Blackout

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Let me guess. You consider yourself the only one qualified to do that."

  "Am I wrong?"

  "I will concede you have the most experience."

  "Hence it would be unwise—nay, insane—to risk my life unnecessarily on anything less than destroying the ship." He turned to Becka and Duncan. "Now ignore everything I just said and go back to tell Raina what happened while Carrie and I stay here."

  Becka stared at him, eyes tiny points of light in the blackness of the tunnel. "What exactly does she need to know?"

  "Well, that the aliens are interested in LAX."

  "So you go. We'll stay."

  "How much do you know about the Swimmers?"

  "That they're here to kill us. What else is there to know?"

  "Have you been in their dwellings?" Walt said. "Watched them go about their business when they don't know you're around?"

  Becka kept her gaze locked on his, but said nothing.

  "I know what it feels like to be inside their skin," he said. "Literally. Whatever they're up to here, I'll have the best chance of figuring it out."

  "Forgive me for questioning you. I wasn't aware I was in the presence of such wisdom."

  Walt laughed, then muffled himself. "Good to know that sarcasm remains a vital part of the teenage brain. Here's the other reason you're leaving: because that crab I shot heard us talking."

  Becka scowled at him. "You lie. The aliens are deaf."

  "You're right. I don't think they even have ears. But Carrie and I weren't moving. It shouldn't have known we were there. When we started speaking, a light winked on its pad."

  "What are you suggesting?" Carrie said. "That they've modified their equipment to pick up sounds?"

  "They flew here from another world. I think they might be capable of microphone technology."

  "Which would be a big deal. Because a major component of our combat strategy involves assuming we can speak without them hearing us."

  "Pretty much." Walt raised his eyebrows at Becka. "I think Raina might be interested in that piece of intel. Don't you?"

  Duncan raised his hand. "I do!"

  "You're sure of this development?" Becka said.

  Walt rubbed his neck where his beard was starting to grow out. "Not completely. But your people need to be aware it's a possibility. It isn't safe to fight them under our old assumptions."

  She turned to Carrie. "I will go on one condition: that you don't let him do anything foolish."

  Carrie smiled, surprised. "I pledge to be the voice of reason he sorely lacks."

  "Then we will go back to tell Raina what has happened. What will you do here?"

  "Keep an eye on things," Walt said. "From a safe, responsible distance."

  He and Carrie accompanied Becka and Duncan to the southern end of the tunnel. There, Becka turned and gazed into the darkness separating her from LAX, her mouth a tight line.

  "Raina entrusted me to watch over you," she said. "Don't make me regret this."

  Figuring anything he was apt to say would only make Becka less likely to leave, Walt just nodded, smiling in a manner he hoped confirmed he was a team player. After a lengthy pause, she got on her bike and turned south down PCH. Duncan turned and waved, bike wobbling.

  "I assume your plan is to improvise," Carrie said.

  "I do use a very loose definition of the word 'plan.'"

  "It's not safe to go back to the terminals now. We should give them time to find the body, search the airport, and conclude it's empty."

  "And what are we up to in the meantime?"

  "We wait at the other end of the tunnel. We can keep an eye on the sky from there. If any Swimmers come to investigate, there are plenty of cars to use for cover. If they still haven't flown off by nightfall, we'll sneak inside for a better look."

  "That's a much better idea than my plan," Walt said.

  "You didn't have one."

  "Because I knew yours would be better."

  They picked their way through the black until they were close enough to the north entrance to see and hear any activity. Half an hour later, a second jet squealed across the sky, descending behind the body of the airport. Carrie got out a pen and paper.

  "What are you doing?" Walt said.

  "Noting when it arrived. If they're on a schedule, knowing its routine will help us deal with them."

  "Does it ever get exhausting? Being so detail-oriented?"

  "I find it much more work to ignore the little things. Think of it like anatomy. If you don't know where all the joints and organs are, how can you know how to hurt them?"

  Over the remainder of the afternoon, three more ships landed at the airport, including one whose engines were much deeper than the cringing whine of their fighter jets. As night fell, a cold wind swept down the tunnel. They got out their jackets, which they'd had the foresight to make sure were black. After a semi-arbitrary delay, they exited the tunnel and walked up the onramp to the airport.

  This time, they headed to the upper level. Departures. The mess in the street out front was even worse than it had been at arrivals. Aided by the light of the crescent moon, they entered the building, stopping to listen for the rustle of patrolling Swimmers. Hearing nothing, they felt their way through the pitch-black security station on hands and knees. Once they reached the gates, there was enough light to see by to stand and walk. After a bit of exploration, they climbed the stairs to the Hawaiian Airlines first class lounge, whose floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the northern runways where the jets were parked. A wall blocked off the seating area from the reception desk, providing them cover from the windows if needed.

  Working in silence, they barricaded the door with a mound of plush chairs, then crawled up to the windows. Out on the tarmac, the silhouettes of aliens moved in the night, unloading a fat cargo vessel.

  A lengthy period of observation convinced Walt it was much too dark to have the first clue what the Swimmers' cargo was. He moved to reception, poking through the mini-fridges and cabinets. To his surprise and delight, the fridges were stocked with cans of pineapple and POG juice, and the cabinets held a few packets of airline trail mix.

  He brought his plunder to Carrie, who was still watching through the windows. She eyed the cans. "Think those are any good?"

  "They're not bulging, are they? And if they're rotten, we're fortunate that our faces are equipped with a scent-detection system."

  He popped open a can of POG. The crisp snap of the tab drew a pang of nostalgia from his chest. It smelled exactly as it should. He drank, throat closing at the sweetness of it, then tore open a bag of mix. It had aged less well, but the contents were dusted with mustard powder more flavorful than anything he'd tasted in months. He found himself unable to stop eating.

  "I am so mad right now," he said.

  Carrie didn't look away from her binoculars. "What? Couldn't find any mini-bottles?"

  "That I never got to see what flying first class was like."

  "That's true," she said. "But if it's any consolation, most of the people who flew first class never got to see what aliens were like."

  He laughed. "What do you want to do? When this is over?"

  "I don't know."

  "I thought you would have composed a twelve-part manual for your post-Swimmer existence. Detailing the lives and occupations of humanity's next three generations."

  "If we get through this, what do you think human culture's going to look like for the next few years?"

  "A lot of partying? Beyond that, I haven't the foggiest."

  "Me neither. So there's no sense planning for the future until we have some idea how that future looks."

  He stretched out beside her and got out his binoculars. It had been a long day. Without intending to, he drifted off.

  He woke with a jolt. Outside, the sky was starting to turn gray. His forehead smarted from where it had rested on the binoculars. Carrie was awake beside him, gazing through the windows.

  Walt cleared his throat. His teeth
were fuzzy. "Don't tell me you've been up all night."

  "I woke up twenty minutes ago," she said. "Which has given me enough time to make sense of that."

  She pointed to the runway. Several large objects had appeared there overnight. At first he thought they were more jets, and wondered how they could have flown in without waking him, but the shapes were all wrong. Squares. Rectangles. Two thick cylinders set on their ends. It wasn't just the shapes—the colors were wrong, too. Some blue, others orange.

  "They're putting up buildings," Carrie said. "Settling in."

  "Good."

  "It's good that they're establishing a base camp in our city?"

  "Yep. Now we know right where to attack them." He backed away from the window on elbows and knees. "Get your stuff. It's time to go see Raina—and go to war."

  7

  From the screens of the command room, Ness watched black smoke boil from the shores of Avalon. Except it wasn't just smoke. It was houses. Belongings.

  People.

  "Is that it?" he said.

  Tristan glanced his way. "The evacuation? They just bombed the island. There's no way we're going back there."

  "I meant the bombing. Is it over?"

  "What does it matter?"

  He shook his head, backing toward the doorway. "I'm gonna let the passengers know what's up."

  "Might be smarter to wait until we get them to San Diego. The last thing we want is a panic on the ship."

  "You're probably right. But if it were me, I'd want to know now."

  He exited the room and jogged to the galley. There, twenty-odd refugees turned to stare at him, striking him with the sudden urge to reverse course to the control room and lock himself inside.

  "You saved us." An older woman found his eyes. Gray streaked her black hair. "The jet was so close. Did you see what happened?"

  Ness shifted his weight. The sub's engines thrummed up, sending a low vibration through the floor. "It wasn't…good."

  "But what happened?"

  His mind raced. Everyone was staring at him. He should go get Sam. She was never flustered by anything. She wouldn't be any more troubled by a crowd than she'd be by a loose thread on her hem.

  But he didn't move. Because he'd learned enough about himself over the last few years to know that if he ran off to get someone else to handle the tough stuff for him, he'd be more bothered by his failure than he would by telling these people the truth.

  "They bombed it," he said. "The entire shoreline. Avalon's gone."

  Gasps. Wails. Sobs. He stood helplessly.

  "But my daughter is there," the woman said. "You have to help her."

  "Ma'am, there's nothing left. There's nothing we can do for them."

  She shook her head, gesturing hard toward the aft. "She's not in Avalon. She's on the west side of the island. Near Fort Martin."

  "My brother's out there, too," said a young dude trying hard to grow a man's beard. "On the north shore. You got to get him out of there."

  Several others pitched in their own stories of relatives scattered across the island. The names slipped away from Ness the second after he heard them. The more the people talked at him, the angrier they got. Like it was his fault that idiot had shot the rocket at the alien jet. Like it was his fault the Swimmers were there in the first place. Looking on their distorted faces, he was struck by a memory of his brother Shawn. Always taking. Blaming others. And sneering at them because whatever help they gave, it was never good enough.

  "You want me to go get your friends?" Ness found himself yelling. "Then shut the hell up and sit down!"

  The galley went dead silent. People gawked, glancing between each other like volunteers on a Vegas stage released from a hypnotist's spell. They began to seat themselves at the booth.

  "You'll find my daughter?" The woman's voice was soft, almost sad. "You'll find Emily?"

  "Damn right," Ness said. "Now one at a time, tell me their names and where they live."

  * * *

  Two hours later, they were in San Diego. Ness and Tristan brought the evacuees up the pier to the knights waiting ashore, then piled back into the sub, sealed the hatch, and headed belowdecks.

  In the galley, Sprite looked up from the broom he was using to sweep up the floor. "So where are we off to now?"

  "Where else?" Ness said. "Catalina."

  "Oh cool. I thought the bombings were going to put an end to the fun."

  "We're not really going to Catalina," Tristan said.

  Ness folded his arms. "I don't want to any more than you do. But I made a promise to those people."

  "Ness, were you concussed back there?" She leaned forward. There was as much worry in her eyes as annoyance. "They bombed Avalon!"

  "Yeah, and that's exactly why we have to go back. Not to the town. To the west side of the island. There's dozens of people over there. We have to get them out, too."

  "Not a great idea," Sam said. "We don't know what kind of sensors their jets have. They might be able to spot us."

  Tristan rested her elbows on the booth table. "It's only been two hours since the bombing. Do we need to make this decision now?"

  "That's the whole problem," Ness said. "Everything's happening so fast. I feel like if we don't get back there now, the Swimmers will beat us to the punch. And all those people will die."

  Sam tugged the cuff of her army jacket straight. "We can't go in blind. That would be suicide. We need intelligence."

  Tristan glanced between them. "Compromise. We go back to San Pedro. Catch up on current events. See what our options are."

  Sam pressed her fist against the point of her chin, then nodded. Sprite shrugged one shoulder, mouth pursed.

  "Fair enough," Ness said. "I'll go tell Sebastian."

  He headed to the command room to inform Sebastian of the course change. By the time they surfaced at the dock in San Pedro, the sun was low to the west, fat and red. Two of Raina's warriors had watched the sub come in and were there to meet the four humans; as usual, Sebastian remained with the sub. The sentries said Raina was out in the city, but that Mauser was around and would want to hear how the evacuation was going.

  This required traipsing from the docks to the Dunemarket, which was even dinkier looking than normal—most of the street vendors and almost all of the shoppers had cleared out, leaving a handful of stalls behind. By the time they crossed the hill to the grove of trees the locals called the Seat, it was twilight.

  Mauser was seated on top of a picnic table, a sour look on his face despite the glass of something brown and alcoholic in his hand. "You're alive. That's the first good news I've had in days."

  They filled him in on the incomplete evacuation of the island. Tristan finished with a detailed summary of the bombing.

  "They busted up Avalon pretty good," Ness said. "But there's still plenty of people on the west side. We got to get them out of there."

  "I'm sure they would agree." Mauser drained half his glass. "The problem with this plan, however, is that jets have been patrolling the island all afternoon."

  "Are they hunting people down?"

  "Not that we've seen. Then again, Catalina's so far away we'd miss anything short of a mushroom cloud."

  "I've been thinking about this the last two hours," Tristan said. "This is too big of a challenge. The west side of the island is miles across, isn't it? With a widely dispersed population? We don't know where the survivors are. Rounding them up could take days. We'd be exposed to air patrols that entire time."

  Mauser flicked the nail of his middle finger against his glass. "And what if you knew the location of every ranch, homestead, farm, and stronghold on the west side?"

  "That would make the job less insane. But we don't have that."

  "Ah—but I do. We have a map. Quite detailed. It's probably less accurate than it was prior to the aliens' arrival, but it would shorten your hypothetical efforts significantly."

  "How long?" Sam said.

  He swirled his drink. "If you ha
d mounts, I imagine you could reach everyone there within 24 hours. And as it just so happens, there are more horses on the west side of Catalina than in the entire Los Angeles Basin."

  "Why not use bikes?"

  "Country's too rough. It's nothing but mountains and hills with little to no road access. Horses are a much better option."

  "So it'll be like Paul Revere's midnight ride." Sprite clapped his hands. "Except it'll take all day. But the Swimmers make way better lobsterbacks than the British."

  "Where'd you learn about Paul Revere?" Ness said. "Didn't you grow up in Macau?"

  "Same place I learned English. You Americans think your five hundred years of history is sooo cool. Well, call me back when you've got five thousand."

  Tristan cracked a smile. "Hey, it's all we had."

  Mauser set down his glass. "Here's the problem. The Swimmers have been flying patrols over Catalina ever since that idiot lobbed his missile at them. Your submarine is a significant asset. I'd hate to risk it lightly."

  "Aren't the Catalinans an asset, too?" Ness said.

  "Don't get the wrong impression. I'm the one who has to answer to these people. Worse yet—I have to answer to Raina. I have so much skin in this game I could open a leather shop. Even so, it seems reckless to approach the island while the Swimmers are still this interested in it."

  "Agreed," Tristan said. "Do you have a proposal?"

  Mauser gestured vaguely. "I'd say you've earned a day off. If the situation has settled down tomorrow, you can make your ride then."

  Ness frowned. "What are we supposed to do until then?"

  "Take a walk? Play an invigorating round of bridge? Or if you've got nothing better to do, you could familiarize yourself with the map."

  This turned out to be three sheets of butcher paper taped together on the long edges, creating a swath larger than the picnic table. They chewed up the evening plotting the most efficient course through the island's dozens of outlying homesteads, including all the names Ness had gathered from the last batch of passengers.

  That night, rather than trudging back to the sub, they slept in a nearby house. It felt weird to sleep in a structure that didn't hum or slosh around. The smell was funny, too—dew and stuff. Once the crows woke him at dawn, Ness wasn't inclined to spend another night above water again. As the sun peeked above the eastern heights, a warrior came by to let them know they were still waiting on reports to come in from the spotters posted at the lighthouse on the southwest edge of the peninsula.