A Threads of Canor Novel
Sector Bomb
Copyright 2014 Simon Woodington
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Ground Zero in Sector 9
Chapter Two: In the Whole Again
Chapter Three: Military Buddy
Chapter Four: The Laston Effect
Chapter Five: A Strand Off
Chapter Six: This Quieting
Chapter Seven: Professional Disdain
Chapter Eight: Short Burst
Chapter Nine: Pretty Stiff
Chapter Ten: Shallow Bruises
Chapter Eleven: Siege of Castlegar
Chapter Twelve: Mission Unforgivable
About the Author
Additional Works
Contact and Connect
Chapter One: Ground Zero in Sector 9
The day Aaran found me we were both in pieces. I was looking for her, but got lost when the building exploded around me. I heard the impact hundreds of yards away and understood I wouldn't be able to avoid the concussion wave. When the dust and noise settled I was buried amongst the bricks and beams of the former apartment building.
Aaran had called but not explained why the first aid kit was such a high priority. There wasn't a scent of war in the air. The Alliance seemed to trust peace. Maybe they thought it was enough that the whole surface of the planet had been burned twenty years ago.
Eighteen years ago?
I was supposed to be able to remember facts with perfect clarity, but I'd been damaged. No telling to what extent. The voices of the wounded mixed with the approach of sirens and emergency aid. Aaran limped out of a sea of unending dust with patches of mud on her casual jacket, ripped and ruined.
Her copper-blond hair was a matted, tangled mess on her head. She scanned me with those unusual silver eyes and smirked. Her fair skin was scraped and bruised in numerous places. Surface injuries, thankfully.
"You're a mess, Buddy."
I tried to shrug, and her full lips twisted as if I'd done something silly looking. She knelt over and scooped her left arm under my shoulders and lifted. I couldn't see her right arm. Looking down was a bad idea.
"I wouldn't," she warned me. I couldn't answer. Everything went away.
While I was out a part of me reviewed what I knew about the event. Almost nothing. Tidbits of network information was online, but I was too damaged to interpret it. Someone or something had bombed the base of the orbital elevator to Talon Colony and nearly shattered the dome. That would have vacuumed Angel City straight into space.
Representative Castlegar was running interference by declaring an Alliance-wide emergency on all public channels. Troops were mobilized for rescue operations and ... basically whatever needed doing. Thousands were homeless, hundreds were dead. I didn't like listening to her talk. It was all terrible, but she's pretty and has cared for Angel City for many years now.
Isn't it nice she's pretty? I think she has a good heart, but I'm not certain. Aaran agrees with me. She's not certain either, but has said she trusts the Representative. Why did they attack Angel City? Sketchline is more important, isn't it? No one would attack Barrowloft, and it's pointless to hit the Wastelands.
"You're muttering, but you're right. Wastelands aren't a target."
"Aaran?" My voice sounded like it was full of static. "Dad?"
"Yeah, hey. Listen up, Buddy. You're in bad shape. Your legs and arms were mangled. Unfortunately that new alloy isn't as tough as we thought it would be."
"He's a trooper. I've seen tougher ripped to shreds. What's your standards for alloys, anyway?" Aaran's commanding alto.
I wished I could see Dad's face. His angular features would have been a comfort. Why was it so dark? I asked him using the text output channel he configured for me. He must have read it, because he answered.
"I've got a lot of work to do, and... I have to reconfigure your eyes. Just..." he sighed, "bear with me."
[I don't have a choice] I told him.
"No, you don't. Least you're not complaining about it. Much."
My head was clearer, at least, and Dad had connected a stream so I could keep up to date with goings-on and such. That was pretty kind of him, since I didn't think to ask for it. I guess that's what Dads do. While I was waiting for him to finish my repairs, I hijacked a camera with a microphone so I could listen in their conversation. He doesn't know I can do that, and I don't want to tell him.
"You're really ready with new parts?" Aaran asked, fidgeting with the rent ends of her torn beige coat sleeve. There was wrapping around the mangled end of her severed prosthesis. Dad was swift.
"For you or him?"
"What're your priorities? Do I have t' guess?" Aaran grunted, melancholy. "He's more work, but I can live without my prosthesis for a while."
"That's what... don't do that," he retorted. Aaran has some interesting abilities, but she's no telepath. She's what people call 'perceptive'. "I have only one arm that suits you, but I reclaimed it from a combat cyborg. You know, the one Masurani flattened when I was sourcing parts for Sonata?"
"Full of quasi-legal weapons and features. You told me you'd never give me that arm." Aaran's eyebrow always jumps up a little when she think she knows something no one else does.
"I changed my mind after I found out you're cleared for it."
Aaran looked pleased with this news, but distracted. Even without a zoom feature I could see she was trying to contact her husband on her mobile. So far, it was just telling her there was no signal. "Flak," she grumbled. That's a nasty thing. Never said it around me before, but then she didn't know I was listening.
"Still nothing?" Dad had already replaced my right arm. I don't think he was enjoying his work this time.
"Why am I trying? That attack levelled the whole sector around my ears."
"Because he's in there somewhere." Whenever someone says something obvious to her, or tries to parrot her, she lashes out with sarcasm and biting wit. Now I understand why she was so sad. "If he's... hurt, I can't..." her words fell apart and she started to sob.
Dad handed her the closest thing he had to a clean rag and she took it. She'd carried me six blocks with one arm. Why was she so vulnerable? Couldn't she do the same for Yale? I was torn between telling her no one had found his body yet and revealing my secret. Thankfully, a broadcast reported the condition of Sector 9 and Dad had the sense to play the audio stream for her benefit.
Yale Coates wasn't dead. No one could confirm he was dead, which meant he could still be alive. That sounded awful to me, but she was comforted greatly and stopped crying. I felt bad for her, and didn't like it when she cried. Yale was a really friendly guy. Dad left a little while later to assemble my left arm, which meant it was just Aaran and I. She looked depressed and lonely, and I wasn't sure how to cheer her up. I was sure I'd look stupid smiling.
"David's better at this than he used to be."
I wasn't sure who she was talking to, but I was the only one listening. [Better at repairs?] What else could she mean?
"Yeah. I guess he's been studying hard since the Alliance turned him down."
[He won a contract manufacturing parts for out of date prosthesis wearers. It turns out to be cheaper to make with our process than to retrofit a compatible prosthetic. He can safely avoid unnecessary surgery often enough for the purposes of the AOC 33rd division.]
Both of her blond eyebrows lifted this time. "Is that so? How long as he been on contract?"
[I'm his assistant now. We're not that different. My skeleton is anatomically correct. It's just more efficient for my components to be compatible with modern cybernetics.]
"That's not comforting, but you get points for trying," she smirked. "T
hanks."
She went quiet for a while, searching for streams about the attack on Sector 9 on her mobile. I decided it was a good time to follow her example. Aaran has good instincts.
No one knew what kind of weapon could bypass the shield and trash a sector a half-mile around. Experts analyzed, the military made threats and the Alliance government promised aid to everyone who applied. That meant you had twenty four hours to fill out the proper forms and submit your ID to the correct officials.
I knew that would going to be a problem for people who had no connectivity, transportation or knew what the addresses were. It can be hard to remember sixteen character government codes, especially when they keep changing and no one tells you about it.
Representative Castlegar rebuked the AOC's passive stance and appealed to local companies for donations and charity funds for assistance. That's what it means to be diplomatic, I guess. Tell off the government you work for without getting fired. She gets away with a lot, like when she announces that AOC addresses for public services have changed.
Either they like her or can't get rid of her.
"She doesn't work for the AOC, Buddy."
[Was I muttering again?]
"A little. You're not going to tell him about your counterintelligence fun?"
[I don't know. Probably. Right now I think I need to stay quiet about it, but I don't have a good reason for that.]
"You are maturing. Don't lie to him, but trust your gut.”
Dad hadn't finished my eyes yet. Aaran is exceptionally patient with me, and I am often grateful. Yet, I am not sure why we get along so well. [What were you saying about Representative Castlegar?]
"She's a territory official, communicating the will of Angel City to the Crown. She represents the people who live here, and has to make us happy or we'll replace her."
[No one is happy in Angel City.]
"That's a pretty gross generalization... but I suppose 'happy' is the wrong word. I can say 'satisfied' and having daily needs met," she began but her lower lip curled with doubt. "As long as we can eat, sleep and keep our families safe, we're happy."
[You said 'happy' but told me it wasn't accurate.]
"I know. Can we talk about something else?"
[Sorry. You're very downtrodden. I've never seen you like this before.]
"Yeah. I know."
The fear of losing Yale must have been great. He was always kind to me, and his daughters were what Aaran called 'well adjusted'. If that was anything like normal I couldn't determine what that meant, but it fit with her ideal of a protected family, and maybe even her definition of happiness. Clearly protecting them was her reason for living.
[Is your arm going to be alright?]
This seemed to brighten her mood. She grinned a little. "You know it will be? I couldn't afford a fully myoelectric prosthesis on my budget. Can't get good insurance coverage in this city."
[What does that mean?]
She was holding a half empty glass in one hand and sipped at it before she spoke.
"Means batteries are expensive. Can't use a powered prosthetic because that'd kill me."
"What she means is trelic-based batteries can cause cancerous growth in residual limb tissue over time. No one will sell the technology to non-military agencies. Deterioration of the terminal would cause eventual nerve deadening," Dad exposited as he entered the room. "No one this side of the Alliance would authorize that kind of procedure because of liability."
"Some people still take the risk," she retorted. "Terminal frost doesn't scare 'em."
"You're not one of those. You need the extra power for the prosthesis you habitually choose. Can't you simply be grateful you have access to paramilitary equipment?"
Her face stiffened into a dissatisfied frown. "I'm trying to enjoy a moment. You're annoying me. Now just a sharding minute, you mean that's not official equipment?"
"No it's not. It's a privately printed design with industrial grade materials. Likely black market."
"It's WidowGrade."
"I don't care if it's Deadman Grail. I don't know what you're cleared for if the Courts will let you wear that thing." Dad groaned.
"That's a laugh. Deadman's been offside for years. You care?"
"I care," he shot back.
"Glitterstock. Next you tell me you'll install it now?" Dad was quiet while he aligned the new arm. “Hey. I didn't say anything stupid, did I?”
“No. Are you sure you want to do it now? You're pretty shaken up.” He wasn't looking at her when he said this. What did he mean by it? The thread of their conversation was becoming disjointed. They're very alike, and have been friends for longer than I've been alive.
Dad's hands are fast, but they trembled a little and I noticed he was careful not to cross vital relays. Aaran had a rejoinder, and kept it, I recognized the expression. They were both extremely tense. Dad's wife was on Talon Colony and we had lost communication with her. Aaran had promised to protect her, and this attack on Angel City had put her mission on hold.
[Dad, what about Mom?]
“Yeah, so about Marlene. I need Buddy with me, so we're not going anywhere 'til we're both fixed up. Yale's a tough guy. He... he'll manage.” Aaran's resolve was renewed, but why?
Dad made eye contact with Aaran and his lips went flat and thin. “You probably have a better sense of priority than I do, but I thought you didn't need help.”
“I need help now,” Aaran admitted, and shifted her jean clad weight on the operating table. “Reggie's only going to be able to delay the launch of the Colony for so long. This attack will buy us time... but I don't know how much.”
"It's up to her?"
"She's stalling her vote. Y'know it's not the problem they want to have sex for a living. It's the problem the pimps want to install cyberwire to retain control. Marlene's kinda nuts for wanting to interview them."
"They have a voice and must be heard. I cannot fault her professionalism. How is it different from the dewirings you financed?" Dad remarked. "Will you be quiet for a minute? This is a delicate repair. Buddy needs to sound like himself, not his sister."
Aaran chuckled involuntarily. "I had good backup. Yeah, okay. I'll shut up."
Dad was working fast, almost impatiently. He's not a nimble-fingered man and he knows the risks associated with hurrying. I couldn't help and that bothered me, which didn't make much sense. I had to apologize to him.
“That's not helping him focus, Buddy,” Aaran chided me. “Sooner he's done the better.”
“Also not helping, Aaran,” he added glibly. It was already after dark and Aaran was nibbling on some rations she has referred to as 'preferable to death.'
“Sorry. Call me ungracious and impatient.”
“Too... many... barriers... Ah!” Dad ended, elated. He patted my shoulder. “Initialize your optic array, unless you're preoccupied. Sorry about the delay on your voice.”
“It's okay Dad. Got it now.” Describing my vision power-up after hours of non-functional status involves a lot of blocks of color, contrast and other irritating calibrations. Takes seconds, feels like minutes.
Dad was overtired and exhausted-looking in a smock and magnifying lenses, tooling away at Aaran's arm. Even though he has to be careful, he has no patience at all.
“I wasn't aware your residual limb was a shoulder joint amputation. Your body language doesn't give any indicators,” I observed. Aaran is not disturbed by medical scrutiny of her body, but she's also a mother.
“It shouldn't. I had an excellent physical therapist. Besides, I had to make a choice,” she answered, eyes locked interestedly on the work being performed. Dad's evaluation ended, and he stood straight, wiping his brow with a cloth tucked into his waistband.
“I'm afraid they aren't compatible. Your terminal interface won't adapt the signals quickly enough. You'd lose half the functionality of the arm,” Dad said with a hint of regret.
“Waste, really? So I'll be wearing something cosmetic for a while. Can't let t
he girls see me like this.” Aaran crumpled up the ration packing and slouched. “Nothing you can do?”
Dad crossed the room and examined spare limbs hanging on the wall. “It's a control issue. I might just as well install a purely mechanical limb as the WidowGrade. Functionally identical when all you can control is your grip strength.”
Aaran looked away and tossed this one off: “Why not just sew a bat in there? I'm getting' the urge to bash in some heads.”
That was not good. Her willpower was a vital part of any procedure she might undergo.
“Now enough of that talk. I can't replace the terminal here,” Dad gestured around the basement. “This is a glorified machine shop, not an operating theatre. Without the correct equipment and tools, there could be permanent consequences.”
“Not to mention the down time of healing,” Aaran agreed, shaking her head. “Scrap it. Longer we're sitting here, longer Marlene's alone.”
“Sonata's with them. Mishan's no pushover. Will getting upset about our circumstances help them,” I asked.
“I'm not-” Aaran snapped and stopped. “Okay so I am. Look, David, what've you got? I need to be able to use my blade.”
“Nothing but parts for Sonata and Buddy...” he absentmindedly offered, words trailing off as a curious expression spread over Aaran's face. “Oh, no. No. That borders on dangerous and stupid.”
“Just 'borders'? It's an electronically controlled limb that's an accurate human analog. What's the difference?” She was smiling, but Dad wasn't.
“There are technical limitations. The limb is high efficiency, but its signals are complex and cognitively demanding. You... Scrap it, Aaran! Why do you portray the fool only to be the winner at times like this?”
Aaran shrugged. “Don't be like that. You're curious. She's literally got my bone structure, poor thing.”
"Self depreciation is no deterrent," Dad sighed very heavily and walked over to a computer terminal where he began to manipulate objects on a touch screen. “If you want to get moving now you'll lose time to retrain your fine motor control. You'll have to make due with adjustments on the fly.”
“Good enough,” she grinned. "That's good enough for me."