The rifters didn’t pause. They kept staggering, as fast as their aching, pummeled bodies would allow. Beads clacked in the hair of one, and the other kept opening and closing his fists, as if he longed to turn and fight.
41
SALVAGE
Igor Eschkov scrubbed at his spectacle lenses with the micro-cloth, and when he slipped his glasses back on, everything came into focus again. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t done it. The world was in crisp detail now, from the juicy, too-sharp leaves of the yellow-flowered weeds forcing up through the concrete to the thin violet clouds streaking an otherwise innocent baby blue spring sky. The sun was blazing, and if they had still been on the outskirts no doubt birds would have been chirping merrily.
Or things that wanted you to think they were birds.
A strange rhythmic thumping echoed in the distance, a heartbeat drawing closer as the rifter hurried them along, her shoulders drawing up and her cheeks paling. Something happened an hour later, though, and the thumping drew away in an arc. It was a relief when that beat finally stuttered and died. The rifter didn’t slow down, though, and the steady song of cursing from the men had dwindled as well.
There wasn’t enough breath to fuel it.
Eschkov’s hands were chapped, but he couldn’t stop rubbing them against each other. Precious dollops of industrial-grade sanitizer had eaten at his skin, but he still doled it out whenever he had to touch anything in this godforsaken place. Not that it would help—the air was freighted with spores and bacteria. The thergo hadn’t picked up killing radiation while Tremaine was carrying it, or he would have yelled. Now it was gone, and the spectra would only pick up massive overdoses of harmful emissions. Barko didn’t even have the spectra out, he just walked with his head down, every once in a while glancing to either side with quick jerks of his once-shining head, now grimed with dull gray. Not a hair on his dome, but his beard was coming in like an old-fashioned patriarch’s.
Once again the landscape had changed. Office buildings rose on either side of them, a streamer flung out from what had once been downtown, along the artery of an old highway. The buildings were slowly melting, bulging at their corners, brick and metal and concrete looking strangely elastic. The worst part was the windows—all intact, blank eyes rippling and frogging out as they watched the survivors’ parade.
First the rifter, stopping every so often to toss one of her weighted handkerchiefs. She collected the ones that fell as they should and returned them to her bag, never using the same one twice in a row. There was probably a reason, but it did not seem scientific. Ritual or habit, probably, benighted superstition. That was the thing about the Rifts—nothing that came out of them made any sense. Humans were clever monkeys playing with toys they didn’t understand. Like the poppers. The little blue things could be harnessed, of course, but the monkeys had no idea how they were made.
It was maddening. The corporations, of course, had moved in. Real science was forgotten when there was a profit to be had.
Igor shuffled along. It was too hot, but then they plunged into the shade of the buildings and the sweat turned clammy on you. His pack was too heavy, and it clanked as he moved. Why not leave some of that stuff here? Barko had asked that very morning.
Because science, that’s why. Igor had merely shaken his head, though. It was all very well for Tremaine to slip up—his part of the funding would now go to Igor’s own department, and while he regretted the loss of any colleague, the snotty little prick had it coming to him. He was a thieving little sod, really. As if Eschkov didn’t know the foreign bastard been selling research supplies in town.
Which had cut into Igor’s own profits from doing so quite a bit. Science was science, and sometimes certain … gray areas were permitted, in pursuit of knowledge. All Igor’s own illicit gains had gone into supplementing his department’s meager government funding. He was so close to a breakthrough, or so he hoped. There had to be some form of radiation or pressure that would show a seam in the poppers.
After the rifter came Mako, stepping carefully, with Morov leaning on him every once in a while but otherwise limping along tolerably well, if tortuously slowly. Then Barko, and Eschkov himself. Last of all, Brood trailed in their wake. The pale-eyed man moved almost as silently as the rifter. There were only tiny betraying noises—clinking pieces of his gear that weren’t taped down, or the occasional grinding of his boot on some small bit of refuse. Mako had his rifle out, and Brood probably had his free, too. Some “protection” they turned out to be.
Eschkov peered at the misshapen buildings. Had some incredible flash-heat gone through here during the Event? But that was ridiculous; wooden window frames would have turned to ash. Nothing about this looked quick. The buildings should have crumbled; there was no scientific way they could be just … drooping.
Just like the trees at the bottom of the hill should not have come alive and eaten Tremaine. The kid, Aleks … well, caustic puddles of industrial waste were a danger out in the real world, too. That wasn’t something that made Igor’s head hurt with the sheer impossibility.
Still … why the hell had Igor himself agreed to this assignment? Kopelund could have just sent Barko and Tremaine. Or someone else. Maybe Aleks could have gone officially instead of trying to sneak in …
Igor’s shoulders hurt. He eased the backpack straps, and a clattering jangle from the equipment hanging at the bottom echoed against the walls on either side.
The rifter stopped, so sudden and short Mako almost ran into her. Her head went up, an inquisitive animal movement; her nape was strangely pale and clean, a slice of white above her jacket collar. Her backpack wasn’t as big as Barko’s, even. She traveled light.
“What is it?” Mako whispered, very loud in the sudden stillness.
She half turned, ran a critical eye down their ragged little line. “Salvage,” she said, finally. “Poppers, lampers, and probably other things. If you want them.”
“Can we camp here?” Brood wanted to know. The sun was heading downward, and Morov’s breathing had taken on a wheezing note. He was sweating, but then, so was Igor. Even in the shade it was greasy-humid, and the sudden damp made him shiver. His shoulder ached, and his left arm was cramping from holding the digicap. His fingers had gone numb. He hadn’t even bothered to take a single snapshot of the buildings. It seemed … pointless.
But … science. He tried to lift the digicap, but his arm was too heavy. He tipped his head back, staring at the violet clouds. They looked like strands of hair combed over a bald patch. At least he had been spared that indignity.
“Two buildings up, there’s a safe patch.” The rifter made another one of those inquisitive little movements, listening to a sound none of them could catch. She glanced back once more, this time looking at Morov, who leaned on a rude crutch whittled from a sodden piece of scrap lumber. She’d even found a wad of cotton material that made an acceptable cushion, once the heat was run over it and some twine was scavenged to tie it on. “Can hop out from there to pick up shiny.”
“Fine.” Brood sounded like it was a done deal.
Mako, on the other hand, looked at Morov. “What do you say, Captain?”
Morov muttered something. Hard to hear. He was in bad shape.
Eschkov’s head dropped forward. His arm hurt abominably. So did his shoulders, and his neck. This was not the place for a man whose brain did all the work. All he wanted was his own bed and a decent meal, perhaps reading a little Lipton and Ecke on quantum parsing at the canteen table at dinner, just to show his fellows he was up on the latest.
The rifter tossed another one of her little tails. It flew normally, tracing an arc that regular equations could describe. When she set off, it took Eschkov a great deal of effort to totter after Morov’s limping, crutch-ridden gait. There was a certain amount of physical misery that came with work in the field, he told himself. Then he told himself nothing, because placing one foot in front of the other became an endurance contest. A strange whooshing soun
d began in the distance, building as he stumble-staggered after Barko’s bobbing bald head.
Did they hear it? How could they not? Nobody mentioned it. Was it the heartbeat?
He kept walking. Greasy sweat turned his yellowing undershirt into a chafing, sodden rag. His right hand clenched and released; his left clamped down, squeezing the digicap mercilessly.
The rifter reached the white strip of cloth. Picked it up with a smooth motion, halted halfway in rising from her crouch, and peered back along the line. Her mouth moved, but the rushing sound drowned her out. They had to hear it. It was bearing down on them, filling mouth and eyes and ears, a thick pumping accompanied by a high ringing whine. If Igor had eaten breakfast, he would have brought it all up in a painful gushing of acid and half-digested rations.
But he had not.
The horizon tilted. The rifter slid sideways, but she didn’t fall. Igor’s eyelids fluttered, a strobe of light and dark. His chest had turned to a black hole, and his left hand flew up to strike at the weight behind his ribs, the digicap’s glass lens splintering on impact.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
42
NO PART OF THIS PLACE
Heart attack.” Barko dropped Eschkov’s pack in the corner with a clatter. “God damn it.” This had been some sort of office, before the Event. This building wasn’t as bulging-weird as the other ones, and that made him feel a little better.
Not enough. Just a sliver.
“God has no part of this place,” Mako murmured, easing Morov down with a long-suffering sigh. It was a wonder the commander was still moving; his eyes were glassy with fever and his breathing was a series of shallow gasps until Mako got him settled. “Old man shouldn’t have come.”
“None of us should have.” Barko rubbed at his face, his hands rasping against the luxurious beginnings of a beard. They should have found some way to bury Eschkov. It wasn’t right to leave the man in the street. It just wasn’t.
“Well, we’re here now.” Brood managed to fill up the tiny room, except for the space near the glass door. The rifter stood there, sunlight gilding the top of her head, showing a stubborn curl to the dark fuzz. Her large eyes moved over the terrain outside, her hands hanging limp-loose, each nail holding a crescent of grime underneath. A couple days outside had done wonders for her complexion. She would never tan, but at least the fish-belly pallor was gone. She didn’t look quite as gaunt, either, even though Barko never saw her eat. “Hey,” he continued. “Rifter. Start a fire.”
She didn’t turn, gazing out through dirty glass that wasn’t bulging quite as much as every other window or pane on this street, for all the world as if she hadn’t heard him. She scanned, her chin jutting a little, lips stretched over her large teeth as she sucked on them. The very picture of an unpretty woman deep in thought, deaf to the world.
No, not quite deaf. Barko began casting around for anything to use as fuel. There was faded lettering scratched on the front window—how long had it been since he’d seen pre-Event glass?
“Hey.” Brood snapped his fingers. “Rifter! Get your scrawny ass making a fire, it’s fucking freezing in here.”
“Man, leave her alone.” Mako crouched, digging in his pack. In the dimness, his broad, circular face creased with tiny black lines. Sweat and floating dirt, maybe, except there was no pollution in here.
No human pollution. Except this little group.
“I’ve got firestarters,” Barko heard himself say. He sounded weary, even to his own ears. “Just find me something to burn.”
“I’ll go scavenge.” The rifter pushed at the door, its hinges squealing with torqued distaste. She was a shadow in the afternoon light, distorted by dust and the blur of glass bent in ways it shouldn’t.
If she was looking to piss off a sardie, she was going about it the right way. Brood’s expression had hardened, and Barko hastily looked down, digging for the firestarters. Mako cracked open the medikit they’d been working off and glanced through the contents, squinting in the uncertain light. There were light switches in here, but no juice behind them. Each building might as well be a cave.
Barko found the foil-covered roll of firestarters. He began to carefully peel it open, his blunt fingers too clumsy. “We shouldn’t have left him there,” he muttered. “We should find a way to bury him.”
“He has the whole Rift for a headstone.” Mako peeled a skinstrip from its foil packet. Morov’s half-closed eyes glinted, a glass doll’s gaze.
“Fucking bitch.” Brood stamped to the door. “How’s he doing, Mako?” Without the rifter inside, his voice boomed off all the surfaces. Big man making noise.
Morov stirred. “Tired.” A whisper-croak, barely audible. “Leg hurts like a sonofabitch.”
“Fracture, probably.” Mako smoothed the strip on Morov’s damp forehead, then fumbled in the meds-case. “Another pop of painkillers, some rest tonight, and you should be good.”
“We should leave him here with a medikit or two, go in, and pick him up on the way back.” Brood crossed his arms, surveying the three of them with a proprietary air. His rifle, slung across his back, pointed its blunt snout at the top of the largest window.
“Fuck that.” Mako came up with a one-use of antibiotic. The strip plastered to Morov’s forehead was turning dark. “I say we sleep, then we head back for the outside. We’ve got almost fifty percent casualties here, and Morov needs some goddamn medical help that isn’t field fuckery.”
Morov croaked something else, and Mako nodded, his black hair standing aggressively up from his forehead, pushing Morov’s sleeve up as far as he could.
“What was that?” Barko had an idea he knew.
Mako’s round face had settled into a tight expression of distaste. “Who knows if the fucking rifter ain’t deliberately leading us in circles? Better to just get out while we can.”
“If you think she’s leading us in circles, how do you propose we get out of here? Everything changes behind us, for God’s sake.” Barko kept peeling the firestarters, his eyes very carefully focused on the tear in the foil. It didn’t need such concerted attention, but he didn’t want to look at Brood. “I should never have agreed to this.”
“What, Kopelund ordered you in?” Brood wanted to know, slinging his rifle around in front of him. He’d spread his legs, too, and ended up with one hand draped over the rifle at rest-but-ready, the familiar pose of every bored guard at a checkpoint since time immemorial.
“He didn’t give me much fucking choice.” A sigh—a deep one—caught Barko off guard.
Brood wasn’t having any of it. His blond tips were more yellow now, and ragged. “Oh, go cry somewhere else. As if you egghead types wasn’t dying for a chance to get in here. Poking and prodding everything. If your buddy hadn’t gone down the hill and woke that tree-thing up, Morov wouldn’t be dead.”
“He’s not dead yet,” Mako objected, popping a patch of pain reliever onto the commander’s upper arm. The inside of Morov’s elbow was pale, strangely tender. It almost glowed.
“He’s looking pretty goddamn dead to me. I give it a day, at most.”
Morov coughed again. “Nice to know.” For a second his voice was clear and hard as ever, if a little raspy. “Still the ranking officer, Brood.”
The pale-eyed man shrugged. “Yessir.” Two grudging little syllables staggering under a weight of sarcasm. With his hair lying flat and the blond tips dingy, he looked like a Hackala warboy ready to move up the ranks.
That put the conversation to bed. Barko broke off a bit of the firestarter brick and a packet of the catalyst, wrapped the rest of the brick with prissy care. The rest of the catalyst packs went into their pouch, and he felt Brood’s gaze on him while he packed it all away. Eschkov had been carrying a lot of crap, but maybe there was something useful in there.
There should have been a way to bury him, goddammit. Barko’s stomach was a clenched fist. The skinstrip was bright red, and there was no use in hiding it any longer. Morov probably
was a dead man.
Barko had an idea Mako, with his questioning of Brood’s authority—such as it was—would be next.
43
HE’D FIND ME
Cabra rubbed her wet hands over her face, stripping away dust and sweat. Dribbled a little more water from her canteen and did it again. “Did you see him go down?” Dust coated her beaded braids.
“Didn’t see a damn thing.” Vetch leaned heavily against the brick wall of a pre-Event school. Half the bricks crawled with a reddish, branching growth, juicy blue-green knuckle-knotted vines burrowing into vitrified clay. A cramp seized his left side and he winced, leaning away from it, fighting the urge to hunch. You had to force the muscles on the opposite side to fire, to make the bastards relax. “Him or Il Muto.”
“Fuck.” She capped the canteen with a vicious twist.
“They know what to do.” They’d either rift on their own and hook up further in, or head out and rendezvous at the Tumbledown. Probably the latter, since Sabby’s nerves were gone. Vetch grimaced as the cramp gave one final, vicious twist before receding. He checked the sky and tried to taste the air, his breath coming in harsh gulps. They had a small bubble of safety here, not nearly enough, and it quivered around them, invisible seaweed. “We got to move.”
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