“Will do. ’Preciate it, Johnny.”
I duck through the bead doorway, noodles in hand, and make my way through lightly populated corridors out of the Brown, heading for Highrise. My senses are on high alert, but no one tries to jump me during the fifteen-minute walk. Lucky for them. I’m not in a tolerant mood today. A message flashes in my vision, Wind and Slend wondering why I’m not logging in for dailies. I tap back a quick response, let them know something’s come up in the real. Go on without me. Try to contact Kiro, but the message bounces back. Temporary block. Little shit.
The duty nurse, Raquel, waves at me when I walk in to the clinic, and I nod briefly at her through the clear plastic barrier covering the top of the desk.
“Hey, Ash. You’re in early today.”
“Had a late night. How’s she doing?”
“Seems to be stable so far. Woke up nice and happy. Noodles in the scanner, knife in the box.”
“’K.”
I place the still-warm containers on a conveyor belt that disappears beneath a rectangular metal hood, then unstrap my leg sheath and lay it in a scuffed box with a hinged lid. Raquel locks the lid and hands me the key.
“Make sure you give it to the attendant to hold before you go in.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill.”
I approach the clinic’s security station, two orderlies in dark blue jumpsuits, shocksticks dangling from their hips, flanking a circular body scanner like a low budget dryburb checkpoint. The one on the right waves me inside. The body scanner hums briefly around my body, and then I’m through to the other side of the barrier.
“Clean. Don’t forget your noodles.”
“Thanks.”
The noodles emerge from their x-ray interrogation box, slightly more cancerous than before. I grab the cartons and walk down the hallway to my left. Walls painted with pastel colors and nature scenes on viewscreens stretch out in front of me, a soothing corridor of calm. Small bulges in the ceiling every few feet destroy the illusion, but only if one knows their contents. I stop at a door with cartoonish rabbits frolicking on its surface and knock. It slides open with a slight hiss.
A young man with close-cropped orange hair and a freckled face greets me, an infectious smile lighting up his face. A small tag on his white coat reads DOCTOR FREDERICK O’SHEA. He sits at a small desk in front of a large window, an antiquated viewscreen filled with charts and graphs blinking over the desk. In the chamber beyond, a woman in a loose-fitting green gown is gradually moving through martial stances, corded muscles lining her slender frame. A small bed is the only other object in that portion of the room.
“Hey, Ash. What’s new?”
“Not much, Freddie. Just checking on the old lady before I get back to work. Raquel said she’s doing well.”
“She is. Remarkably calm today. Took her meds all by herself.”
“Any chance I can go in and see her?”
Freddie purses his lips, then nods.
“I don’t see why not. She seems to be responding well to the latest treatments, and I know she misses you. Your waiver up-to-date?”
“Yeah. Oh, here’s the locker key.”
“Thanks. I’ll buzz you through. She’ll have to use her fingers for the noodles, though, sorry. Regulations.”
“I understand. Thanks, Freddie.”
Freddie nods again and taps a button on the old-fashioned keyboard on the desk in front of him. A clear revolving hatch next to the window spins open, large enough for five people, and I step inside. Another button press, and it cycles me into the room, like an airlock. I step out and lean against one of the padded gray walls, waiting for Mom to finish her katas, her mirrored reflection slightly warped in the one-way observation window.
Her movements have the slow inevitability of a glacier advancing down a mountainside, incredible amounts of tension and pressure hidden beneath a placid surface. Each circling block, each gently lifted foot placed in precisely the right spot almost without thought. One of the few things left to her. Weathered creases on her face look like wear lines in ancient oiled leather, scars etched into her dark skin, hazel eyes staring at nothing.
About five minutes later, after another series of motions, she exhales deeply and drops out of her stance. She looks at me and grins, features suddenly ten years younger.
“Thank you for waiting, Ashley. Those noodles smell delicious. Johnny’s?”
“Yeah, Mom. He says hi. How’re you doing?”
“Good, good.” Her face turns uncertain. “At least that’s what they tell me. Some days, I’m… not sure. My memory’s been a bit fuzzy. Where’s Kiroda, my baby boy? I haven’t seen him in so long. He never visits anymore.”
A stab in my heart. Kiro hasn’t visited in over two years, not since I had to leave Greentower. I hate the Game sometimes.
“Sorry, Mom, he’s busy today, couldn’t make it. Hopefully next time.”
I walk over and hand her a carton of noodles, then sit cross-legged on the floor. She perches on the edge of her bed and opens the thin cardboard container, inhaling the steam with a delighted expression. Suddenly, her eyes go distant, face drooping, like someone flicked a switch and turned part of her off. I swear under my breath.
“Ahh, that brings me back. Johnny was the best squadmate I ever had during the Dubs. Hell of a shot with a rifle, and the best damn cook in the entire force. Man could make prime rib out of synthetic boot leather.”
“Mom, we don’t have to talk about the Water Wars. Let’s just eat Johnny’s noodles and talk about something else, okay? Have I told you about my latest Game encounter? I did really well, you’d be proud. Soloed a—”
She interrupts me.
“Game? The Water Wars weren’t a game, Ashley. The things we did…”
“Mom, just let it—”
She looks at me, not seeing me, her eyes blazing, and the words die in my mouth. Dammit. No stopping the storm now. Only question left is if it can be weathered or not. My stomach growls, and I grab a handful of noodles from my carton, their heat not quite burning my fingers, and put them in my mouth. Might as well eat them before things go to shit. She continues talking, voice soft, her gaze on the cardboard carton in her hands.
“There was one night, right after the Split. We’d been fighting for a little over a year. Us, the Han, Euroleague, UPC, everyone fighting everyone else for water, foreign and domestic. We were bunkered in a town in Kanshoma, using it as a base to run our hapdrones.”
She puts a fistful of noodles in her mouth and chews mechanically, eyes lost.
“Johnny’d just finished making a curry, god knows where he got the ingredients. Smelled delicious. Most of us were lining up to grab a bowl. That’s when the silkies hit us. Bastards snuck a squadron past our sensors—antipersonnel models. Fléchette launchers, firebombs, monofil, all the stuff that only works on soft targets. Human targets. Old rules said that kind of ordnance was banned, but no one cared about any sort of rules at that point. Take out the meat to get to the metal.”
She scoops in another clump.
“Over half the squad died before we made it to the armory. They went hard. Flesh doesn’t hold up well against steel and circuits. Bought the rest of us time to make it, though, and then we grabbed some guns. Went hunting. Didn’t have any other choice. Lost a third of those left taking out the drones, and most of the town was leveled. Firebombs spread quick when folks are fighting over water.”
A bead of moisture rolls from the corner of her eye, following the path of a wrinkle. It drips into the noodles, unseen. She takes another handful.
“Was the damndest thing. Whole town smelled like barbecue. Stomach kept telling my brain that it was hungry. Didn’t get a chance to grab any curry before the drones hit. So many dead, and all I could think of was getting something to eat. ‘Never skip a chance to eat,’ they always told us. I found Johnny lying on a street, half his side missing. Barely stabilized him in time.”