Again, with the edits...
69: Was He Worth It?
D.C., a mostly-deserted bunker complex-
John Tracy had become an enormous, millstone liability. Doubtless sought now by NASA, enterprising news crews, Interpol and the FBI, her battered compatriot was sheer poison. Had she possessed a shred of dignity or common sense, Penelope would have deserted him.
Yet… she'd never been quite rational concerning John. Stubborn, yes. Passionate to an unseemly degree, absolutely. Sensible, never. Penelope's reputation stood in pitiful tatters, her credibility as a free-lance operative almost certainly lost… and still she clung like ivy to the handsome, damaged young man.
Together they limped through the grey halls of a government bunker system (a survivalist's concrete wonderland of storehouses, war rooms and chattering mainframes), Penny supporting John's increasingly irritable and muddled retreat. He seemed to have a destination in mind, following something at the edge of his vision that Penelope wasn't quite swift enough to turn and catch. Questioned on the matter, all he'd done was mutter something about a 'friend'…
…But, then, he had undoubtedly grown more confused over the last hour, soaking through his bandages and stumbling often. Very much, she should have left; made him comfortable, rung up Jeff or Scott, and then stolen away to safety. The situation was certainly eerie enough to warrant desertion; all along their path, lighting and climate control activated themselves, cameras swiveled and doors slid open, making Penelope quite testy… especially as her own secret equipment had malfunctioned repeatedly.
Thankfully, they at last reached a sort of dormitory for mid-ranked survivors, four 'blocks' east of the prison compound. (Uncanny place, prepared well in advance of possible global catastrophe by the US government. She didn't care for it.)
Penny and John stepped from a beige-carpeted passage and into a sunken quadrangle the approximate size of a largish cricket pitch. It was roofed with giant, artificial skylights and walled in tier after tier of stone balconies and rustling silk plants. The piped-in forest noises were a bit much, Penelope thought, though John hardly seemed to notice.
She spied a long queue of numbered doors amidst all the false greenery, one of which he started for. They crossed a floor of glazed tile interspersed with patterned sand and softly humming rocks, then climbed a short flight of steps to door 137, which opened at a touch. There were private chambers aplenty beyond, with foodstuffs and medicaments for their worst injuries.
The first room they encountered… no more than a cubicle, really… contained sparse furniture and a selection of baggy, unisex garments. But clothing wasn't her chief concern, just then. Instead, Penelope helped John to stretch out upon the room's low bed, saying,
"Rest here, Darling. I shall see to fetching a medical case."
He looked up at her, briefly, with those astonishing, nearly violet eyes of his, and said,
"Okay. Be up in a second, myself. Just… figuring gravity out, again."
As Jeff did earlier, Penelope quite forgot that the crew of Endurance had spent years in space rather than the mere week it seemed from Earth.
"Of course, Dear."
She pulled a coverlet over him, propping his legs on a pile of folded clothing to fend away shock.
"I shan't be but a moment or two, then back once more with 'aid and comfort'."
His eyes were already closing, but she kissed him anyhow, and then did so again, defiantly. Their deal had specified nothing physical... but there was no-one to say that she mightn't renegotiate for better terms whilst he lay insensible.
The cubicle walls were coloured the middling bluish-green of toothpaste. Simply horrific shade quite guaranteed to accentuate a black eye and bruised face. But the carpet and bed were worse still, being already splotched with dark, shiny blood.
It was all down to numbers, actually, for there were only four persons to whom Penelope Creighton-Ward felt anything resembling kinship or loyalty, and one of these was bleeding to death before her.
He was American (annoyingly so) with a graceless accent and lower-class mannerisms… and she very much wished him to live. Fortunately, the first aid kit was clearly marked and affixed to the water closet door. Within were painkillers, and several packets of 'Quik-Clot', with which she might close the worst of John's several wounds. Triumphantly seizing kit and hand-towels, (while dodging her own reflection) Penny returned to the bed.
As she cut away and discarded the many blood-soaked strips of linen, Penelope began to speak.
"We've not had much opportunity to chat, Darling, since your return from space. Just busy, I expect, but even so, a solid relationship is built on trust and good communications… or so I'm given to understand. Mum and Dad spent far more time roaming the world than visiting home, only to lose what little fortune we still possessed, and orphan me in a final blaze of romantic glory. King and country, and all that, don't you know."
Once the wounds were uncovered, she slit open a packet of Quik-Clot and poured the stuff in a pale, sandy stream, watching as it expanded, heating suddenly and bunging up entry and exit wounds, both. Quite satisfactory. Penelope next cleansed and re-bandaged the area, setting everything that she could to rights, though he'd still need to see a physician. Both arm and hip wounds were seen to in this manner, and then she began disinfecting a bullet-nick in his right ear.
"…At any rate, John, it occurs to me that you may have been laboring under some misapprehension as to the precise nature of our… understanding."
Another disinfectant wipe cleansed the scrapes on his wrists and ankles where he'd strained at his metal shackles. He had thus far contributed nothing to the conversation, but that was all to the good; semi-consciousness made it less likely that her partner and sometime paramour would interrupt.
"…But the fact remains that I love you, and always have done, since that wretched evening in Belgium, when you stole those damned files. I realize that my own stand-offish behavior may have led you to an altogether different conclusion, but there; I've gone and said it. I love you. His Royal Majesty recalls me (I think) with some fondness, and would be quite amenable to raising you to the peerage. How does 'Sir John' suit you, dear?"
He made a noise discomfortingly close to a wry snort, opening his eyes again long enough to regard her.
"Wouldn't make much of a nobleman, Penny… plus I got married on Mars. You'd… arrange all those sword-pats for nothing, I'm afraid."
Ah, yes. The 'other woman'. Penelope forced a deep and calming breath.
"Do you love her?" She asked. Or, indeed, anyone?
Must have proven a nasty poser, that, for he took his time about responding.
"She's my wife…" he said, at last. "Husbands love their wives."
"Quite a number are rather fond of their mistresses, as well, darling," Penny responded, giving him a halfway playful slap. "And I fear that I must question the validity of this 'Martian wedding'. I believe that you will need to arrange an Earthly ceremony, presided over by genuine religious and civil authorities, if you wish to persist in this sham marriage."
He'd closed his eyes again, which increased Penny's confidence. Her stiff, numbed face gave testament to the black eye and bruises she'd rather have concealed.
"…And," another quick kiss to his pale forehead, "I'm quite certain that with a bit of coaching at diction and deportment, you shall cut a fine figure as a knight of the realm. Anyhow, I'm off to forage sustenance, dear. Consider my offer and rest yourself. We've a fair stretch of the legs before us, yet, I'm sure."
She'd believed him asleep again, but John said wearily,
"Thanks. There's a lot of… stuff… with you in it. Don't really know how to change that, or the parts with Drew… or keep my wife happy, either. Kind of lacking… in some areas."
…Whatever that meant. Hoping that he was merely delirious, Penelope took her leave, returning somewhat later with a bit of food and many added worries.
Farther down the dormitory hall, you see, she'd reactivated the circuit-laden 'contact lenses' that went with her transceiver earring. All at once, a rudimentary site map sprang up in the air before Penelope; with John, herself, Parker and one most unwelcome other marked by glowing motes against a distorted and sparking background.
"Oh, bloody hell…" she murmured, pausing before a marked storeroom. "Not now! There's been no time to prepare…!"
Extremely bad news, made still worse by the fact that her devices had been damaged by the beating she'd taken. Like her earring, they kept fading out and skipping frames.
He might be long gone, closer still, or anywhere at all…
Penny hurried into a well-ordered supply room and began ransacking the high-piled boxes for smaller parcels and cans. Entirely by accident, she managed to acquire the very things John had sworn never again to touch upon reaching Earth; barbecue-flavoured beans, dried meat and powdered strawberry milkshake (she got a fierce headache, too, but that was down to stress and a swollen-shut eye, not food).
Penelope dropped half of the supplies in her nervous haste, all but running back to the dormitory chamber where John awaited her. A potentially fatal decision lay before her now, whether to bargain or attempt escape… if either choice was yet possible.
"John, Darling, do get up," Penny called from the open cubicle door. "We must…"
But he was up, arm twisted behind his back, lifted halfway off his feet in the grip of a seared and malfunctioning cyborg whose metal-corded hand was clamped hard over John's mouth.
No.
"Stirling," she remarked casually, somehow maintaining her poise before glaring, lidless eyes and a sharp, fried-meat smell, "what a truly unexpected pleasure."
The ceramic pistol (a small-caliber Glock) lay upon the room's white plastic storage cube. Moving cautiously, Penelope wandered over to set down her stolen foodstuffs. The cyborg's pale eyes tracked her motion… but slowly; just a bit off.
"Had rather a time of it, have you?"
Hard swallow, as she leant back against the storage cube, just so. Penny's heart was thudding like a rabbit's, which Stirling would normally have detected.
…and if he twisted John's straining left arm any farther back, that shoulder would surely come apart. Talk to him, she told herself sternly, must continue talking to him…
"Here for a spot of reprogramming, I expect?" She went on, striving for a chatty, unworried tone. "Tracy is certainly the young man to effect any needed repairs. Despite what you may have read in the dossier, he is not expert at physics and piloting, solely, but quite gifted with computers, as well."
The reply was a grating, half-digitized wheeze, from vocal cords burnt stiff and raw.
"Not… ikely to trus… damn International Res… Just… venge this ti… Catch that kid…again for repair… later. Kill myself an IR agent… now."
Penny moistened her bruised lips. The pistol was close to hand. She made as if to pat her tawny-dyed hair back, meaning to trigger her earring into a silent, general alarm. At this point, she very much doubted that John would quibble over a few curious FBI agents. Stirling wouldn't have it, though.
"Keep…ands where… see them," he rasped, loudly dislocating his hostage's pinned arm by way of emphasis. John grunted, blinking rapidly, but otherwise remained still. Something caused the overhead lights to flicker violently as Penny blurted out,
"Of course. How silly of me! Merely concerned with appearances, as usual. A girl mustn't ever allow herself to go to rack and ruin on the job, after all… But I do believe that you're throwing away a marvelous opportunity at repair."
Ruddy difficult to speak, with so large and icy a knot pushing its way up her throat. She continued, as one does, with forced good cheer.
"See how this one seems: You allow John Tracy a chance at debugging your code in return for his life, and then we part company, agreeing to settle our differences at a later time."
The result was a gear-grinding laugh.
"Seen… results of your… toy's 'de-bugging' already… novese."
Stirling then removed the hard metal hand from John's mouth, asking with mock politeness,
"Willing to ma… nice and … bide by… Genov… offer?"
John snarled an equally cynical, if much less polite, reply.
"Sure thing, Chrome-ass. Give me a shot at your source code, and I'll f-ing kill you."
For which he got flung to his face and trodden upon, the wretched uncooperative dolt…! Stirling's right foot pressed down against John's spine, just below the rib cage.
"Not going to… ppen toda… looks like. But there's alw… plan 'B'."
The cyborg sneered, gazing very directly at Penny as he began increasing the crushing force applied to John's back.
Overhead, the room lights had increased their strobe-like flickering, at a frequency that Stirling seemed unable to detect. The fixtures began to hum, as though some dreadful power was building itself up within them. That mysterious come-and-go 'friend', perhaps?
His attention drawn by the sound, Stirling glanced upward, allowing Penny the half-second she needed to seize and aim the ceramic pistol.
Wasting neither time nor breath on useless warnings, Lady Penelope opened fire, aiming for the cyborg's eyes. The gun barked and recoiled, but struck true, with almost nil effect. Crackling circuit paths and ropey metallic strands simply closed off and healed the bullet holes, leaving Stirling less human than before, and still operational.
He did step backward, though, somewhat unbalanced by the force of nine well-aimed bullets and his own slowed reactions. In that instant, Penny darted forward, took hold of John's less-injured arm and helped him scramble away from the staggering cyborg. The way had been cleared.
An arc of pure-white, lightning-like energy shot from the light panels above them to Stirling. Unlike the discharge of a natural storm, however, this one didn't cease. Instead, the bolt of electrical fire poured through Stirling for many long, terrifying minutes, filling the room with a spitting, arc-light glare, a droning hum and the stench of ozone.
Her nerves frayed quite through, Penelope began to shriek. John forced her into a corner, defending Penny from flying sparks and bits of burning metal with his own body. The lights blinked wildly, then cut off for good, plunging the sobbing woman and wounded astronaut into blackness as complete as the universe's last day. With a final guttering howl, Stirling crashed to the ground, never to move again.
Still, she closed her eyes, seeing in her mind a locked and burning cyborg.
"S' okay, Pen…" John's voice and quiet touch assured her. "Everything's fine. Just help me pop this arm… yeah; thanks… (Shit, that hurts!)… And, uh, let's get… get moving. Place is going to be stiff with every badge, gun and ladder crew in Washington, soon… and we'd better be somewhere else."
Penelope nodded, stumbling after John with one hand hooked through the waistband of his trousers and the other tracking blindly along the nearest wall.
"Lead on," she whispered, because, yes; in the end, John Tracy was worth every bit of trouble he'd ever caused. And because, perhaps foolishly, she loved him.