Dom jumped out a heartbeat behind Marcus and steadied himself for a moment. The ground felt firm but he could smell imulsion again. Sixty or seventy meters ahead, Betty stood looking like she was tiled with polyps.
“What’s that noise?”
He heard the muffled buzz of a chainsaw, then a really loud bang, as if a tin can had blown up on a bonfire. Betty shook. A couple of polyps lost their footing and plopped to the ground, but didn’t blow up.
“Shit, that’s coming from the rig.” Marcus started running toward Betty, finger pressed to his earpiece. “Diz? What’s happening in there?”
“Ah—that was Sam.” Dizzy sounded shaky. But at least he was alive. “We got polyps in Betty’s drill housing. Sam’s crawled through to the back to hold them off.”
“Goddamn, Dizzy, you’re setting off explosions inside the fucking rig?” Marcus’s voice suddenly got the polyps’ attention and they started to move. “Are you out of your goddamned mind?”
Marcus speeded up but Dom grabbed his arm to slow him. They had to let the polyps come to them, or Betty was going to be engulfed in flames. The creatures turned like a wave and jumped off the vehicle, scuttling through the puddle of imulsion to rush at Marcus and Dom.
Dom let them get clear of the imulsion before he opened up with his Lancer and detonated the first wave. Marcus sidestepped three of the things and shot them as they overshot their target.
“Dozens,” Dom said. “Shit, dozens.”
It was all he could manage. There was just no time to think when polyps attacked in a wave. It was just bang, bang, bang, trying to pick them off from second to second before they got close enough to take your legs off. His focus became a tunnel again. Marcus kept firing, falling back a meter at a time to lure the polyps further away, but Dom could hear yelling on the far side of Betty. It was the Gorasni.
“Little shits! Garayazki! Over here!” Stefan and Eugen tried to draw off the rest of the polyps. “Yeah, pashenki, you come and get some!”
Dom glanced up for a second to see more polyps dropping out of the trees like bunches of ugly gray fruit. At the same time, Betty shuddered and something exploded, but he couldn’t tell if one was connected to the other. The Gorasni guys were yelling, further away now. Explosions lit up the forest. Dom kept firing and reloading. It was chaos, blinding and smoke-filled, and right then it was all he could do to pick off the polyps and try to keep Marcus in sight. It was only when he drew breath to reload again that he spotted Parry and his engineers taking potshots at stray polyps too.
But nobody could keep shooting things that detonated without igniting some of the imulsion vapor. The trees were now on fire. A huge explosion lifted Betty a meter off the ground before she crashed back down on her suspension. Marcus—typical, goddamn typical—just broke off from the polyps and sprinted through them. Dom froze in horror for a moment as Marcus cannoned through the things, kicking one clear then treading right on another to leap up on Betty’s mudguard and rip the driver’s door open.
Dom charged after him. It was pure instinct. Smoke and flame rolled from underneath Betty but he knew he had to be right there with Marcus.
“Dizzy! Get out!” Marcus hauled Dizzy bodily from the cab. Dom half-caught him and the two of them staggered backward. “Sam! Sam!”
Marcus vanished into the cab and Dom had no choice but to drag Dizzy clear and then try to go back. Before he could climb back up the vehicle, Parry and his crew appeared to fend off the next wave of polyps. No sane man turned his back on a charging mass like that, but Dom had reached the point where they’d become part of the background noise and his bigger fear was what would happen to Marcus.
Dom scrabbled halfway into the cab. The bulkhead panel behind the seats was hanging open and he could hear loud hissing sounds. He was about to squeeze through the gap when Sam, her face blackened and smeared, burst out through it like a cork from a bottle.
“Ah, shit—”
“Come on, out!” Marcus yelled. “Out, now!”
Dom stepped back blindly to crash hard to the ground and Sam fell on top, winding him. By the time he got to his feet, he could see Marcus hosing down the interior of the cab with the fire extinguisher.
Someone slapped Dom hard across the back. His legs almost buckled.
“Dom, we get them, eh? Now we save the crude.” It was Eugen. He led Dom and Sam away. “Get your Ravens. Get them to drop soil, or else we lose all this. You understand? Parry! Parry, call your Ravens in!”
“I’m on it!” Parry yelled. “They’re coming. Just get clear, will you?”
Marcus dropped down from Betty’s cab and it was only then that Dom realized he was gripping Sam’s arm. He let go, embarrassed.
“You okay, Sam?”
“My eyebrows didn’t make it.”
“You chainsawed polyps inside the goddamn rig?”
“No, I shot them. I chainsawed holes in the bulkhead to get a clear shot into the rear compartment before they got to us.” Sam looked shaken. Flames were licking the trees behind her. “Confined space. Remember? We’d have been dead otherwise.”
Dom realized he was scolding Sam because he wanted to yell at Marcus. “Okay. I’m sorry. Look, go and wait with Dizzy and we’ll casevac you.” He saw Marcus walk away, finger pressed to his ear, and broke off. “Give me a minute.”
Dom walked up behind Marcus and waited for him to finish on the radio. Fear for his welfare had dissolved into the usual shaky anger, just like scolding a kid who’d run into the path of traffic.
“You’re going to get yourself fucking killed, Marcus,” he said. “What’s up with you?”
“Couldn’t let them cook,” Marcus said, matter-of-fact. “And we need that rig.”
“Don’t you ever stop and think before you get into a burning vehicle?”
“No. And neither would you.” Marcus rolled his head as if his neck was stiff. It was his get-off-my-case gesture. “Nobody died. Baird or Parry can fix Betty. Now all we have to do is stop the imulsion field—ah, goddamn it!”
A snowstorm of grit hit them seconds before they heard the Raven pass overhead. It swept on over the trees and hovered a hundred meters in to drop a load of soil on the burning imulsion. Dom could hear more helicopters approaching.
“Two-Three-Nine here.” Sorotki’s voice popped in Dom’s ear. “If you two want a ride back to VNB, move it. Dizzy’s a bit chargrilled. He really needs to see Doc Hayman.”
“Okay.” Marcus looked around, dusting dirt off his armor one-handed. “We’ll need a hand hauling Betty out.”
“She’ll have to wait. That’s a two-bird job.”
Sam didn’t say a word on the flight back. Dom took a first-aid pack and wiped her face. She didn’t even protest. She just looked him in the eye and managed a smile, and there was something in it that unnerved him. He caught Marcus looking their way and giving him that go on look.
No, this isn’t going anywhere. It can’t.
If things had been different, if his whole life had been different, he would have jumped at that chance. But he’d never feel that way again after Maria, and if he did—shit, he’d never be able to live with himself for giving in to it. It wasn’t about betraying Maria’s memory. She’d have told him so. It was about knowing he didn’t deserve to be happy again when he couldn’t save his kids, and when the only way he could save his wife in the end was to shoot her.
Sacrifice was clean and easy. Surviving your loved ones wasn’t. Dom tried not to meet Sam’s eyes and carried on cleaning her up.
Dizzy took a swig from his hip flask and held it out to Sam. She took a mouthful and coughed her guts up.
“I feel better already,” she said hoarsely. “Thanks.”
But she wasn’t looking at Dizzy. Dom slammed shut that door in his mind and made sure he would never let it open again.
CHAPTER 9
SITREP #18A
Extent of contaminated zones and stalk ingress at 0001/G/01/15
CURRENT WESTERN BOUNDARY OF
CZ: 16 km approx. from Pelruan.
RATE OF SPREAD: 15cm approx. per minute as measured at 2345/B/38/15 to 2445/B/38/15. (Variable.) Spread has slowed but appears irregular in shape and rate.
FORECAST: If the rate of spread continues, two farms west of Pelruan will fall within the CZ within eight days, and Pelruan itself will be cut off with only coastal/sea access.
ACTION: Four-hour monitoring to continue. Evacuation contingency team to remain on one-hour alert.
(Prepared by: Major G. Gettner and R. Sharle)
VECTES NAVAL BASE, NEW JACINTO: TWO DAYS LATER, GALE, 15 A.E.
“Colonel? Colonel!”
Hoffman carried on walking across the parade ground while he tried to place that voice. It took four more strides before the name clicked in his head.
Ingram. Keir Ingram.
Whatever the man wanted, it was guaranteed to make Hoffman late for his meeting with Prescott. He was one of the civilian neighborhood representatives from old Jacinto, a real civvie—not civilian support staff, who were very nearly Gears. Regular civvies were a species that Hoffman rarely had much contact with these days.
And he’s been waiting for me. There’s no way he’d run into me here and now by accident.
Hoffman stopped and turned. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ingram?”
“Is it true that you’re moving everyone out of Pelruan?”
“Maybe.” Hoffman didn’t ask why Ingram was bothered about it because he didn’t want to hear the answer, not right now. “The decision hasn’t been made yet.”
“Is there ever going to be any consultation with us on this?”
Ingram did routine, necessary things like organizing his neighbors for cleaning duties and kitchen rosters. Hoffman didn’t think of him as a troublemaker. He was a thin, balding, schoolmasterly kind of guy in his fifties who looked as mild as he was. Jacinto civilians had lived under siege for so many years that they’d developed an almost military sense of a chain of command and an ability to suck it up. But hearing Ingram talk about consultation in a tight, scared voice unsettled Hoffman at a primal level.
“What’s to consult about?” Hoffman asked. “It’s my duty to protect them, and it’s easier for me to do that if I’ve got all the civilians in one area.”
“This camp’s bursting at the seams already,” Ingram said. “We’re still trying to catch up with rebuilding the houses the last polyp attack burned down. Eighty percent of families are still living in tents or barracks.”
“I know that, Mr. Ingram.” Hoffman checked his watch to prepare for making his escape. The gesture alone was usually enough to shut anyone up. “But Pelruan’s our people and they keep us fed. We’ll make room.”
Ingram’s jaw sagged a little, disappointed. “I asked you instead of the Chairman because I thought you wouldn’t give me a mealy-mouthed answer.”
Ingram didn’t want mealy-mouthed, and he didn’t get it. Dealing with emergencies didn’t require a goddamn referendum every time. It never had. Hoffman saw no reason for things to be any different on Vectes.
“If you want to talk about representation, that’s above my pay grade.” He turned to make it clear that he was moving on. “Look, you’re a councilman and you talk direct to the head of state. How much more representation do you want?”
“More than this,” Ingram said, looking more crestfallen than offended. “But thank you for your candor, Colonel.”
Hoffman carried on to Admiralty House. Michaelson stood on the steps outside the main doors, sipping from a white tin mug and chatting with Sharle and Trescu. It still disturbed Hoffman to see a COG uniform and a UIR one side by side without close-quarters combat being involved. Some reflexes never went away.
“Ah, the natives are restless,” Michaelson said, raising his mug like a toast. “Did you park in his space, Victor?”
“He just wants a frigging vote on where we put displaced persons. I hinted we’d do things the Gorasni way.”
Trescu didn’t blink. “I’m glad you’ve seen sense.”
“I told you they’d get pissy about it sooner or later,” Sharle said. “Thank God we’re not trying to do this at minus twenty degrees.”
Michaelson tipped the slops from his mug under the short hedge beside the doors. It was the first time Hoffman had noticed that the bushes were dotted with white blossom. He could actually smell them now, a sweetly spicy scent like cloves.
“Prescott hasn’t shown up yet,” Michaelson said. “Does anyone have any bad news they don’t want to share with him?”
“Me,” Sharle said. “I know he doesn’t want to hear this, but I went ahead and did a dispersal scenario plan. As in the circumstances under which we’d have a better survival rate if we broke up into smaller groups.”
Hoffman didn’t like it any more than Prescott would, but he wanted to hear. “Why?”
“Why did I do it, or why is it better?”
“Both.”
“Well, if we can’t reach the mainland, we’ll have to island-hop, and there’s nowhere big enough to take thousands of refugees.”
“We’ve thrashed this out before. The more widely people are spread, the less able I am to defend them.”
“I’m looking at the Stranded and learning lessons,” Sharle said. “Assholes or not, an awful lot of them have survived without any of our infrastructure, troop numbers, or weapons.”
Trescu reached out and picked a sprig of scented blossoms from the bush. “Speaking as a small community, I can tell you that it makes you neither invisible nor more resilient.” He stripped the leaves with his thumbnail and tucked the sprig into his buttonhole. “Which is why we asked to join you.”
“I’m not advocating we do it,” Sharle said. “But I’m obliged to investigate every option. We might need to rethink the big city model we’ve been clinging too all these years.”
Hoffman didn’t want to say it in front of Trescu, but dispersal would mean the end of the COG. Either it was one community with structure and purpose, or it was … nothing.
Trescu knew that anyway. Gorasnaya was in the same position.
“Damn it, I’m going to see where Prescott’s gotten to.” Hoffman pressed his earpiece to summon Lowe and Rivera. They’d be with the Chairman, wherever he was. They did damn all else now except provide his close protection, God only knew from what. “Hoffman to Rivera, over.” He waited. “Hoffman to Lowe, over.”
There was no response. Prescott didn’t carry a radio, so that option was out. Michaelson held the doors open and gestured like a butler.
“Let’s see if we can bumble along somehow until the divine presence decides to grace us,” he said. “After you, gentlemen.”
On the way in, they passed the open doors of CIC. Mathieson looked up from his desk and craned his neck.
“Colonel, may I talk to you when you’ve finished your meeting?”
“I’m free now, Lieutenant.”
Mathieson’s gaze flickered past Hoffman. He was a tactful lad. This obviously wasn’t meant for other ears. “Oh, later will do, sir. Thanks.”
In the meeting room, Trescu spread his maps and lists out on the table. “We can accommodate five to six hundred extra people,” he said, not looking up. “If you can find that many in Pelruan who don’t want to shoot us on sight, that is.”
Sharle was still all smiles, Mr. Nice Guy. “Don’t worry, we’ll remember not to put the Tollen vets with you.”
Hoffman was surprised that Trescu even offered. The Gorasni still kept to themselves. It was time for a conciliatory gesture. “I appreciate the work your rig team’s doing at the imulsion site,” Hoffman said. “Dirty, dangerous job.”
“If we need imulsion, then it must be done.”
“So when will we have some usable fuel?” Michaelson asked.
Trescu penciled some cross-hatching on his map to the east of the Gorasni camp. “Three days. Slow, but there’ll be a steady supply for as long as we can enter the dead zones. Once your grindlift rig is repaired, we can
install more derricks.”
The sound of boots on the stairs distracted them. Prescott was talking to someone, probably Rivera, and Hoffman caught the word Hayman. Prescott must have been wearing the doctor’s patience thin. Hoffman could imagine the old battleaxe’s reaction when the Chairman showed up asking her to find out why the grass had died.
“My apologies, gentlemen.” Prescott closed the door behind him and joined in the ritual of staring at the maps. “I’m afraid Dr. Hayman can tell us nothing about the site samples, and the weather satellite’s unable to give us images of the island—as we expected. I’d hoped to have something more concrete for you.”
“Oh, as long as you’re here, Chairman, that’s all that matters,” Michaelson said sweetly.
Prescott’s jaw tightened but he slipped straight back behind the mask of reassuring, unflappable omniscience again. Something other than Michaelson was getting to him. Things were bad, but no worse than they’d been many times before over the years.
“So where are we this morning?” he asked. “Good news, bad news?”
Hoffman slid the latest sitrep across the table to him, even though he was damn sure Prescott must have seen it already. “Bad news—still touch-and-go on Pelruan. Good news—Wallin’s grindlift rig will be back in action tomorrow, and the drilling team estimates they’ll be extracting up to ten thousand liters of crude a day when they begin pumping.”
“Which we will be conserving until the storage reserve is fifty percent above minimum and every vessel is full to capacity,” Sharle said, smiling in that avuncular way that said he’d chop their goddamn fingers off if they so much as siphoned off a teaspoon of it. “After which, we will still economize.”
“So we have options again.” Prescott’s mouth was making positive sounds but he’d definitely lost some of that polished smugness. “We can move. We can monitor. We can, to some extent, manufacture. Our most pressing short-term problem is still housing and food production. So, no need to evacuate the town yet?”