by TM Catron
“Do you have anything to say?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, already walking.
Mina sighed, shouldered her bag, and followed him.
Calla sat on her bunk in the dark cabin of her ship, hands resting on the edge of the thin mattress. A trail of Appalachian mud led from the open door and stopped at the boots still on her feet. She watched the mud dry on the dark stone floor. The med bay door next to her room hissed open, and one of the three entered. She heard him opening drawers and cabinets, searching for something. The soft slide of the drawers irritated her.
Dar Ceylin had reported Halston’s trail going cold almost immediately. Disturbing, considering Dar Ceylin’s tracking abilities. The rogue had managed to evade the Nomad as well, which Calla thought impossible. Almost three weeks later, and Calla and her new subordinates could find no trace of Halston. He had simply vanished. She racked her brain for answers, anger rising with every day they failed to find him. Where was he?
She had other rogues to find, but Halston’s disappearance disturbed her the most. And, if Halston could do it, others could, too. And if more turned rogue, the situation would quickly grow beyond her control.
Calla’s pressed her lips together in a grim line. She commanded a hologram of the Earth to appear, its glow illuminating the entire cabin. The planet rotated in front of her. She manipulated the map with her hand, zooming toward the eastern United States. When she commanded it, tiny yellow dots peppered the map from Florida to Maine. A tally rose over it. Of course, the tally could not tell her who had turned rogue and who remained loyal. But it could help her guess. So far, only Halston remained unaccounted for.
As part of Calla’s mission, the Condarri had granted her access to every current mission, and she looked up Halston’s last known location: West Virginia. Significantly farther north than where she had found him. What had he been doing there? Calla silently read the brief. He had been protecting one of the Condarri bunkers, reporting heavy military activity immediately before going dark. Calla zoomed in on the site. The Condarri had not listed this bunker with the others. Odd. But she did not question the secrecy. The bunker’s connection to Halston should be her only concern. Another yellow dot shone in the location. He’d had a partner, someone Calla could question. Good.
First, though, she had unfinished business with Williams. She had left him alone long enough, and he had failed to report in today. She would find him first. With any luck, he already had Halston.
Alvarez tried to convince Nelson to stay, but he was adamant about moving on. He spent most of his time with friends he’d made among the refugees. Lincoln knew Carter and Alvarez had discussed leaving as well, but they would stick it out a while longer. Carter claimed to be interested in the doors, which was true. But he was staying because he wanted the team to stick together as long as possible. Alvarez stayed because she loved a puzzle as much as Lincoln, maybe even more so.
Lincoln walked by the communication tent to pick up his ration, hurrying through the rain with his jacket over his head. Not that the jacket helped much. He’d rarely been dry this week. The radio crackled, and the operator grasped the mic. Lincoln paused at the entrance, stepping out of the rain to listen.
“. . . calling from Absaroka.”
“We hear you, Sasquatch, go ahead,” said the operator. Even after frequent transmissions, the man had refused to give his real name. Lincoln doubted Sasquatch even lived in Montana.
“Glad to hear your voice. I’ve had trouble raising people. A few of us seem to have dropped off the map.”
“We’ve had the same trouble. Over.”
“I saw a ship overhead three days ago. Big black thing, the length of a football field. First sighting since I arrived here. You seen anything?”
“Negative. It’s quiet around here. What direction was the ship moving?”
“North. We think they’re targeting these broadcasts to wipe out remaining communications. Is that possible?”
“You know as much as we do, Sasquatch. I bet they’re just scouting.”
“All the same. We’re going dark for a while, until we’re sure they’ve moved on. Call us again in a few weeks.”
“And if we don’t hear from you?”
Sasquatch paused. “Can’t say. But I don’t want to take any chances—we might move.”
Lincoln didn't want to hear any more. If the invaders were targeting small communications operations, they might show up here. And it was no good thinking about that. Still, he should form some sort of plan in case the invaders did show up. Nash obviously had plans to fight them. But where did that leave Lincoln and his team?
At the end of the day, Lincoln spread out the drawings on a rock in front of him. He sat outside his tent with Alvarez, enjoying a break in the rain. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds before sinking behind a mountain. Nelson walked past, deep in thought. He spent his days brooding and looking for food. Apparently, his new friends had taught him which roots to eat. Neither he nor Lincoln had spoken about their scuffle.
“Ask him to stay, Lincoln.”
“He can make his own decisions.”
Alvarez pulled over a set of drawings that when put together, made up one archway. The papers exceeded the length of the tent when she spread them out. They had pilfered and begged for every last scrap in the camp. Most people didn’t see the need to write anything these days, but were unwilling to give up anything without a trade.
Lincoln paused to look at Alvarez as she studied the door. She still wore the spring coat—not because of the cold, but because of the recent crime spree in the camp. Even among the soldiers, nothing was safe unattended. The once cream coat was now stained and tattered beyond recognition, despite her attempts to wash it. A large bloodstain covered the inside of her left sleeve. When did that happen?
Three rapid shots echoed from somewhere near the center of the Army tents. Alvarez jumped and both of them looked around. A small woman sprinted through camp, carrying something in her arms. Shouts broke out behind her. Lincoln pulled Alvarez out of the way as three uniforms ran after the woman, guns ready.
Carter and Nelson jogged up from behind.
“What happened?” asked Alvarez.
“A man and woman were caught stealing from the food stores,” said Carter. “The man’s dead, I think.”
A pop-pop-pop rang out again, this time from under the trees. Shouting replaced the gunfire, and Carter and Nelson followed it while Lincoln and Alvarez hurriedly gathered their papers. By the time they’d caught up, twenty refugees were crowded around the three soldiers, taunting and jeering. At their feet, the woman was splayed on the ground, her face buried in the dirt, three circles of blood staining the back of her shirt. A can of beans had splattered everywhere.
Nelson joined the shouting. “What have you accomplished? You’re lucky you didn’t kill anyone else!”
Several men grabbed one of the soldiers and wrenched his gun away. Schmidt. The other soldiers leveled their guns at the refugees who pushed toward them. Anger flew through Lincoln, and without thinking, he pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed Schmidt’s gun from the man who’d stolen it—apparently he didn’t know how to use it. Surprised, the man turned and looked up at Lincoln towering over him. Lincoln shoved him out of the way as more soldiers pressed in. Hands grabbed at Lincoln’s shirt. When more shots went into the air, the people let go of him and Schmidt.
Nash huffed in, muscling his way to the center. More soldiers crowded around the rioters, who started to break up when they saw they were outnumbered. Lincoln grabbed Schmidt’s arm and helped him up.
“Get back!” yelled Nash. “She was warned! Stealing will not be tolerated! Back! Or I’ll arrest all of you!” He turned to a sergeant and said quietly, “Get her out of here.” Attracted by the noise, more people came out of the trees as Schmidt and three o
ther soldiers carried the body away. Another corporal scraped the precious bean can off the ground, hoping to salvage its contents.
Nelson walked over to Lincoln, still fuming. “Now do you see what’s happening? And you want to stay to help them?”
Lincoln looked directly at him. “I’m not staying for them.”
Alvarez quietly walked back to the tents with Lincoln, her face white. She had not spoken since the first gunshot. Lincoln looked at her with eyebrow raised, but she shrugged him off.
“Lincoln.” Carter came up beside him. “Listen, Nelson’s not all wrong. What about setting up our own camp near the entrance to the second tunnel? It’s secluded. Near impossible to spot until you walk right up on it. We’d be away from this mess. And we’re the only ones who know where it is.”
“That’s a great idea!” said Alvarez. She looked like she wanted to hug him. “Maybe Nelson will stay.”
Nelson kicked at a stone on the ground. “I told you, I’m not living anywhere near that place.”
Carter looked at Lincoln. “What do you think?”
“Can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” he admitted. “But the question is, what about Nash?”
Nelson called from behind, “Why do you care what that self-serving, m—”
Lincoln rounded on Nelson, keeping his voice low because they had stopped walking within earshot of a couple of uniforms. “I don’t care what he thinks, Nelson. I do care how he’ll react, though. He may make it difficult for us to just waltz out of here with his food and supplies. He doesn’t trust us, not really.”
“So don’t tell him.”
“I think he’ll notice if we start packing up.”
“Go at night.”
“You have an awful lot of ideas for someone who’s not living near the silo.” They began walking again. “If someone sees us moving around after dark, we could be shot.”
“I think Nash is too preoccupied at the moment,” said Alvarez. “Just tell him it’ll be easier to study the tunnel this way and he can send Schmidt to check on us occasionally.” She looked at Nelson again. “Please come with us.”
Nelson shook his head and walked away, leaving the others behind.
“I’ll talk to Nash first thing in the morning,” said Lincoln as they watched Nelson disappear into the trees.
Just before Lincoln, Alvarez, and Carter reached their own tents, a middle-aged refugee woman ran through the trees, straight into the military guards, screaming and wielding a large branch. The soldiers grabbed her as she swung it at them. Her dyed red hair flew around her face, and she yelled incoherently, desperately trying to hurt them as they restrained her arms. Another refugee with grey whiskers ran over. He nodded to the soldiers and wrapped his arms around the woman, who stopped fighting and collapsed, sobbing, into his shoulder.
Lincoln’s stomach churned. “She must have known that woman they shot.”
“I hate this,” whispered Alvarez. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”
Nash, busy keeping the refugees in line, refused to see Lincoln the next day. Lincoln tried catching him every time Nash left his tent, but the colonel always waved him off. Finally, the morning before the refugees were scheduled to leave, he agreed to see Lincoln.
Nash shot down the idea immediately.
“Absolutely not. The only reason we’re out here at all is because of ARCHIE. I won’t have you disappearing.”
“But we’re not disappearing, Colonel. We’ll be a couple hours’ hike away.”
Nash wouldn’t listen. Instead, he ordered Schmidt and Captain Allison Baker to shadow the team again. After the incident with the food supply, Schmidt was happy to stay with the team.
Baker—she was the woman Lincoln had seen at the communications tent and in the silo. Her presence alone demanded attention. She had a strong jaw and curvy feminine body that still left no doubt about the power contained underneath her neatly-pressed uniform. She had wrestled her thick, curly hair into a small knot at the nape of her neck.
Within an hour, Baker discovered Nelson’s plan to leave with the refugees the next day and reported it to Nash, who forbade it. Lincoln heard Nelson and Nash arguing all the way through the camp, and he jogged over to join the fray. When he arrived at Nash’s tent, however, Nelson seemed to be holding his own.
“ . . . can’t hold me against my will. I won’t be part of this pseudo-mission, giving people false hope while you play God and lord your power over everybody!”
Nash pointed emphatically to Lincoln as he entered the tent uninvited. “Don’t you people understand what’s at stake here?”
Captain Baker stood silently to Nash’s right, watching the exchange.
“Let him go, Colonel,” said Lincoln. “He doesn’t want to be here. We don’t work for you.”
“I say you do. We’ve fed you, sheltered you, and protected you, and you don’t know the half of it. I should arrest him. He’s been inciting all this tension with the refugees. Goading them into striking back. Apparently, there’s a plan for tonight to overwhelm the guards and steal their weapons.”
Dumbstruck, Lincoln looked at Nelson. Nelson glared shamelessly at Nash and Baker.
“Captain Baker,” said Nash.
“Sir.”
“You are personally in charge of this team. If any of them steps another toe out of line, cuff them all to a tree, but don’t shoot them unless they try to run. And then don’t kill them. Unfortunately, there’s no point in being on this rock without them.”
Baker forced Nelson to move back to the military encampment. She pitched her own tent near Lincoln’s and kept a guard on them at all times. Apparently, Nelson had been quietly speaking to the refugees about how many soldiers lived in the camp and what kinds of weapons they carried. Alvarez and Carter were shocked.
“He could have arrested you, Nelson. Why didn’t he?”
Nelson smirked. “Because he didn’t have anywhere to put me. And he can’t shoot me. Apparently I’m valuable.” He glared at Baker, who regarded him coldly.
Lincoln was itching to discuss Nash’s actions with the team. He had grown comfortable talking openly around Schmidt, but Baker was sure to report anything straight back to the colonel. Nash’s words haunted Lincoln. No point being on this rock without them. What did that mean? Nash hadn’t acted this way when they first arrived. Before we found the symbols.
Nash prevented any coup by ordering all the civilians to pack up and climb into the working vehicles before nightfall the previous evening. A few refugees shouted and threw rocks as the soldiers helped them onto the trucks, and their cursing and hollering kept Lincoln awake all night. Soldiers guarded the trucks until morning. At first light, they pulled out, heading for the small service road that had brought them in. Nelson muttered expletives as Jeeps and trucks rumbled past. They were using the remaining fuel to transport the refugees out.
Lincoln and the others headed back to the mountain. Baker insisted Nelson go, too. Lincoln didn’t exactly know what Nash expected them to do. Lincoln didn’t know what he expected, other than searching for more symbols and hoping the doors opened again. At least one led to the silo. The others led somewhere else. If only he’d had a light with him the night he’d stumbled on the second tunnel—he’d have been able to see if the other doors were open, too.
The sounds below faded as the team passed by the mine entrance and climbed the mountain. Baker and Schmidt followed close behind. Just before the tunnel entrance, Lincoln stopped and held up his hand.
“What is it?” Baker joined him.
“I thought I saw something move in the trees.”
“Bear?”
“No.”
Baker had not allowed Lincoln or Carter to have weapons since she took charge. She moved out ahead with Schmidt, cautiously, her rifle ready. Lincoln, Carter, Nelson, and Alvarez followed slowly. Schmidt led them to the tunnel hidden in the trees, where they turned and looked back.
“There!” Alvarez pointed to their ri
ght, down the mountain. Below them, a man moved swiftly through the trees. He wore Army fatigues.
“How did someone from camp get up here before us unless they knew where to go?”
“They didn’t,” said Baker. “It’s Halston.”
Nelson, who hadn’t spoken to Baker all day, turned to her in surprise. “How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Lincoln tried to recall Halston’s face and squinted at the quickly disappearing man below. “Aren’t you going after him?”
Baker frowned. “He’s already too far away, and I can’t leave you,” she said coolly.
“But how do you know it’s him? Did you know him well?” asked Alvarez. “He tried to kill Lincoln! Shouldn’t that be more important than babysitting us?”
“I’m following my orders. The deserter might come back.” She nodded at the ground around the cave. Fresh, combat-boot imprints went in and out of the tunnel.
Shaking his head, Lincoln said, “Do you know something we don’t? What’s he doing down there? Has he been back long?”
“You know as much as I do,” said Baker, looking into the tunnel. “I haven’t seen him since before he attacked you. Corporal,”—she turned to Schmidt—“you stay here. And be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They had one torch left, so they waited to light it until they’d reached the bottom of the metal stairway. As soon as Lincoln’s feet touched stone, he moved to the side to let the others descend. Confident in his surroundings, even in the dark, he groped for the wall ahead and the symbols. But his hand couldn’t find them after all. Thinking he’d turned himself around, he called to Carter who was already lighting the torch. In a few seconds, firelight blazed.
Carter held the torch aloft while the group paused to let their eyes adjust. When Lincoln turned away, he realized why he hadn’t found the wall—he was standing in it. The silo opened up before him. Lincoln grabbed the torch from Carter and looked at either side. The other doors remained closed. Lincoln examined the open doorway in the flickering light. The symbols here had disappeared, and the door with them. Putting two and two together, Lincoln rounded on Baker. The others must have had the same thought, because they all took a step back and watched her. Baker narrowed her eyes.