Page 13 of Trusted Instinct
Today was the day Auralia had decided to tell Gator aboutthem.
He couldn’t imagine this going wrong. “What do you think, Rou?” Creed asked as he sent Auralia an “are we doing this now?” lift of the brow and tilt of the head.
She sent him back a grimace, clenching her fists and drawing them to her chest as if she were terrified.
Auralia was afraid of nada.
The only reason she’d made the decision was that their families were going to be over the moon, and Auralia never wanted to cause pain to her loved ones.
She was right, sometimes chemistry came and went, but shoot, Auralia knew him like the back of her own hand. If there were any red flags, any reason to self-preserve and run for the hills, she already knew.
Did their families need to be managed with kid gloves?
Nope.
Both came from a bloodline of strength and resilience.
But expectations from their loved ones might influence their way of growing their relationship, so they kept it preciously, selfishly to themselves. And as of today, that would no longer be the case.
From the magnetic comms Creed had dropped into his ear canal at the beginning of the day, he heard. “Striker for Creed.”
Creed depressed the mic taped to his sternum. “Go for Creed.”
“We have a situation. A mother was playing with her toddler on their picnic blanket while her seven-year-old ran in the field. She saw him disappearing into the woods. We need Rou on it. Over.”
“Copy.” Creed held up a hand to stop Auralia’s progress in his direction.
“Operations has programmed your shirt to meet the mother at her spot. She has a scent source and a PLS. Over.” Striker used the acronym 'PLS' to indicate the point at which the child was last seen.
“Creed, moving. Out.”
Sitting at Creed’s feet, Rou wriggled with anticipation. They say a handler can send a thought down the leash to his dog. That was why it was so important for the handler to stay calm and in control when they had a K9 on lead.
Though she wouldn’t have been able to hear Striker’s command from his magnetic comms—they’d been designed so that even with a parabolic listening device and computer amplification, those communications were private—Rou knew she had been called up for a job.
“That’s right, Rou. We just need to follow my shirt and find the mom.”
Today, as required on missions where there was a crowd, and team members would be separated without a clear line of sight, they wore upgraded tactical compression shirts.
Because of Iniquus’s close relationship with DARPA, the R&D branch of the US military's preparedness, they got to try out a lot of cool new toys in the field. They then conferred with the scientists who had imagined them, so that adjustments could be made.
And these tactical shirts were the bomb.
From Iniquus Headquarters, Logistics could program coordinates into the shirt. The shirt would determine the best route to direct the wearer. So, for example, as he jogged forward, if he saw something that needed a brother on the spot immediately, Creed could simply tell Logistics, “Send Striker here stat.” Logistics would plug the information into its computer, and Striker would simply follow the shirt's directions. Veer right, the right sleeve would inflate a bit. Turn left, and the left sleeve would inflate with more air.
It took a bit of practice. The brain had to release some of its visual control. Creed had to build in some trust. He had been in the woods under a cloud-covered, dark moon sky with nearly zero ambient light. And though he’d been slow as Christmas molasses at the beginning, working hard to follow the instructions sent to his sleeves to follow a trail.
In his youth, Creed, along with his brothers and sisters, helped put food on the table. Since his mamma wouldn’t let himhave so much as a BB gun, he’d learned to stalk small game with his slingshot, so he could bring home a rabbit for a stew. Creed had let his muscle memory from his youth resurface as he focused on his sleeves. Step by step, he learned to trust the system. Soon he sped up to a normal walking pace, and then a soft jog.
The exercise helped him to trust the technology and the idea that Iniquus had his back. The shirt could either work him out of his labyrinth or help his team find him.
Not to say there weren’t drawbacks.
The system worked by connecting GPS satellites. Tree canopies, foul weather, and cell-tower-free spots meant that the shirt often couldn’t optimally work in environments where Iniquus took assignments. Sometimes the system stuttered when intermittent information got through.
So in locations like this one, with its sketchy cell reception, Creed wouldn’t lean too heavily into shirt directions.
As he jogged past Auralia, he said, “Missing kid.”
