Read Birdie Down Page 12

26

  ‘I’m getting nothing, sirs.’ The thermal imaging was of little use. The canopy was too thick; the wild life was too numerous. The navigator stopped looking. ‘At least nothing human,’ he added.

  Cummings craned his neck and looked out through the open door as the rescue helicopter banked steeply over the crash site. The thermal unit embedded in his left eye was just as useless. He leaned forward and pulled the pilot’s earpiece a little way from his ear.

  ‘Can’t you take it down? Drop us off?’ he shouted. He had to start somewhere.

  ‘Here?’ the pilot asked. ‘Didn’t you listen to the brief?’

  ‘I did, thanks, but we’re carrying sonics. We’ll travel in a bubble.’

  The local Lynthax security chief had explained the dangers of travelling through the park after the rains. Nevertheless, Cummings had a job to do and as the RAVs were still in maintenance he had hitched a lift on the only asset cleared to fly over the park in such changeable weather. He needed evidence that the second shuttle was indeed a rebel one. If so, then the chances of Scatkiewicz being on board were good. The man had flown in the first attack over Trevon and there was nothing to suggest he would not fly again. While Petroff chased the V4, Cummings would track the beggar down here. One way or another he was going to bring Scatkiewicz back. He wanted to keep his job.

  ‘We’ll drop you anywhere you like, Cummings. But we stay airborne. It’s the rules.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I got that. No problem. Just take us down somewhere. We can call you back if we find anything.’

  ‘Seems fair. First crash site or the second?’

  ‘Let’s start at the first.’ That’s were Scatkiewicz would be, or there abouts. Cummings referred to his map. ‘It’s a direct line from there to the second site, and then on to the Farm. No more than 10 kilometres in all.’

  The helicopter pulled up and swung over towards the first crash site. A minute later they hovered over a small hole in the canopy. The branches surrounding it were bare of leaves. The earlier rains had washed away the soot but it looked as though the branches were recently scorched.

  The load master swung a couple of winches out as Cummings’ 4-man team knelt beside both doors. Two-by-two they slipped out and disappeared into the canopy.

  Cummings snapped the harness release as his feet hit the shallow water. He sank to his knees, mostly through mud, and then noticed the awful smell. It was harder to wade to the edge of the clearing than he had expected; the weight of his radarmour and equipment pushed his feet deeper with every step, despite ditching the space suits in favour of the local deep blue and dark grey dappled field uniforms. When he tried to pull a foot free, the other would sink further. Behind him, one of his assault crew pulled a foot free and fell over backwards. Two pairs of hands reached down to pull him back up.

  Cummings made it to the base of a tree and stood on a flared root. He took off his dark grey, rad-glass helmet and looked back to see the remainder of his team holding each other upright. He dropped his pack off one shoulder, not daring to put it on the ground, and unclipped a length of rope. He tied one end around the root and threw the other out to the team. One by one, they hauled themselves free and made their way across.

  Covered in brown slime and stinking of dead fish, one of the troopers spat onto the spongy grass. He uncapped a menthol stick and rubbed a line under his nose.

  ‘Well that was fun, sir,’ he said, looking back out across the blood red pool. ‘I imagine Muldrow is giggling into his beer.’

  Cummings clipped him playfully across the top of his head.

  ‘Warrant Officer Muldrow to you, Sparks. And he isn’t drinking, he’s on call.’

  ‘Still, I reckon he’s pissing himself with the giggles. He said it would be wet and smelly.’

  Cummings disconnected his sense of smell. The lad was right. It did stink. There was no point in hoping to catch a waft of human sweat in amongst this, despite the humidity.

  He wiped his brow on his forearm, put his helmet back on and then glanced around the clearing. The place was mostly submerged. The shuttle was on its back and broken; one side of it had peeled back exposing the interior of the cargo hold. The water alongside of it was still. Beyond it, and in semi-darkness, he noticed a couple of life rafts, tied together, side by side. Again, no movement. Next to them was a small area of dry ground. He shone a torch into the gloom, reached up to his helmet and flipped an orange filter down over his right eye. He then increased the left eye magnification until he could see subtle indentations in the grass.

  So there were survivors.

  ‘Sparks, come with me,’ he said, pointing to the dry patch. He tapped one of the troopers on the shoulder and pointed to the area behind them. The trooper pulled his PIKL into his shoulder and covered the rear. The other trooper covered Cummings and Sparks as they waded across.

  ‘Do you see these, Sparks? Foot prints. Looks like a couple of them. Different boot sizes.’ He flipped the filter up and took the helmet off again and tucked it under his arm. He wiped his brow again. His eyes stung already.

  Sparks stood to one side looking at a uniform area of short, wiry grass. Cummings exposed his graf from under his cuff and logged onto the local companynet.

  ‘Lynthax personnel search. Location: Prebos station. Date: January through February 2210. Name: Sebastian Scatkiewicz. Display quartermaster records. Query: show boot size.’

  The reply was disappointing. Scatkiewicz was a size 10. The two on the ground were an eight and a 14.

  ‘What foot prints?’ Sparks asked.

  Cummings pointed idly at the ground between them as he calculated whether these two were worth pursuing. He accessed the V4 crew and police records. He filtered for boot sizes. There was none who were issued a size 14 but twelve who wore a size 8. He moved on to the V4’s passengers. He trawled their Trevon dollar purchases filtering for footwear. Three of them wore, or might wear, a size eight. Again, none wore a size 14—at least no one had purchased a size 14 while on Trevon.

  ‘Filter for flight training.’

  There was none listed.

  ‘There’s nothing, sir,’ Sparks said, still looking at the ground.

  Cummings unclipped the filter, handed it over and glanced back at the rest of his team. Sparks looked through it, holding it at different angles.

  ‘Still nothing, sir. Does it work with one of your enhancements?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, Sparks. I forget. I’m so used to it now.’

  ‘Which one is it?’ Sparks asked.

  Cummings was still deep inside his calculation. He could not find an owner for the size 14 prints. He must have been one of the hijackers.

  ‘This one,’ he replied, pointing at his left eye. ‘It’s also a thermodynamic sensor. I use it in conjunction with that to pick up changes in heat output. Damaged vegetation has a different heat signature to the healthy stuff. This eye picks it up but it can’t tell the brain, so the chip calculates the variances, sends a signal to the filter which the other eye reads in a colour my brain can understand.’

  ‘Cool. So what can you see?’ Sparks asked. ‘I mean through this?’

  ‘The shape of the damaged vegetation. The foot prints.’

  ‘Wow! So how much did that cost you, sir?’

  ‘A small fortune, Sparks. I doubt you could afford it. It set me back a few months pay.’

  ‘Really?’ Sparks asked, handing the filter back. ‘Should have asked me, sir. My cousin would have shown you how to pick up tracks like these for free. He hunts squirrels back in Tennessee. He can tell you if it was running or skipping, or skipping while running.’

  Cummings looked up. Sparks was smiling broadly but edging away.

  ‘Just kidding, sir. I’m sure it was worth it.’

  ‘We’re going after them, Sparks. Call the lads over.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You’ll be using that thing again, then?’

  ‘I will, yes,’ Cummings confirmed.

  ‘And what do we use, sir?’


  ‘You follow me, so keep up.’

  ‘And what do we do when the battery runs out?’

  ‘That won’t happen, Sparks. Blood vessels power the chip in this,’ Cummings replied pointing to his left eye, ‘and solar powers the filter. Any more wise cracks before we move off?’

  ‘Yes, sir. How’re we going to keep up with you?’

  Cummings laughed, the scar on his face pulling at his left eye.

  ‘You won’t need to. It looks as though they’re headed towards the other crash site. For now we’ll use the rafts. Tell the guys to power up their sonics and to keep them on until I give the word.’

  As Sparks walked away, Cummings activated his adrenal controls and turned up his hearing. He thought about increasing his natural anaerobic threshold but decided to leave it where it was, for the time being at least. He would see how it went. High-tuning all three at the same time might be a stretch for the nervous system.

  He might increase it later.

  It should not be a long hunt.

  27

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Goosen remarked, holding his head cocked to one side. ‘Sounds like a chopper.’

  Bing looked up and over his shoulder. He was pushing Rolf’s airbed along. It was hard work. The damned thing kept grounding. Keeping the lid open did not help. It dragged the bed to the left. But Rolf insisted it stay open, claiming it made him feel claustrophobic. The beggar lay with his head resting on a pack, occasionally throwing Goosen tit-bits of Bing’s private life and work history. He was tormenting him; deliberately blowing three or four years of carefully crafted story telling.

  Goosen pretended not to listen as he waded alongside of them, hauling the light-tug.

  ‘At least it’s not a Lynthax RAV, Birdie,’ Bing replied. ‘It’s most likely air rescue. Are you sure our transponder is still turned off?’

  Goosen felt his trouser pocket.

  ‘Last time I checked it was, Bernard.’

  ‘Bernard friggin’ Egglestone, Birdie. Don’t forget the Egglestone,’ Rolf reminded him. He looked at Bing. He knew Bing did not want to look at him, but had to engage him in conversation, get him riled. ‘Has he shown you his scar, yet, Birdie? The one I gave him? The one in the gut? Have you shown him yet, Bernard? Go on. Show him why I thought you should be dead.’

  Goosen looked across. He was still hauling the light-tug but the effort was not so hard he could not speak.

  ‘Is it big?’

  ‘Big? It’s huge,’ Rolf confirmed. ‘From crotch to sternum. Must have been half a gut deep as well, wasn’t it Bernard? This deep, right?’ He held his hands open by a good six inches. ‘It went all the way in till it stopped at the hilt. Then up,’ he said, harshly, ‘like this.’ He jerked his hand. It wrenched at his neck. He winced.

  Bing’s face went a deeper colour. His mouth hardened. He pushed the airbed sharply, let go of it and then walked around its side. He put his hands under the bed and began to tip it.

  Goosen let go of the light-tug and held the airbed steady, placing an open hand against Bing’s chest.

  ‘Calm down, Bing. So he’s tormenting you. He’s a dickhead. What’s to do about it?’ The two of them had been bickering for the last hour with Rolf upping the ante at every turn.

  ‘Do you want to see, Birdie,’ Bing asked. ‘Do you?’ He lifted his shirt. ‘I had surgery to hide the scars, but you can still see ‘em. Take a good look. This is what this hick did to me.’

  Goosen did not know what to say. Bing had been butchered. He looked at Rolf.

  ‘Tell me why I’m saving your ass for a second time,’ he demanded.

  ‘Why? Because you’re a cop, Birdie. You’re a kindly man at heart. You dislike disorder and you’ve got a conscience. Oh, and I’ve got the know-how,’ he added, raising his right hand and twirling it. ‘Or is it this one? I can never remember’ he added, raising the other. ‘If you want to get inside of the company farm, you’ll need me. I’m Lynthax security cleared right up to—’

  ‘So, it’s a Lynthax facility, is it?’ Goosen asked. ‘You forgot to mention that. Leading us to a hanging, were you?’

  ‘Just chop the frigging hands off, Birdie.’ Bing demanded. ‘The damned security system won’t know live skin from a piece of meat. It compares prints, that’s all. If you won’t do it, then let me.’

  Rolf looked at Goosen. He was taking a risk by baiting Eggleston-Bing—whoever he was now—but somehow he had to get Goosen to watch over him and not to turn his back for a second. He needed Goosen to stay civilised, and remember why Egglestone-Bing might want him dead. The old Egglestone-Bing would slit his throat in a heartbeat.

  ‘No. You won’t, Bing,’ Goosen said. ‘Let’s keep it fresh until we get to this farm, eh? It’ll be me who decides whether we need his hand—either on its own or attached to an arm—and I’ll do that when we get there.’ He turned to Rolf, grabbing him by the arm with a massive paw. ‘And if I hear one more peep out of you concerning my buddy, Bing, then I’ll not just cut it off, I’ll tear it off.’

  Rolf ignored him. His throat still hurt, but he had to keep pressing.

  ‘Haven’t you yet asked him why he’s on your side and not ours?’

  ‘Do I need to?’

  ‘I’d ask, Birdie. Given what you’ve just learned.’ Rolf did not give Goosen a chance to think that over. ‘Raddox trained him. His job was to crack bad-boy communications—secessionist communications—then pass it on to his bosses: his corporate bosses.’ He lay back, exhausted. ‘Can you trust him now?’

  Goosen smiled at Bing and played along, though he did not like what he was hearing. He had always assumed Bing left Raddox because he did not like what they were up to. He never thought he was a part of the problem. But it was only Rolf who was making these accusations. And Rolf was an unknown.

  ‘Of course I can, Rolf,’ Goosen replied. ‘He can trust me as well—can’t you Bing?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Bing replied. ‘To direct traffic. Man a door ...’

  Goosen winked at him.

  Rolf continued.

  ‘Did you know that before he was for independence he was against it? He did for Raddox what I now do for Lynthax. He crushed dissent. Made the opposition disappear. That’s how we met.’ He threw the next question at Bing ‘Wasn’t it Bernard? That’s when you got your tummy tucked?’

  ‘You don’t believe this crap, do you Birdie?’ Bing asked sounding increasingly nervous. ‘He’s trying to cause trouble between us.’

  ‘Actually, Bing,’ Goosen said, ‘I think he wants me to keep him alive. He’s telling me you’ve got just cause for wanting him dead. So here’s what I’ll do: if I hear anymore of this playground crap again—from either of you—I’ll fry both your livers. I’ve got the only PIKL. Only my voice counts. Got it? And Rolf ...?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Speak ill of Bing again, the next time the rats come you’re on your own. Got it?’

  Rolf settled back and adjusted the bag behind his head.

  ‘Suits me. This thing’s only built for one,’ he added waving a hand around the inside of his airbed. ‘Where’s yours?’

  28

  Above Alba

  Lieutenant Alfred H Day could not believe his luck. He had had none for the past two years. A true-blue blond-haired son of an aristocratic family in financial decline meets true-blue brunette daughter of the fabulously wealthy, but highly protective Raddox family. A fast-paced romance. A pregnancy. The threat of bodily harm. A final offer to get lost: an unexpected and thoroughly undeserved, but well-arranged, place at the ORF academy (not his first choice, but he took it: broken legs were also on offer) and a first posting to a quiet sector of Asian space (which was every bit as boring as the crew said it would be).

  He had arrived over two months ago, and still the Asians and the ORF were bickering over his pay. In the meantime, ISRA sent him refundable subsistence credits; enough money to last maybe one or two weeks out of every four. It was not his fault he had expen
sive habits and sophisticated tastes, neither of which he could sustain while the Asians refused to pay up. Blame mother.

  Oh, yes. Then there were the debts. Debts owed to a Greater Chinese Enterprise betting franchise. It really was amazing how quickly they mounted, and that the nature of debt collecting on Alba was as crude as it was.

  Now his ship was in enemy hands. Enemy? Well they said they were and he took them at their word.

  It finally dawned on him that he was no longer in control of the ORF Bright Star when the V4’s ‘Outer Rim Force escort’ swept past him and dragged his co-pilot from the flight cabin. Then a man calling himself Scat (is that even a name?) invited him to put his hands behind his back, strapped them together and flipped him through the galley door.

  Well I’ll be bowled for a duck! All they needed to do was ask me for the keys.

  He would have gladly handed them over.

  There was a noise at the entrance to the narrow galley. The lock popped. Day tried to put himself right-side up by pushing against a counter. Light poured in from the main deck.

  ‘Out you come, Mr Day. Everything’s back to normal. We’ve just got ourselves new bosses.’

  Day blinked. He recognised Sergeant Bales’ voice. Then he saw him. Did he just say “New bosses”?

  ‘I say, Sergeant. I hope you drove a hard bargain? Better pay, longer leave, that sort of thing?’

  ‘We did, sir. We did you proud.’

  Scat cut in.

  ‘Your Sergeant Bales tells me that you may be just as happy not being paid by us as you are not being paid by the Asians? Is that true?’

  Day would not have put it so crudely, but he was a realist, if nothing else. Losing the ship might be an embarrassment, but it looked as though it was a done deal. The damage was done.

  ‘I would hardly say that, Mr ... oh yes, Mr Scat. But if the Asian Queen isn’t handing over her shilling a day, she can hardly complain if we rent this thing out by the hour to someone who will or at least promises to do so. I doubt you’ll find it in the Regs, but I’m damned sure I heard someone at the academy claim that ISRA values initiative in adversity.’

  ‘So that’s a yes?’

  ‘Well, that depends.’ He might as well try to get something out of the mess he was in.

  ‘On what?’ Scat asked.

  ‘On the deal, sir. Look, I’m sorry, I can’t bring myself to call you Scat. It brings up too many school boy memories for me—blame my music master. What I mean is: does it include the clearing of debts?’

  Scat smiled. He had met this type before a long time ago. He could see why his crew loved him and wanted to include him in the deal. He was an out-and-out oddity; a social throw-back; a window onto a time long-since gone. But what on earth were the rebels going to do with him? Scat doubted he had skills.

  ‘They’re wiped clean, Mr Day,’ Scat confirmed. ‘As will be all our sins—come independence.’

  ‘Then I’m happy to make your acquaintance, sir. Where are we off to?’ Day looked around. He had never seen so many people on board his ship.

  ‘Do you fly?’ Scat asked.

  ‘Yes, I do. Usually up front, but never without champagne and only in slippers.’

  Scat looked at Smithy who did not quite know what to make of the man.

  ‘I mean can you fly this thing? And the interceptors?’ Scat asked.

  Day held his head up.

  ‘Yes. It’s one of my more natural talents, isn’t it Sergeant? That and landing. I do that particularly well.’

  ‘And the crew?’

  ‘Almost as good,’ Day replied, winking at Bales. ‘I signed off on their refreshers only yesterday. I think you’ll find us useful, sir. So what are we fighting for, and against whom?’

  Smithy shook his head, suppressing a giggle.

  ‘I’ll leave you two officers to talk strategy,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and check out our new weaponry.’ He made to leave.

  Scat spun around and held him gently by the shoulder.

  ‘Belay that, Smithy. Station some men here, and get Tyson to arrange flight plans for a rendezvous along the Constitution buoy network. We’ll check our booty there.’

  Rebels heads came up all around the deck.

  ‘Does that mean we’re going back in? For Birdie?’ Smithy asked, his face opening up.

  ‘It does. So let’s do it quickly. Spread the word and chase people along.’

  29

  Dragon Park, Constitution

  Cummings ran ahead of the team, his weapon held at the trail, the sonics set to maximum. Up ahead the second shuttle lay scattered on a bed of saturated grass and fish debris. The ground still squelched, but the pools were draining into the ground, at least in this area of the forest. They had ditched the life rafts a kilometre back.

  He ran across to the cockpit, peered inside, spun around and cast an eye over the rotting bed of fish. There were no human remains. Not in plain sight.

  ‘Sparks?’ he shouted, waving.

  Sparks picked his way carefully across the open ground, trying not to step on flesh. He gave up when he saw Cummings giving him the evil eye, hands on hips.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Check everything within a 300 metres radius. Work your way out in circles. We’re looking for body parts, clothes, shoes. Call me if you find anything. Keep the sonics on. Send Franks over. Got all that?’

  Sparks bobbed his head a few times as he counted off the list.

  ‘No problem, sir. But we’re running out of juice for the sonics. Hemmings’ is almost flat. Do you think you could find some cells in here,’ he said, pointing inside the cockpit, ‘or call for some?’

  Cummings looked down at his belt. The energy indicator was running low, but they still had another couple of hours at full power.

  ‘Soon, Sparks. Find me something first. Take Hemmings with you. Keep him inside your bubble.’

  Cummings turned and picked at the mess inside the cockpit with a foot, and then hoked around using his free hand. He screwed up his face. Someone had stripped the cockpit clean. Even the first aid box was gone. Franks, one of his newer team members, joined him and picked through the seat pockets.

  Cummings heard his name being called out. He looked through the cockpit glass. It was Hemmings.

  ‘Got something, sir,’ Hemmings shouted, pointing down at a survival wrap. ‘A shelter, sir. Some gear.’

  Cummings stepped out onto the grass and walked across.

  ‘Bodies?’

  ‘No, sir. A bag. A jacket.’

  ‘Find me bodies or shoes, or shoes with bits of bodies in it.’

  Hemmings stayed close to Sparks as he walked on.

  Franks finished picking through the debris in the cockpit and looked out through the cockpit glass, wondering what must have gone through the pilot’s mind as he fell from the sky. Something caught his eye. He rapped on the glass and called out to his boss. He pointed.

  ‘Isn’t that an airbed?’

  Cummings followed Franks’ finger. Even then it was hard to spot with his good eye: although it was daylight above the canopy, the light below it was poor. He closed his right eye and switched his left to low-light.

  ‘It is. Go check it out.’

  Franks stepped around the mess in the cockpit and emerged on the other side. He trotted over, fishing about inside his map pocket for a torch. Cummings watched him clear away some debris, lift the lid and jump back. Rats leapt out the other side and scurried away across the grass.

  Franks put his hand over his mouth, bent at the waist and threw up. Even as he did, he waved Cummings across.

  Whoever it was had not closed the lid in time. The rats had taken the man’s eyes and the cheeks were gone as well. His intestines were visible through an open shirt. He lay there groaning, but not moving.

  Cummings looked at his boots. Size 11.

  ‘Not our guy, Franks,’ he said, slapping the lid down and walking away. ‘Keep looking.’

  ‘Sir? He’s alive.’


  Cummings walked back towards the airbed, looking up at the sky. This was a waste of time. It was growing dark. The clouds were gathering again. He lifted the lid and put the back of a gloved hand to the injured man’s mouth and nose. He then put a gloved finger to the man’s mangled neck. All the while he stared directly at Franks, shaking his head in mock regret. When he was done making his point, he leaned into Franks and spoke quietly.

  ‘I’d hate to have to leave one of you behind to watch over a corpse, Franks.’

  Franks got the point. He did not want it to be him. He looked back over to the others. They were still circling outwards looking for survivors.

  ‘No, sir. He’s dead, sir. It’s obvious really.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘They ain’t pretty, are they, sir?’ Franks remarked, watching the rats he had freed from the airbed make their way back into the trees. ‘More like spiders. Hairy blighters, aren’t they?’ He wiped sick from his chin onto a sleeve.

  ‘And dangerous, Franks. Remember that. Keep an eye on your sonics.’

  Sparks shouted. Cummings looked for him but could not work out where in the forest he was. Sparks shouted again, this time stepping into view a hundred metres away. He was waving.

  Cummings trotted through the trees to join him, leaving Franks to come to terms with his guilt.

  Hemmings stood, head cocked, looking down at two parallel groves across a dry piece of ground that separated one receding pool from another. Sparks was pointing.

  ‘The edge of an airbed, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s probably damaged. Someone’s pulling it out of here and into there. They’re headed that way.’

  Cummings looked along the line and out into the forest. The water had almost gone, and what was left of it was only ankle deep. The airbed had grounded again a little further along. And then again. The line meandered a little, but the way was clear.

  He checked the ground either side of the dual drag mark. Nothing. No foot prints of value, just ill-defined holes in the bog. He walked further out and found a continuous, metre-wide slide mark that ran alongside of the bed.

  ‘Sparks? What do you make of this?’

  Sparks stood back and then stepped across it to view it from the other side.

  ‘A life raft, do you think?’ Sparks asked. ‘It’s the right size for one. That’d make at least two people hauling something—or someone—out of here. Perhaps more.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Cummings said adding a grin. And whoever it was was headed for the Farm. He looked up through the canopy. It might still be daytime outside, but it was getting darker. The clouds were thickening again. Even if the RAVs were ready to fly again, they were probably grounded. He looked back at the injured man in the airbed.

  ‘Sparks, call back the air rescue. Tell them we’ve found someone.’

  Franks can kill his conscience. And they can jump ahead.

  30

  Fish started to flap about and break the surface. Rolf pleaded with Goosen to close the canopy.

  ‘No, Rolf. You take the same risks as we do. It seems fair.’

  ‘You won’t be saying that when you see them, Goosen. When they come rushing at you, you’ll think it’s the end of days. Look, I can probably move over and make room for you. Just close the friggin’ lid. Please.’

  ‘And me?’ Bing asked.

  ‘What about you?’ Rolf asked. ‘You’re dead. Or should be.’

  ‘Now, now, children. What did I say?’ Goosen asked, looking up at the trees. It was early evening. It had to be.

  ‘What you say won’t matter, Goosen, if we’re all dead,’ Rolf observed. ‘Come on, close the lid.’

  ‘It stays open.’ That was Goosen’s final word. He pushed on.

  Rolf sat up and threw a leg over the side of the bed. He pushed himself up and slid over the side. Bing stopped pushing and called after Goosen.

  ‘Birdie? You want to take a look at this?’

  Rolf waded around to the other side of the glass canopy and raised it with difficulty. As Goosen watched, he heaved it over until it dropped back onto the bed.

  Rolf shot Goosen a look.

  ‘What? If I’ve got to do it myself, I will,’ he croaked.

  Bing threw his hands in the air. Rolf looked to be in pain, but it was now obvious he could walk.

  ‘See what I mean, Birdie? You can’t trust this one for anything.’ He stepped forward and placed his hands on the lid to stop Rolf from clambering back inside.

  ‘Out of my way,’ Rolf said, facing up to him.

  ‘I don’t think so, Johann. You’ll not be as fast as you were back then. Not with that neck of yours.’

  Rolf tried lifting the lid. His shoulders heaved. The effort was exhausting. He looked down at the water. It had started to agitate. Bing followed his look. Silver fish shot about around his ankles. Rolf looked scared.

  ‘Um, Birdie. You seeing this?’ Bing asked. ‘We’ve got to get a move on. Find some higher ground.’

  ‘I see it,’ Goosen said. As he spoke he felt his voice waver. ‘Both of you get in the bed.’

  Rolf turned around.

  ‘Him?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Actually, him and you. Get in now. I’ll push.’ He dropped the life raft line and slowly waded across. ‘But do it now, and slowly. Easy on the banging.’

  Bing let Rolf climb back in. He then clambered on board and dropped the canopy. Goosen started to push, taking deep, long strides. He headed for a long spit of marginally higher ground some fifty metres away. Inside the airbed Bing pushed Rolf’s feet out of his face. Rolf moved them back. Bing pushed again.

  ‘So help me ... If you don’t stop the bickering I’ll tip this thing over,’ Goosen sounded as angry as he was scared. He looked around him as he pushed. The swamp started to boil.

  He met resistance and realised he had found the dry ground. He waded around to the front and lifted the nose to pull it across and into the water on the other side.

  ‘What in hell’s name are you doing, Birdie?’ Bing shouted through the glass ‘Stay on the dry ground.’

  But Goosen ignored him. He pushed off again, wading behind the bed. The pool they left behind started to thrash. Silver fish broke the surface. The water began to foam.

  ‘Goosen!’ Rolf shouted. ‘Goosen! Get back to dry ground. Get out of the water.’

  But Goosen kept pushing.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Birdie. What are you doing?’ Bing had his face pressed against the glass a foot from Goosen’s. Red faced with effort, Goosen kept his head down and pushed on.

  The canopy started to rustle. Goosen looked up. He could hear it over the sound of his own wading, and the thrashing of fish in the pool behind them. He pushed harder, trying not to make waves.

  Bing knocked on the glass.

  ‘Birdie, seriously, what are you doing?’

  Goosen took one hand off the bed and waved him down. He quickly brought it back down to push again.

  ‘Don’t make a vibration. Stop knocking. And shut up.’ It was all he could say. His lungs now burned.

  Goosen looked up for a second and got a feel for how far he was from the other side of the pool. Maybe 100 metres. Perhaps another three or four minutes. Above him he sensed the canopy come to life. He looked up and dropped his jaw.

  They may not have that time.

  The underside of the canopy had turned black and was moving in waves towards the pool in which the mud fish stirred. The lower branches began to sag. Black balls fell into the pool beside him as the great wave continued onwards. The rats that hit the water re-emerged and sped away to the other pool, running along the surface on their six legs. They left behind them only the barest of ripples.

  Goosen put his back into the airbed and continued pushing, keeping his eyes on the moving mass as it surged across the underside of the canopy. He looked back at the other pool, the one they had left behind, and he froze. It was now raining rats.

  Thick clouds of them dropped out of the canopy to hit the water an
d then disappear from view. The noise was deafening. Goosen craned his neck to look over the spit of ground between them and noticed the ground was also moving, covered in rats. Beyond it the water boiled and thrashed, splashing so high he could no longer see the light-tug on its raft.

  Bing tapped on the glass again. This time more gently.

  ‘Birdie, please. Rolf’s crapping himself in here.’

  ‘Aye, and I’m crapping myself out here,’ Goosen replied, panting heavily and looking into the canopy. ‘That was frigging lucky of us.’ He put a hand on his hip, and, without looking at it, he pointed to the side bar of ground that ran alongside their area of the swamp. ‘If I’d stuck to the dry ground,’ he said, pausing to take in a lungful of air, ‘we’d be rat food.’

  The relief did not last long. He looked down around his feet and tensed. The water in which he stood was also beginning to stir. Silver mud fish began to flicker and dart about. A few of them broke the surface.

  ‘Oh, sweet mother. Oh jeeze! Again?’

  He took a deep breath, dropped his shoulder and heaved.

  31

  Above Constitution

  ‘So this is it, then?’ Khan asked as he stepped from the small troop passenger compartment and into the hangar deck. It was small, no bigger than a double garage. But then everything on the starflyer was small.

  ‘They’re everything you’ll need, old bean,’ Day replied as he adjusted the lighting. He made his way between the two interceptors, shaped like 9mm bullets without their casings. He glanced at the skin of each ship and then into the interceptors’ interiors as he swam past. ‘Just be careful what you push off against, there’s a good chap,’ he added.

  ‘I mean these are the interceptors. These?’ Khan asked.

  They were incredibly small, no bigger than a soft-track taxi. They appeared to be made of heavily tinted, rad-hardened glass. He tried to guess their size. They could not be bigger than 2.5 metres in diameter. Possibly twice that in length. They’re no more than giant Snapple bottles, he told himself.

  Smithy entered the hangar and hung in the space beside him, keen to see what the Furtives looked like on the inside. Bales followed him in, chuckling. He nudged Smithy in the back.

  ‘You’ll not learn anything by looking at them from the outside,’ he said. ‘Get up close.’

  Exterior check complete, Day made his way back to the rear of the hangar and floated beside the interceptor’s rear door—its only door.

  ‘Don’t let appearances fool you, friend,’ he said. ‘These are up to scratch; they’re almost ready for certification.’

  ‘But ...’ Khan stopped himself. Let the young man have the chance to explain first. Then he could go back to Scat and tell him it was madness; to think of another way.

  Day waved his reservations aside.

  ‘Come on, old bean. I’m sure you’ll want to see what’s under the bonnet before we take it for a spin.’ He tapped the rear door as he spoke, then lifted a flap and pressed a button inside the recess.

  The door hissed and then opened outwards. The interior consisted of just four seats: two up front and two in the rear. There was no aisle. It looked as if the rear seats did not have head rests, until Khan saw them lying flat against the curving sidewall. Perhaps they swung back to allow the pilot to float over the rear seats when getting in and out.

  Khan began to regret volunteering. He was all for saving his newfound friend and colleague, Goosen, but ...

  Full of misgivings, he air-swam into the cramped compartment, pulling himself over the rear seats.

  Smithy looked around the side of the Furtive at the small gap between the two.

  ‘Not much room in here is there, Charlie?’ he remarked, looking around the hangar. ‘How on earth do you land—one beside the other I mean?’

  Bales pointed back at the bulkhead through which they had entered the hangar.

  ‘The light-tug does all the work. It’s accurate to within 0.1 cm.’

  Smithy could not see a light-tug. All he saw was a wall. Bales saw him looking.

  ‘It’s built into the bulkhead, Smithy. It doesn’t move. You see these skids?’ He pointed at the floor, or the ceiling, depending on which way up you were.

  Smithy looked down.

  ‘They’re the launch rails. See the rear skid on the interceptor?’

  Smithy saw that rear skids of each interceptor were buried inside the rails.

  ‘Pretty basic, Charlie,’ he observed.

  ‘That’s nothing. The GCE has eliminated everything that costs money, and left us with nothing but a flying rail gun. Wait till you get up front.’

  Smithy made his way inside to join Khan and Day.

  Khan sat in a front seat. He wore the look of a condemned man. He looked behind him at Smithy in a plea to get him out of there.

  Smithy did a double take. He had seen something of the insides through the heavily tinted glass airframe during his first initial walk-about, but that did not prepare him for what he saw in the raw.

  ‘Crickes!’

  ‘And please look at this,’ Khan said, pointing to a small tin plate stuck to the glass airframe down by his seat. He tried to edge out of the way, but Day was pressed tightly against him in the adjoining seat. It read: “A quality GCE design. License-built in Malawi. 2010.”

  ‘I present the very latest in stealth design, gentlemen,’ Day announced. ‘At least it’s one of the cheapest. The GCE Furtive III—just off the production line. You’ll be completing the trials with us.’

  Smithy’s face dropped. Now he understood Khan’s apprehension. It was not just that the Furtive was a glass bottle with a plasticky inner trim, or that it was so small. The damned things were not even certified.

  ‘If you’re unsure about this, Bales and I can fly unaccompanied,’ Day suggested. ‘Quite happy to, aren’t we sergeant?’

  Khan shook his head.

  ‘No. It’s OK,’ he replied, although it wasn’t. He carefully stroked his PIKL’s safety catch with a thumb, wondering how he would get to use it to ensure Day did not just fly off to an ISRA installation. It was not as though Khan could take over the flight controls. There were none he could see. ‘Scat wants us to ride shotgun,’ he added.

  ‘Well you’re in for some fun,’ Day continued, not at all put out that Scat was not quite ready to trust them.

  ‘They’re very fast, Smithy,’ Bales added by way of reassurance. ‘Well-armed too. Rail gun under the cockpit, PIKL turret above,’ he pointed to a miniature cupola above and just behind the cockpit area. ‘The air-riding qualities are excellent as well. It takes the stresses very well—it’s a single cast airframe.’

  Khan had not noticed any wings, just the two engines either side of the rear door. Bales saw Khan looking for them.

  ‘They’re adjustable membrane wings, Khoffi. When we need them, they flip out from up here,’ he added, slapping the top of the Furtive with a hand. ‘The landing gear flips out from the space just under your seats.’ He tapped the floor with a boot. ‘The rest of the under-floor is ammo for the rail gun. There’re 250,000 rounds. Around 60 seconds’ worth. All of them solid shot, rad-glass piercing. We’ve incendiary, and HE as well, if we need them.’

  Smithy could not see anything under the floor, but judging from the height of the cockpit and the rear compartment flooring, perhaps one-third of the space inside the Furtive was packed with ammo.

  ‘The far dark light fuel’s stored in the glass, Smithy,’ Bales added. ‘—just in case you were wondering, that is. It’s what makes the glass green. And there’s enough for two round trips and a few hours of flying around in Earth standard gravity.’

  Smithy was impressed. It did not take much fuel to cut about in space. Once you were moving, there’s nothing to stop you. But in ESG there was the pull of the planet, and on most planets there was an atmosphere.

  ‘And in here,’ Day whacked the dashboard with the palm of his hand. The electronics burst into life, ‘ is the rest of the gubbins: n
avigation, weapons system—although it’s basically a point and shoot system—and fuel management ...’ A heads-up display appeared on the curving front glass. ‘Oh, yes, and the heads-up display ... You can see that a little better when the rear door is closed,’ he added, nodding his head at Bales to reach back and pull the door to. He noticed Khan’s jaw slacken. ‘Now don’t be a worry-wart, Khoffi ...’ his voice trailed away as he noticed the display flicker. He tapped the plastic dashboard again, this time more gently. ‘... we keep the PC on all the time—once it’s up and running it’s very reliable ...’

  Interior inspection over, Bales offered Smithy the door and then a seat in the second Furtive. Smithy hesitated and then flinched as the hangar deck tannoy burst into life. It was a little too loud for such a confined space.

  ‘You can dither all you like gentlemen,’ Scat’s voice said, ‘but if we’re to find Birdie and Bing, we’ve to get a move on. We’ve just dropped into Constitution space and the beggars’ll be asking questions very soon. Nor do I need remind you the local starflyer could be back on station. So, get yourselves into pressure suits and swing your butts out of here.’

  Bales was already suited up. He climbed into the pilot’s seat and pretended to hold a steering wheel. He monkeyed around for a moment before realising Smithy was no longer impressed. He shrugged as he pulled his flightcontrolskins over his hands and Smithy struggled to get into his borrowed pressure suit.

  ‘There’s no joy stick, as you’ve no doubt guessed. Just these.’ Bales held up his right hand. ‘But we’re ammo’d up and fully fuelled, so we’re ready when you are. Here. Let me me zip that suit up for you. You’re all fingers and thumbs.’

  32

  Dragon Park, Constitution

  ‘It isn’t much further, Goosen. Why not just push on?’ Rolf asked.

  Goosen sat on a well-rotted, fallen branch, his head bowed, his bald spot uncovered. His coveralls stank of diluted fish blood and he was soaking wet. He breathed slowly but deeply.

  ‘How far?’ he asked, finally leaning back.

  Rolf pushed the canopy lid all the way back and then flinched, apologetically, as it splashed onto the pool’s ankle-deep surface.

  ‘Sorry. Accident.’

  Bing climbed out and sat next to Goosen.

  ‘You look spent, matey. Why don’t you take a breather? I’ll push,’ he offered.

  ‘How far?’ Goosen asked again.

  Rolf stood inside the airbed and straightened his back. He looked into the gloom.

  ‘Difficult to say in this,’ he replied. ‘But I notice the gaps in the canopy getting bigger. It’s thinning out.’

  Goosen looked up. He had been too busy to notice. Rolf continued:

  ‘Benson was fairly sure that the Farm was no further than seven or eight klicks from the crash site.’

  ‘And Benson was a what? A navigator?’ Goosen asked.

  ‘Don’t recall.’ Rolf replied. ‘And thanks, Goosen.’ he added unexpectedly. ‘For getting us out of there, I mean.’

  Goosen looked at Rolf suspiciously. Bing did a double-take and then caught Goosen’s eye. He narrowed his own slightly.

  ‘Don’t fall for it, Birdie. The guy is pure evil.’

  ‘We’ll rest here for a short while, Bing,’ Goosen concluded. ‘We won’t get very far with you pushing him in that thing. And he can’t walk through this without being able to breathe properly. You can nap. I’ll keep watch.’

  Bing looked across the pool. It was still. The canopy was quiet. Up above it looked like rain.

  ‘Not for long, though, eh?’ Rolf urged. ‘It’ll rain again soon. If you like, I’ll keep watch.’

  Goosen looked up at him.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Rolf, but I’ll feel safer knowing you’re asleep.’

  Rolf curled his lower lip.

  ‘I’m serious, Goosen. The war’s on hold. We’re trying to survive out here. It’s no place to be fighting.’

  ‘True enough,’ Goosen replied, ‘but I’ll still feel safer. Get some sleep. We’ll head off again when we can see what we’re doing.’

  ‘Suit yourself, then. I’m bagging the bed.’ Rolf said, looking at Bing. There was no complaint. He carefully lowered himself, adjusted Bing’s pack under his head and closed his eyes.

  A few metres away, Bing put his back against a tree, drew in his legs and rested his elbows on his knees. He kept looking into the tree above him, but within minutes he was asleep.

  Goosen untied his boots, slipped them off and wrung out his socks. His feet were wrinkled, the ankles blistered. He pulled out a wet handkerchief, spat onto it and wiped the blisters clean. He dare not sleep.

  He was unsettled by what Rolf had told him about Bing, even though he tried not to let on. He was certain Bing was—or had been—committed to the rebellion, but now he had lost his memory, he would have to commit to it for a second time. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d not remember everything that made him commit the first time around—whenever that was, whatever those memories were. Let’s face it, committing to this rebellion—with it going as well as it was!—might not seem so appealing. And given what Rolf had told him, maybe, just maybe, Bing was on the inside of the rebellion with ulterior motives—he was a corporate black ops man, after all. He had not denied it.

  He shook his head. It didn’t make sense to think like this. Bing had worked as a code-breaker for the Trevon police for two years. That seemed a long time for someone to play a sleeper just in case the call for independence broke out into a full-fledge rebellion. No. He had to have more faith in his friend than this.

  So what if he was corporate black ops. Wars of independence often descend into civil war. People’s perspectives were bound to change. Enemies become friends. Friends become enemies. After all, no one could say Trevon was not divided on the issue.

  So was Bing now a committed rebel? Had he seen enough of the murky world of corporate rule to have changed his mind?

  With too much to ask, and too little to work on, he retied his boots. He looked up in search of sky. There was little to see. The canopy was very still, the sky dark, the blackness broken only by the occasional light breaking through the cloud cover. Visibility along the forest floor was now less than 20 or 30 metres. The pools no longer reflected starlight and the smell of rotting fish was less intense. There was nothing of interest out there except the horror of the rats. And on that front, it was quiet.

  He leaned back and lay down along the branch. A faint light above him appeared to move back and forth. Perhaps it was that chopper again. People were still looking for survivors. He hoped it was Scat but he thought it more likely to be Welwyn’s air rescue.

  He willed himself to stay awake. He replayed his doubts about Bing but found no answers. It all came back to his friend regaining his memories. He worried himself some more when he realised that if Bing did regain them he might just regard Rolf—and even himself—to be a threat to his own survival. It was a messy situation.

  He turned to look at Bing, relieved to see his head rubber-necking up and down between his knees. Rolf was snoring. He felt safer now that the two of them were asleep. But just in case one of them had desires on his PIKL, he wrapped one end of its sling around his wrist and held it to his chest.

  He lay back to rest his eyes—

  —and awoke with a start.

  He had no idea what time it was. It was still dark and it was still quiet but, as he could not stay awake, he had no option but to trust someone to keep watch. Just for half an hour or so. Until he felt fresh again. No longer.

  He nudged Bing several times before he roused. When he woke he leapt to his feet as if his life depended on how high he could jump. Goosen shushed him and tried to calm him down.

  ‘It’s OK, Bing. Nothing’s happening.’

  Bing worked his eyelids. They were dry. He stared out across the pool.

  ‘Morning yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I just need some shut-eye. Keep watch for half an hour or so, wil
l you? And don’t touch Rolf. Promise me.’

  Bing looked around for the airbed.

  ‘You sure about that, Birdie?’

  ‘Yes. Sure. Leave him alone. Please.’

  ‘Even if he’s already scarpered?’

  Goosen swung around. The airbed was gone. In its place was a single canteen of water. His hands sprang for his PIKL as though looking for a wallet he might have dropped. It was gone.

  Bing shook his head.

  ‘I told you not to trust the beggar, Birdie.’

  33

  The Farm, Constitution

  Ahead of him lay a wide-open and welcoming space; behind him lay the evils of a forest now flooding with river water. A few hundred metres out front was a farm building, squatting on higher, rocky ground next to a river that had burst its banks. Rolf thought he had finally made it. He could not be sure, but farms were few and far between. This had to be the place.

  He ditched the airbed just inside the forest’s edge, broke cover and stepped out onto gently rising ground that no longer oozed red with blood.

  The grass here grew taller, around waist height. The air was sweeter. Even the weather had cleared: the sky was brightening. For a moment he felt happier; he felt less bedraggled. For a moment or two, his throat did not burn as much as it had during the night, nor did he feel quite so tired. It was amazing what the finish line can do for a man.

  The euphoria wore off as he walked further into the clearing. It was an effort to walk across the stony ground and up the gentle slop. Progress was slow. His injured throat made it an effort to breath. He was dizzy with thirst and weak from hunger. He really should have taken the canteen with the most water in it.

  When Benson had mentioned this place being a company retreat or farm, he had clung to the notion it could be the Farm. Petroff had used the words ‘retreat’ or ‘farm’ on several occasions when referring to his precious UBUDS, or Universal Back Up and Data Systems storage facility. But the place did not look as grand as he thought it would, not for such an important facility. He might be wrong, but he did not care: it was his sanctuary; it was a safe dry place; a place that was not infested by rats.

  The farm was a simple squat concrete structure built in the middle of the rocky outcrop. It was surrounded by razor wire but there were no watch towers and no over-bearing human presence. No matter. He knew that most of the security would be electronic. Its human security detail would be buried alongside the data, deep beneath the rocky outcrop so as not to attract the casual eye. If this was the Farm, then this was where Lynthax kept its most sensitive information—off line and impenetrable to snooping eyes: even to people like Egglestone-Bing. It was the company’s depository for its proprietary research, its illegal partnership agreements and other shady deals. But, more importantly, it was where it kept its records of the location and availability of its Outer-Rim resources: resources it deliberately understated to ISRA so as to keep the prices of its commodities high. It was one of Petroff’s undertakings; it was one of his insurance policies; a place very few people knew about, but a place most people suspected must exist.

  Rolf looked behind him at the dark forest. He was alone. He had not seen nor heard of anything in the night to suggest Goosen was giving chase, but he would stayed alert, just in case.

  When he had woken to find Goosen asleep, he had decided that it was best for all concerned that he be gone. He could not risk falling asleep again, not with Goosen in the Land of Nod. Egglestone-Bing was bound to act on his grudge sooner or later. Egglestone-Bing was only dozing, so he could not take him out in a pre-emptive strike—at least not silently. And he could not risk waking that sentimental oaf, Goosen. He would try to save Egglestone-Bing’s butt—with or without his PIKL—and this time die in the trying.

  And that would not do: it was poor form to kill a man who had twice saved your life—even if he was the man who had put you in harm’s way. He chuckled weakly to himself. There was an irony in there somewhere.

  No, he was safer in the park and on his own. They all were. So he had stolen the PIKL and left them both untouched. And just in case either of them did want to find sanctuary, he had left a big enough trail behind him. All they needed to do was follow it. It was their choice: safety from the rats in the arms of Lynthax, or safety from Lynthax in the jaws of the rats. It was his way of saying thank you. It was an unsentimental thank you, he granted, but a thank you, nonetheless.

  He checked his thoughts. Perhaps he was getting soft. That was not a good sign. He was certainly feeling weak.

  He wiped his hands on his coveralls and made his way across the open ground towards the outcrop. On his left, the swollen river flowed strongly by, its edges lapping against the rocks. It was beginning to flood across the clearing, threatening to surround the facility, and to turn the outcrop into an island. He had arrived just in time.

  He looked up at the helicopter on the facility’s low roof. It was idle. He reckoned it to be air rescue. Next to it was a Roland Assault Vehicle, its doors open. His spirits lifted. It might just be the Farm, after all. And if it was, he would invoke Petroff’s name and perhaps get the presidential suite or at least a decent shower. Below it, Rolf could see a couple of armed guards standing at the main gate. They appeared to float. It was hard to focus his eyes.

  He stopped, wiped his eyes and looked again.

  Something was not right.

  They looked dressed for combat and more like an ORF detail than the usual Lynthax doorstops. And one of them was aiming his weapon at him.

  Then a silver-haired, half-naked man stepped forward. Rolf squinted. He must be hallucinating. It looked like Matheson.

  So, the beggar was still alive. Really?

  Well, not for long.

  He recalled Matheson leaning over him to say goodbye as the fish began to stir and as the rats started dropping from the trees. He remembered punching the older man, and then calling after him as the bastard ran from the camp. When Matheson was gone, he made a promise. A promise I’m going to keep it. I’m going to kill the guy’s career, and then kill him.

  Rolf smiled to himself and tightened his grip on his PIKL. Or I might just do it the other way around. It wouldn’t matter.

  Matheson then waved at him. Yes, it was him—he was sure of it.

  But something about the wave did not make sense.

  He was waving goodbye.

  Exhausted, Rolf looked around him and then back at the gate. Now Matheson was standing behind one of the guards, urging the man to take the shot.

  Ah, shit!

  It was time to throw his hands in the air or to hit the dirt.

  I’m getting too old for this.

  34

  The Main Gate

  Matheson wondered why he had been dragged out of his shower and to the main gate in such haste. He rubbed his short, grey hair with a worn-out towel, eying Cummings and Sparks for a clue. Whatever it was that drew their attention, it was out there in the clearing.

  Cummings swung around.

  ‘Are you sure there was no one else, Matheson?’ he asked. It was almost an accusation.

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. Made it here all by myself, I did, on foot—not by air rescue, not like you. Any way, why do you ask?’ He peered around the stone column supporting the main gate.

  ‘Do you recognise this one?’ Cummings asked, offering him the scope. ‘Take your time. I’ve run his face through records and he isn’t a deportee or Scatkiewicz. He could be crew or a passenger. I don’t have all their profiles.’

  Matheson’s heart leapt into his throat. Please let it not be Benson or Johnson. He was certain he had left them to die. The rats were all over them: they could not have survived. If it was one of them, he would no longer be a heroic survivor, but a coward. His story of going back, in a vain attempt to save Johnson as he crawled from the pool, would not hold.

  ‘As I said, I’m the only survivor,’ Matheson insisted, snatching the scope and putting it to his eye. He held his jaw firm ev
en after he recognised Rolf, but brought a hand up to touch his blue-black eye. Well I’ll be bowled over, he thought. The wily beggar’s got nine lives. And he’s gotten himself a PIKL. Where the hell did he find that?

  He recalled walking quickly away from the crash site when the waters started to churn and leaving Rolf behind—too weak to walk unaided but still threatening a final reckoning, either in this life or the next, no matter how long it took to catch up with him.

  Matheson’s heart began to quicken. He had already lost the V4 to the rebels so his career was resting on a knife-edge. This man, Rolf, would not only ruin his reputation for all time but he could slip a real knife home, too. Or arrange a negligent discharge from that organ pickler of his. Unconsciously, Matheson brought a hand up to his chest and felt his ribs.

  ‘It’s one of the hijackers,’ he blurted out. ‘He’s small enough to be the one that killed the commander, I think. ... It’s hard to tell.’ he looked back at Cummings. ‘Look, it was quite confusing. But in any case, they were all mean sons,’ he said pointing. ‘I wouldn’t offer them shelter, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Cummings asked.

  Matheson stared at him.

  ‘Do you doubt my memory, Cummings, or my word?’

  ‘Both, sir,’ Cummings replied guardedly. He inclined his head to the air rescue helicopter on the roof, to remind him he had left at least one survivor behind.

  Matheson bristled. He repeated the line he had used when Cummings had first arrived with the badly injured comms spec.

  ‘And I’ve said it before: we didn’t see him. There were bodies all over the place. And the rats were coming. So what are you going to do? Walk out there and arrest him?’

  Cummings mulled that over, shaking his head. Something was not right.

  ‘He doesn’t look overly worried about walking in, Matheson,’ Cummings observed. ‘Could be he’s giving himself up. You said for yourself: the forest was no place to spend the night.’

  ‘Unless he doesn’t know what this place is, Cummings. It looks no different to any of the early frontier settlements. Heck, I’ve only just found out what this place really is. And Benson only referred to it as the farm. Or maybe, just maybe, they do know what this place is, and this is a distraction. Look, he’s carrying a PIKL. The prisoner transports didn’t carry any. Have you looked around? Are there more of them?’

  Cummings conceded the point. If he was not crew, deportee or passenger then he was one of the hijackers. He nodded at Sparks.

  ‘Let him walk in. If he does anything unexpected, wing him. Don’t kill him, just put him down. I want to talk to him.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Sparks replied, settling down, ready to take a shot if he needed to. ‘A winging if he bolts for it.’ He pushed his helmet back a little and put the short PIKL barrel through the chain-link fence. As he rested it on a strand of wire, he flexed the fingers of his right hand, gripped the pistol grip and put his eye behind the scope.

  Matheson licked his lower lip. There was no way he could let this man walk in. And a winging would not do it. The tyke would eventually talk. He needed him dead. But how? He watched Sparks power up his PIKL and wondered what it would take for the young man to put a bolt right through the man’s chest. Then it came to him.

  He took a step forward and waved at Rolf through the gate. He even mouthed the words ‘Good bye’.

  Up ahead, Rolf stopped in his tracks.

  Matheson then took a pace backwards, stood on Cumming’s blind side and made a silent hand gesture at Spark’s back, as though chivvying him on. He kept jabbing a finger in Rolf’s direction.

  Out front, Rolf dropped into the grass.

  35

  The Clearing

  Rolf sensed the space behind him explode with light and felt the impact in the back of his right shoulder. His legs gave way and he dropped flat onto the grass.

  Lying on his back, he looked at the wound. It stung. There was a one-inch-deep grove running along the outside of his shoulder. He prodded at it. The muscle had vaporised. What was left of it stank of burned flesh.

  He grimaced. It was only a matter of time before the pain welled up. He bit his lower lip and crawled away on his one good arm, the injured arm trailing uselessly along the ground. He sensed the shock setting in. His breathing quickened and it became shallower. His vision blurred and stars rose from the ground. He needed to haul himself from the open ground before his body began closing down. Despite his leaden legs, he raised himself to his feet, and carried onwards at a crouch, heading back towards the forest.

  He sensed another flash and felt it strike him in the hip. He fell to the floor again, stifling a scream. Still he crawled forward, sensing more flashes, this time striking over his head. He heard the splitting sound of laser striking wood, and then more flashes, lower this time. The grass around him burst into flame. Smoke curled into the air clinging to the grass. There was no wind to push it away.

  He heard a shout for someone to open the gate and then the low alarm that said the gate was on the move.

  He stumbled into the forest and fell onto his chest, skidding headlong on its moist, grassy surface. Screaming to himself to get up, he got to his knees, only to collapse again as his left right hip gave way. He crawled onwards, blind to everything around him but the pain.

  He slipped into a pool. The dirty water entered both wounds. His buttock began to burn as if still on fire. The pain in the shoulder grew more intense. His strength was ebbing away, his consciousness too.

  And there was nowhere left for him to go.

  36

  The Forest

  Goosen reached down and scooped him up. Rolf lashed out, blindly, knocking Goosen onto his butt. Bing tried grabbing Rolf’s good leg, but missed. Goosen got up and shoed him away.

  ‘Just head back. That way. Quickly.’ He bent down again to scoop Rolf up for a second time. He threw him over a shoulder, this time taking no heed to his injuries. Rolf screamed.

  ‘They’re on their way,’ Bing said, looking over his shoulder as he pushed at Goosen’s back. ‘There’re three of them.’

  Goosen strode on through the knee-deep water, changing direction as he reached the middle of the pool. He led Bing off to the right, towards the flooding river. He stumbled over a strip of drier ground and into the next pool. At the far side they broke out into the open air along the river line. The water there was deeper.

  The flooding river broke into a white froth as it swept past them. The overflow pulled at their waists, drew mud away from base of trees, and poured into the pools, washing everything clean.

  Bing stopped and pointed across the river to the forest on the other side, but Goosen shook his head.

  ‘I can’t swim. Nor can he,’ Goosen said hoarsely, bending over and drawing air into his lungs. ‘We’ll stick to the wood line; that way we’ll stay under cover.’ He pointed downriver, away from the clearing, not looking.

  But Bing continued pointing, silently, still frozen in place. He stabbed a finger, this time more urgently. Still stooping, Goosen looked across the torrent. He saw a huge chunk of ground move along the far bank.

  Possibly the bank was giving way.

  Yes—there—it was happening upstream as well.

  And downstream.

  He could not understand what Bing was so excited about.

  ‘What?’ he demanded, feeling every ounce of Rolf’s dead weight across his shoulders. He twisted around to check they were still alone, and then looked back across the river.

  He squinted.

  Then his eyes sprang open.

  ‘Oh, my!’

  So that was why the rats lived in trees.

  37

  The Forest

  Cummings stood inside the forest’s edge and studied the still rippling water. They had just missed him. He flipped the filter down over his right eye and ramped up the thermal imaging in his left.

  Coming from bright sunshine into such a gloomy environment had left Sparks
all but blind. He fished around in his trouser pocket for a night scope. As he waited for it to boot up, he unfocused his eyes and looked for movement in his peripheral vision. Still he saw nothing. Hemmings shrugged in the gloom. It was like entering a cave.

  Cummings flicked his filter up. There was nothing to see, just a wall of trees.

  ‘This way,’ he ordered.

  Cummings broke away to the left and followed a spit of dry ground around the edge of the pool, looking down at it for signs of foot prints. He continued for a few hundred metres as it curved around the far side.

  Sparks followed Cummings closely, looking out across the pool through his scope, trying not to bump into his boss whenever he stopped to check a piece of ground.

  The lower half of the image began to sparkle. He stopped and looked into the pool with a naked eye. It was moving of its own accord. The fish were beginning to thrash.

  ‘Sir. Sir!’

  Cummings stopped in his tracks, hoping Sparks had seen their prey. He looked to where Sparks was pointing. He saw the fish.

  ‘Ignore them,’ he ordered. ‘Just turn your sonics up. Now follow me.’ He set off again, annoyed to have wasted a few precious seconds.

  Sparks and Hemmings followed Cummings less eagerly as he made his way around the last half of the pool. They constantly looked up at the now stirring canopy.

  Cummings stopped, kicked at an empty airbed and placed his hands on his hips. Sparks and Hemmings sighed with relief, hoping Cummings would call the hunt off. But the relief was short-lived.

  He pointed across to a pool that lay fifty metres or so off through the trees. Or maybe it was the edge of the river: it was difficult to say. Anyway, it was brighter.

  ‘That way,’ Cummings said. He set off at a run, splashing across the water, heedless of the growing noise above them.

  Sparks shook his head and made to run after him, but something hit him on the shoulder. Hemmings froze, staring at Sparks’ back and then at the water.

  Sparks turned around. The pool behind them was already foaming. The branches above them were swaying and starting to sag. Another black ball hit the water beside him. It re-emerged and then scampered away on the surface. Then another. And then another.

  It was raining rats.

  Hemmings screamed, bent over and clutched at his leg below the knee. He started to dance in a frantic effort to tread water.

  Sparks took a step backwards and looked down at his own legs. Below the surface he saw rats tearing into his boots.

  Cummings jumped up and spun around, cursing under his breath. The water below him boiled. He roared in pain as something tore into his calf.

  The sonics were not penetrating the water.

  Hemmings slipped. He thrashed as he tried to stand. Sparks wanted to help, but the rats were now ripping into his trouser legs and taking bites from out of his boots. He snatched down to push them away. They grabbed at his hand. He pulled it out of the water and the rats let go.

  Cummings staggered on towards the river line. Sparks tried to follow. Hemmings continued to thrash about on his back.

  Out on the river, the water pushed and sucked at Sparks’ legs. The rats let go and sped away on the surface, back into the forest.

  Cummings growled and cussed. He raised a leg as high as he could to inspect his wounds but stumbled backwards.

  Sparks caught him before he was swept downriver. As he held Cummings steady, he looked back into the forest. There was no sign of Hemmings and no pleas for help, just the shrill noise of rats as they dropped into the pool and the constant thrashing of water.

  Cummings pulled himself free of Sparks grip and took a deep breath. He raised his pain threshold. Sparks could only grin and bear it.

  ‘What use are these friggin’ sonics if they only work above water, eh?’ Cummings asked, grimacing between sharp stabbing waves of pain.

  ‘None, sir. And do you think they’ll be of use against them?’ He pointed across the river.

  One by one, large brown reptiles slid into the water, attracted to the high-pitch squeals of the rats descending into the pool behind them. Their tails whipped left and right as they powered themselves across the river.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Cummings replied, taking a first shot with his PIKL. ‘Back to the Farm. Quickly.’

  ‘What about that Scatkiewicz guy? He must be close,’ Sparks asked. He then turned awkwardly in the swirling water to face the forest. ‘And what about Hemmings, sir?’

  Cummings switched to the company net. He cussed as his right leg gave way again.

  ‘Hemmings is gone, Sparks. You fancy going back in to confirm it?’ He broke off as the companynet came to life. ‘Muldrow? Wake the medic up and get your butt into the air.’

  38

  River Line

  Things were not going well for them: Goosen no longer had the PIKL; they had no protection against the rats; there were monsters on the far bank; a Lynthax security detail was hard on their heels; he had a sick and possibly dying man slung across his shoulder; and both of them were up to their waists in swirling water. Goosen had certainly had better days. He guessed Bing had also.

  They ploughed on. The river line was fairly straight, although the river’s banks now lay under rushing water. The torrent was finding a new way through the forest, to engulf the pools and sweep the fish blood and debris down to the sea—wherever that might be.

  Bing was making good progress wading along the wood line, stopping every so often to check out a possible place of safety. The trees along the river’s edge were different to those inside the forest. They were akin to mangroves, but thicker, taller. Goosen did his best to keep up, but Rolf was weighing him down.

  Following them along the far bank, some fifty metres away, were a half dozen reptiles. Big ones. Prehistoric crocodiles. Or komodo dragons. Hell, they could be a cross between the two, Goosen had not a clue. He just knew what he saw. They walked low to the ground like crocodiles, were as long as a city bus, and their jaws opened as wide as an airlock door. They were all monsters—however you measured them.

  As the monsters followed them on the opposite bank, they occasionally rose onto their hind legs, rested their front legs against a tree trunk and flicked out their tongues into the low hanging branches, snatching rats back into their mouths. Every so often they would snatch a rat from the floor or scoop up fish debris as it floated past.

  Goosen shuddered.

  ‘If those things can swim we’re tank food,’ he shouted.

  Behind them there rose the stomach-churning sound of rats. And, as if to answer his worst fears, a few of the dino-crocs broke away, slipped into the water and headed to the near side. That’s all they needed—to be hunted by reptiles as well.

  There was a flash of PIKL light across the river. It spurred him on.

  Rats, Dino-crocs, Lynthax—who else wanted a piece of them?

  Rolf’s weight pushed him deeper into the mud. Perhaps no one would blame him for ditching the little tyke and letting him fend for himself, but it did not feel right. Besides, he was mortally wounded. And no one leaves a man to be eaten alive: whether he be friend or foe, or it be convenient or not.

  Bing turned and waved.

  ‘That one,’ he said, pointing a little way along.

  The tree stood on the inside of a slight bend and was certainly tall enough. It stood out into the river a little further than the others, but was thick with foliage so could hide them from the naked eye at least. Nor was it the type that hosted rats. The branches started lower down as well: they could climb into it. Goosen looked up at it as he waded closer. The branches became increasingly tangled the higher up the tree they grew. He glanced across at the komodo-crocs. Yep. This tree would do it. He urged Bing up.

  ‘Be quick. And take this lug off me.’

  Bing clambered up a few branches and then lay down on one to reach back for Rolf. He grabbed a hand and held on tightly. Goosen let go. Rolf’s legs swung around and drifted downstream. Once Goosen
was in the tree, they both hauled him up.

  It was slow and tiring progress into the tree. Goosen called a halt when it looked as though falling out of it and into the river could prove hazardous to life. Bing looked down. They were a good 10 metres above the flood. Add a metre or so below that to the new river bed and they were perhaps 11—12 metres off the ground. Unless the komodo-crocs could stand on the tips of their tails, they were safe.

  They pushed Rolf into a crook between two branches and slumped back, exhausted.

  39

  The Farm

  The Farm’s security commander was waiting for Cummings at the main gate. The medical orderly hung back a little, well aware that Cummings had a fiery temper: he had heard all he needed to over the companynet as Cummings waded his way back to the compound.

  Cummings hobbled past them both and headed directly for the compound’s only building, a windowless concrete structure with a lift lobby recess at its centre, under its flat roof. He looked to be in a lot of pain. Sparks limped along behind him.

  Cummings shouted back over his shoulder as he entered the lift.

  ‘Tell Muldrow he’s not to let the beggar know he’s seen him. He’s not to engage him.’

  The commander squeezed in beside them both just as the doors were closing.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ he replied.

  Curiosity got the better of him as the lift doors opened into the medical centre.

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  Cummings sat down on the edge of a bed, tossed his PIKL and backpack onto the floor and looked up.

  ‘You just blooming well did, Jacks. So why ask if you can ask?’

  Jacks bit his lip. It was just an expression. Cummings looked seriously annoyed. The blood dripping onto the floor probably explained it.

  ‘You found the rats, then, sir. Painful?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was. And he had pushed the pain suppressors to maximum. He wondered why the nips were any different to other flesh wounds. The medical orderly unclipped his rad-glass shin armour, pulled the boot off and slit the trouser leg with a scalpel. Then Cummings saw why. Half his right calf was missing.

  ‘Blast!’ Cummings shook his head. ‘Can you do anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Some, sir. We can manufacture replacement tissue for you here, but what’d be the point? You’ll be out for a month. At least. You may as well get this done in Welwyn. I’ll arrange the transfer.’

  Cummings looked the medic up and down. The man had been out in the forest for too long: local trinkets around his neck, an Outer-Rim rock band album lapel badge, civilian jumper under his jacket. Not even his trousers were regulation. Cummings looked up at the security commander. There was no reaction. It figured. There was always a continuity man in out-stations like this: someone who knew everything there was to know about the installation and could point the new guys in the right direction. Oh, yes, and provide corporate with an unofficial line of reporting. This medic was probably that man.

  Cummings looked at the wound again. He flexed his foot.

  ‘There’s no chance of that. Just bandage it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. Just do it.’ Cummings looked across at Sparks. His ankles were also bloody, but the rats had not taken anything out of his calves. His boots had offered some protection, at least.

  ‘You OK?’ Cummings asked.

  Sparks looked up, feeling sorry for himself, but mindful his injuries were light.

  ‘Yes, sir. Better than Hemmings anyways.’

  Cummings frowned at Sparks’ odd sense of humour, then realised he was putting on a brave face. He had looked terrified in the forest. They all had. Sparks was probably trying to manage the shock of seeing his comrade eaten alive.

  ‘We’ll get him, Sparks, don’t you worry. He’ll pay for Hemmings.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be pleased, sir. Hemmings, I mean.’ He looked up and smiled, but weakly. Another stab at humour?

  Cummings looked back at the hippy-go-to-continuity guy.

  ‘Hurry up!’

  40

  River Line

  Goosen watched the river flow by as if in a trance. He was starting to dry out. They were safe for the time being, but he was hungry and stupid with tiredness. On the far bank, dino-crocs fought amongst themselves as they tore into a beached carcass, pock-marked with PIKL burns. A few of the smaller ones, chased away from the meal across the river, circled their tree.

  Although Goosen had slept last night, it was only for as long as it had taken Rolf to get the PIKL from him and slip away. 30 minutes? Possibly a little longer. Before that he had slept at the crash site but that was mostly shock-induced. Was that yesterday? And before that when had he slept? He thought back. The last real sleep he had had was the night before he, Scat and Thomas had heard that Nettles was being moved to the space port. That was—he had to think about it—three days ago. He was beginning to feel his age.

  When this is over I’ll sleep for a week.

  Bing hauled himself off his back, leaned across from his branch and opened Rolf’s shirt.

  ‘It’s a mess, Birdie,’ he observed, prodding the shoulder wound. He looked down at the unconscious Rolf’s hip. ‘Not a pretty sight. Stinks of over-cooked pig.’

  Rolf shivered and moved his head. His eyes popped open and then closed again.

  Goosen crawled across from the opposite side of the tree, keeping an eye on the dino-crocs below. They were thrashing their tails impatiently, stirring up the water. The occasional plume of water shot up at them, falling short.

  ‘I don’t know what’s worse: these things or the bloody rats. Or which whiff more. Let me take a look.’

  Goosen sat down astride the branch facing Rolf, his legs dangling over the side. He pulled at the shirt. The shoulder was going yellow and crusty. The skin covering his arm and chest was becoming translucent, the veins bursting under it. He checked down at the man’s hip, opening his trouser a little. It was the same there. He put the back of his hand to Rolf’s forehead.

  ‘He’s burning up. He’s got some kind of infection. It’s killing the tissue. And it’s spreading damned quick.’

  ‘I don’t know why we bothered, Birdie,’ Bing said. ‘The beggar left us to die out there. Now we’re stuck up here.’

  It was clear Bing could not understand why his friend was so motivated to help a Lynthax hit-man. Goosen gave Bing a hard stare. He did not speak straightaway. He allowed Bing to steel himself for a lecture.

  ‘You’re missing the point of this rebellion, Bing,’ Goosen started. ‘We’re in the game of winning everyone’s trust and getting people behind us. We won’t be turning them away, or abandoning them, just because they followed the wrong lead yesterday or the day before. None of us were rebels a year ago, remember that. We all went with the flow.’

  ‘Well, Lynthax won’t be looking at it like that,’ Egglestone, or Bing, replied. ‘They’ll hang you up and leave you to ripen.’

  ‘A memory, Bing, or an assumption?’

  ‘A memory ...’

  ‘Well speak up. What are you getting?’

  ‘Nothing much. It isn’t in Technicolor or anything. Just flashes. Feelings.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘This ‘n, for one. Petroff for another.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Petroff’s not to be messed with.’

  ‘But we know that, don’t we Bing. Any idea how you ended up on Trevon?’

  ‘Long story. But I didn’t think they’d look for me right under their noses. And if I was to turn a new leaf, I might as well be the good cop for a change.’

  ‘You were IT and software forensics, Bing,’ Goosen reminded him. ‘Hardly a cop. You were here,’ he added, holding one hand higher up, and emphasising the second hand, low down by the branch, ‘two rungs below janitor.’

  ‘Exactly. Out of the way, Birdie. Out of the way.’

  ‘But why?’

  Bing inclined his head towards Rolf.

  ‘This one. He caught up with
me, here on Constitution. I was on a job for Raddox, trying to bust into Lynthax’s data banks at their Welwyn HQ. We were sure they had found more radleon than they were letting on to and that they were distorting the price.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, that was OK for us both, I suppose: high prices were good for everyone—except the defence industry, I guess—but if Lynthax were suddenly able to flood the market with an unexpected supply then they’d push the price down. And that would have killed us—Raddox, I mean—especially after we’d had invested so much into looking for what we had.’

  ‘So it was commercial? Not political?’ Goosen remarked. ‘Then what did he mean by “you were against it before you were for it”?’ Goosen flicked a thumb at Rolf.

  ‘Not sure. Look, don’t get me wrong. I did keep the company ahead of the local movements, but it was never my main thing. It was background work, between bigger jobs. I never gave it a moment’s thought, until ...’

  He fell silent, not sure he should continue.

  ‘Yeah? Come on, Bing. Don’t stop now.’

  ‘My girlfriend disappeared.’

  Goosen raised his chin.

  Bing sulked for a few moments, remembering the guilt.

  ‘... and it was down to me.’

  Goosen remained silent. He sensed Bing was going to get this of his chest. He did not need prodding.

  ‘She was a hot-head. Passionate about the environment and stuff like that. Only I didn’t know it crossed over into company politics. Raddox had me tracing coded messages between the various secessionist groups: they were getting their act together and Raddox didn’t like it; the House reps were getting edgy; some of them were starting to listen to their constituents, thinking that perhaps Raddox was losing its grip. So I did what I was told: I traced the group memberships. Only she turned up in the data. I didn’t know that at the time—there was so much of it—I just handed it over. Next thing I know, a whole lot of them went missing. Christine among them. They just vanished.’

  ‘Shoot! Where is she now?’ Goosen asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Bing replied. ‘Could never find out. I did hoke around.’ He pointed at Rolf. ‘But this rat’s-ass, here, appears from nowhere to make my Constitution visit a one-way mission. Apparently, I never had a hope of finding the radleon data. He made that quite clear, in his smug little way, just before he carved me up.’

  ‘But why break codes for them in the first place? Surely you must have known people would get hurt?’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Birdie. I was broke and I’m good at it. Raddox paid well, and please believe me when I say this, Birdie—don’t laugh—but they seemed decent enough. It’s just that the brief just kept expanding.’

  ‘So after you did one favour, they asked for others?’

  ‘Yeah. Kinda. Just a little more. Then a little more after that. Next thing you know, you’re not your own man any more. You’ve sold out. You’ve been bought and paid for. You can’t take it back. They own you. And they make sure you know it.’

  ‘Rolf also said you’re a killer. You missed that bit out.’

  Bing nodded his head in obvious distress. He was remembering things all the time. It was like living his life for a second time. Goosen could see he was not acting.

  ‘So, are you committed,’ Goosen asked, ‘or are you just coming along for the ride?’

  Bing breathed deeply and steeled himself. He had to reconfirm the path he had started to walk a few years ago.

  ‘To the rebellion you mean?’

  ‘The rebellion, yes, Bing.’

  ‘Committed, Birdie. I’ve sins to atone for and this’ll do it for me. I want my life back. I want Christine’s accusing voice in my head to go way. Better still, I want to find her. Then I want to find the people who made her disappear.’

  Goosen leaned back against the branch just as a RAV passed slowly from the nearside canopy to disappear above the treetops on the other side of the river. It was not going away. It had flown back and forth for a good hour or so.

  ‘Well, we’ve got to get out of here before we can atone for anything.’ Goosen said. He looked down at Rolf. His eyes were half open. ‘It isn’t going to be easy, though. Not if his own folks won’t take him back.’

  ‘So leave the louse here,’ Bing suggested.

  Goosen looked at him, this time sternly.

  ‘No. We don’t do that sort of thing in a civilised society, Bing. War or not. We aren’t fighting to replace one set of crappy rules with another.’

  ‘Do you think Scat’ll come back for us, Birdie?’ Bing asked. ‘Or is this it for us?’

  Goosen screwed up his face.

  ‘He might have gone on to Alba, Bing. To drop off the reps. Then Prebos. He wouldn’t want to be tied down. It’s up to us.’

  ‘Fair enough, Birdie. But if we move from here, you’ll carry the beggar.’ Bing flicked a finger at Rolf.

  ‘I doubt I’ll be carrying him anywhere,’ Goosen replied sweeping a hand across the forest and then down to the dino-croc-komodo dragons. ‘Which direction? And how?’

  Bing pointed over his shoulder.

  ‘Through the next tree. Keep going until you can’t any more. See where it takes you.’

  ‘With him?’

  ‘Guess not. As I said, leave him here.’

  ‘You aren’t listening are you? We don’t leave him behind.’

  ‘I’m listening, Birdie. I mean, one of us go look around. The other stays.’

  Goosen relaxed. Bing’s suggestion made sense.

  ‘I’ll think about it. Let’s see what these crocs do first.’

  Bing slumped back onto his branch, frustrated. Rolf stirred and moved a hand.

  ‘You think he can hear any of this, Birdie?’ Bing asked. ‘And if he did, would you still want to keep him alive?’

  Rolf opened an eye.

  ‘I heard, Egglestone,’ he said, trying to lean on an elbow in a pathetic attempt to sit up. His voice was remarkably strong for a dying man. ‘It was a touching story, really.’ He slumped back.

  They both turned to look at him.

  ‘I could tell you a story or two. You wanna hear? You might want to ...’

  41

  The Farm

  Muldrow dropped out of the cockpit and unbuckled his helmet before acknowledging Cummings presence on the roof top.

  ‘We’ve found him,’ he said.

  Cummings stood legs-splayed, leaning awkwardly on a stick to take the weight off his right leg. He was freshly showered and had changed into corporate coveralls. He no longer wore his body armour.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not far. Maybe 500 metres. Same side as us. He’s in a tree of all places. And there are three of them, not just the one.’

  Cummings hobbled across to the rooftop railings. He looked across the open ground towards the forest.

  ‘Show me,’ he demanded.

  Muldrow stood just behind him and pointed over his shoulder, trying to get the same view as his boss.

  ‘Around that corner there, Archie, about 500 metres along. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a tree that juts out a little into the river. They’re in the branches a little way up.’

  Cummings looked across the tree tops. The roof was not that high up, so he could not see so far.

  ‘Describe it.’

  ‘Mangrove-like, but tall. Thick foliage, mostly green and red. Low branches. Waist-deep in water now. Oh, and some big fish keeping them in place.’

  ‘They aren’t fish, Rick. They’re damned dinosaurs.’

  Muldrow chuckled.

  ‘Yeah. I see the similarity. How’s the leg? Looks like your Muay Thai days are done for.’

  Cummings looked down at it, pursing his lips.

  ‘It bloody hurts. But I can still use it. Fancy a walk out?’

  Muldrow understood that to mean Cummings was going back out there.

  ‘In your condition?’

  ‘Coming?’

  ‘Best I
stick to flying, Archie,’ he replied, looking down at Cummings leg. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I want these beggars. No one takes my job from me and then gets to take half my leg.’

  ‘It were the rats, Archie. And it’s Petroff who’s threatening your job. I doubt these guys even know who you are.’

  Cummings swung around. Muldrow heard the venom in his voice.

  ‘Well they will.’

  Muldrow shrugged. Cummings had a vengeful streak in him that was best left unchallenged.

  ‘Get your fuel and get back in the air,’ Cummings ordered, ‘and make sure they don’t move on.’ He leaned forward and grabbed Muldrow by the arm. ‘But Rick, don’t make it obvious. And don’t blow it. They’ve still to be there when we get to them. Clear?’

  Muldrow flinched. Cummings took his job very seriously. He pitied the poor rebels in the tree. One of them, at least, was in for a whole lot of suffering before he got his audience with Petroff. And Cummings’ eyes looked a little misty. The oral pain meds and his brand of anger were not mixing well. That did not augur well for anyone.

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  Part Three

  You’ll Never Walk Alone