"He's part of our unit," said Deen.
"A boy among a group of men. One can't help but wonder what you used him for."
Bingwen didn't understand the lieutenant's meaning, but it was clearly offensive. Deen smiled in that way he did sometimes when he wanted to throttle someone.
"What's your name, Lieutenant?" Deen asked pleasantly.
The lieutenant put his hands on his hips. "Li."
"Well, Lieutenant Li, we're MOPs. We've spent the last two weeks blowing up transports and skimmers and about three hundred Formics, give or take, without any word from our commanding officer. So when he calls us out of the blue and tells us to meet him at Dragon's Den, we obviously stop what we're doing and come. He's even going to send a truck to pick us up. Great, says I. But then you show up, and something tells me you didn't read your orders very closely because you're being difficult."
"I was told to pick up MOPs, not children."
"Bingwen is a MOP. A little shorter than most maybe, but he's been an integral part of our success."
Li scoffed. "You gave a weapon to a child?"
"He may not carry a gun, Li, but he knows the land, he knows the language, and he knows a few ways to kill Formics. He's got tactics in that little head of his that none of us had considered. His takedown idea for the transports has resulted in about..." He looked at the others. "How many would you say? Ten, twelve destroyed transports?" He turned back at Li. "Can you say that, Lieutenant? Can you say you've been responsible for destroying a dozen transports?"
Li glanced down at Bingwen, and there was only disdain in his eyes.
When he lifted his gaze back to Deen, he said, "I'm to take you to a secret military facility. It's no place for a child."
"Agreed," said Deen. "But Dragon's Den is a big place, we're told. There are camps of civilians there as well. There's shelter and food for those who need it. Surely Bingwen has earned that much."
"The camps are beyond capacity."
Deen sighed. "Lieutenant, get on your radio. Call Dragon's Den. Ask for Captain Wit O'Toole. He's probably swapping war stories with a few of your generals right now. I'm sure they won't mind the interruption. Ask them if it's all right if Bingwen comes. I'm willing to bet all the tea left in China that you were supposed to bring him anyway."
Lieutenant Li scowled.
"Or, if you prefer to be difficult," said Deen, "kindly point us in the direction of Dragon's Den, and we'll walk there ourselves. When you arrive, you can explain to your commanding officer why you failed such a simple assignment."
The lieutenant's grip tightened around his handgun, and for an instant Bingwen thought everything would end badly. But then Lieutenant Li came to his senses and removed his hand from his holster.
"Very well. The boy may come. But all of you must relinquish your weapons."
Really? thought Bingwen. Are you that desperate to assert your authority? You make a mistake and rather than accepting it and moving on, you try to manipulate us some other way? How did this guy become a lieutenant?
But Deen wasn't having it. He started walking toward the back of the truck. "If we get attacked by a Formic death squad, Lieutenant, I doubt you want our weapons up in the cab with you."
And with that the MOPs loaded up into the truck fully armed without another word. Bingwen sat between Cocktail and ZZ, and when Deen sat across from him he gave Bingwen a wink.
They drove across blackened countryside and through mud so thick that twice the MOPs had to get out and push. Much of the land had been scoured--or stripped clean by the massive Formic harvesters that collected all the biomass the Formic gas had killed. In those areas, there was nothing left behind except for long strips of naked earth.
But there were also places where the Formic gas had done its work, but no harvester had come. These were the grisliest sights. Corpses, human and animal, vegetation black and dissolving, all of it slowly melting into the mud. Bingwen turned away as he always did.
Mother had died that way. Father, too.
He stared at the tips of his boots and tried to take his mind elsewhere.
The truck finally slowed and pulled into a massive hangar in the side of a mountain. The giant sliding doors closed behind them with a clang, sealing them inside. Bingwen and the others took off their helmets and breathed in fresh air.
The hangar was being used as a garage, Bingwen saw. Dozens of mechanics were hard at work repairing and outfitting all class of vehicles and aircraft: adding armor, installing guns, ripping parts from junked vehicles and welding them onto others. The air smelled of grease and rubber and burned wiring.
Bingwen stood with the others to climb down from the truck, when Mazer appeared at the tailgate. He saw Bingwen and smiled. "Hey, troublemaker. Long time, no see."
Bingwen couldn't help himself. He leaped from the back of the truck into Mazer's arms.
Mazer laughed and lowered him to the ground. "Whoa-ho-ho, you've gained about a thousand pounds, Bing. What are they feeding you? Boulders?"
"How was India?" asked Bingwen. "Why didn't you radio us?"
"Boring. And they wouldn't let us call anyone. Did you see the doughnut tower explode?"
"About a dozen times on the nets. Deen was trying to make the sound the ringchime on his wrist pad. Did you see the vids we uploaded at the site?"
Mazer gave Deen a disapproving look. "I did. And I wonder what possessed Deen to allow an eight-year-old near a firefight."
"You're one to talk," said Deen. "You took Bing to the lander. And anyway, he wasn't near the firefight in that vid. He was tucked away elsewhere. We kept him out of danger. Mostly." He shrugged. "And maybe you've forgotten how obstinate this kid can be. He's more stubborn than Wit."
"I heard that."
They turned. Wit approached them from behind.
The MOPs all greeted him with smiles, embraces, and slaps on the back.
ZZ said, "Done with your vacation, Captain?"
"Yeah," said Cocktail. "While you were getting foot massages and grapes fed to you in India, the rest of us were fighting a war."
"If I had a sucker, I'd give you one, Cocktail," said Wit. He smiled warmly. "I'm glad to see you all safe."
They hadn't suffered a single casualty since Wit and Mazer had left them. They all knew it was nothing short of a miracle.
"It's Bingwen," said Bungy. "He's our good luck charm."
Lieutenant Li cleared his throat. "Pardon me, gentlemen, but we are on a schedule." He gestured to the boy who had driven the truck. "Private Hun here will escort your boy to the civilian barracks. The rest of you will come with me."
Bingwen's high at seeing Mazer took a nosedive. It wasn't fair. How long had they been standing here? Two minutes? Three? He had barely said hello.
Mazer took a knee in front of Bingwen, and the two of them embraced.
"Can I visit you?" said Bingwen.
"Absolutely not," said Lieutenant Li.
Mazer gave Li a withering look. "He was asking me, hotshot. Go splash some cold water in your face."
He turned back to Bingwen. "It's a restricted area, Bing. I'm not allowed to leave either."
"What are you doing in there?"
"Looking at maps and arguing with people. Believe me, you're not missing anything."
"Sounds important."
"It's called Operation Duck Sauce."
"That's classified," said Li. "He shouldn't know that."
Mazer and Bingwen ignored him.
"Do you think we'll win?" asked Bingwen.
"I think we have a decent chance. Now that everyone is helping. But we're a long way from winning."
"Getting the Indians involved, that was smart."
"I can't take the credit for that. But yes, smart. They're good soldiers. Companies are helping as well. They're shipping supplies. We're getting equipment all the way from the U.S. and South America. It's quite the operation."
"What will the MOPs be doing?"
"Helping to manage everything, lea
ding strike teams from here. China has lost a lot of its commanders. They need people they can trust to lead the various units."
"You should be leading the whole army."
Mazer laughed. "Hardly. But I'm learning how that's done. Captain O'Toole is as good with a million soldiers as he is with three or four."
Lieutenant Li cleared his throat again. The MOPs were waiting.
Bingwen said, "So we'll be near each other and yet a world apart."
"You'll be out of the fighting, Bing. That's what important. This is a safe place."
"So this is good-bye?"
Mazer put a hand behind Bingwen's head. "It will never be good-bye between us, Bing." He pulled Bingwen's face close until their foreheads and noses touched. Then he pulled away. "In Maori culture, that's a hongi, a traditional greeting. It means we are both tangata whenua now, people of the land, brothers, sharing in the breath of life."
Bingwen nodded. "Brothers."
He threw his arms around Mazer's neck and they embraced a final time. Then Mazer stood and tousled Bingwen's hair.
"Stay safe, troublemaker."
They parted and Bingwen began to turn away but then he remembered something. "Oh, and Mazer."
Mazer turned back.
Bingwen tapped his forehead with a finger. "One in the head, good and dead."
Mazer smiled. It had been something Captain O'Toole had said to the men repeatedly, and it had grown into a sort of salutation whenever one of them went off to scout ahead or leave on patrol. It meant: If you see a Formic, don't hesitate. Put a bullet in its brain.
"We're a bad influence on you, Bing."
"Terrible. I'm probably scarred for life."
*
Bingwen followed Private Hun toward a metal staircase that led downward to the refugee camps. As they descended Bingwen asked in Chinese, "How old are you?"
"Eighteen," Hun said.
"How old are you really?" asked Bingwen.
Hun looked sheepish and lowered his voice. "Fifteen."
"You enlisted here?"
Hun nodded. "My village is gone. My mother, grandmother, little sister, they all..." He shook his head, not wanting to speak of it. Then he found his voice again. "I didn't have to do any training. I just told them I drove farming equipment, and they gave me a uniform."
"You think they'd give me an assignment?"
Hun scoffed. "You? How old are you? Seven?"
"Eight."
"Laundry maybe. Or latrines. But as a civilian. Not a soldier."
Bingwen shrugged. "Doesn't make much difference, I suppose."
Hun seemed affronted. "Of course it does. As a soldier you can fight."
"Did they give you a weapon?"
"Well, no. But if it comes to a fight, I'll take one, you can be sure of that."
They continued downward until they reached the bottom level, where Bingwen began to hear the cry of infants, the chatter and shuffle and movement of hundreds of people living in a small space.
"You're to go to Mama Goshi," said Hun. "She's the keeper of Claw. And believe me, she's not going to be happy to see you."
"Claw?"
"There are four barracks in Dragon's Den, each named for a part of the dragon. Claw, Fire, Fang, Wings. You're in Claw."
"Why won't Mama Goshi want to see me?"
"Because you have a stomach and you're a kid, which means you'll eat food and not prove very useful. A drain."
"I'm not completely useless," said Bingwen.
Hun smiled as if he thought Bingwen naive.
They arrived at a warehouse-sized room that was now a camp. Hundreds of cots were packed together; hammocks hung between columns; bedrolls lined the walls and everywhere else, save for narrow aisles between the rows of living spaces. Women, children, the elderly, all practically on top of each other.
"Welcome to Claw," said Hun. "You might want to put that helmet back on. It smells like piss and sweat and antiseptic in here."
And worse things besides, thought Bingwen. He passed a washing station where women scrubbed sheets and clothing in large plastic buckets, then hung them dripping wet on lines above drainage grates in the floor. He passed a group of old men huddled around a holopad that looked almost as old as they were, the news reporter on screen flickering and fading as the signal came and went. He passed others who stared back at him, their faces blank and despondent. Mothers nursed infants. Old men coughed. Children ran and played, oblivious to their plight. Injured people with bandages lay in cots at a nurses' station. A shriveled old woman in the corner clutching a bundle of blankets rocked back and forth softly singing a lullaby. If there was an infant in her bundle, Bingwen didn't see one.
Bingwen tried smiling as he made eye contact, but no one returned the gesture.
Hun led him to the back corner where several sheets hung from the ceiling to form a small room. Mama Goshi was inside cutting open a box. When Hun introduced Bingwen, Mama Goshi grunted with exasperation and said, "And what am I to do with a boy? Especially one in a rubber suit meant for someone twice his size. What ails you, boy? You keeping a virus in there just for yourself?"
She was wrinkled and weathered and slightly humpbacked, wearing a pink flowered dress long faded from the sun and a pair of mismatched slippers.
Bingwen bowed. "No, Nai Nai. I'm healthy."
Mama Goshi nodded, pleased. "You were taught to respect your elders, at least. By your parents, I suspect. Both of them dead."
It didn't sound like a question, but Bingwen nodded nonetheless.
"Well, off with the spacesuit. No one obviously cares that I don't have room or food for another mouth, even one as small as yours, but I see I don't get a say in the matter." She waved a dismissive hand at Hun. "Get out of my face before I change my mind."
Hun hurried away without another word while Bingwen stepped out of his radiation suit. Mama Goshi put her hands on her hips and appraised him. "Skinny and scrawny and probably good for nothing. Can you clean toilets?"
"Yes, Nai Nai."
The old woman waved a hand again. "Enough with the formalities. I'm Mama Goshi here. Keep calling me 'Nai Nai' and people will think you're my real grandson, which you aren't and never will be."
"No, Mama Goshi."
She nodded. "Fast learner. Good. What's your name?"
He bowed again. "Bingwen."
"Well, Bingwen, when I say I don't have food for you, I mean it." She pointed to a small pile of boxes. "You see these? They contain today's food. Bottles of protein vitamin drink. That's our diet. It tastes like grass and grit, but it keeps us alive. Now, there are nine hundred and seventy-eight people in Claw. And I'm supposed to feed them all with this."
It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to feed half that many.
"So if you think you're out of the woods down here," said Mama Goshi, "you're mistaken. This is only a different kind of hell."
"I can work," said Bingwen.
"You will. Until your fingers bleed, if I have my say. In the meantime, go find a place to sleep over there." She gestured to a row of cots where children were gathered.
He bowed. "Yes, Mama Goshi."
She turned away from him and began to speak with someone else who had approached. Bingwen got the message: He was dismissed. He scooped up his radiation suit and went to the cots.
A circle of boys sat on the floor playing rock dice. Behind them a girl about nine years old was kneeling by a cot, dabbing a sick boy's forehead with a damp cloth. She saw Bingwen, stood, and glowered at him.
"I'm Bingwen. Mama Goshi sent me here to find a place to sleep."
"There's no room," said the girl. "Not even for a stick like you. Beat it."
"Is there an adult I can talk to?" asked Bingwen, looking around.
The girl narrowed her eyes.
"This here is orphan alley, Stick. Kids without guardians. We're the table scraps. You want to go cry to an adult, you'll have to go somewhere else."
The young boy on the cot clutched his stomach an
d moaned.
"What's wrong with him?" asked Bingwen.
"What do you care?" said the girl.
"Has he seen one of the nurses?" Bingwen asked. He gestured toward the nurses' station he had seen near the entrance.
"Oh I get it," said the girl. "You want us to cart him off to the nurses so you can get his cot. Well forget it. He and I share. This cot is ours."
"I don't want your cot. I'm happy to sleep on the floor. I just meant he looks like he needs help. Are there any doctors down here?"
The girl relaxed somewhat. "There are two, for all four thousand of us. We're on the list to see one in two days. Maybe." She looked back at the boy, concerned. "He's getting worse. I tried to take him to Mama Goshi, but he can't even walk anymore."
Bingwen could see the resemblance now. They were siblings. A younger brother. "I have a device that's like a doctor," said Bingwen. "It's called a Med-Assist. It can tell people what's wrong with them and explain how to fix it." He put down his suit and pulled the Med-Assist from the knapsack draped across his back. The boys playing dice were suddenly curious. The holopad had belonged to Mazer Rackham and was designed for military field use. Before it had lost its charge on the mountain, Bingwen had used it to save Mazer's life.
"We can help each other," said Bingwen. "You let me sleep here, and I'll help you with your brother."
The girl looked skeptical. "A magical device, huh?"
"Show me where I can charge it," said Bingwen, "and I'll show you how it works."
Several of the younger boys jumped up, volunteering, but the girl pushed one to the ground and threatened to do the same to the others. "I'm taking him. You dirt clods stay with Niro." She turned to Bingwen. "If you're lying about this device, Stick, I'll put a boot up your crack."
"You don't wear boots, Pipo," teased one of the boys.
"Shut up," said Pipo, "or you'll need a doctor."
"Ooh," said the boys. "The tigress is loose. The tigress is loose."
Pipo ignored them. She motioned Bingwen to follow her, and she led him to a charging station out in the main tunnel. A line of people were waiting with various items: lanterns, wrist pads, space heaters. Bingwen and Pipo got in behind them.
"If you are lying about this device," she said. "I mean it. I'll cut you in your sleep."
She was all bluster and no bite, Bingwen saw. He wondered if she had always been that way or if the Formics had done this to her. Probably the latter, just as the Formics had changed him, bringing his survival instinct front and center and burying the person he used to be under a mountain of grief.