Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel (10 page)

Chapter 18 Faelon

The sun melted below the edge of the world as Faelon and her sire moved through the high ridges of the mountains and into the forest. The deer they tracked had evaded them, the wind had turned and now all they had was the sweet scent of summer grass plying the air. Tracks led through the brush though, and the musky scent of deer hair caught on a tree branch told them they were close. Her sire howled, the chase on him.

Then he stopped. Cold in his tracks. His legs went stiff and his ears went up and he sniffed at the wind and leapt. Faelon looked towards the deer and then her sire racing away in another direction, ignoring the food. The scent on the air wasn’t a grizzly or an eagle. Not even a man. Confused, Faelon followed her sire.

Faelon heard a sound she didn’t understand. A high pitched whine that hurt her ears and dug into her flesh making her wince. She dug her paws into the surface of the snow and scrambled towards Michael. Too fast, she slipped, her limbs going akimbo, the snow turning perilous and her weight threatening to overturn her. She pushed hard to the right, the surface under her paws crunched, then firmed up, and she found purchase. She stopped behind cover, sporadic shots digging up the ground near her. But they couldn’t kill her. The roar of his tooth-spitter split the valley, and the acrid smell of stone and burnt fur filled her nostrils even from the distance she held.

She lunged over the boulders in front of her. Snow kicked up behind her. Rocks kicked loose by her rush, bounced around her, and the growl in her throat was the rumble of snow falling in an avalanche.

She didn’t feel the sharp pierce of the feathered tooth that hit her flank. Nor the way it fell from her hips as she brushed it against cover. She barely felt the second tooth, too like the nip of play between cubs. But her limbs felt the effect, her back leg twitched, spasmed, and then locked up on her. When she brought the limb down, it found no grip, the feeling in her leg disappearing.

She fell.

She turned, finally, to check on her leg, her teeth questing. The bright colour of a bird hit her in the chest. And she finally understood. The same teeth that had brought down Michael had taken her. Her muscles went numb, her limbs slack.

Her eyes closed. She heard the shout of
Michael’s “gun” again. Other than the growls of the black wolf, there was no noise in the valley. And Faelon knew she had failed in her duty to protect her mate.

Hands poked at her body. Her tail was lifted in the air and then dropped.
The same thing done with a paw. Then the hands picked her up and carried her. She could smell the tooth-spitters they carried. The burnt stone smell mingled with the scent of men, musky, like the sweat of a badger. The crisp smell of urine flowed from one of the men.

She knew that man. He was the one she had warned away from
Michael and the not-cub. He hadn’t put his hands on her. She knew that too. From the smell of him, he was two metres in front of her. The crunch of the snow under his boots had a nervous quality to it, as if the sound itself shivered.

After a time
, the motion of the men stopped and she felt herself placed on a cold surface.

“Get in the chopper, Harris.” 

Sergeant Thomas Jenkins didn’t understand. His men weren’t cowards. But four of them had died in less than three minutes. That didn’t seem possible. Nothing he had fought had ever been that fast, nor that deadly, not unless it was missile based. True, two of the deaths had been from a rifle. The poor sod using it had been taken out by a wolf bigger than the one on the chopper floor. But the thing that had attacked Michael Scott was dead. Without a brainpan, it was just an oddity for the taxidermist. Gerund had mentioned a woman or a wolf that travelled with Michael Scott. A wolf was in the chopper. Jenkins didn’t know anything about a second animal. Or what Harris was ranting about . . . the man was tech support, not recon. Why did the company let people cross train without the skills? Jenkins just shook his head.

“Not with that thing,” Harris said.

“That’s an order, Harris.” The sergeant’s voice had that edge to it, the one that said his men had better listen to him. The tone of command that saved lives.

“You didn’t see it change.” Harris shivered in the cold. The gear he wore should have prevented that from happening. His pants were stained in a way that left no room for
misunderstanding. He was afraid. Jenkins shook his head.

“Next
, you’ll tell us she was cute too. It’s just a wolf. GET. IN. THE. CHOPPER.” The sergeant stepped up to the aircraft and found a seat. He reached down and ran his hand through the fur of the brindle-coloured wolf. “It has enough toxins to keep it out for a week. Or kill it in an hour.” He stared at Harris until he got in the chopper. Collins followed him. Two men of six that had left with him. Bloody impossible.

Jenkins didn’t let the slight vibration under his hand worry him. He knew the drug was designed to allow the victim to breath
e, even if it was shallow. He flinched when he felt the movement increase. But he didn’t let his men see that. Harris’s wild story didn’t need any validation. Jenkins had just lost four men. He had a reason to be jumpy. But it wasn’t from the military techware under his hand.

At least, that's what he told himself as the chopper lifted off, silent but for the air that moved over the rotors. And even that was dampened. A man could talk
inside this bird and still be heard.

Faelon heard the air roar around her. Her body swayed as if she was without support
, but the ground under her fur, cold as it was, stayed with her, even though it lurched as if in a strong wind. A hand had ruffled her fur minutes before, but the growl she had loosed had warned the man away soon enough.

It wasn’t
Michael. She knew that. She could smell fear in the small space around her, but the sound of voices was dragged away in the wind. Her eyes were open and she could see the feet of her captors, wrapped in dead hide, resting on the floor. An open doorway was on either side of her.

Michael
needed her.

The man touched her again, and this time she could feel more of the warmth there, more pressure from the weight of his hand. She didn’t growl. She remembered how
Michael had driven the poison from his body, purging it. She drew breath, filling her lungs, deeper and deeper. Faelon found a rhythm that settled her, made her more aware of her body. The hair along her tail shivered, tingling against her flesh. She tried to move it and felt it thump, lightly, against the moving ground.

“She moved!” Harris said.

“Shut the fuck up, Harris,” Collins said. “I’ve had enough of your stories.”

“Everybody calm down. Harris, my hand is on the animal. It. Did. Not. Move. Take a tranc. And do what Collins said. Shut the fuck up. Say a prayer for the men that didn’t make it. But give us some peace.”

“She . . .”

The man named Collins reached out and slapped the fear
-driven one. He became quiet after that. Faelon twitched a paw. Then the limb it was attached to. Her breath reached deeper into her awareness. Muscles rippled down her back in a spasm of pain. And again. A growl leapt from her throat and the vibration thrummed in her ribs. The man touching her pulled his hand away.

“What the fuck
. . .”

Faelon lurched to her feet, she shook, her muscles twitching, shaking as if newborn. She shifted. Like moonlight dripping from the sky, turning into gold. Three men stared at her as she crouched on all fours, the growl on her lips changing to speech.

“Follow and I kill.” She turned and leapt from the door. Faelon fell towards the ground, toward the trees that covered the mountains below her, and Michael.

Somewhere.

Chapter 19 Kerrigan

As a boy, Kerrigan
had hated his name. Zachary. Who named a child that? He’d even looked it up once. It meant “Lord returned.” He certainly wasn’t a lord. Or the Lord. What were his parents thinking? But it gave him something to think about. Amidst all the changes in his life, daily, monthly, yearly. Few things stayed the same, except him. His body, his actions, the way he moved or looked at things, his perceptions—and while those could change, depending on the knowledge he put into them, he was always the same. When he realized this, it gave him a strength, a surety he hadn’t ever found before. Then he realized he could use the army the same way. Oh, it changed around him constantly, he wasn’t fooled by that. But they had systems, ways of doing things that added stability.

The career training didn’t hurt either.

Kerrigan stood over Michael Scott’s body.

One more mystery to add to all the things he did for General Samantha Ariyan. While well paid, and appropriately informed for each mission or project, his part in it anyway, he’d had a lot of questions about Samantha Ariyan build up over the years. Much of it relating to her changes and the software she was marketing. None of which he thought he would get an answer for anytime soon.

He knew his version of the P.A.C. system was recording the images and sending them to Samantha; it was a sophisticated computer. Adaptive to voice and hand gestures of the person using it. Almost telepathic in its precision. And he had helped build it. Having access to it was almost better than the pay. Almost.

He could imagine her watching the feed in her office. Her own business unit projecting the feed into a life
-sized holo. Blood pooled into Michael’s clothes, and seeped onto the snow like corn syrup, a thick semi-frozen sludge, now. His one arm was a ruin, including the hand—split between the bones of the palm, it would have been useless if he’d survived—and his shoulder torn apart. Claw marks raked his legs. He knelt down, trying to find a pulse in Michael Scott’s good arm. Then his neck. Waiting. One second, two. He turned his head to look at the animal that had done the damage. Five seconds passed, maybe. “Fuck.” A shiver clamoured over his hindbrain. A feeling even battle hadn’t produced.

“What? L
ieutenant.”

There was a time he’d have thought the clipped tone would have meant something else. Displeasure. Punishment. He’d come to know that Samantha came across as cold stone. But he knew that wasn’t true. “Zoom in your feed,” he said. “You wanted to find the woman.”

“Yes.”

“How about a wolf that’s growing its brainpan back, along with the rest of its flesh?”

It wasn’t as torn up as Michael Scott. Three semi-obvious bullet holes: one through the front of the chest, not a heart shot, but damaging nonetheless; a second, exploding through its right side had ruined the lungs. The last bullet took off part of the wolf’s skull. Grey matter was showing through. Lieutenant Kerrigan couldn’t imagine the guts it took to fight an animal that way. Men were easier to kill compared to this . . . thing.

General Samantha Ariyan watched the feed that came through her P.A.C. unit. The holo display taking up one corner of the room. General Ariyan cut the radio feed to Kerrigan. He didn’t need to hear this. “Analyze please
, Sammy.”

Samantha's green eyes widened as she watched flesh knit back into place. Grey matter built up in layers. Bone building itself like a wall might. It was slight but there was activity there, as if a hive of ants were at work furiously rebuilding their home. She stood up and walked the area that the P.A.C. feed displayed for her. The General thought it was too bad it didn’t have thermal and life sign sensors. Those would tell her so much more.

“Blackwater was here too, ma’am. They lost four men from a six-man team. Two from Captain Scott. A wolf took out the rest—not the one here though. Then Blackwater left in a helicopter. Our satellite feed was lost for the last few minutes.”

Confusion sounded in the General's
voice. “Two wolves?”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

“That’s not
. . .”

Samantha knew Kerrigan didn’t lie to her. And his field observations were seldom wrong. Even with the information she kept withholding. But
, another wolf? Impossible. Wasn't it? What did that mean?

Samantha Ariyan had surmised that four P.A.C. units had been built. One went to Michael Scott, whose father was the inventor. Built from Army R
& D. The rest went to Captain Scott’s recon team. Boyen’s had been stolen. Huer’s was lost. Her son’s had been insane when she had found it. Sammy, her son’s unit, had come to her with his personal possessions, an accident she was sure. Still, she enjoyed the benefits of a heightened physiology. So, what was another P.A.C. unit doing with Michael Scott, and why had it wanted to rip his throat out?

“Bring the wolf in.”

“Yes, ma’am. What about the Captain?” He’d considered putting a bullet into the man’s brain, just in case he woke up, but then he hadn’t found a pulse. There was a time when Canada was well thought of, that was before the Oil Wars. And what was done in order to survive: disavowing men for their actions; killing civilians for involvement in the hiding of resources; leaving men behind. He left the body there for the animals to take care of it for him.

“No pulse I could feel
, ma’am.”

“You’re certain.”

Lieutenant Kerrigan thought back to the few minutes before. He could’ve rechecked the man’s pulse, but from the look of the damage . . . that seemed pointless. “Yes.”

“Is he wearing any
jewellery? A watch? Anything odd?”

There it was again. What was she was looking for? What did accessories have to do with Boyen’s death? Huer’s
? “No, ma’am.”

But Kerrigan remembered his first orders, when he
had first started working for Samantha Ariyan. Two names.

Lieutenant
Boyen, Jamie, he’d been in the Oil Wars, had served with her son. Samantha said she’d talked to him at the funeral and a few weeks later at his home. Zach understood without being told; she wanted to know how her son had died. The e-papers didn’t, or couldn’t say. Nor was the military saying anything. And the media, whether handheld by a reporter or the Silent Journalist jockeyed in on a soldier, was non-existent. So the rumours about Ariyan, Boyen, Huer, and Captain Michael Scott had arisen, more colourful for the lack of details. But the media had given out lots of personal details.

It took Kerrigan a few months to find Boyen. The man moved a lot. Three places in America. But a passport and a plane ticket pointed somewhere else.

He found him in Ireland. Lieutenant Boyen's original home.

The front door of Boyen’s house was ajar, not enough to notice unless one was right at the door. It was still too early for visitors. He wished he had a pistol. Being military, he had the right, by law, to carry a weapon. But not on a commercial flight
, and not in a foreign country. His hand itched from the emptiness.

He edged the door open with his boot, watching his balance, ready to hide from
neighbours, fight an intruder, or run. The door swung open for a pace and then caught on the carpet, torn and ragged. He stepped in, and glass crunched under his feet. Objects scattered on the floor threatened to trip him. So much, he had to shuffle forward. He looked around. Anything that could be opened was; the same went for covered spaces. And the walls had been ripped away, as if someone had driven their fist in and then pulled. Huge rifts of Insulboard lay scattered around.

That would be tough, even for him
, and he worked out every day, pushed himself to extremes.

The furniture had been sliced open, drawers emptied.

He found the body in the master bedroom. Beaten. Pounded into the ground. The same strength that had torn the walls from the living room had damaged Boyen past the point of recognition. From what he could tell, it was Lieutenant Jamie Boyen. The right size and weight, even the tattoo described in his military jacket. But his face. It didn’t seem possible, the way it was misshapen. The brow was crushed, the nose caved in.

The buckle from his belt
was missing. The leather ripped apart, as if torn from its place. How much strength did that take?

And why?

The papers called it a home invasion gone bad. An accidental death, because Boyen had walked in on a thief.

Huer was the second name. He’d found him two years later. Dead. Spread out over the road, incomplete. And the personal item
—who could tell? The bike a crumpled mess scattered over the road, lumps of metal and plastic, pools of battery acid. The papers called it an accident. Kerrigan wondered. Two men dead from the same recon unit. The third was her son, though he had been killed in the war. And still she kept looking for something.

Sammy could do things that
mimicked independence to an observer. Though it wouldn’t be true. But the true brilliance of her P.A.C. unit was that it could follow “what if” scenarios even if they hadn’t been laid out beforehand. “Keep the team in the area. I’ll defer a proper satellite for surveillance. I want you to personally escort the wolf back here, Lieutenant.”

“Right. On my way
, ma’am.”

“And Kerrigan, please be careful. Of your own person.”

“I—yes, ma’am.”

She could hear the confusion in his voice. She had never shown concern for his safety before, not in quite that way. Well, they had become friends. As much as she had tried to keep the relationship business only. It had just happened with the time they spent together. But if what she thought was true
—about the wolf being a P.A.C. unit—maybe something else was possible.

Samantha sighed, wondering what it would be like to watch those very blue eyes from close up, for a long time, while she kissed
. . . Samantha Ariyan stopped that line of thought. The people she loved the most died.

Life wasn’t fair.