by Rajan Khanna
I smile. “Yeah,” I say, and I feel a twinge of something. More conflicted feelings. I know Mal was ready to kill me, but once more I had a part in that. Ben Gold, always fouling the water.
“Technically, Miranda stole it,” I add.
“Oh, well that’s all right then.”
We board the Dumah and I briefly show Diego the layout of the controls, covering both the flight controls and the controls that deal with the bank of monitors. Then I settle into the pilot’s seat and start up all the engines and rotors. A hum goes through the ship, and I feel a slight vibration. A purr, almost. Everything looks good, so I release the anchor and let us rise.
“She’s quiet,” Diego says.
“Sure is,” I say. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted her.”
Diego lays out the set of maps we brought with us. Using the information from Tess, we’ve managed to trace our route east, though we’ll need to check out the landmarks when we get to the right place.
I push the engines to full, turning us back toward the mainland. Even with full power it will probably take us a few hours.
Enough time to chat with Diego about why he’s really there. “You didn’t need to come,” I say.
“Yes I did. You said that you needed someone else to fly this thing.”
“I know. But it didn’t have to be you. You trying to prove something?”
“No.” He shakes his head and turns back to the monitors, examining the controls. “I wanted to help. And I needed to do something. I’ve been stuck in that house for too many days.”
I turn the chair to him and cross my arms. “And this has nothing to do with you showing everyone that you can still do this? That Gastown didn’t damage you that bad?”
His expression darkens and he sets his jaw. I realize I might be entering dangerous territory. He places both hands on the console. “I think you’re the one with something to prove,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
“Remember, Ben, Rosie and I were the ones who told you about the Gastown raiders coming for Miranda’s people. I saw you light out of there, desperate to save your friends. Only you didn’t.”
A wave, cold and angry, rises through me. “I did what I could to fight the raiders. I was outnumbered and outgunned.”
“Do you really think that?” he asks. “That you did everything you could?”
I become conscious of my heart beating hard in my chest, and I stand up from my chair. “Are you trying to imply something?”
He meets my eyes, his face expressionless. “Ben, I don’t need to imply anything. Are you telling me you don’t feel guilty about that?”
And of course as he brings it up, I do feel it resurface, that feeling that maybe I could have done more, could have tried more. The fear that maybe the old survival instinct got the better of me. And yet . . .
“I think you have me beat on the guilty-feelings front,” I say.
“What?”
“You’re practically wearing a sign around your neck that says, ‘I broke.’”
His eyes get wide. “You weren’t there. You don’t know—”
“That they tortured you? That they took you apart? It was pretty obvious.”
“Ben . . .”
“Fine. They broke you. They would have broken any of us. Me, you, Brana, Rosie—”
“Ben!” He slaps both hands down on the console, and the sound reverberates around us. His neck is rigid, the tendons visible.
I freeze.
He closes his eyes. When he speaks his voice is tight. “It’s not that I broke. You’re right. Anyone would’ve. It’s that I got caught in the first place.” He shakes his head, then rubs a hand over his head. “I asked too many questions, or maybe I asked the wrong questions, or—”
“Diego,” I say. “Jesus. That’s what you’re upset about?”
He levels me with a stare that practically staggers me.
I shake my head. “Who knows what tipped them off? Maybe they were on alert because of what we did with Miranda and the lab. Maybe they just got lucky. You saw how it was up there. A bunch of psychotic, bloodthirsty madmen with a bunch of cruel, insanely intelligent scientists behind them. We were all outclassed.”
He looks down.
The moment sits like that for a minute or so. Then I say, “I think the ultimate moral of this tale is that next time you and I should stick together and Miranda can stay with Rosie.”
“Rosie’s certainly not going to stick with you,” he says, the hint of a smile on his face.
I shake my head. “Diego, your sister scares me.”
He nods again. “I know.”
I laugh. I can’t help myself.
He shrugs. “You’ll work it out. You’ll have to.”
“Really?” I ask.
He shrugs again. “You’ll either work it out, or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or she’ll probably end up kicking your ass.”
I resolve to myself to try to work it out.
When Tess had told me about a prison camp, I hadn’t imagined an actual camp. I thought they might take shelter in a school or an old office building. Someplace where they would have hard walls between them and Ferals. Someplace where they would have a roof, or multiple roofs, between them and the air. I figured they took scientists for a reason and that they’d have to do experiments or analyze data or something. A school would seem ideal.
But no, the Cabal for whatever reason has created an actual camp. Not for the first time, I find I can’t fathom what they’re doing or why. Below us, as shown on the monitors, is a series of tents and other temporary structures. A thick-wire fence surrounds these, topped with barbed wire. Mostly good against Ferals, but not completely safe. I’ve seen Ferals climb, and I’ve seen some shrug off serious wounds when in the grips of hunger. That’s why they’ve constructed another fence on the inside, with a series of spikes or sharpened poles or whatever inside that ring. If a Feral manages to climb over the outer fence, he’s going to have a hard time getting through that inner layer. And I’m sure there are traps as well. A couple of gates allow access inside and out. I’d guess a guard is stationed in front of it at all times, but I can’t really make one out at this resolution.
“I’m amazed at how open it is,” I say to Diego. He’s bent over the screens, taking it all in. The sun is setting and we have only a few moments to get a clear look at the structure.
“Lucky for us,” he says.
“Yeah.” I shake my head.
“Maybe it’s a cut-and-run operation,” he says. “They’re not valuable enough. If something goes wrong, they get out and leave your friends on their own.”
“Maybe,” I say. The boffins are fairly capable people, but a group of them on their own in the open would make easy targets for anyone.
I make a quick sketch of the layout on the edge of one of the maps so I can remember. I look out the gondola and see the last of the sun’s orange glow slip beneath the horizon. “Okay,” I say. “Hit that switch.”
Diego does, and the infrared monitor springs to life. This is why I insisted we take the Dumah in addition to the Osprey. We’ve seen the structure, now we need to see who’s inside it.
Outlined on the screen are the red, yellow, and green glowing blobs of the heat down below us. The people are easy to see, thin slashes of color. Larger blobs appear to be fires.
“Good God,” Diego says. “This is incredible.”
“I know,” I say. Perhaps the most impressive of the Dumah’s many eyes.
As expected, in front of the gate is a guard, and what I take to be several others move around inside the fence. I mark them as guards because of their movements, within a certain area, back and forth. Stopping here and there. By far, though, the majority of the heat blobs are scattered among where I’d seen several of the tents earlier. As we watch, one blob moves to each of the tents, and then all the blobs inside move out into the center of the compound, line up into two orderly l
ines, then move into the largest tent, where they all settle into their own spaces and stay there.
“Makes sense,” I say. “It’s dark. They probably want to preserve whatever energy they have. Solar, I’d guess.”
“Maybe feeding time,” Diego says.
I nod. Obviously the boffins are valuable enough to feed. It’s generally accepted that the three most valuable resources are food, fuel or power, and ammunition. The boffins have to be worth something for the Cabal to spend so much food on them on a regular basis. It maybe explains why they are where they are and this place seems lightly guarded. They’re already expending enough resources on them. They can’t spare more.
“You get a count?” I ask.
“Thirteen, I think. Inside the big tent.”
“And the guards?”
He looks up at me. “Four.”
“Four?” I look down, and it looks like he’s right. All the guards I had spotted before, patrolling, and that was it. I’d expected more. Of both, sadly. We’d lost more boffins than that at the Core. But it’s better than nothing. I’d assumed we’d taken casualties. The raiders who took the place weren’t gentle. And the Ferals they’d dropped inside must have done some damage.
“Four,” I repeat. I nod to myself. “We can do that.”
“I know,” Diego says. “The trick is going to be getting in.”
“There’s no roof,” I say.
“Yeah, but what are we going to do, lower the ship right down on top of them?”
I smile. “Why not?”
“What if they start shooting the prisoners?”
My smile fades. “What do you suggest?”
“Drop me down outside the fence. I can take out the guard at the front. It should create enough of a distraction that you can get in at this corner.” He points to my map. “If I can take one out and attract another’s attention, that will leave two for you.”
“No.” I slam one hand down on the console. “No way. You’ll be an easy dinner for any Ferals that happen to be around. No cover. No place to run. Not to mention that your arm is still healing. How are you going to fire a gun?”
“I’m a good shot with one hand. I can do this.” He points to the screen. “There are no places for nests nearby. We looked. And there are no other heat traces.”
“And the minute you start shooting, any Feral within hearing distance is going to come sniffing around.”
“We’ll be out by then.”
“Jesus, Diego.” I sigh. “Then I’ll be the distraction and you go in.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know the scientists. You’re going to have to do it.”
“Damn it, Diego.”
“Ben,” he says. His eyes bore into mine. And I’m thinking, Don’t say it. Just don’t . . .
“You owe me this.”
He said it.
I’m aware of how ridiculous this is. I put him into harm’s way before, and now he’s asking me to make it up to him by doing it again.
I look back at the infrared monitor and the bright figures there. People I couldn’t save before.
“Fine. Do it,” is what I hear myself say.
My insides clench up a bit, but it’s like I’ve already flipped the switch to “Go,” and I start positioning the Dumah to lower Diego to the ground. “I’m going to have to put you down at a distance,” I say. “Can’t risk them seeing us. You going to be able to move okay?”
“I’ve been exercising a lot, Ben. I may be in better shape than I was before we went to Gastown.”
Like hell, I think.
I grab his hand, which is now covered with a worn leather glove. “Don’t make me regret this.”
I lower him down on the side opposite the gate. It will mean more walking for him but less chance of us being seen. We’re dark and quiet, but we still block out the stars. Luckily for us, there’s enough cloud cover tonight to help hide us.
Diego hits the ground, and I start moving to the edge of the compound. I flick on the radio and grab the transmitter. “Rosie,” I say.
After a moment she comes back to me. “Yeah.”
“Start moving in. Come in from the north. I want their attention focused there.”
“Where’s Diego?” she asks.
My stomach tightens again. “He’s busy right now. Just count off five minutes then move in.”
“Okay,” she says.
I huff out a breath, then flip the radio off. Then prepare to lower the Dumah so that I can go down to my least-favorite place in the world.
The ground.
My first thought as my boots touch ground is that it smells like shit. Literally. There must be a latrine or something nearby. Figures—you have to put it somewhere. I’m glad my mouth is covered with my scarf. My next thought is how comfortable and normal it feels to be covered from head to toe with clothes. Which makes me sad about how paranoid I am about infection. It also makes me think of Miranda and the two of us naked, and so my next thought is that I need to focus on the task at hand.
I hear gunshots and hope that means Diego is taking out the guards. At the very least it should mean that Diego is still alive. Unless some Ferals have got him and that’s what they’re shooting at.
Focus, Ben.
I have the revolver out and I’m crouching, moving steadily but not too fast. The first tent is empty. I see a bunch of simple tables inside with stuff on top of them. It’s too dark to make them out too well. I find myself wishing for the ability to see in infrared, but of course that’s just ridiculous.
But it would be really cool.
The next tent resembles the one I just passed, and the next. I don’t see anyone, though I check each one quickly.
It’s dark. Really dark. The clouds that helped to hide the Dumah are also hiding the moon, and the starlight only does so much. There are fires, though. I can see them off in the direction of the gate. That helps give me my bearings to find the big tent.
I start moving and hear a yell in the distance, but I can’t tell if it’s from pain or triumph. It makes me freeze for just a second, and that’s when someone tackles me and I fall to the ground on my back, the air in my lungs squeezed out by the weight on top of me.
He pins my gun arm to the side, pressing hard. He’s bigger than me, stronger. Heavier. Correction—she. I look up into a woman’s face, bandana or scarf tied bandit-style across it. A nose broke in several places. One eye scarred at the edges.
The face zooms toward me and then disappears in a blast of pain as her skull connects with mine. Then her fist hits me hard in the side. I reel from the pain and my hand, now freed, wants to fly up to my ringing skull, but instead I send it up to hers.
Not the mouth, I think. The eyes.
Her free hand reaches up to grab at mine, and I know she’s stronger. And her legs on top of me are squeezing, and I’m still struggling to get enough breath in me. My right hand, with the revolver in it, is already numb. But I keep clawing for her eye.
She starts forcing my hand away and I try to keep it there, but I can’t. She’s stronger and I’m getting weaker, but as my hand slips away I manage to grab the bottom part of her nose with my gloved fingers. I give it a hard jerk, and for a moment her head moves and I feel her weight shift and, tensing my whole body, I push myself to that side, and she slips a bit off of me.
I manage to get a fist into the side of her face as I inhale and I slam the same fist on her ear and then into her throat. The bandana isn’t too thick, and so I hammer her again and again.
She falls back for a moment, trying to suck in breath herself, and her hand comes off of my revolver hand. It’s weak, but I bring up my numb hand only to realize I’ve lost my grip on the revolver.
She hits me hard in the face, and I feel the warm wetness of blood somewhere. I raise my free hand and shift to one side so that the second blow gets me between my chin and chest. It hurts but not as much. I aim my revolver hand for her throat again but she catches it, so I go for her eyes again with
my left hand, and this time my fingers find it.
She roars in pain. I manage to roll her off of me, punching and kicking at her where I can. I see the revolver, lying on the ground, and I scramble for it.
She scrambles after me. With a hurt eye and an injured throat, she keeps after me, punching me in the stomach, in the chest, then in the groin, so close to where it would have curled me into pain.
Then my fingers curl around the grip of the revolver, I swing it around, and my finger finds the trigger.
Boom.
The shot is hasty and aimed poorly, but it’s so close. It takes her in the space between her shoulder and neck, and the flesh there is suddenly wet meat.
I push her back and scramble away as the blood sprays, blood that may be infected. I have no way of knowing. My ears are ringing and pain is leaping through my body from injury to injury, but I’m alive.
I get to my feet and move toward the tent, this time keeping a firm grip on the revolver. Any hope of surprise is gone.
When I get to the tent, standing in the entrance is another guard, dressed in furs and leathers. He holds a large automatic to the head of one of the boffins, a man I recognize. His name’s Anders. For a quick flash I feel a wash of relief, relief that it’s true. That the boffins, our boffins, are here. Then fear as I realize that I might lose one of them. Then anger at the animal holding the gun to Anders’s head. I quickly wrangle the anger under control.
“Drop your gun,” the guard says. And I know I should. But I don’t. If he shoots Anders, he has nothing. I’ll shoot him easily. And he has to know that. But then again, he looks like he’s from Valhalla and I don’t know how much reason goes into their decisions.
I’m fighting with myself—make a decision, Ben—and I decide to lower the gun. I don’t want to take any chances with the boffins’ lives. The guard’s eyes are on mine, and mine on his. I will my hand to lower.
It doesn’t immediately move, so I will it harder.
Then, before I actually move, the guard’s hand falters. I don’t know whether he suddenly thinks that maybe the boffins aren’t important to me, or maybe he realizes the position he’s in, but his hand moves for a moment and one of the boffins slams something into the side of the guard’s head. At the same time, Anders wriggles free, and as the opening appears, I drop to ground and shoot up at the guard. The hammer comes down, noise fills the air, and my shot hits the raider in the head, blowing his brains out against the back of the tent.