by M. R. Carey
He comes along at last. Everyone comes except for Dr. Fournier, who in a slightly slurred voice claims to have work to do. Well, he’s welcome to it, and out of all of them he’s the only one whose absence in Foss’s opinion will leave no hole.
So there are six of them, which is a bigger crowd than the crew quarters has hosted since Invercrae. Khan doesn’t seem all that into it at first, but she laughs weakly when Foss brings out the sponge. And then cries, which puts a bit of a damper on the proceedings.
Foss pours out tots of whiskey. McQueen winces and pushes his aside, but then on second thoughts he takes it back. Everyone else takes a glass except the Robot. Colonel Carlisle solemnly proposes a toast to the newest member of the human race and to his eminent parent. After a moment’s thought, he adds John Sealey’s name to the toast.
They knock back the booze and Foss tops them up. Khan is still in an odd mood that Foss can’t read, but she supposes that giving birth takes the edge off your game in all sorts of ways. “So you’re going with John,” Foss says. “John Khan.”
Khan shakes her head. “No,” she mutters. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”
“Well, if you want to give the little sausage a middle name, I think Foss has got a nice ring to it. Just saying. Jonathan Foss Khan. Someone with a name like that, they’d damn well get respect.”
It takes a little persuasion but Khan lets them all hold the baby. Or everyone who wants to, which (with hard passes from Sixsmith and McQueen) is Foss and then the colonel. And then Foss again. She is just full of surprises today. She hasn’t ever given a moment’s thought to having kids of her own, but this unnaturally quiet little bundle of joy puts her into an odd and not unpleasant reverie. It’s sort of a reassurance, she thinks, and sort of a promise. Things don’t end, after all. They only change, and you keep changing with them.
Impulsively she holds the baby out to McQueen. “Go ahead,” she says. “Meet the one member of the crew who’s got a smaller vocabulary than you do.”
McQueen shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says.
“Coward. It’s just a baby.”
“Everyone’s just a baby sometime, Foss. That’s how it starts.”
Foss gives it up. “Let’s have another toast then,” she says. “To the Rosalind Franklin, and all who sailed in her. Fuck the brass and fuck the Main Table. We’re the ones who make it happen.”
There’s an emphatic “Yes!” from Sixsmith, a rueful snort of laughter from McQueen. He swirls his whiskey in its plastic cup for a long while before he drinks.
“Well, we did it, people,” Foss says. She’s still not sure why she’s going to so much effort, but for some reason she really wants to make them feel this. Feel something, at least, even if she has to hammer together an atmosphere out of wood and shingle. “We came and we saw and we frigging well conquered. Lutes and Phillips and the others didn’t die for nothing. They died to get us here. One more for the five of them, yeah? To the memory of—”
McQueen puts his empty cup down, shoving it away from him across the table. “Stop it, for fuck’s sake,” he says. “We’re no use to anyone if we’re pissed.”
He walks back out to the mid-section.
“To Lutes, Penny, Sealey, Phillips and Akimwe,” the colonel says quietly. He takes the bottle, pours himself a glass and empties it. Foss follows suit, but the mood has gone all to hell. Khan is crying again.
No, not crying. It’s a different sound, a sort of hacking exhalation as though she’s trying to spit something up. The baby is back in her lap but she’s not holding it. Her fists are tightly clenched, the knuckles white.
“Samrina,” the colonel says. “Are you all right?”
Greaves is on his feet. “It’s complications,” he says too quickly, too urgently. “From … complications from …” His hands make shapes in the air. “She needs medicine. Come on, Rina.”
He tugs on her shoulder. That’s a strange sight, Foss realises: the Robot touching someone, instead of backing away in all directions at once into his own rigid little space. And those are some pretty complicated complications. Dr. Khan’s mouth is gaping wide and she is blinking in rapid semaphore. It looks like she’s about to have a fit.
“You’ve got medicine for this?” Foss asks Greaves. “Okay, let’s get her into the lab.”
She moves to help Khan get up. The Robot is in her way. “I’ll do it,” he bleats. “I can do it. Leave her alone.”
“Shit, Greaves, I’m only trying to—”
She doesn’t get to say what she’s only trying to do. The movement sensors go off like a chorus of chirping crickets and drown her words right out.
They’ve got company.
55
Colonel Carlisle makes the worst-case assumption—that the children have caught up with them again—and scrambles them all to battle stations. Foss takes the turret guns (and the infra-red goggles), McQueen the mid-section platform, the colonel and Sixsmith the cockpit. Each grabs a walkie-talkie as they go. With no intracom, they’ll have to squawk each other and hope for the best.
From the cockpit, nothing is visible. Night has dropped over them like a black-out curtain. If the children are out there they’ve got the advantage because they’re hunting by scent. There is nothing to be done but to stay inside and let them come, hoping they haven’t got anything in their arsenal that can inconvenience a tank.
Carlisle is still debating whether or not to turn the headlights on when someone else makes the decision for him. Twin beams light up the night. Then another two, and finally a bank of six ferocious halogen spots, all of them pointed at Rosie from source points about a hundred yards away. Human figures walk back and forth in front of the spotlights with a lack of discipline the colonel finds bizarre and a little shocking.
“Hold your fire,” he says into his walkie-talkie, “but stand ready. I believe this is our escort, but let’s take nothing for granted.”
The broken radio rules out a normal hail. He tells Sixsmith to use the headlights to send a two-word message in Morse code. Rosalind Franklin.
One of the two pairs of headlights facing them blinks in response, sending four words back. Beacon. Manolis. Present selves.
Carlisle stands and clips the walkie-talkie to his belt. Sixsmith gets to her feet too, but he shakes his head. “I’ll go out to them,” he tells her. “Those were the brigadier’s orders.”
“Sir—” Sixsmith begins. She doesn’t look happy.
“At ease, Private. This is Beacon. It’s appropriate that I meet the senior officer and formally hand over command to him. I can also see what provisions they’ve made for us and satisfy myself that you’ll all be looked after. There’s no problem here.”
Sixsmith stays on her feet. “Well, there might be, sir, if those kids have sniffed us out again. I’m just saying. Shouldn’t we fill the escort in on the situation before anyone goes outside? That’s just good sense, right?”
And it is, Carlisle can’t deny it. “Very well, Private,” he says. “Send another message.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Sixsmith is visibly relieved. She sits down again and gets busy with the headlights. But she is only a few dots and dashes in when the lights over the way start flickering too, interrupting her in mid-flow.
Present selves, they spell.
Sixsmith is disgusted. “Fucking jokers,” she mutters. She starts her message string again.
And the same thing happens. The other vehicle’s headlights flash across her, abrupt and intemperate. The same sequence as before: present selves.
Sixsmith shakes her head in disbelief. “Maybe I should try signalling with the fucking turret gun,” she mutters. “Sir, permission to give this one more—”
“Yes,” Carlisle says. “Go ahead, Private. Try again.”
Sixsmith does. And this time, at least, her opposite number allows her to finish her message. Fence compromised. Possible hostiles.
After half a minute the answer comes, with a grim inevitab
ility.
Present selves.
“We’re dealing with a moron,” Sixsmith marvels.
The colonel picks up the walkie-talkie and squawks Foss.
“Sir?”
“What are you seeing on the scope, Lieutenant?”
“Couple of dozen ground troops, sir, with about as much fieldcraft as a fucking high-school picnic. And three vehicles. There’s something a bit odd about the vehicles. One of them is a tank—probably a Challenger, judging from the turret config. The other two … well, they could be staff cars but one of them looks more like a bus. And the other is pulling a limber of some kind. High sides like a caravan. I’m not seeing a chopper.”
A presentiment runs through Carlisle. He shies away from it by main force.
“Any sign of the feral children?” he asks.
“No, sir. Nothing. But there’s a lot of shrubbery out there. Lines of sight don’t extend as far as I’d like.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m coming through to join you.”
He tells Sixsmith to keep the engine running and goes astern. The crew quarters are deserted. Presumably Greaves has taken Dr. Khan into the lab to examine or treat her.
A doubt is nagging at him now, and he can’t quieten it. Present selves? In the dark, in an insecure location with no attempt to set up a perimeter? Possibly Sixsmith is right and Captain Manolis is an imbecile. The alternative is more troubling.
McQueen is waiting on the mid-section platform. He looks angry. His left hand grips the turret ladder hard, the knuckles white. Lieutenant Foss comes down out of the turret to join them. There is a muffled clatter from the lab, where some sort of commotion seems to be going on, but the colonel has no time to concern himself with that.
“Open the door,” he orders. “But close it behind me. I’ll go out to them alone.”
“Sir,” Foss says, “with respect, there’s something not quite right about those vehicles out there. You could do with someone riding shotgun. I’m happy to come along.”
“Or I will,” McQueen chips in.
“No,” the colonel says. “I don’t anticipate problems, but if any arise it’s better if Rosie is secure.”
“She’ll still be secure if you’ve got a tailgunner,” McQueen says. Tension makes his voice flat and harsh.
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. McQueen.” Carlisle stares into the man’s eyes. “As I said, if anything complicates the handover I’d prefer to know that you’re here. I trust you—both of you—to protect the science team and Rosie.”
He reaches out to tap the keypad and open the airlock door. McQueen’s hand is faster, gripping Carlisle’s wrist. His face is reddening. Something is working there now, a rage that seems to have no object.
“Mr. McQueen—”
“Just how stupid are you?” McQueen spits the words out. “Can’t you tell a fucking ambush when you see one?”
The colonel wrests his hand free, but he doesn’t touch the keypad. “Go on,” he says quietly.
McQueen grimaces and shakes his head, but he gets it out with a sort of grim disgust, like a man spitting blood and disinfectant into a bucket after getting dental work done. “They brought you here so they could kill you and take Rosie. That’s the only reason they told Fournier to pass the radio on to you. So they could get you out here in the middle of nowhere and take you out of the equation.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Foss demands. She laughs, and she looks to the colonel as though she expects him to laugh, too.
“Dr. Fournier didn’t give me the radio,” Carlisle reminds McQueen. “You did.”
McQueen raises his hands in sardonic surrender. “Shit! I’m not saying I’m not involved. Can we stick to the point? Fry wants you gone, and the whole idea of meeting up out here instead of back in Beacon is to make that happen. No fuss, no reporting. You just don’t come home.”
Carlisle feels a dull certainty settling on him, but he fights against it. “Why should it matter if I come home or not? I have no authority in Beacon. I’m no threat to the brigadier.”
“Yeah, well you might be now. While we were away, she decided to take over the Main Table, but they’re fighting back. She had bad losses, so she had to reach out and make a deal. With the junkers. Those are junker battle-trucks out there. Now she’s worried you might pitch in on the opposite side. Plus she needs Rosie because of the guns and armour, and she doesn’t think you’re likely to just hand over the keys.”
Foss hasn’t said another word all this time. She’s just been looking at McQueen. Now she slings her rifle to free her hands, moving briskly but carefully, and punches him in the mouth. It’s a solid punch. It rocks McQueen on his heels a little. He takes it in silence: just wipes the blood off his lip and probes the damage with the tip of his thumb.
“You stupid, stupid bastard!” Foss yells.
“Okay,” McQueen mutters. “Fine.”
“Junkers? A deal with the junkers? What, with their—their recreational rape and their fucking cannibalism, and—Shit! Shit!”
“Get it all off your chest,” McQueen says bleakly, rolling his eyes.
“What did you think was going to happen to the rest of us after they killed the colonel? You really expect them to fly us out of here in a gunship? Cocktails and fluffy pillows? He didn’t walk into an ambush, you did. We’re toast when we go out there! You utter fucking moron!”
She raises clenched fists. Another punch seems imminent. McQueen looks away from her overflowing anger, out into the opaque night.
“Lieutenant,” Carlisle says. His mild tone works. Foss gets a grip, though she is still trembling with suppressed fury. Carlisle has seen her copy McQueen’s mannerisms in the field; the swagger in his walk, the way he uses the heel of his hand to take the safety off the SCAR-H when he’s obliged to use one. Her disillusionment is a freefall plunge.
“Set aside your differences,” he says to both of them. “Now, please. I’m inclined to agree with Foss’s assessment. If killing me is the main agenda, it’s hard to imagine that the killing will end there—especially if we’re witnesses to an illegal alliance with Beacon’s enemies. We need to keep Rosie from falling into unauthorised hands and we need to protect the science team. In addition, and this is more important than anything, we need to make sure that the news of what we’ve discovered gets back to Beacon. We can’t do any of those things unless we’re all fighting on the same side.”
It’s not eloquent, but it’s the best he can do. The measured words sound pusillanimous even to him, but the alternative is to stand here trading punches while Fry surrounds them.
“So what’s it to be, numb-nuts?” Foss snarls the words into McQueen’s face.
There is a long, strained pause. At last McQueen shrugs. “I don’t care whether you live or die,” he tells Carlisle. “On the whole I’d prefer to watch you bleed. If Beacon falls apart, it’s because you stood by and let it when you could have turned it into something better. But I’ll admit I didn’t think this through. I’m with you until we sort this and get out of here.”
Foss draws her sidearm and shoves it up against McQueen’s cheek. For all her fury her hand doesn’t shake. “Just so you know,” she says. “If anyone bleeds, it’s going to be you. Sir, what are your orders?”
First things first, Carlisle decides. “Man the turret guns, Lieutenant. If we’re attacked, we’ll need to be in a position to return fire.” He turns to go back into the cockpit. Sixsmith is right behind him, holding up Fournier’s radio.
“Colonel,” she says. “We’re being hailed.”
“By Captain Manolis?”
“No, sir. By Brigadier Fry. She’s somewhere out there. And she wants to talk to you.”
56
It’s not like the other times. It’s a lot worse.
Dr. Khan’s eyes are rolling back into her head, showing pure white for seconds at a time. Her movements are violent and uncoordinated. Several times on the short journey from the crew quarters to the lab s
he almost falls.
As Greaves tries to mix the serum, she is scrabbling at his arm, clutching blindly at his head. She has made no attempt to bite him, but there is an urgency to her movements, almost a desperation. The sense of need is waking up inside her, moving her. It can only be a matter of minutes, Greaves thinks, maybe seconds, before the Cordyceps in her blood and brain is able to make her do what it wants.
Babbling apologies in an endless stream, he attempts to strap Dr. Khan to the workbench. When the bench was installed, the vivisection of hungries without anaesthetic was unflinchingly taken into account and catered for. It’s easy to loop and tighten the first strap, around Rina’s left wrist. After that she fights harder, kicking and clawing at him. Her jaws are starting to work, opening and closing with a grating click of cartilage. In the end he has to leave her with just the one arm restrained.
“It will be okay,” he promises her. “I’ll just … I’ll make up the dose. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.”
Tears blind him as he works. This is the last batch of serum. This is goodbye. Each dose has worked for a shorter period than the one before it, and this one is the dregs of the batch, smaller than the preceding doses and of course not so fresh. It might not work at all, he might have left it too late, and if it does work it will be for a few scant hours. After that Rina will go away, for ever, and all that will be left will be an animal that wears her face. What will he do without her? What will he do with what remains of her?
And what will happen to her baby?
When he approaches Rina with the needle she snaps and snarls at him. Drool flecks her lips, which have receded a long way from her bared teeth. There is no recognition in her wide eyes.
Greaves grabs her free arm and rolls up her sleeve, using his shoulder and the weight of his body to force her head back against the bench. He can feel Rina’s jaws opening and closing against his upper arm, but there are several thicknesses of fabric there and he doesn’t think she will have time to chew her way through.