Protectors of Earth

by Felix R. Savage

  Onions.

  Cucumbers.

  Cabbages.

  We’ve walked more than a kilometer before Francie speaks. “I hated every fucking minute of this.”

  She hated working with me, my brain interprets.

  “I grew up on a farm, OK? We had one point five hectares underneath Newark. Old subway tunnels. Same kind of setup as this. And this was before anyone had the idea of marketing stoop labor as a historical recreation experience.”

  “Did you help out on the farm?”

  Her face looks red in the awful Hadean lights. “No. That’s the point. Me, help out? I was the boss’s daughter. I would go down after school, maybe pick some salad for supper, and think, ‘Boy, these guys work hard.’ I had no fucking idea.”

  She holds up both hands. There’s still dirt stuck in her nails, even though she’s clipped them down to the quick.

  “So I’m going to go home and tell my parents I want to work on the farm.”

  “I thought you hated it.”

  “I do hate it! That’s the point!” She rolls her eyes: I just don’t get it. But I do get it. I think. I’m starting to.

  “That’s why you broke up with Patrick, isn’t it?”

  “Huh?”

  “You feel like you have to make yourself do things you hate.”

  “Oh, bullshit, Scatter.”

  “To … I don’t know … prove something to yourself.”

  “You’re totally off-base.” But she’s eyeing me in a funny way, and I’m pretty sure I’m right.

  “Patrick’s the same. He’s always pushing himself.”

  “Yeah,” she says quietly. “He’s all about doing his duty.”

  I nod. “You and him were a great team. You made our team work.”

  “Now you’re giving me too much credit.”

  “Look what happened after you guys broke up. The team just … fell apart.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You should get back together.”

  What am I doing? Jay Scattergood, world-class self-saboteur. But it hardly matters, does it? The world’s about to end, anyway.

  “Well,” Francie says, and then, “Huh,” and then, “Maybe you should mind your own business.”

  I don’t answer. I’ve got the doomy feeling again, worse than ever. I hardly notice that we’re now walking across ‘our own’ fields, where we spent two weeks planting cruciferous vegetables.

  Francie counts rope fences. “Three, and … four. Now five stakes from the train tracks.”

  Aardie is excited, prodding at the ground with her robot arm. Francie drops to her knees in the dirt, nudging Aardie aside. She pulls up a stake and scrabbles in the earth underneath it. When she straightens up, she’s holding Pinkie Pie.

  “You buried it under the future broccoli?” I say.

  “I thought it was a pretty good place. Sure, it would get ploughed up sooner or later. But then it would be someone else’s problem.” She hesitates. “But when the plane was delayed, and I had time to think, I realized Pinkie Pie is my problem. Whether she ever hatches or not.” Another pause. “And, uh, I should say thank you, Scatter. For trying to help me hatch her. Even though it didn’t work.”

  “Ungh.”

  “Are you OK?”

  I’ve got my hands over the top of my head. I don’t know if I’m trying to protect myself, or pull the top of my own skull off. “I just feel like something really bad is coming,” I choke.

  And then something really bad does come.

  The train.

  11

  The train clatters down the tunnel at its full speed of 40 km/h, and decelerates to a stop, pinning us in its headlights.

  An amplified voice yells, “Ola! Arrete cá!”

  Bulky shapes leap out of the train. Dashing into the headlights, they’re body-armored, riot-helmeted. In fact they’re military police, the guys I really hate. I’ve been scared to death of them ever since I got caught with a black-market role-playing game back in the 11th Technical Support Regiment. They sent two MPs to my room to confiscate my computer. One of them punched me in the nuts, just because he was an asshole and I was a nerd, and I didn’t even file a complaint, I was so terrified. They kept my computer for a month, and when I got it back the memory was chock-a-block with really nasty porn.

  So that’s what the military police are like and now they’re fanning out around Francie and Aardie and me, training their guns on us.

  I should have known we wouldn’t get away with it.

  “Place ze egg on ze ground, mademoiselle,” blares the amplified voice. “Put your ‘ands on your ‘ead.”

  Francie clutches Pinkie Pie to her heart, turning this way and that.

  “Place it on ze ground!”

  “No!” Francie screams. “It’s mine! Fuck off!”

  The semi-circle of MPs tightens. There’s more than one gun pointing at my chest now.

  I slowly raise my hands. One of them has my phone in it. As it passes my face, I take a picture, and whisper: “Aardie, sic ‘em!”

  Brave, obedient Aardie leaps at the nearest MP. Shouts erupt. I was hoping she could distract them while Francie and I make a run for it, but I don’t get any further than plucking at Francie’s sleeve before the MPs pour fire into Aardie. Those stubby guns of theirs are energy weapons and they’ve got them on the highest setting. My poor mecha stiffens, blue fire sparking over her fur, and falls to the ground—in two halves. I guess my welds weren’t that great. The smell of burnt artificial fur taints the air. Oh, Aardie.

  But now half of the MPs swing around to point their guns the other way. There’s a commotion on the train. Another figure jumps down to the ground. I recognize the cavalry-jacketed silhouette: Patrick!

  He barrels through the MPs, leaps over Aardie’s halves, and plants himself in front of Francie, shielding her. “You want it that bad, come and get it!”

  The MPs advance.

  “Yeah! Bring it the fuck on!”

  “Patrick, fuck off! This isn’t your problem,” Francie yells.

  “Oh yes it is,” he says. I only hear this because I’m right next to him. His voice is low and thick with feeling. “Your problems are mine.”

  “Stop being a hero!” Francie shoves him.

  Patrick shoves her back.

  Pinkie Pie flies out of her hands. It tumbles through the air, towards the train tracks, the gold veins in its shell sparkling.

  And Mr. Newcombe must have taught his eldest son the rudiments of American football, too, because I’ve never seen a save like it. Patrick springs up, catches Pinkie Pie, and rolls onto his back with the egg in both hands.

  At the same time, an MP shoots him.

  The energy beam hits Pinkie Pie.

  A blue spot flashes on the egg. The shell cracks and bursts, showering Patrick with fragments.

  Out flies a tiny, pale cerise Void Dragon.

  “Oh, no,” Francie yells, as the baby dragon finds the source of the energy that cracked her shell. She drinks the laser beam. The gun in the MP’s hands turns into crackly black cardboard. Pinkie Pie touches down on his hands for a moment and then flies back into the air. All the MPs shoot at her. A dozen laser beams cluster on her, and she drinks the lot, flapping her wings in delight.

  The MPs finally understand that the more they shoot at Pinkie Pie, the happier she’ll be. They run away, radioing in panic.

  Francie helps Patrick to his feet. They struggle towards the train. As they climb the steps, Pinkie Pie lands on Francie’s head.

  I scoop up Aardie’s halves, burning my fingers on metal that’s still hot to the touch, and follow.

  We fall into dirty seats in the first carriage. Everyone’s here, huddling in wide-eyed shock: Paul, Milosz, Huifang (still in her Virgin Mary outfit), Badrick, and even Jeremy.

  “Fasten your seatbelts, boys and girls!” It’s a different voice from before. Not French.

  The train accelerates.

  I’m sitting right behind the driver. His seat i
s only enclosed by a low partition. I can see his face in the mirror.

  It’s Dr. Joy.

  Panic overtakes me, but it’s all of a piece with the premonition of doom that has me in its grip. I just sit there with the two halves of my broken mecha on my lap.

  The tracks rise. The whole tunnel is sloping upwards.

  We zoom out of the fields, into a storage area, and through it.

  “This better work,” Dr. Joy says grimly.

  There’s a blank wall ahead of us. No, it isn’t. It’s a door.

  It rises, not quite fast enough.

  “DUCK!” Dr. Joy yells.

  The edge of the door scrapes along the tops of the train’s sidewalls. With a hideous screeching noise, the train clears the tunnel, and accelerates into the open air.

  It is snowing again.

  *

  “This branch line connects to the freight rail network,” Dr. Joy shouts.

  Snow drives into our faces. We’re barrelling through a snowy canyon between gloomy fir trees. The train’s headlights reveal a worrying amount of snow on the track.

  I glance back at Francie and Patrick. Pinkie Pie is still clinging to Francie’s hair. Francie is trying to get Patrick’s coat open. Shit, how badly is he hurt?

  The others are crowding around. There’s nothing I can add to their efforts. And with Patrick down for the count, I’m the only person who knows about Dr. Joy’s treachery.

  I transfer Aardie’s halves to the seat beside me and lurch forward. I squat on the floor beside the driver’s cubicle, holding on as the train sways. “I know what you did.”

  “Hello, Jay. You know what I did? I just saved your asses.”

  “Before that.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dr. Joy frowns into the little windshield in front of him. The wipers are going like crazy.

  “The Terrorflop,” I say. “The Offense ship that crashed in Voorst Bos. You stole something from it. What was it? The comms log?” This is my best guess. He may have wanted to destroy the evidence that he was communicating with the Offense.

  “You’re accusing me of treachery,” he says slowly, “no, of outright treason, as well as theft. While I sit at the controls of a train that could take you and your friends to safety, or to a nasty, brutish, and short future in the trenches of Callisto. Do you think that’s wise?”

  I shrug. What is wise is that I’ve got my phone concealed in my sleeve, set to record. If he says anything incriminating, I’ll send the recording straight to Elsa.

  “You don’t trust me,” he diagnoses.

  “You’re pretty perceptive for a scientist.”

  He laughs. Then stops laughing. “It was you, wasn’t it? In the Terrorflop.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened to my porter mecha, out of curiosity?”

  “Pat—we had to disable it. I guess we left it at Brussels Sprouts.” Unfortunately, I had a look at it on the train on our way back to Brussels, and I doubt anyone will be able to recover its memory. Its circuitry was shattered.

  “Ah well,” Dr. Joy says, touching his outermost layer of cold-weather gear. “I’ve got the Terrorflop’s power management block, anyway. At least I hope it’s the power management block. Never seen an Offense console before, and the interface was non-functioning … I had to guess.”

  “The power management block?” That would be the bit that controls and logs the ship’s consumption of energy. What would he want that for? I can’t see how it all fits together.

  And the big unanswered question in my mind is Tancred. Does Dr. Joy know it was Tancred that downed the Terrorflop? Does he know Tancred was still in the Terrorflop when we were there?

  I don’t think Tancred is there anymore. Just a feeling. A black and heavy feeling, as if the sky is about to fall on my head.

  Ah well; if Dr. Joy doesn’t know about Tancred yet, he soon will. Everyone will. I say nothing.

  Then I remember we’re in the middle of a conversation about Dr. Joy’s treachery.

  “So what did you want the PMB for? Are you going to destroy it so we’ll never be able to work out how the Offense get 200 kilo-newtons of thrust on 15 tons of engine? Bet your jelly friends will be pleased with you.” Until Tancred eats them, too.

  “Are you implying I’m working for the Offense?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is … extraordinarily insulting.” He actually does sound hurt. “I was protecting ARES … and your aunt.”

  These words chill my blood so rapidly that I feel like I’m shattering into pieces. My aunt?

  “Elsa is in on it, too?” I choke out.

  Dr. Joy adjusts a lever. The train begins to decelerate. “Of course Elsa is in on it. She’s the boss. The egg-hunting program was her idea. And now, thanks to you, she’s in the extremely awkward position of having to conceal a live Void Dragon.” He glances in the rearview mirror. “Two live Void Dragons. If this gets into the media, we can kiss ARES goodbye. And bang goes our only chance of winning this war.”

  “Yeah, OK. I know that. I get that.”

  “You can put away your phone now,” he adds, glancing at the corner of high-gloss chrome sticking out of my sleeve. “I’m not going to confess to anything else, because I haven’t done anything, apart from, as I said, trying to protect my research.”

  Embarrassed, I pocket my phone. I turn his words over in my head and decide that I believe him. If there is one thing Dr. Joy cares about it is his research. Patrick was wrong, I was wrong—and it’s a tremendous relief. If he stole evidence, it was only to shield ARES. And Elsa. And us.

  “I believe you. Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. But why on earth did you accuse me of treachery?”

  I don’t know. Patrick jumped to that conclusion, and I accepted it. But I can’t remember why … Then I do.

  “You told them you had DoD authority. That’s not true. ARES isn’t part of the DoD. It’s a separately funded agency.”

  “Yes, thank God, or we wouldn’t still be in business.” Dr. Joy shakes his head at me. “I did say that. I had to. But you’re right, that was the riskiest part of the whole operation.”

  “They could’ve just made one phone call and caught you out?”

  He smirks. “It wouldn’t have been quite that easy. I have friends in EarthCOM.” He’s referring to the directorate that specifically oversees the defense of Earth, which is one node in the DoD’s Medusan hierarchy. “No.” The smirk vanishes. “It was risky because the point of this operation was to steal evidence from the DoD itself.”

  “What?”

  “Do you remember a certain general who was at that reception on Ceres? Big guy, white hair, weird laugh.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “We’re fairly sure he’s part of it,” Dr. Joy says curtly. “But it goes much higher than that.”

  “What does?”

  “The conspiracy, of course.” I am silent. Dr. Joy turns his head, clocks my expression of utter shock. “Yes. That’s why I asked you to turn your phone off.” He sighs. “Elsa didn’t want you to be told at all. It takes some coming to terms with, I know. But it’s unfortunately the truth. An unknown number of people in the upper echelons of the DoD are passing intelligence to the Offense, in direct contravention of their oath to protect and serve humanity.”

  The track curves. We crawl out of the woods onto a siding in a massive rail yard. Our train stops. Several tracks away, a freight train loaded with shipping containers stands in the snow. We run across the tracks to it, slipping in the snow. Dr. Joy flourishes his handy laser saw and slices a meter-square hole in the side of the nearest container. Paul, Milosz, Badrick and I heave sacks of grain out through the hole until we’ve made a space big enough for nine people. We all squeeze inside in the nick of time. The freight train’s far-off locomotive blows its horn. I feel a pang of guilt at leaving all that grain, the fruit of someone’s labor, lying there with snow collecting in the creases of the sacks … but now the train�
�s shuddering into motion, and I forget about the grain. I forget about everything except Tancred.

  ***

  As the freight train slips through southern Belgium, Dr. Joy tells the others what he told me. They pelt him with questions. He answers patiently. I contribute nothing beyond the occasional “Uh huh.” I’m sitting on a grain sack beside the halves of Aardie, staring mindlessly into the dark.

  Patrick didn’t get shot. He got egged. Shrapnel from Pinkie Pie’s shell is lodged in his chest, his cheek, and the palm of his right hand. The wounds are not serious, so we’ve decided not to try to remove the shrapnel, on a moving train, in the dark, with no medical kit.

  He’s lying down. Francie sits beside him, holding one of his hands. A pinkish glow radiates from inside her parka, illuminating her face. She’s got Pinkie Pie in there. Despite the cold, despite Patrick’s injuries and the frustration of her own plans, she looks like a Leonardo da Vinci Madonna. She looks peaceful. I remember when I felt that way.

  Everyone else huddles together among the sacks. None of them are wearing cold-weather gear. Huifang is still in her Virgin Mary outfit. Milosz is cuddling her, ostensibly to keep her warm. I think there may be something going on between those two. Too bad they won’t have a chance to discover what it might be.

  Dr. Joy says we will sneak off the train when it reaches Paris. We will hide out in the city until he can get in touch with his friends in EarthCOM, who will figure out transport for all of us back to Ceres. It’s a good plan, I guess. As good as it could be, considering that he doesn’t know what I know.

  What I know is that doom is following this train. Doom is stalking us across the fields of Flanders. Doom lies on my mind like a blanket of snow, getting heavier and heavier until I can hardly breathe.

  I’m not even surprised when the train stops suddenly.

  Dr. Joy, who is nearest to the hole, slides aside the square piece we removed and peers out. Shrugs. “We’re not in Paris.”

  I take my turn peeking out of the hole. We are in the middle of nowhere, halted amid low snow-blanketed hills that reflect back a dim nowhere sort of light to the clouds, in the early hours of Christmas morning. The wind is howling.

  A gust of snow blows into the shipping container. Dr. Joy starts to slide the piece of metal back into place.