Embustero- Pale Boundaries

by Scott Cleveland

  Saving the organ would have tripled his recovery time, but he wouldn’t be without it for long. Biopsies were dispatched to a leading biotech firm on Hain’s World before he woke from surgery, and in six to ten months he’d be under the knife again, receiving a genetically identical, if chronologically younger, organ grown for him courtesy of the Sarmak Family.

  There was a similar scar on his chest where the same knife that ravaged his kidney had plunged between ribs and pierced his lung, the ribs themselves having prevented the twisting motion of the blade that might have necessitated the removal of that organ as well.

  McKeon had no recollection of the event, or anything for nearly twenty-four hours prior, and he found that the loss of memory bothered him more than the physical void. The latter constituted an insult to the flesh, but the former an insult to the self. Damage to the flesh could be put right, but a piece hacked out of the psyche, well, that was forever.

  Stop whining—you’re lucky to be alive at all!

  The wounds had essentially exsanguinated him, blood loss leaving him clinically dead for nearly two hours while he lay zipped inside a plastic bag filled with snow. Without that critical chill to slow biological processes the cells in his body would have consumed their reserves of oxygen and died en masse.

  He shook off the thought, refused to let it develop into a fixation. The one he had already was enough.

  McKeon was angry—with the smoldering, slow-fused kind that faded to the background when he was busy, but seeped to the surface again the moment his mind idled. He was angry over the missing time and the missing kidney, but mostly he was angry that, for several minutes, he’d been left face-down in the snow while the clock ticked toward brain death. He was angry at the person who’d left him there.

  Alone, backed into a corner with little hope of survival and guessing, correctly, that he’d receive no quarter from his hunters, Reilly had done what McKeon would have—gone on the offensive and taken advantage of his antagonist’s self-assurance to bring the fight to their doorstep. McKeon felt no animosity toward an adversary who behaved as such; a hired gun couldn’t afford to invest the emotion to elevate adversary to enemy, not when his employer’s fickle priorities might transform today’s adversary into tomorrow’s ally.

  The ability to share a drink with a man you’d once shot at, or been shot at by, was the hallmark of a true professional. But there were rules—chiefly: no unnecessary cruelty. Killing was business, but cruelty drew the distinction between professional and barbarian. The manner of Virene Reilly’s death had violated that standard, however unintentionally or uncondoned on McKeon’s part, and he got what he deserved, in that regard. He was even glad, at some level, that Terson Reilly had felt the satisfaction of revenge before vanishing on that freezing night.

  McKeon did not blame Terson Reilly for his near-death. The insidious, gnawing anger he felt was aimed squarely at his own employer: Halsor Tennison.

  McKeon had worked in the security-for-hire business since he was twenty-five. He knew going in that his employers typically considered security personnel expendable, tools to be used and replaced as needed. He held no illusions that twenty years of loyal service to the Sarmak family had changed their thinking.

  Why, then, was he so angry?

  Because his own thinking had changed. He’d lived on Nivia for twenty years, never requested nor accepted a transfer in all that time, married a pair of Minzoku women and established a household more permanent than most Onjin assigned to the Fort. He’d begun to think of himself as one of them.

  The sudden perceptual correction was a shock, leading to a sense of betrayal that he knew, intellectually, wasn’t valid. McKeon also knew that he had to get it under control, because with recent developments he had more yet to lose and Halsor Tennison was the only Onjin with both the power and—possibly—the inclination to help him.

  McKeon’s attention turned to the more immediate task: gearing up for the expedition over the coastal mountains into Minzoku territory. He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on the black, moisture-wicking long underwear followed by cold-weather combat fatigues. Over the top went a moisture and wind-proofed camouflage shell with integrated tac-vest and soft body armor. He bounced on the balls of his feet a few times to verify that the various clips and rings securing the ancillary equipment were properly taped before shoving his feet into rugged combat boots.

  Out into the barracks hallway, past doors behind which other men and women attached to the Fort’s security forces slept, down three flights of stairs to another corridor leading to the armory where Halsor Tennison stood waiting dressed in identical, if less-worn, combat gear.

  “Good morning, Stan,” McKeon’s employer offered pleasantly.

  “Morning, sir. Sleep alright?”

  Tennison made a so-so gesture. “A little uptight. You?”

  “Like a baby—nothing to worry about.”

  “I thought that the last time,” Tennison grimaced. “It didn’t end well, I recall.”

  “Well there you go,” McKeon replied lightly. “I don’t remember it at all.”

  “Ah. I guess that explains it.”

  McKeon punched in his access code and held the door aside for the other man. The weapons, load-out and spelunking gear prepared the evening before lay spread on a table inside for their inspection. McKeon ran the func-check on his automatic rifle and sidearm with practiced ease, surreptitiously observing Tennison’s technique as he did the same. They slid ammo magazines into place, holstered pistols and clipped rifles to their tac-vests on three-point harnesses.

  Down another hallway, back out into the dark, chilly pre-dawn air to an airsled idling on the command post’s small pad where McKeon climbed in and turned to help his employer’s awkward boarding. He slid the door closed and gave the pilot a thumbs-up, finding his seat as the craft rose over the Fort. It nosed west, away from the coast, climbing rapidly. The interior illumination and navigation lights went dark a few minutes later and the craft banked east.

  The copilot handed back a pair of headsets. “Tac-rep?” McKeon asked curtly.

  “Surveillance drone holding station over the target area for four hours prior,” he replied. “No Minzoku patrols or gaijin outlaws in evidence. One sizeable biologic bedded down one-half klick southwest of the dropzone—probably a rockbear. Minzoku observation post on Mica Peak reported our departure and heading, no further communications intercepted since blackout and course change.”

  McKeon nodded and settled back in his seat. Unlike his employer and, unfortunately, most of his own security force, McKeon knew better than to underestimate Minzoku ingenuity and cunning. Lack of radio traffic did not necessarily mean lack of communication; it wouldn’t surprise him a bit if the observation post used simple field wire as its primary means of contact with the main base and only transmitted by radio what it intended the Onjin to hear. Likewise he took for granted the possibility that Sorenson Exports had provided Den Tun with far more sophisticated technology than the old man admitted to. Technology like night-vision optics, for instance.

  An hour later the airsled began its descent.

  “Dropzone in three minutes,” the copilot announced. “Weather is clear; no moon. No change in previous tac-rep. Stand by.” Red-hued illumination filled the passenger compartment. “One minute. Terrain is smooth, sloping starboard. Prepare to egress.”

  McKeon removed his headset and put on his helmet, lowering the night-vision visor and checking to see that Tennison had done the same.

  “Egress in ten seconds,” the copilot called out. “Nine..eight..seven..” The descent slowed abruptly; the sled lurched as landing gear met solid ground. “Go go go!”

  McKeon heaved the door aside and jumped out, Tennison close behind. They crouched as the sled’s thrusters swirled the air about them, then it was still and quiet except for the aircraft’s fading whine.

  McKeon’s heavy breath lit up like a halo around his head in the bright morning light. He stopped to
consult his mobile GPS and Hal sank onto a boulder gratefully, his own breath condensing to fog before him. An ascent of nearly one thousand vertical meters since being dropped off took them halfway up the flank of the coastal mountains’ eastern face where altitude overcame the ocean’s temperate influence, allowing crisp seasonal temperatures to assert themselves.

  The foothills they’d traversed in the darkness undulated toward the coast below them. The trees had begun to dress themselves with gold, brown and orange, preparing their feathery leaves for the autumn molt. The evergreens high above had been frosted by a centimeter or two of early snow overnight, which sparkled as it melted in the sun’s warmth.

  It was a remarkably beautiful view.

  McKeon sat down beside him and leaned back against his backpack, letting his rifle rest across his knees. “The Old Lady going to let you take Dayuki when we evacuate?” he asked. The question dredged up thoughts that Hal had done his best to suppress since the last conversation with his mother.

  “It doesn’t seem very likely.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What I have to,” Hal said tonelessly. “When the time comes.” He didn’t allow himself to consider what that would be or when it would occur. “How close are we?”

  McKeon pointed at a shadowed depression in the timber a few degrees to the south. “That should be it.”

  A thin layer of frozen humus crunched beneath their feet as they trudged on under a burden of spelunking gear. In short order they reached the lip of the depression. The stark outline of a sinkhole lay in the center.

  They shrugged off their backpacks and McKeon drove a pair of pitons into a narrow crack at the edge while Hal harnessed up. McKeon checked their rigging and they backed slowly over the edge. The wall of the sinkhole curved out and away, revealing the structure for what it was: a collapsed lava dome some thirty meters deep. The air went still as they dropped into the shadows and the bare inner walls blocked the slightest breeze from topside. The hiss of the line moving through their harness rings echoed back as they descended.

  A mound of rubble rose from the center of the sinkhole, covered by a layer of moss and scrub brush that survived on what sunlight and moisture found its way down. The growth petered out toward the edge of the pile where the curve of the roof blocked precipitation. The ground near the walls was dry and sterile as a desert. The dome was more oblong than round, one end narrowing rapidly into darkness. McKeon flicked on the twin LEDs imbedded in his helmet and set off in that direction.

  Fine dirt carried in over the centuries with spring runoff covered the cavern floor. Branches carried in by said runoff protruded here and there but the most numerous items scattered about were bones: bones of tiny animals, bones of large animals, single bones and partial skeletons, chewed and gnawed bones, dried scat full of pulverized bones and, finally, the nearly intact skeleton of a large carnivore still lying where the animal succumbed to starvation. The cavern narrowed for twenty meters and appeared to end at a rock fall, which had dammed the runoff and concentrated branches and bones like driftwood. They picked their way up the steep incline and just when it appeared that they would have to go to their bellies to continue, McKeon stood up, vanishing into the ceiling from the knees up.

  Hal found himself atop the rubble, standing in the cavity previously occupied by the rock now beneath his feet. A faint breeze fluttered around him carrying the earthy smell of damp soil tainted by the scent of—something—from deep within the cavern.

  “There’s quite a bit of circulation,” McKeon said when Hal mentioned the smell. “The ceiling is fairly porous farther in—when it rains outside it pours down here. We don’t have to worry about bad air.”

  They climbed down the other side of the rock fall to the edge of a yawning chasm. A rusted metal platform and steps led down into the dark­ness. Their condensed breath fled back toward the mouth of the cave with the breeze.

  Hal’s feet met hard, unyielding stone at the foot of the stairs. The cave floor was fairly level, textured like the surface of a frozen stream. The vertical walls were stratified and terraced as if cut by water, but the only characteristic the substance that created the tunnel shared with water was fluidity. Hal paused to examine a large flake that had fallen from the ceiling. The inner face, like the upper tiers of the tunnel, was glazed smooth by heat so great that the rock had softened and dripped like wax, forming rows of blunt stalactites two or three centimeters long that resembled giant drops of water clinging to the bottom of a flat surface.

  It was like looking fifteen thousand years into the past, when lava flowed from the peak of the ancient volcano. “Does this reach all the way to the coast?”

  McKeon’s light bobbed up and down. “Your Family stumbled on it during construction of the base, and incorporated it as an escape egress.”

  “The Minzoku never found it?”

  “Not from their end,” McKeon said, “and nobody’s eager to go too far in at this end. You’ll see why.”

  Their trek stretched on through a damp, dark passage. The constant drip of water splattered off the top of Hal’s helmet and ran down his neck when he glanced upward. It wasn’t until they’d penetrated the lava tube the better part of a kilometer that he noticed any significant change. First was the smell of damp earth, which grew gradually stronger, then he noticed what he first assumed to be lime or niter deposits staining the walls like pale lichen. Soon the substance covered the entire surface of both walls and spread out onto the floor where it was halted by the bombardment of dripping water.

  “What’s this?”

  “Bacteria,” McKeon said. “It likes it cool and moist, and gets plenty of organic byproducts to feed on from further in.”

  “That other smell,” Hal guessed. “Are there still active fumaroles down here?”

  “You’ll see when we get there. It’s a ways, yet.”

  The smell of soil diminished, slowly overpowered by a fetid stench that made Hal’s stomach lurch at times. Eventually it became too much for McKeon, too. He gave Hal two plastic bags with elastic openings to put on over his boots and a filter mask, which reduced the stench considerably.

  A short time later mud began to cling to Hal’s feet and he heard the sound of dry, rustling leaves overhead. He paused to peer into the darkness above and thought he saw movement, but the helmet light was too diffuse to make out detail. McKeon turned back and motioned him to continue. The combined illumination of both their helmet lights on the ground revealed a surface pocked with undulations. Hal kicked at the mud, exposing a layer of glistening white maggots as long as his finger writhing just below the surface.

  The hair on the back of his neck prickled with apprehensive dread. Hal slowly turned his eyes back to the ceiling. It wasn’t his imagination; there was movement—but the sound wasn’t made by leaves. And he wasn’t standing in mud.

  The skeletal remains at the cave entrance took on a chilling significance.

  “Are you crazy?” Hal choked. The roof of the cave was covered with bloodmoths—carnivorous insects that subsisted on carrion and other insects, but known to attack live animals as well. Their wingspan was only twelve to fifteen centimeters and they took tiny bites individually, but a swarm could strip man or beast to the bone in minutes. Millions of them dangled overhead, fluttering their wings to circulate the air around their bodies.

  “This is why we don’t worry about the Minzoku exploring from the open end,” McKeon grinned in his mask. “They hate these things.”

  “I’m not fond of them, either!”

  “Relax,” McKeon said. “They’re going into torpor for the winter. Nothing to worry about.” He played his light over the thick layer of stinking dung, centuries' worth of it, covering the floor. “The adults fatten up for the winter, then start regurgitating their meals. They drop eggs with their dung and vomit. The grubs consume the waste and pupate about mid-winter. The adults that survive hibernation come out of torpor and the pupae open in the spring. That’s when
you don’t want to be around.”

  “So how did the Onjin expect to evacuate the base through these?”

  “Flame throwers.”

  Slogging through calf-deep shit infested with giant maggots, surrounded by millions of flesh-eating bugs, wasn’t so bad after Hal got used to the idea. It was even fitting in light of his mission.

  It took two and a half hours to get through the worst of it. The smell of the bacteria returned when they removed their masks and foot coverings, flowery compared to what they’d been through. Hal’s only desire was to complete his task, get out of the cave and wash off the stink in a hot bath.

  The lava tube ended at a concrete plug where plasma cutters had chewed into the tunnel during the base’s construction. A simple steel hatch mounted in the center of the concrete squealed open on corroded hinges revealing a smaller concrete tunnel a dozen meters long. A more modern door with an electronic lock sealed the far end. McKeon punched in the code and the magnetic bolts in its frame drew back with a loud clack.

  Light spilled out as the door swung inward followed by a blast of dry, warm air. Hal found the transition as surreal as the journey: one moment standing in a dark, wet primordial cave, the next dry and warm in a sublevel of the Minzoku base. They shed their overgarments and surveyed the compartment that would be their home for the next several days.

  The room was ten meters wide and twenty meters long. Hal could discern the seam in the wall opposite the entryway where concrete sealed what had once been a corridor leading in from the rest of the base.

  The Onjin had taken great pains to isolate it from the rest of the complex. It had its own well and sewage system, three bunk beds, a kitchenette fully stocked with food, and even a tri-dee projector, although Hal suspected that the vids would be considered classics by now. Four barrel-like nuclear batteries supplied more than enough power for creature comfort and the array of tools available in lockers against one wall.