by Jim C. Hines
“If you believe my expertise would be helpful, the logical course is to turn command of the mission over to me.”
Sage shifted, causing her shells to grate against one another like stones.
“Are a few humans really worth the full attention of a Fleet Admiral of the EMC?” Pachelbel pressed. “Shouldn’t one of your rank and status have greater priorities?”
The barb struck home. Sage swam closer and snapped, “My priority is protecting the Krakau Alliance.”
Pachelbel rippled a tentacle in a shrug. “I’m not sure I understand how disrupting operations on Stepping Stone, not to mention cutting the outflow of cured humans to the EMC, helps the Alliance.”
“I don’t need your understanding.”
Pachelbel couldn’t quite stop the tips of her tentacles from curling in annoyance. She hadn’t been condescended to like this since the early days of her career.
Satisfaction at a scored point darkened Sage’s skin. “How do I catch Adamopoulos and her crew?”
“I’m not sure you can,” said Pachelbel. “This is their world. They’re adapted to the environment. It would be like chasing a Glacidae through a glacier, or a Rokkau through the northern currents of Dobranok.”
Sage twitched at mention of the Rokkau. “Thank you, Admiral. You can return to your duties, such as they are.”
Low-level paperwork and routine station maintenance, all of which was doubtless monitored by Krakau techs loyal to Sage. It was a painfully boring impasse. Pachelbel couldn’t act to help Mops with Sage’s people watching her, and Sage couldn’t arrest an EMC admiral without proof.
Sage turned to the console. “This is Fleet Admiral Sage. Pull back and send in the bomber. Flatten everything in a half-kilometer radius. We’ll see if that flushes them out.”
* * *
THUNDER ROLLED THROUGH THE tunnel. Dirt and rocks rained down, rattling off Mops’ helmet. A short distance behind her, a vertical support beam splintered, sending tiny daggers of wood in all directions.
“How sturdy are these tunnels?” asked Mops.
“They’ve held up for a long time.” Gleason’s voice rose. “’Course, nobody’s ever dropped a damn bomb on them before!”
Four more explosions followed. A cloud of dust darkened the air. And then, silence.
“Is that it?” asked Cate.
“That’s the first round.” Monroe swiped a rag over his visor. “Now they’ll watch to see if we pop out. Probably monitoring from ships and satellites both.”
“And when we fail to scurry into the open like frightened rabbits?” asked Bev.
Monroe tucked the rag back into his harness. “They start round two, then send people down to sift through the rubble.”
Mops had never observed an EMC bombing run, but she knew enough to imagine what the attack had done to that proud, ancient library. Every statue shattered and buried. Every stubborn flake of color that had endured all these years, gone. And the books . . . how much of humanity’s literature and history had just been lost forever?
She tried to tell herself most of those books had been destroyed already. Certainly the one she’d touched had been beyond repair. The bombs hadn’t killed the library; they’d simply buried the corpse.
That didn’t make her feel any better.
Khatami stood in stunned silence. Mops searched for words. As hard as this was hitting her, how must the librarians be feeling?
“Captain?” asked Monroe.
“I’m all right.” One hand rested on her combat baton. “Doc, remind me to track down Admiral Sage when this is all over so I can express my displeasure.”
“I’ve updated your To Do List.” Even the AI sounded subdued.
Cate shook dust from his wings. “I’ll have to review the Alliance Rules of Engagement, but I believe that attack may have been illegal. Although the mere fact that you have rules limiting military engagement is puzzling, and one more reason you will all ultimately fall before the Prodryan—”
Monroe grasped the Prodryan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Not now.”
Mops nodded her thanks and turned to Gleason. She started to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. I’m sorry, was pitifully inadequate.
Khatami had dropped to his knees, mumbling in yet another language Mops didn’t recognize.
“I believe it might be Latin,” said Doc, presumably following her gaze and guessing her thoughts.
“What’s he doing?” Mops whispered.
“Praying.” Gleason paused. “And it’s ‘they.’”
“What?”
“Khatami. They’re . . . the Krakau didn’t make up a Human term for it. The closest would be pangender. They could give you an hour-long lecture about how this is the more spiritually pure and honest choice, but the short version is Khatami thinks gender is dumb.”
“Doc, pass that along to the others, please.” She watched Khatami a moment longer. “The Glacidae prefer ‘they’ as well. It’s definitely not for spiritual reasons, though.”
“We should keep moving,” said Monroe. “They’ll widen the attack radius for the next round.”
“We’ll catch up with Melvil and the rest of your people on the way.” Gleason brought her lamp closer to Mops’ face. “Are you all right?”
“No.” Mops swallowed. “How many books did we . . . did you just lose?”
Gleason studied her for what felt like a long time. Her gray brows bunched together. Finally, she nodded to herself like she was making a decision. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a black rectangular block on a leather cord. “None.”
“I don’t understand. The library—”
“A hundred and fifty years ago, when they realized humanity wasn’t going to beat this plague, a group of librarians began working to scan and preserve as many books and records as they could. It took more than a century, but we were able to make backups of everything that was salvageable.” She removed the necklace for Mops to see. “Nanofilament drive. Primitive stuff compared to what you’re used to, but more than enough for our purposes. These were manufactured in Karachi more than two hundred years ago. The company used to boast they’d last a millennium. Every adult librarian carries one.”
Mops’ hands shook as she touched the drive. The surface was so smooth it felt and looked like liquid.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Gleason continued, her expression hardening. “I’m not happy about losing yet another piece of our history. But the knowledge of that old place? That’s all safe.”
Mops’ body slowly began to unclench. “Doc?”
“I know what you’re going to ask, but I can’t read nanofil. We’d need to pick up some specialized hardware. Sorry.”
Mops returned the drive. “I know I have no right to ask this, but if you have any extra copies . . .”
“We’ll see.” Gleason tucked the necklace back out of sight, then clapped a hand on Mops’ shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
* * *
“I’m picking up telemetry from Rubin’s and Wolf’s uniforms. They’re both alive. Heart rates and respiration are elevated. Wolf has sustained damage to her left sleeve. The pattern looks like . . . teeth marks?”
“What about Melvil?” asked Mops. They’d reentered the larger, more structurally sound tunnels ten minutes ago, but this was the first time Doc had managed to contact the others.
Gleason stopped to listen. Bev fell in beside her, gun in hand. “Damn ferals. If they ate Melvil, I’m gonna kill him.”
“Visual feed is spotty, but I believe he’s alive as well.”
“They’re all alive,” said Mops. “Doc, how far away are we?”
“One hundred sixty meters.”
She fought the impulse to run. These tunnels were uneven and unfamiliar. Mops couldn’t help her people if she slipped and snapped an ankle. “Wolf, Ru
bin, we’re almost to you. Can you hear me?”
Between the tunnels and the bombardment overhead, communications had been spotty. Wolf’s voice crackled back a moment later. “—you, sir. Melvil is—picked up an extra—”
A minute later, Mops spotted the lights from Wolf’s and Rubin’s harnesses. Her visor compensated for the glare, allowing her to make out the shapes of three people. Melvil leaned heavily on Rubin for support.
“It’s us,” Wolf called. “Don’t shoot.” As she came closer, Mops saw she was carrying a bloodied feral child in her arms.
Cate jumped back, shaking his wings to free his blades. “Keep that thing away from us!”
“Put those away before I feed them to you,” Wolf snapped. “Cindy’s not gonna hurt anyone.”
Melvil removed his arm from Rubin’s shoulders. Tears streaked the dust, sweat, and blood on Melvil’s cheeks. “The ferals were doing all right until the bombing started up again,” he said. “I was trying to keep them calm, when the back part of the warehouse collapsed. I don’t know how many we lost.”
His left hand dripped blood. Parallel cuts along his neck suggested he’d been scratched as well.
“The ferals panicked,” Wolf said bluntly. “Not Melvil, though. He just kept at it, talking and trying to help. Some of the ferals tried to hide or escape. The rest turned vicious. Came after us and each other.”
“Is that what happened to her?” asked Mops, nodding toward the feral in Wolf’s arms.
“Cindy was hurt pretty bad. I couldn’t just leave her there.”
“You most certainly could have,” Cate countered.
“Nobody asked you, snot-moth,” Wolf shot back.
“Take it easy, both of you.” Mops focused on Wolf. “How’d you get her out in all that chaos?”
Wolf shrugged. “Carried her.”
“Wolf fought past several ferals to reach the elevator shaft,” said Rubin. “She held Cindy while Melvil and I climbed out. She tried to pass Cindy up to us. That’s when Cindy bit Wolf’s arm. Fortunately, Wolf’s swearing and shouting seemed to calm Cindy down. I think she found it soothing.”
“Wolf, soothing?” Monroe shook his head. “First time for everything.”
Bev had pulled Melvil aside and was examining the younger man’s hand. With surprising gentleness, she tugged Melvil’s glove free and used a small water bottle to clean the bloody bite mark. “I told you your gloves weren’t strong enough, dumbass.”
“The average cured human jaw can produce eighty kilograms of pressure,” said Rubin. “But ferals build up stronger jaw muscles. According to Kumar, their bite is closer to a hundred and ten kilograms.”
Melvil turned toward Gleason. “We have to go back. They’re trapped down there. They could be hurt.”
“Hold still till I get this bandage tied off,” Bev snapped.
“The Alliance will send another round of drones into the tunnels,” said Monroe. “If we want to stay ahead of them, we have to keep moving.”
“He’s right,” said Khatami. “Our capture helps nobody. Who will protect the ferals if the Alliance takes you away, Melvil?”
Melvil swiped his good hand across his face. “What about Cindy? If we get her back to— I mean, I need to get her someplace I can take care of her until she recovers.”
Gleason pursed her lips, then turned to say something in Nishnaabemwin. Whatever it was earned an angry response from Bev, followed by more measured words from Khatami.
After several quick exchanges, Gleason switched to Human. “The only reason we’ve stayed hidden all these decades is because the Alliance didn’t know to look for us. That part of our history is over. We’ve always had contingency plans. It’s time to start implementing them.”
“The Alliance didn’t know to look for us because we didn’t bring Alliance guns home to meet the family,” Bev countered.
“Did she call us guns?” asked Mops.
“Slang for cured soldiers working for the Krakau,” said Khatami. “The Alliance uses you as weapons. You’re nothing but guns to them.”
“Bullshit.” Mops glanced back at her team. “Some of us were plungers.”
That drew a chuckle. “It’s not a nice term,” said Gleason. “And you won’t hear it again.”
Bev grimaced, but didn’t argue.
“No offense intended, Eliza, but you can’t make this decision alone,” said Khatami.
Gleason stopped walking. Without raising her voice, she asked, “I’m still Head Librarian, aren’t I?”
“Yes, ma’am. But this choice will affect the safety and future of us all. This should go to the Board for a full vote.”
Melvil looked pointedly at Wolf, who still carried the feral in her arms. “I trust them.”
Cate chittered. “A Prodryan commander would kill you all for such insubordination.”
“If we were following Prodryan rules, we would have killed you hours ago,” Mops pointed out.
Cate flicked his antennae. “Exactly.”
“All right.” Gleason pulled out the keyboard for her wrist comm and typed in a quick message. “I’ve called for a vote. Let’s move.”
“Where?” asked Wolf.
Gleason’s lips curled upward. “We’re going to a sports bar.”
* * *
For the next hour, they walked in relative silence, broken only by occasional questions from Wolf. Questions that mostly alternated between “How much farther?” and “What’s that?”
The librarians refused to answer the first question, but took turns with the second, identifying and explaining everything from an ancient fire extinguisher to the remnants of a personal transport scooter to the nature of a filthy plastic sign among a pile of bricks.
Khatami brushed off the sign, revealing cracked yellow-and-red plastic. “This was one of the food service kiosks serving the tunnels. It was called a McDonald’s.”
“Ah.” Wolf nodded wisely. “Scottish.”
Their mouth twitched. “Why would you think that?”
“The captain lets me read from her library. She’s got a couple of good historical romances about Scotsmen.”
“The true origins of McDonald’s have been lost,” said Khatami. “From what we’ve pieced together, we believe it was founded by an old circus clown named Willard Scott.”
“Humans are strange,” said Cate.
Mops wanted to argue, but all in all, it was a difficult defense to make.
“Up here.” Gleason aimed her lamp at a literal hole in the wall, half-buried by rock. The air was colder here. Water had dripped through the ceiling, leaving frozen trails over broken bricks. Movement lit up Mops’ visor, but it was only a pair of rats scurrying away.
“Wolf, Monroe, keep watch here. You, too, Cate.” Mops didn’t know what was involved in this vote, but she doubted random snark from the Prodryan would help their case. She waited for their acknowledgment, then followed the librarians through the hole.
The walls inside were bare brick, much of which had fallen away to reveal rusted metal beams. Cockroaches skittered along the floor, disappearing into cracks between old tiles.
“This used to be called Sammy D’s, a century and a half ago,” said Gleason. “Best pizza in the city. These days, it’s one of our communications centers.”
Old hooks and braces on the walls showed where decorations had once hung. Judging from the wires and cables jutting out, some of those decorations had been electrical. Mops saw nothing resembling a working comm station.
The librarians moved carefully around an old wooden bar. Fragments of filthy mirrored glass clung to the back wall.
The floor squished and sank beneath Mops’ feet as she followed. “This place needs a full sterilization.”
“I would recommend a demolition team,” said Rubin.
Through another doorway was
what must have once been the kitchen. Stagnant water pooled, half-frozen, in sinks and bins. A metal door hung open, leading into a large freezer.
“The Board of Directors is made up of five senior librarians, including me,” Gleason explained, passing the freezer and making her way toward what looked like a small office. “As Head Librarian, I run the day-to-day operations, but the Board as a group is responsible for long-term planning and strategy. They’re elected by the group at large every three years.”
“That sounds . . . inefficient,” said Mops.
Gleason snorted. “Democracy often is. But it keeps things in balance, for the most part. Remind me to tell you about the Cataloging Rebellion of 2159. That came about through a combination of incompetent Board members and a Head Librarian on a power trip. . . .”
She stepped into the office and approached a metal safe that had fallen partly free of the wall. A thick metal cable stretched from the back of the safe into the pile of broken brick. “Back in the late twenty-nineties, the big attraction was virtual sports. Computers with detailed stats on athletes from throughout history would simulate matchups. You could watch Serena Williams kick McEnroe’s ass in tennis, or pit the 1989 Milan soccer team against Manchester United from 2073. You could race Usain Bolt from 2009 against himself in 2007. You could select fictional characters, too. One of the best boxing matches I ever saw was between Muhammad Ali at his peak in the mid-60s and Rocky Balboa.”
Mops felt like she was drowning in the barrage of names and dates. She opened her mouth to respond, but had no idea what to say.
Khatami chuckled and leaned in. “Gleason is a bit of a sports fanatic. I find it best to smile and nod.”
“Our species produced some amazing athletes.” Gleason yanked open the front of the safe—the lock mechanism had been burned away—to reveal a black cube roughly ten centimeters to a side. A single green light blinked slowly in one corner.
“Sammy D’s was one of thousands of broadcasting centers,” Khatami explained, while Gleason slid a small rod into the cube. “Patrons would bet on the matches. Everything ran on a closed system, solid state with minimal heat or wasted power, designed to last forever. They don’t, but as of last week, there were still ninety-three units chuffing away across the world, generating random matchups and broadcasting to long-dead subscribers.”