If Tomorrow Comes

by Nancy Kress

  Leo waited. None of the enemy had crossed onto the perimeter. Isabelle stood in front of them, waving her arms and talking. It seemed to Leo that the men were listening, but he couldn’t be sure. He lined up a shot at the guy holding the cookie jar, a shot that wouldn’t hit Isabelle. Stupid fucking civilian …

  Christ, she was brave.

  Whatever she was saying, it seemed to be working. The pipe guns were lowered. Eight of the dozen men seemed to be arguing with four others. They were all young, all jacked up. Leo felt the familiar strain: adrenaline with no place to go, a kind of mental blue balls. He didn’t want to kill anybody unnecessarily, but—

  Eight of the four turned back. Isabelle argued with the others. Leo couldn’t tell who was winning. Then the south door opened, and Salah Bourgiba ran around the building toward Isabelle.

  Fuck fuck fuck—

  Before Owen could even get out his order to go back inside, the man with the cookie jar swung his head to see a Terran male running toward him. He hurled the cookie jar at the compound, screaming, “Vaccine! Vaccine!”

  The cookie jar landed halfway across the perimeter and exploded.

  Leo fired.

  The man went down. The other three ran, weapons lowered. Owen yelled, “Hold your fire!”

  People screamed, running blindly in the dark. Leo could see them all, along with everything that was there and—more important—everything that wasn’t. The IED had blown up without scattering shrapnel, without breaching the building, without touching Zoe, Owen, or Kandiss. It was the sorriest bomb he’d ever seen. Isabelle was all right. Even that stupid ass Bourgiba hadn’t been injured. But the Kindred that Leo had shot lay dead just inside the open zone.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Salah blamed himself for the death.

  If he hadn’t stupidly, without thinking it through, run toward Isabelle … But he’d seen the pipe guns the men from the camp carried, he’d known how heavily armed the Rangers were, he’d seen Isabelle vulnerable and exposed to both sides and some atavistic masculine instinct had strangled all thought except to protect her. Protect! How? She was better equipped to deal with unrest in the camp than he could ever be, and the Rangers were trained to accomplish their objectives as efficiently as possible. Which that prick Lamont had done: only one man had died.

  Salah’s fault.

  He stood in the bathroom of the compound, needing to calm himself before he returned to the meeting going on in Marianne’s room. Illathil had abruptly ended. Ree^ka-mak had been told everything that happened. In the camp, the Kindred mourned their dead. The Rangers were on high alert, or code red, or whatever they called it, against further violence. Branch remained on duty in the locked lab with the leelees, living and dead, and the safe holding vaccines and spore packets. And here Salah was, stupidly standing in a bathroom, his back against the door, trying to gain control of himself.

  Salah’s father had been Muslim but his maternal grandmother had been French, a Catholic. Words from the Mass, which he had not thought about since his grandmother died thirty-five years ago, hammered at his mind in three languages:

  Ma faute, ma faute, ma très grande faute.

  Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

  Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

  A soft knock on the door. “Salah?”

  “Coming, Claire.” He ran the water briefly and came out.

  She said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He looked at her: tiny, sweet-natured, smart as hell; in some ways, Claire Patel was the heart of the Terran expedition. Younger than Marianne, more mature than Branch, more driven than Salah. But, this time: wrong.

  Then she said the only thing that could help him: “Isabelle doesn’t blame you.”

  He touched her shoulder briefly and they went back to the meeting. Ree^ka-mak sat upright in Marianne’s bed, her face a fantastic topographic mask of sorrow. Her half-blind eyes, however, were steady. She said, “The people who attacked this place of healing must be named and”—Salah did not know the Kindese word—“and that will be done. Salah-Bourgiba-mak, I have decided that you will carry me to the camp to talk to the Mothers gathered there.”

  A shrewd move. She was the only one who could calm the camp, and if he carried her, no one would attack him. They would see that she did not hold him—or any of the Terrans—responsible.

  But Isabelle, who had been translating the Mother of Mothers’ words for Claire and Marianne, said in Kindese, “That may not be possible, Ree^ka-mak.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Rangers have forbidden any Terrans to leave the compound—anyone, I mean, of the new expedition, who is involved in creating the vaccine.”

  “I will talk with Lamont-mak. Also with the Terran who killed Bel¡lak^ha.”

  “That will not be possible, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “The soldier’s superior is responsible for his … his group’s actions, and Lieutenant Lamont will not explain them to you.”

  “They do not recognize my authority?”

  “Over our people, yes. Over Terrans, no.”

  “Then do they recognize Marianne-mak’s authority over the Terran lahk?”

  “No,” Isabelle said.

  Salah realized that Ree^ka-mak knew all this already; she was making a point.

  “Then,” the Mother of Mothers said, “Lamont-mak recognizes no authority but his own?”

  Yes. And history had shown, over and over, that military authority unrestrained by civilian control was the harbinger of disaster. However, Salah knew he was biased; he didn’t like or understand the Rangers, not any of them. Isabelle did.

  Isabelle said, “The ambassador that Lieutenant Lamont recognized as authority died in the Russian attack. I think the Rangers are trying to carry out her orders, which were to protect Terrans on World. Mother of Mothers, the man who killed Bel¡lak^ha was doing that. The Rangers could have killed many more of the men who attacked from the camp. They did not. Neither Lieutenant Lamont nor Corporal Brodie is at fault here.”

  “I do not blame them.”

  “Nor is Salah-kal to blame for rushing to me.”

  “I do not blame him. The people to blame are in the camp, those who made weapons and used them to try to obtain vaccines before others. Salah-mak will take me to the camp, and one soldier will go with me so that all can see that I know where fault lies. Now that Marianne-mak has created more vaccine, we must create a plan for giving it. This will not be easy. It is also not a Terran concern. This is my order: Give the fifty existing vaccines to everyone in the compound, immediately.”

  “There are fifty-two, Ree^ka-mak.”

  “There are fifty to decide. Two have been reserved for Noah Jenner’s wife and child. No one knows if the child will inherit her father’s immunity.”

  How had she known all that? Conversations must go on among the Kindred scientists from which Terrans were excluded.

  Ree^ka-mak said, “The two vaccines for Llaa^moh¡ and her child are approved. She has worked here on the vaccine. After you vaccinate the rest of our people within these walls, you will have twenty-six vaccines left. How fast can more be prepared?”

  Marianne said, “I don’t know. We will start right now and work day and night.”

  “Noah Jenner will give the twenty-six vaccines to people he trusts, to take to the lahks of the scientists here, divided equally. The Mothers of those lahks will decide what to do with their doses. Whoever receives them must travel here because when the spore cloud comes, death will be everywhere but here. Marianne-mak, would bringing more scientists here help create more vaccines faster?”

  Isabelle translated. “No,” Marianne said. “Tell her it’s not a question of personnel but of time to grow the cultures.”

  “I understand. Then you must work. As soon as Noah-mak arrives, send him to me. Now we will talk about who gets the new vaccines you will create.”

  “One thing more,
” Marianne said, in English. “Does she understand that the synthesized vaccine proved effective in leelees, but that it has not been tested in humans? That we don’t actually know how or even if it will work? There are strains of flu that mutate so fast we can’t—”

  Isabelle put her hand on Marianne’s arm. “She knows, Marianne. Believe me, she knows. She—”

  Branch burst in without knocking. Salah’s heart began a slow, painful thud in his chest. The young assistant trembled and his eyes practically rolled in his head. “I only left for a minute! When Claire—Dr. Patel”—he blushed a deep, mottled crimson—“wanted to go outside to see what happened, I didn’t want her to go, after the bomb I mean because it seemed too dangerous even though a lot of people ran out and then Rangers came through the compound to check it out, so I thought it was all safe, and everything was so confused—I ran after Dr. Patel and I must have left the door unlocked—”

  Marianne seized Branch’s arm. “What happened? Are the cages with infected leelees—”

  “No, no,” Branch said. “The cages are intact. But the safe was open. No live spores were taken, but all the original vaccines are gone. Stolen.”

  It took a moment for Salah to process this: stolen. By someone inside the compound. The Kindred scientists, who were the only ones who needed it; all the Terrans were—probably—already immune. Who could possibly—

  Isabelle’s face had gone rigid as stone. She said, “Find Austin. Branch, Salah, Claire—”

  “We’ll all look,” Claire said.

  But a thorough search of Little Lab, of Big Lab, of every bunk room and closet, and Austin could not be found.

  CHAPTER 11

  Traveling at night was thrilling. It would have been better, of course, if he had night-vision goggles like the Rangers and if he didn’t have his mother with him, but it was still thrilling. Clouds obscured the moons but Austin carried a flashlight. Bringing his mother now was necessary because there might not be another chance to get away like this. Austin had actually slipped right out the unguarded north door, the one in the clinic kitchen, when everybody rushed outside to see the bomb and the Rangers had been too busy to keep people penned up. Austin was proud of his ability to elude them.

  He was proud, too, of all the rest of his plans. He’d hidden in a dark orchard until everyone was asleep. Then he’d gone into his lahk, collected all the things for the journey, and left a note before waking his mother. “I’m going to take you to a safe place,” he’d whispered to her, pleased with how mature that sounded. Kayla had been confused at first, but she was in one of her quiet periods, and didn’t that piece of luck prove that he was doing the right thing? He was going to protect her. That’s what men did on Terra. Ranger Kandiss had said so, where lahks were different than here. This appealed to Austin, who wanted things different because he was.

  “You all right, Mom?” he said in English.

  She nodded, eyes on the ground. They were trudging through a field of sleeping skaleth¡, shadows against a line of trees. Kayla had said little. Austin knew the signs; soon his mother would start crying for no reason. He would be patient with her this time. Mature. He wasn’t a child anymore.

  “Here, drink some water,” he said, offering her the canteen. “We still have a long way to go to safety.”

  * * *

  “Their next assault,” Owen said, “will be better planned. Only we’re not going to let them make another assault.”

  Dawn stained the sky. Leo had had two hours sleep in the last twenty-eight. All through the night, the squad had maintained stepped-up surveillance. The refugee camp seethed with activity but no one stepped into the perimeter, and as far as Leo could tell, the activity was more about mourning than fighting.

  Still, Owen was right. The camp held enough angry males of fighting age to mount another assault, and added to the desperation and boredom of every refugee camp that had ever existed would now be anger over the bomber that Leo had shot.

  Not that the fucker hadn’t deserved it. If he’d been better at making bombs, Isabelle would be dead.

  Still … these were people not used to fighting, pretty terrible at it, and told not to fight by their leader, the really old lady. Something didn’t quite add up here, but now wasn’t the time to figure it out.

  Owen said, “We’re going into the camp for a search and seizure. All weapons, anything that looks like an IED or the makings for an IED. Standard search-and-seizure procedures.”

  Leo blinked. There were four of them and at least five hundred people in the camp, whole lahks, with more arriving every day. He risked a sideways glance at Zoe. She shifted forward onto the balls of her feet, eager. This was what Rangers trained for; the Seventy-Fifth was basically a direct-action raid force.

  He said, “Sir, permission to ask questions.”

  “Go ahead, Brodie.”

  “Are we also looking for the missing kid, Austin Rhinehart, or the vaccines he stole?”

  “No. Rhinehart isn’t part of our protectee group. If you find him, you can report his whereabouts to Dr. Bourgiba. But if Rhinehart is armed and he attacks, treat him like any other insurgent.”

  The kid was thirteen. But again, Owen was right. In Brazil, rebels had used thirteen-year-olds as suicide bombers.

  They received the rest of Owen’s OPORD, did the precombat inspection, and moved into the camp as the sun rose orange over the horizon.

  Leo worked with Kandiss. They entered each tent, herded the males outside under Kandiss’s guard and the women, kids, and old men into a corner. Leo tore apart the tents’ interiors, which took about two minutes because there wasn’t much in any of them: sleeping mats too thin to hide weapons, cooking pots and dishes, food supplies in tightly woven baskets, clothing. A few books, toys, musical instruments. A radio, always. These people traveled light.

  The women glared at him or cowered, and some of the youngest kids cried. Leo knew how he must look to them in his armor and helmet and weapons. In Brazil, he’d sometimes given candy to kids in the villages. Not here.

  One little girl, bolder than the adults in her tent, stepped forward and shyly touched his boot.

  No weapons or IED makings in the first eight tents. The camp was in chaos but it was a pretty controlled chaos—no resistance, no attacks. People stood where they were told and returned inside tents when the ends of rifles were waved in that direction. But Leo knew it wouldn’t last, and it didn’t.

  When he emerged from the ninth tent, having found nothing, a group of Kindred rushed toward him. Kandiss turned from the men he had herded together. One of the rushers raised a pipe gun. At this range one of those could kill him, depending on what the fuck they’d devised for ammo. Leo shot him. The others dropped their weapons and raised their hands. From the corner of his eye, Leo caught movement. From another direction, an insurgent raised a pipe gun aimed at Kandiss. Before Leo could drop him, the man flew backward in a spray of.… piss?

  No. Water. A group of three Kindred wielded a hose that shot out yellow water. The hoses were used to bring drinking, cooking, and bathing water to the camp from a pond, but Leo hadn’t realized they could deliver such force. The man on the ground writhed and screamed.… too much screaming. He clawed at his eyes. The water had some yellowish chemical in it.

  The water-cannon-wielding men, Leo now realized, had some sort of badge sewn onto the front of their dresses. Cops?

  Two of them rushed forward, yanked the blinded man to his feet, and cuffed him behind his back. The third turned off the hose and, incredibly, said to Leo in English, “I greet you, Ranger.”

  “I greet you. You police?”

  But this was beyond the Kindred’s English. He turned to the attackers, who had dropped their weapons, and began yelling at them. Zoe and Own jogged up. Owen said, “Report!”

  Leo explained while Zoe and Kandiss covered them. Owen, expressionless, said, “Okay. Berman, take these insurgents into custody and tie them to those trees over there. Kandiss and Brodie, finish
search and seizure.”

  They did. Owen walked to the compound, which again had civilians pouring out of it in response to the shooting, wearing nightclothes. To Leo these looked indistinguishable from daytime dresses. Owen began arguing with Dr. Jenner, Dr. Patel, and two of the Kindred scientists.

  In the shooter’s tent, they found sixteen more pipe guns and some bomb-making supplies. Weapons manufacturing on Kindred was stepping up fast. But no other tent held weapons and no one opposed their searches. Kindred glared at Leo resentfully.

  As the squad left the camp, men took away the corpses of the two men, bearing them on their shoulders, their faces twisted with grief.

  Leo took roof duty. He watched the camp. He swept his weapon three-sixty to make sure nothing crept up from behind. He sweated inside his heavy kit as the orange sun rose in the alien sky, above the sweet-smelling dark leaves of gardens and groves and fields. And he thought about what he had seen when the civilians flowed from the compound: Isabelle Rhinehart in the circle of Salah Bourgiba’s arm, her pale hair loose across his shoulder, her lips open as she talked to him, his eyes gazing down at her with intensity and possession.

  * * *

  Salah wasn’t sure how it happened. Isabelle was upset over Austin’s theft of the vaccines, yes. She had stood mere feet away from the Kindred that Leo Brodie had shot, and it was entirely possible she could have been shot herself. The Mother of Mothers was dying. Bombers and shooters had appeared where none had been before. The world was ending, except for that portion of it that could be saved by synth-vac. All that was true. It was a wonder that anyone remained sane.

  True, too, that Salah had seen before the confused and sometimes startling reactions of people involved with so much death. Some froze. Some withdrew. Some numbed all feeling. Some became manic, some furious. Some turned to alcohol or drugs or, yes, sex.

  He wanted to think it was more than that with him and Isabelle.

  They’d come back from the camp, his arm around her, even though she didn’t seem to need support. He wasn’t sure what she needed until they walked down the covered passageway to the clinic and one of them—which? He wasn’t sure—turned to the other. The kiss was brief, sweet, but not long; other voices rounded the corner from Big Lab.