by Jim C. Hines
“Dammit. All right, so they may know there are four humans running about. That’s bad. If the pack gets out and goes after the Alliance troops, it’ll be worse.”
“Ferals attacking the Alliance?” Wolf looked around. “Why is this a problem?”
“Those soldiers would slaughter them,” Melvil protested.
“More importantly,” said Gleason, “the sight of an entire pack of healthy, clothed ferals would tell those troops there are bigger things happening down here, even more than they already know. They’d send more ships to scour the city.”
“I’m sorry,” said Melvil. “I shouldn’t have gone after Bobby like that. I just—”
Gleason waved it off. “Que sera, sera. Do you think you can keep them calm and out of sight?”
Melvil was bouncing in his boots. “Absolutely!”
“What if he’s wrong?” asked Bev. “Or what if the Alliance finds their way to the ferals? What if they collapse a tunnel on top of him?”
“I could send Rubin along to provide protection,” Mops offered.
“Could I tag along?” asked Wolf.
Mops blinked back her surprise. “Really?”
“The kid says he’s got a pack of tame ferals. I’d like to see that.”
Mops looked to Gleason. This was her territory, and her command. Her mouth twisted, and then she nodded once. “If things go to hell, you get out of there, understood?”
Mops moved toward Wolf and Rubin. “And if he refuses, you drag him out.”
Gleason didn’t say anything, but her eyes crinkled, and she tilted her head in appreciation.
“Come on.” Melvil grabbed Wolf’s arm, then grimaced. “Why don’t you take up the rear. No offense, but you stink.”
The ground trembled as yet another ship landed.
“How long before they get bored and head home?” asked Bev.
“Standard procedure will be to secure the building first.” Monroe’s words were distant. He stared back into the tunnel as if he could see all the way to the library. “They’ll start with security drones. The drones will find their way underground, building a map as they go.”
“What happens if they don’t find anything?” asked Mops.
“Depends on the mission parameters. Maybe they bring down more troops. Maybe they leave a handful of drones in place and fly back to Stepping Stone. Or maybe they try harder to flush us out.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. “How?”
“Bombs,” Monroe said coldly. “Lots of bombs.”
* * *
Wolf’s visor tracked her steps and plotted a map as she walked, making it impossible to get truly lost. Without it, she could have probably wandered down here forever, or at least until she starved. Or something ate her.
Melvil never paused as he led them through the various twists and turns, dodging old cave-ins and, in one case, a nest of angry buzzing insects.
They’d gone half a kilometer before leaving the rickety, hand-built tunnel for something less likely to collapse and crush you to death if you so much as coughed. That juncture was hidden behind a metal mirror in what Melvil assured them was an old human bathroom, despite the fact that Wolf didn’t recognize several of the appliances. Melvil had stammered a bit when explaining the long trough on one wall, and had utterly refused to demonstrate the thing he called a “bidet.”
From there, they walked along an old platform next to a narrow stream Melvil said had once been a monorail line. The tunnel walls were colored bricks—not stone, but some sort of hardened synthetic. Black bricks formed letters her visor wouldn’t translate.
Wolf’s threat display lit up as a long, serpentine shape swam through the water beside them. It approached the edge and raised a flat, scaly head to study the humans.
Wolf brought her rifle around, locking the crosshairs on the thing.
“Boa constrictor,” said Melvil. “Humans used to keep them as pets. They’ve adapted pretty well to this part of the world. They’re dormant right now on the surface, but the water down here is warm enough for them to hunt. It won’t hurt you.”
The snake flicked a forked tongue in their direction and ducked back into the water. Rubin stepped to the edge to watch it swim away.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Wolf, “and Mops will kill you if you bring back a two-meter snake.”
“It belongs here.” Once the snake had disappeared, Rubin rejoined Melvil to ask, “How many feral humans in your pack?”
“Ninety-four, counting Bobby.” Melvil paused at a three-way intersection, head cocked like he was listening. “Including four babies under a year old.”
“What do you feed them?”
“They prefer meat, but they’re not picky about what kind. Bison or rat, it’s all the same. I try to mix in some grains and vegetable matter, and we add nutritional supplements to the water. You can see the difference in their skin, teeth, and hair.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Rubin. “Does the healthier diet affect their behavior?”
He nodded eagerly. “They’re less aggressive when they’re well-fed and healthy.”
This was the other reason Wolf had volunteered to come along. Rubin was so absorbed in conversation, she wouldn’t have noticed if a boa constrictor crawled up her body and ate her head.
A glint of light caught Wolf’s eye. She switched off her lamp. As her visor compensated, she began to see pinpricks of pink-tinged light scattered over the ceiling. They weren’t moving. Wolf poked one with her rifle. “What are those?”
“Optical fibers,” said Melvil. “They capture, store, and transmit daylight from the surface. It’s how they used to light up these tunnels. Most either broke or wore out over the years, but there are a couple of places where a cluster survived. They’re supposed to be white, but they lose part of the spectrum with age.”
“Creepy,” Wolf proclaimed. “Like a bunch of tiny eyeballs staring at you.”
The platform widened, with corridors leading in four different directions. A set of tile stairs looked like it might have once led to the surface. Now, it simply led to an impassible wall of rubble.
Melvil took them to the farthest passage, which was blocked by rusted floor-to-ceiling turnstiles. He used a key from around his neck to unlock a padlock and chain. The bars barely squeaked as they rotated to let him through. Someone had been keeping them oiled.
“What’s this?” asked Wolf.
“It used to be the recycling and fabrication center. There’s a whole factory and warehouse down here.” He used a different key to unchain a heavy metal door to the right. “The ferals mostly stay in the warehouse. We’re going down through the cargo elevator shaft. It’s the only entrance that isn’t flooded or caved in.”
Wolf shone her lamp into the shaft. It looked like a ten-meter drop, and she could see light coming from below. She turned her attention upward. “Oh, hell.”
The elevator car hung less than a meter overhead. Cobwebs and rust obscured parts of the mechanism, but she could see where the emergency brakes had clamped onto metal rails on either side of the shaft.
Rather, one of the brakes was clamped into place. The other had sheared free, leaving the car at a slight angle. “What happens if that thing comes down on our heads?”
Rubin peeked over Wolf’s shoulder and, in her matter-of-fact tone, said, “We’d die.”
“Relax, I do this all the time.” Melvil grabbed a chain sitting on the floor to one side, hooked one end over a thick bent bolt sticking out of the wall, and lowered the rest into the darkness. “Between the rust and mud and everything else, I think it’s pretty much stuck.”
He tightened the straps of his pack, grabbed the chain in both hands, and started down.
Thanks to her helmet’s amplification, Wolf heard the groans from below the moment she began following. The sound made the hair on her n
eck stand on end.
“Watch your step down here,” Melvil called.
Wolf’s muscles tightened. “Not so loud!”
One of the two elevator doors at the bottom was wrenched open at an angle, creating a triangular gap. Wolf switched her rifle to burst mode and ducked through after Melvil.
A short, square passage opened into a cavernous warehouse. Broken-down machinery hung from overhead rails, like amputated robot limbs hung out to rust. Small transport vehicles sat on broken tires.
The shuffling of leather-clad feet over concrete joined the groans echoing through the warehouse. Wolf wrinkled her nose. She’d breathed much worse in her SHS days, but the air here smelled wrong, even more than the skunk scent that continued to cling to her uniform. It smelled like rotted meat and old vomit and death.
Her visor began to highlight movement and potential threats: four figures peeking around an overturned bin to the right; two more beneath a broken conveyor; one squeezed onto the top of a set of shelves on the wall to her left.
“They’re upset.” Melvil slipped one arm from his pack and dug around inside until he found a canvas sack. He untied the neck and pulled out a handful of speckled crackers. “Who wants venison jerky hardtack?”
Wolf raised her hand.
Melvil blinked but handed one over. The cracker was hard, tough, and salty. Wolf approved.
“Don’t worry, they’re not going to hurt you.” Melvil tossed several of the crackers toward the ferals by the bin.
“You talking to me or to them?” asked Wolf.
“Both.”
More shapes stumbled from the shadows. Melvil beamed. “That’s right. You’re safe. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
Rubin cocked her head. “You grossly overestimate your control over events. Entropy guarantees things happen to all of us.”
Two ferals stepped into the pink light from a cluster of optical fibers. Like the one Wolf had seen in the woods, these two wore simple capes. The female’s was leather, the male’s heavy canvas.
Wolf’s rifle tracked them both as Melvil moved closer, hardtack outstretched. The male snatched the crackers from Melvil.
“Don’t be rude, Greg. Share with your sister.” When “Greg” bared his teeth, Melvil sighed and dug out two more crackers, which he put directly into the other feral’s hand. She grunted and darted out of reach. “You’re welcome, Marcia.”
“You can communicate with them?” asked Rubin.
“Not really. They understand tone more than words, though a few of them recognize their names. They make different sounds when they’re hungry or scared or content, but we’ve never found any particular meaning that would suggest words. Maybe someday.”
As if Greg and Marcia had cleared the way, more ferals began to approach, until Wolf’s threat display was a solid blob of green.
Melvil continued to distribute food and chat with the ferals. To Rubin, he said, “Do you see the fresh blood on their hands? They pound the walls when they’re frightened.”
“Trying to escape?” asked Rubin.
“Kind of. They can get out if they have to. There’s a crack in the foundation near the northwest corner. That’s how Bobby got loose. But they like it here.” A commotion by one of the transport vehicles caught his attention. “Cindy! Stop chewing on your mother!”
A fighter passed overhead, engines sounding like a distant growl. The moans of the ferals grew deeper. Several started hammering their fists on the nearest wall, including one wearing what appeared to be an oversized yellow-and-blue bucket on its head.
Melvil sighed. “That’s Peter. He has issues.”
Peter turned at the sound of Melvil’s voice, then began banging his bucket-clad head against a metal shelf.
“It’s warm in here,” said Rubin.
“Geothermal. It’s how a lot of places managed the temperature in the old days. Those heat pumps were built to last.” He stepped toward the transport vehicle, where a young feral—Cindy—was gnawing on an older one. “I’ve got to break this up. If they get too stressed, they’ll eat anything and anyone. I once saw a feral who’d eaten his own left arm all the way to the elbow.”
Melvil threw hardtack in Cindy’s direction, but she ignored him. Ferals crawled out to snatch the crackers. Others circled around behind them, groaning for more.
“Melvil . . .” said Wolf.
“It’s all right. They’re just hungry.”
Sweat dripped down Wolf’s back. “That makes it less all right!”
“Don’t shout.” Rubin touched Wolf’s arm. “You’ll scare them.”
“Scare them?” Whistling a curse in Liktok, Wolf followed Melvil. By now, her visor had identified sixty-three individual ferals, with more approaching from deeper in the warehouse.
Cindy was a thin girl, less than a meter and a half tall, with wide eyes, ragged blonde hair, and bright, bloody teeth.
Melvil shoved his bag of hardtack at Wolf. “Keep the others fed.”
“But—oh, hell.” Wolf shouldered her rifle and grabbed a handful of the gritty crackers.
Knobby fingers closed on her sleeve. Biting back a yell, Wolf spun and shoved crackers into the thing’s mouth.
“One at a time might work better,” Rubin murmured.
Melvil was whispering to Cindy and stroking her hair. He cupped his other hand under her jaw and tried to pry her chin away. After what felt like an eternity, Cindy released her mother’s arm . . . and lunged at Melvil.
“Shit!” Wolf dropped the crackers and reached for her rifle. Rubin caught the barrel, stopping her from targeting the feral.
Melvil had brought his other arm up, anticipating the attack. Cindy’s jaws clamped down on the leather bracer he wore. She began to snarl and chew contentedly. And drool.
“It’s all right,” said Melvil. Wolf wasn’t sure if he was addressing her or the feral.
A mob of ferals now surrounded them, fighting over the spilled hardtack. “Sorry,” said Wolf.
Melvil grinned. “You know they’re going to remember you now. You’re the human who gave them all the food.” He continued to comb his free hand through Cindy’s hair. “Rubin, there are bandages in the lower right pocket of my pack. Could you wrap Cindy’s mother’s arm, please?”
“On it,” said Rubin.
The mother bared her teeth but allowed Rubin to examine the bloody bites on her arm. Rubin snatched a cracker from the floor and handed it to her to chew on, which seemed to help. “They must eat more than just crackers.”
“Of course,” said Melvil. “The crackers are more like treats. Have you noticed this place is completely clear of rats, cockroaches, and other vermin? We also bring in animals from time to time. When one of our bison broke both front legs, we split the meat with the ferals.” He grinned. “They gorged themselves and slept for two days straight.”
A hand touched Wolf’s hip, and she jumped, but it was just a skinny, gray-haired feral demanding another cracker. Wolf checked the bottom of the sack and shoved a broken piece into his hand. “Why do you do all of this? You’re treating them like Rubin and her weird pets, but her pets won’t eat you.”
“My leech drinks human blood,” said Rubin.
Cindy’s eyes were half-closed. She’d mostly stopped chewing Melvil’s forearm, though the drooling had increased. He carefully extracted himself. “We’ve been studying biology and genetics for generations. Including research on the minimum genetic diversity you’d need to sustain a long-term human population.”
It took a moment for Wolf to follow. “You don’t have enough people.”
“Each generation of librarians has been smaller than the last.” Melvil reclaimed the empty bag from Wolf and began moving toward the exit. The ferals parted to let him through. “If we had good medical and genetic tech, it might be possible, but we’re limited to what we ca
n salvage and recreate.”
The Krakau had that kind of technology. Wolf snarled under her breath, making several ferals draw back in alarm. “Someone might still figure out how to cure us.”
“Maybe.” Melvil shrugged, seeming utterly at ease with his own pending extinction. Surrounded by ferals, he was the most relaxed Wolf had seen him. “But we can’t count on that. From the tests I’ve run, when they’re well-fed and cared for, ferals have roughly the same intelligence and learning abilities as the more advanced primates. I’m trying to give them an evolutionary head start.”
“Head start?”
“At becoming Earth’s next intelligent species, after we’re gone.”
Pachelbel automatically drowned her resentment as she entered what had been, until recently, her office. Little had changed in the covelike room. The air was a bit warmer, the lights a bit dimmer. It felt ridiculously large compared to the tiny closet of an office she’d been assigned at the ass end of the station.
The U-shaped computer console appeared to float on the edge of the water. Behind it, Fleet Admiral Belle-Bonne Sage of Interstellar Military Command waited patiently, two of her three tentacles resting on the controls.
Sage didn’t acknowledge Pachelbel, nor did she invite her into the water—both clear signs of displeasure. When Sage did speak, her voice was deceptively calm and atonal. “What are they doing on Earth?”
Pachelbel kept her coloration and body language neutral. “Who?”
“There is no way a clutch of barely sentient janitors, no matter how exceptional, could have done all this without help.”
“I take it Mops and her team have eluded your ships?”
“My troops have found nothing. One was injured when a stair collapsed under her weight. Another was searching a nearby stream when one of the native serpents apparently mistook one of her limbs for another Earth serpent and attempted to mate with it.”
“Is she all right?”
“She suffered internal injuries, but she’ll survive.” Sage settled back, letting her tentacles float on the brine. “You’ve worked with humans longer than anyone else on this station. It’s said you even like them. How would you suggest I apprehend this group?”