WE NEED TO TALK

Journal of Rowana, daughter of Rowetha
22 / 04 / 2120 of the Fourth Age, cont'd

The Pathfinder chewed through the grass as I made my way down to Bardur's. The memory of Azzie's green globes in the rearview mirror still fresh. Yet once outside of sight of the house, following the tracks of her last grocery run, my mind went back to worries.

I'd just left my mildly babycrazy girlfriend—lifemate, commonlaw wife in everything except but name—alone, with a stupidly hung Orc twink. Of course, Azzie claimed that she couldn't turn off her reproductive implant, and Bebe was a virgin as far as augmentations went. At least, as far as I could see. So he couldn't turn it off, even if Azzie wanted him to knock her up. On the other hand, that also meant that he could dump as many loads into her pretty green pussy as he wanted without worrying about getting her pregnant.

My grip on the steering wheel tightened at the image of that. Not that I honestly thought Azzie would cheat on me. The jealousy felt stupid, juvenile, irrational. Especially since it wouldn't affect us. Not unless I went to rub pussies with Azzie when I got back and some of Bebe's jizz got into my cunny and...

I could feel my cheeks burn a little at that particular image too. Azzie would probably be thrilled if I got knocked up from Bebe's dicksplash, despite her claims of wanting to wait to start a family. She wanted me to fuck him. And that was surprisingly less of a disgusting thought than I imagined. Maybe because I'd never had a girlfriend who wanted to be anything except exclusive.

Or maybe because I'd never had a family since I fucked off from home and never looked back.

"Fuck!" I slammed my fist against the dash.

Twenty years in the rangers, and pregnancy hadn't even been a ghost of a fucking thought. Now I had a rag stuffed in my panties, and I was having to think of stupid fucking things like my ovulation cycle and safe sex in case my greenskinned girl decided to use our adopted Orc twink to knock me up. Worse, the thought of that sounded...kinda weirdly hot. Even though it should make my uterus curl up like a pillbug.

Azzie had changed me. Was changing me. All I'd wanted to do was grow pipe-weed and smoke what was left of my days away, and instead I was freeing slaves, killing Orc-traffickers, having more hot sex in a few weeks than in the last decade, falling in love...

Then, by itself, the Pathfinder's radio squawked to life. I frowned as a modulated, synthetic voice rippled throught the speakers.

ROWENA ROWETHASDOTTIR. TURN AROUND. THE WHITE HANDS ARE COMING FOR YOU.

I stared at the speaker. Hesitated. Realization dawned as I slammed on the brakes. Somebody had hacked the Pathfinder. Not the control systems, but the phone system. I was about an hour out from the highway...I might be within range...

"Who the fuck are you?" I asked.

Hesitation.

SOMEONE'S BEEN WATCHING YOU. I'VE BEEN WATCHING THEM. THE WHITE HANDS ARE MOVING. THEY'LL BE AT THE HOUSE IN LESS THAN AN HOUR.

Pure reaction as I shifted into reverse, turned, and then gunned the gas. The Pathfinder bounced and the speakers drowned out into static as I went out of range.

Azzie might be on alert, but Bebe would be asleep. Nobody expected an Orc attack during the day, but I'd seen Orcs in Harad dressed head-to-toe strike during the day, especially when led by Men or Goblin-Men. My lips peeled back from my teeth, wired reflexes carefully jerking the wheel to avoid rocks. I couldn't afford a flat tire, not now.

Forty-five minutes later, I came within sight of the house. There were figures in pale robes around it, a white hand outlined in black on the faces of their pointed hoods, peering in windows, banging on doors. Ancient bolt-action rifles and pistols in their hands. A shot rang out, a figure fell to the ground as blood erupted from their chest, and they threw themselves down, weapons at the ready. There was no cover short of the line of tall grass where we'd stopped cutting.

They heard me coming. Maybe they expected me to slow down.

The first White Hand caught the Pathfinder's grill in the teeth. I hit the handbreak hard, jerked the wheel with all my strength, and the rear end fishtailed, slammed two more, who were thrown against the concrete walls as wet lumps of meat. The Pathfinder started to spin, but Azzie's Squirrelslayer cracked, and the Orcs were thrown into confusion. Someone barked out an order, barely audible above the noise.

I aimed the Pathfinder at the voice.

Orcs scrabbled out of the way. It's hard to hit a moving target, but Azzie's bullets ripped through legs, chests, heads, anywhere she could get a shot. Bullets pinged off the Pathfinder's bodywork and cracked the windshield. It wasn't quite military-grade, but they still needed to hit me or something vital to make it stop. The engine screamed as I pushed it to the redline as four Orcs, including a bulky form with a familiar-looking shotgun, tried to run away. I ran them down, and then backed up and used the rearview camera to aim the wheels at their still-twitching bodies, felt the heavy thumps as the suspension tried to adjust to the impromptu speed humps.

The radio crackled again.

THEY'RE IN THE HOUSE.

I stared. The front door stood gaping open. Azzie's rifle had ceased to crack. Out of ammunition. That had been on the shopping list. In half a heartbeat, the Great Eagle was in my right hand, left supporting the grip, and I was out of the Pathfinder without any conscious thought of opening the door or killing the engine. The lights were out, as we normally kept the house dark during the day, and the open doorway was dark. There was a scream from inside. I had to fight my instincts to rush in, but I knew the house, the layout, where the lines of sight were. The entrances were easy to defend from the inside.

Then, suddenly, the house lights came on, all at once, maximum intensity. I saw the Orc, their robes had blended with the shadow of the far end of the corridor, a mask over their face with only narrow slits for eyes. Their rifle had been raised, I was limned against the daylight outside. I dove threw the doorway in a duck and roll, the shot went high, and I pulled and threw my Elf-blade in one smooth motion, wired reflexes accelerating the instinct. For a moment, the edge glowed blue as it flew. Then the mask shattered as ancient steel split the fire-hardened clay and the skull behind it. Didn't stop until the point poked out the back of the invader's head.

I didn't stop. Kept moving, pistol back up. In the kitchen, Bebe was on the ground. There was Orc blood on the kitchen knife next to him, but not his. His attacker had him pinned to the ground, one arm twisted behind Bebe's back. They were pulling the smaller Orc's pants down, their cock already out and hard.

Easiest two bullets I've ever put in a skull.

The body fell on top of Bebe, but I didn't dare to stop to see how he was doing, I didn't know how many more...

The readout on the stove suddenly flashed at me. Words rippled across the digital display.

HOUSE CLEAR. OUTSIDE. TWO.

I left through the kitchen door. Two hooded figures with shotguns fired at empty air. I saw why. There were three Orcs and Men laying in piles of limbs around them, the cuts too smooth. Azzie had the scythe. These two weren't stupid, though. Their eyes were on the dirt, looking for her footprints. Not at me.

My first shots were center-of-mass, hit them in the chest. They staggered but didn't go down. Some kind of body armor. I had no cover outside the doorway. My third shot missed, but made the nearest one step back, right into one of the foot-traps I'd set. The shotgun shell buried in the ground went off, and took most of their foot with it. As he collapsed, the second took a moment to look at their fallen companion. Their head fell off his shoulders in a spray of gore that briefly limbed the buxum Uruk-Hai.

Even as the last Orc raised the shotgun, my bullets ventilated their skull.

Eerie silence descended. I panted, gun at the ready, still wired, spun around as I looked for survivors. There were a few, maimed, injured, trying to crawl away. Azzie popped back into view and I saw blood on her t-shirt, though none of it seemed to be hers.

"You're hurt," she said, and I was finally aware of the horrible pain in my left ear. The rifleman who's shot had gone high had clipped me.

"Gimme a minute, Precious," I said.

I ended the White Hands' suffering. Clean, methodical, double-taps. I reloaded with the cold efficiency of long practice, the sun hot on my shoulders. Then I felt weak, shaking. Adrenaline didn't last long, and the crash afterwards had me sucking air, arms and legs suddenly heavy. I pushed through it until I could get back inside. The lights in the house were dimmed now. Bebe met us at the door, put his shoulder under mine, and they helped me to the kitchen table, where the medkit was already laid out.

The bullet had punched through the tip of my left ear and scraped along my scalp, leaving a ragged wound that bled profusely. I tried not to think about the old tales they told in Harad, of bullets dipped in Orc piss or coated with scorpion venom. Those were mostly old wives' tales, until some stupid idiot actually did it.

"I can sew," Bebe said. "I've done it before."

I nodded.

Azzie held my hand as the Orc carefully washed his hands and gloved up, then shaved around the wound, applied antiseptic cream, and made a neat line of stitches as he tugged the broken bits of skin back together. Like darning a particularly pissed sock. Something jumped in my lap, and I looked down into Búrzi's eyes, the little black tiger's mouth opened in a silent mew. Yellow eyes wide and alert.

"I'm alright, cat," I said. Then I let out a breath I had been holding. "We're safe."

Then the stove blinked again.

WE NEED TO TALK. LOG ON.