it having flipped over and landed upside down. Most of the weight of the engine had crushed the front seats. There probably wasn't much left of Notus, and she was glad she couldn't really see anything up there. She had no idea where Hook was and, if the hand was any indication, she didn't want to find Cunningham.
Outside, she could hear another explosion and some yelling. No gunfire, however. Gingerly, Shannon crawled out the window. She crouched beside the vehicle and took stock of the situation.
It looked like the Corps had won this round. No Army uniforms were moving on the road. Two long haired men in civilian clothing were picking through the refuse. She watched as one brought out a pistol and fired it into one of the bodies.
Mouth dry in fear, she looked wildly about. Nearby was a rifle... Hook's rifle! She darted over and scooped it up. Remembering all those many videos of her youth, she brought the weapon up to her shoulder and sighted down it, aiming for the man closest to her. Her finger pulled on the trigger just as a tanned hand reached out and grabbed the barrel, twisting it out of her grasp.
Emerald and silver eyes stared into royal blue. For the longest time the two women stood motionless, a sense of timelessness between them. Shannon finally realized she had stopped breathing and inhaled sharply. The dark beauty before her blinked and broke contact, glancing down at the rifle in her hands.
"You ever fire an automatic rifle before?" she asked in a low voice, bringing her eyes back up.
The redhead flushed and dropped her own gaze, shaking her head no.
Dusky grinned crookedly, handed the rifle back to the smaller woman and pointed to one side of the trigger guard. "Take it off safety, first." She then turned her back on the redhead, and returned to Hook's body, rummaging around in his belt pouches for more ammunition.
Shannon held the rifle, frozen. Warily she watched the other woman finish her scavenging and stand up. The dark woman looked at the two men. One of them waved and she nodded in response. The redhead swallowed as the stranger turned back to her.
"We have to get out of here now. Corps'll be here any moment." Cybereyes studied the redhead. "Chippin' in with us?"
The question confused Shannon for a moment. Not a hostage. Corps coming. For her, no doubt. Various scenarios ran speedily through her mind, not one of them pleasant. "Yes!" she answered.
Dusky nodded and turned away, striding towards a beat up old motorcycle nearby. Her packmates were already on theirs and moving off, back into the Rockies. She kick started the Harley, revved it up, and nodded her head to indicate the seat behind her.
For some reason, Shannon felt like this was some weird monumental moment in her life. To leave with this odd woman or not. A sense of deja vu rushed over her for just a second before it disappeared. She slung the rifle onto her back and climbed onto the bike, putting her hands on the woman's hips.
The Wolves rode into the mountains.