by Jim C. Hines
“Not spikes.” Wolf made a second cut right before bracket number two, at the opposite angle. She lifted the rail free while the metal cooled, then set it gently back. The beveled angles held the rail in place, but the slightest tug would pull it free. She swapped the torch for her spray wand and began coating the next set of steps. “After they recover from level one, the Krakau will be expecting the oiled stairs. They’ll grab the rail for support.”
They’d worked most of the night preparing LockLand for the assault. Every access point save this stairwell had been permanently closed, thanks to Jessamyn West’s homemade bombs. A small group of librarians worked to ready level five. The rest were down on seven. On Gleason’s command, Jessamyn would blow up most of level six, hopefully protecting the other librarians and their collection from the Krakau.
“I would like to resubmit my request for a weapon,” said Cate.
“And I repeat my suggestion that you go drown yourself.”
“We are allied against the Krakau. Believe me, I will avoid shooting you in the back until after we’ve dealt with the larger threat.”
Before Wolf could answer, a buzz like a flatulent Comacean filled the air, making her jump so hard she dropped her spray wand. “What the depths?”
“That is the alert siren, announcing the arrival of the Krakau,” said Cate. “Gleason described the sound. Weren’t you listening?”
Wolf didn’t dignify that with a response. “I was hoping we’d have time to get a few more surprises set up.”
She quickly coated the rest of the steps. Next to the door control panel, an old announcements sign flashed red on the wall of the level two landing. It was written in several languages, enough that Wolf’s visor eventually managed to translate. “Looks like all rides are closed until further notice,” she read. “The nightly laser hockey tournament is canceled, and the casino will be shitting down early.”
She frowned and looked more closely. “Shutting down early.”
This door came down with a thud equal to the last.
“Now what?” asked Cate. “Close the rest of the doors and join the librarians on level five to await our inevitable defeat and capture?”
“The captain didn’t order us to join that fight,” said Wolf. “Just to buy as much time as we could so they can get into Armstrong.”
“Just when I was beginning to develop a smattering of respect.” Cate turned away in disgust. “This cowardice in the face of battle is why the Prodryans will ultimately—”
Wolf jabbed the spray wand in Cate’s face. “Finish that sentence, and I’ll make you swallow this thing.”
“My point is that we could purchase additional time for your comrades through active, violent resistance.”
Wolf backed down the stairs, spraying as she went.
“It’s true, the Krakau will be armored and heavily armed,” Cate continued. “We would certainly be killed, probably within minutes. However—”
A strange voice cut him off. “You ready, Wolfgang?”
Wolf harnessed her wand and shut down the compressor before turning to face a small group of armed librarians waiting just beyond the open door to level three. Wolf recognized only two of them. Nancy stood at the front, rifle over one shoulder, knife and pistol hanging from her belt.
Wolf turned to Melvil. “I thought you’d be down on seven, looking after Cindy.”
“Cindy’s safe.” Melvil adjusted his spectacles and drew himself up. “But the Krakau attacked her pack. I don’t know how many of them survived. I’m fighting for them, as well as for the library.”
“What is this?” asked Cate.
“Nancy pulled me aside earlier.” Wolf counted a total of eight librarians in the group. “Said some of them didn’t like the idea of sitting on their asses, waiting for the Krakau.”
“You said your captain didn’t order you to fight,” Cate said accusingly.
“That’s right.” Wolf grinned. “Didn’t order me not to, either.” She turned her attention to the librarians. “Did you check our escape route to level four?”
“It’s disgusting,” said Nancy. “But it should work. I’ve got a few bombs from Jessamyn’s cache. I think we can make this next part work.”
“Why is this one part of the fighting?” Cate jabbed a claw at Nancy. “She’s small and old.”
Nancy ran a hand through her mohawk. “Being small makes me a harder target. As for old, that just means I’ve had time to learn more dirty tricks. If you don’t want me to demonstrate on you, I suggest you shut your face.”
“Take up position on level four, by pillar 18C,” said Wolf. “Cate and I will meet you there.”
Cate hesitated. “What exactly will the two of us be doing?”
Wolf clapped him on the arm, then grimaced and wiped her hand on her pants. “Making life hell for the Krakau.”
* * *
Monroe only fell off his camel twice: once while mounting, and once while dismounting. The second time, he just lay on his back in the snow and looked up at Mops. “I’m going to need everything from my hips down replaced.”
“You and me both.” Mops pressed both hands against a pine tree and shook her legs one at a time, trying to work out the worst of the throbbing and stiffness. She was hot, itchy, and having trouble adjusting to stable ground after the swaying walk of her camel.
Bev finished feeding the camels and sent them on their way. She rejoined the others and pointed through the trees. “Welcome to Armstrong Space Center.”
Despite a century and a half of disuse, Mops could clearly make out five broad, circular launch pads stretched out along the shore, each one spaced about three hundred meters from the next. At the center of the pads stood the remains of rectangular towers.
“Launch gantries,” said Bev, following her gaze. “What’s left of them. Most of gantry three toppled a decade ago, and number five looks like the next stiff breeze will take it out.”
The second pad also held a Krakau shuttle, along with two fighters. Mops glanced back at Monroe. “You think you can fly that shuttle?”
Monroe sat up with a groan. “As long as it doesn’t spit at me.”
Mops chuckled and turned back, trying to visualize this place as it had once been. She imagined a sleek lunar shuttle standing proud against the gantry. A personal transport bringing the crew to the launch pad. Spotlights shining from the ground. Crowds watching from a safe distance, waiting for the roar and flare of ignition.
“What happened to the lunar colony after the plague?” asked Rubin.
Bev bowed her head. “Twenty-three people were living on the moon at the time of the outbreak. Things spread too fast for a retrieval mission. From the recordings we dug up, they lasted almost two years after losing support from Earth.”
“Two years.” Mops turned to the others, her back against the tree. “Humans built this place. We were exploring space long before the Krakau showed up. We made it to the moon, built a colony there. Twenty-three human beings survived two years on their own on an airless rock in the sky. That’s who we were. That’s who we’re going to be again someday.”
“Assuming we’re not captured and killed.”
Mops closed her eyes. “Yes, Rubin. Assuming we’re not captured and killed.”
She shifted her attention to the complex of buildings on the near side. Three long hangars sat parallel, their curved, segmented roofs making her think of giant metal Glacidae.
Her monocle gave her a clearer view of a fallen water tower and a large four-story building with a series of old towers and satellite receivers on the overgrown field beside it.
“Ferals.” Rubin pointed toward the shore.
“I see them.” Mops zoomed in, trying to get a count. At least five ferals trudged back and forth in the knee-deep water, just beyond a metal fence that surrounded launch pads one through three, along w
ith most of the nearby structures.
The ferals walked with their bodies hunched over, their faces close to the waves. From time to time, their hands disappeared into the water, like tiny cranes scooping up ice and wet sand. Occasionally, one would bring a handful of sand to its mouth.
“They’re hunting,” said Bev. “Crabs buried in the sand for the winter, starfish washed toward shore, things like that.”
“That fence is of Krakau construction. Electrified, with motion detectors on every third post.”
“What range?” asked Mops.
“I’d suggest you keep back at least two hundred meters to avoid detection.”
Mops passed the warning along.
“You have any bright ideas for getting inside?” asked Bev.
These were Krakau. That meant a high volume of water circulation, with infusion tanks, filtration systems, and more. “Monroe, if you were going to set up water intake and treatment here for a group of Krakau, how would you do it?”
He knelt beside her, studying the layout. “Ocean water should be salty enough for them. Assuming fewer than a hundred Krakau, one intake pipe and one outflow should be enough. See that strip of broken concrete between pads one and two? It looks like that area was dug up recently. That would give a straight line to run a feed to those three warehouses and that complex of buildings.”
“Wouldn’t they have to keep the two pipes separate?” asked Bev. “Otherwise they’d be drinking their own sewage.”
“Not if they’ve got it on a timer,” said Mops. “Pull in the day’s water first thing in the morning, then flush out yesterday’s waste. Wait twenty-four hours for your sewage to wash away, then repeat.”
Bev’s face wrinkled. “Are you suggesting we try to crawl in through the sewer? You might be right about the pipes, but we don’t know where they lead, or how to find—”
“I’m suggesting we get ourselves a guide.” Mops pointed to the water. “What happens when a disposal line clogs and the automated cleaning systems can’t handle it?”
Monroe grinned. “They send the janitor to fix it.”
* * *
“We’re in position.” Mops secured her boots to her pants, then pulled out her gloves. To her left, Rubin was doing the same. “Doc, adjust our camo, please.”
Mops’ uniform darkened, taking on the blotchy brown appearance of the sand beneath the water.
They’d circled around to the north side of Armstrong Space Center, reaching the beach well beyond launch pad five. There they’d discovered what had once been a memorial park with old rockets laid out along the ground, and were using the largest for cover.
Mops put a hand on the riveted metal. “Can you imagine flying into space in this thing?” Mops asked. “Squeezed into that tiny nosecone on top of so many tons of explosive fuel?”
“There are holes rusted through the length of the rocket,” Rubin pointed out. “It wouldn’t survive being lifted into launch position, and fuel ignition would vaporize the lower half.”
“I meant—never mind.” Mops turned her head, addressing Monroe again. “Have they noticed us?”
“Not that we can see,” said Monroe. “Ferals are still fishing, but otherwise, the place is dead.”
Mops opened her collar and drew the thin, flexible bubble over her head. With her infantry helmet lost, she had to make do with the emergency helmet built into her uniform. EMC uniforms were designed to endure short periods of vacuum in space. It should hold against a little water.
Her monocle confirmed she was now airtight. A second icon lit up as Rubin finished sealing her own uniform.
“Permission to speak freely?” Monroe asked.
“Granted.” Mops knew what he was going to say, and why he’d fallen into the stiff formality of his infantry days to say it.
“This is a stupid plan, sir. There’s an excellent chance you’ll be killed.”
“Shot, yes. Killed, no. Not right away.”
“I should be going in. Not you.”
“We’ve been over this.” The crust of ice at the edge of the water gave way beneath Mops’ weight. She waded deeper, each step squelching up a cloud of dirt and mud. “Just watch our backs.”
“Always.”
“Thanks.” She waded deeper. A small timer appeared on her monocle, letting her know she had thirty minutes of air.
Mops dropped prone. She had to fight her suit’s buoyancy as she crawled toward deeper water. She dug her hands into the muck and weeds to keep herself submerged. Every once in a while, she thought she saw movement through the sand and silt, but nothing stuck around long enough for her to get a good look.
“How’s it coming, sir?” asked Monroe.
“A hundred meters down, another one-point-four kilometers to go,” Doc broadcast. “This could be a problem, given your rate of oxygen consumption.”
Mops checked her timer. “You think?”
“Snapping at your AI wastes oxygen,” Doc chided.
“We’ll have to improvise.”
The one-minute oxygen alert flashed just before they reached the Krakau fence, which jutted into the ocean between landing pads three and four. Rubin still had two minutes left.
Mops pulled one of the spare compressor hoses from her harness, along with a utility knife. The blade eventually sawed through the middle of the reinforced hose. Mops sheathed the knife and handed one piece of hose to Rubin.
“If you’re about to do what it looks like, might I remind you that your suit’s insulation only works as long as you keep the freezing water outside?”
“I’m aware,” said Mops. “And might I remind you that humans require oxygen?”
Doc gave an impressively human-sounding sniff of disdain. “Yet another of your species’ many design flaws.”
Mops took several deep breaths, using up the last of the suit’s warm air, then unsealed her collar. Icy water rushed in, making her gasp. Clamping one end of the hose in her mouth, she poked the other up above the surface and blew hard to clear the water. Cold, metallic air filled her lungs.
“Your body temperature is 32.4. You’ve got about two degrees before hypothermia starts.”
Mops moved as quickly and carefully as she could. Despite her caution, she twice choked on water when the end of the hose slipped below the surface. It wasn’t long before her fingers and toes grew numb. Her limbs felt stiff.
“Another hundred meters.”
She grunted acknowledgment.
The Krakau water line was easy enough to find—a standard twenty-two-centimeter extruded polymer pipe, dark brown in color. It lay on the sand like a fat, lazy snake, jutting several meters through the bottom of the fence.
“You’re frowning. What’s wrong?”
Mops couldn’t speak, but she could subvocalize enough for Doc to understand. “Whoever installed this thing only buried it about ten centimeters below ground.” Given the temperatures, it was only a matter of time before the freeze-thaw cycles burst the pipe. If any of her team ever did such a lazy job, she’d toss them out an air lock.
A set of horizontal flap valves covered the end of the pipe, preventing backflow. Mops pulled out her plasma torch. It took three tries for her clumsy fingers to switch it on. Bubbles and steam erupted from the one-centimeter flame.
“I’ve informed Monroe that you’ve reached your destination. Your temperature is down to 31.4.”
Rubin hunched behind her, rifle in hand, as Mops finished burning a neat hole through the side of the pipe. She replaced the torch and took a tube of emergency hull sealant. The ocean water blurred her vision, and she briefly lost sight of the hole she’d made. She felt along the pipe until she found it again. Breaking the sealant cap free with her teeth, she jammed the nozzle through the hole and squeezed the contents into the pipe. She shoved the empty tube back into her harness.
A bright o
range worm appeared to crawl out of the hole as the foam expanded. It was half a meter in length by the time everything dried and hardened. Mops grasped the worm with both hands and broke it free.
“Rubin is asking if you’re finished.”
“Not quite.” She swam to the fence and burned another hole in the pipe. While the edges cooled, she pressed a small valve into place. A quick squeeze of liquid titanium around the seam secured it.
“She wants to know how long you need.”
“A few more minutes.” Mops hooked her compressor hose to the valve, ran an intake line up out of the water, and switched it on. “It could be hours before the Krakau notice the blocked pipe. I’m going to overpressurize it. If we’re lucky, it will cause a catastrophic failure on the other end, maybe even set off a few . . . eruptions inside.”
“You’ve got a curious feral wading your way,” said Monroe. “I have a clean shot.”
Mops checked the pressure reading. “Don’t fire unless I give the order.”
“Rubin is swimming toward the feral.”
With one hand on the compressor and the other holding both the intake line and her own air hose above water, Mops could do nothing but watch as Rubin slung her rifle over her shoulder and pulled a handful of dehydrated leathery fruit from her pocket. She held it toward the feral, her hand just above the water.
The feral snatched the fruit and began to eat.
“Now the rest of them are en route,” Monroe warned.
Rubin kept moving, drawing the ferals away from Mops and the pipe.
“Doc, please tell Rubin that getting eaten by ferals is not an acceptable plan. Monroe, if it looks like Rubin’s in trouble, take those ferals down.”
“Understood,” said Monroe.
“Rubin insists she’s got this under control.” Doc paused. “I think that’s what she’s saying. She mumbles when she subvocalizes. She may have told me she sundered a mole.”
The minutes crawled as Rubin led the ferals farther down the shore. How much food did she have tucked away in her pockets? By now, they were far enough Mops could only make out vague shapes. She focused instead on her monocle, watching Rubin’s vital signs.