Shadow Of The Past Trilogy ∞ THE DISPLACED

87 ∞ connections

—Blanc Aave.

—Forgive me for disturbing your rest. There is a matter we must discuss before I leave to attend to your Shield's family.

Mickmi suppressed the surge of alarm without flinching, but she could not stop it from registering on the oscillograph. She did not stir as the doctor jumped up and approached quietly to check on her.

—They are safe, my Queen—though still detained.

Concern followed the initial relief at the assurance. But before Mickmi could express it, the voice in her mind continued.

—I shall ensure the trauma is minimized.

—Thank you, Blanc Aave. Calmed, she could focus on other matters. What wish you to discuss?

—I believe you have not shared the cause of your augmentation with these people.

—Correct, Mickmi responded.

—That is wise. I suggest you keep the Nanites to yourself, my Queen. This society is not qualified to receive knowledge of such free-moving technology.

—I have mentioned we conduct surgical procedures with nano particles. But that is all.

—That is fine. I take my leave now. Rest well, my Queen.

Mickmi's eyes flickered open, swept around the ceiling and closed again as she sank back into deep sleep.

The dream replayed the memory in vivid detail as if she were living it for the first time. She recognized her self—but not as Mickmi. This was her original self, Mic Lepantra Wamba, ready to launch into another training session.

She stood in the middle of the vast, domed room that was not as large as it looked, her head covered by a sleek helmet. Her body was comfortably enclosed in a tight-fitting suit lined on the inside with very soft but firm plexifoam, designed to absorb kinetic energy if she fell or bumped against any hard object. It bore some semblance to the suits used by the ancient F-16 pilots.

"Amaltea. Wild Forest scenario."

The vessel's intrinsic intelligence's immediate response came from the space to her left, "Wild Forest scenario, aye."

The space filled with instant trees as far as she could see, huge trunks towering high above her head. A wide dirt pathway stretched before her, overgrown and cluttered with thick branches and heavy boulders. Between the branches overhead and the ground, a jungle of vines and brambles weaved a labyrinthine web, leaving very limited room to squeeze through.

This was one of Mic's favorite scenarios. Vines with sharp, poisonous prickles, trees full of thorns, and cracked rocks with jagged edges—all ready and waiting to tear and shred her body, were she to fall on them.

She stilled her breath. Were I to fall on them.

Slowly, she removed her helmet and placed it on the ground. Then her hands started pulling the locks on her protective gear.

"Mic Wamba, I strongly recommend you keep your helmet on at all times." The female voice grew in intensity as Mic loosened her belt and slid the suit off her shoulders. "I must insist you keep your helmet on at all times AND your gear securely in place at all times."

Without paying the voice any attention, Mic stooped to remove her soft boots and pushed the suit off her legs.

"I must warn you, Mic Wamba," Amaltea's tone became slightly hysterical, "if you don't secure the protective gear immediately, I will have no choice but to stop the trial!"