by Eric Flint
Anthea picked her way among the skeletons, looked at the grinning teeth, the empty eye sockets. Several of the rib cages were broken, the bones shattered and blackened. All around, she found discarded weapons, bullet casings, and empty charge packs. Black marks stained the tables, floor, and walls. Chunks had been blasted from the high rock ceiling, and bullet holes stitched a zig-zag pattern across a chalkboard that hung askew.
A terrific battle had occurred here, a shootout—but with whom? And how long ago? Was there some sort of civil war among the slans, or had the secret police discovered this place and ambushed the hiding slans? She doubted she would ever know the answers.
She strained her ears, as if there might still be fading echoes, but she heard only the hum of buried generators. The lights were strong and steady, never flickering. The air smelled clean, though with a faint metallic odor and thankfully without any residue of the decaying bodies.
Had the skeletons been here since the days of the Slan Wars, centuries ago? She looked down at the sprawled figures, wondering if they might be the last remains of the children of Dr. Lann. She didn't think so.
She picked up one of the unusual energy weapons on the floor—a stunner?—and saw that it had been completely discharged. She couldn't use it for her own protection, should slan hunters threaten her here.
After her initial surprise, Anthea cautiously explored the large chambers, calling out, but finding no one else there. The redoubt was completely empty, completely silent.
She found fresh running water and sanitary facilities, several rooms with comfortable beds, clean clothes. In a dining area she discovered a wealth of preserved packaged food. After recognizing slightly old-fashioned brands and label designs, she concluded that someone had occupied this place within the last few decades. The food was still good, and she ravenously ate a wrapped chocolate bar. If necessary, she could stay here a long time.
At last feeling a warmth and contentment she hadn't experienced since Davis had rushed her to the hospital—on what she thought would be the happiest day of her life—Anthea realized how utterly exhausted she was. She sat in a chair and kept herself awake long enough to nurse the baby, who sucked greedily. He must have been starving as well.
Barely able to stay awake, Anthea chose one of the soft beds and took just enough time to pull out a blanket and a pillow. She lay back, cradling the baby against her, and fell asleep within moments.
* * *
Later, rested and refreshed at last, she arranged a makeshift crib for the baby and then turned to the first order of business: removing the grim reminder of the skeletons. These bones weren't just random garbage that she could sweep up and toss in a trash bin. Every one had been a person, probably an unjustly persecuted slan. She imagined that they must have died fighting, as heroes.
Finding a pair of gloves and some empty boxes, she gathered each of the remains and reverently put them in separate containers, like makeshift coffins. She didn't know what else to do. Someday, there might be a way to identify these people and bury them properly so they could rest in peace. After she had quietly tucked away each of the boxes and cleaned the dark stains, she felt drained.
Now, she could devote her full attention to investigating the place that would be her refuge during the war above. The buried complex was quite remarkable with laboratory equipment that far surpassed anything she had seen in the library archives. The tall, blocky units with spinning tape feeds and blinking lights were obviously powerful computers. Thick electrical conduits ran through the walls, distributing power from generators that must have been located in a deeper grotto.
In a separate control room, she found a throbbing device studded with crystal rods and vacuum tubes. It glowed blue-white with energy, crackling as tiny sparks discharged across electrodes and thrummed through conduits into the ceiling. A signal generator? It seemed to be sending out a pulsing message—but to whom? The system itself must have been designed by those long-ago slans, perhaps the original children of Samuel Lann, or maybe the more recent inhabitants who had died in the shootout. Either way, was there anyone left who could receive such a transmission? Were there still slans out in the wreckage of Centropolis? Staring at the machinery, she didn't know how to respond to the signal, how to listen to what it might be saying.
As she continued her explorations, Anthea realized that the whole underground facility had been steadily changing ever since she and the baby had arrived—powering up, awakening. When the Porgrave sensors had recognized the arrival of a slan, dormant systems began to come online again.
The slan scientists in this base, whoever they were, had created technology capable of detecting members of their race. Anthea realized that if such sensors had fallen into the hands of the secret police, then no slan would ever be safe. The inhabitants of this base would have given their lives to protect that invention.
In the laboratory rooms, she found neatly stacked notebooks, records signed by a slan scientist named Peter Cross. In addition to the hand-written logs, she also found a recording loop and a viewer similar to the one she had used in the library archives. She installed the reel and played it, seeing Peter Cross in person. He was a handsome man with bright eyes, dark curly hair cut short, and a high brow. He made no effort to hide the fine slan tendrils that dangled at the base of his neck.
Cross spoke at length into the recorder about complex technical matters, describing how slans were again using this ancient base, though he feared the war was over and lost, for all intents and purposes. Cross described the treasure-trove of forgotten discoveries he had found here upon reopening the underground redoubt, including a series of Samuel Lann's investigations about "original memory transference" and "baseline life-recording technology."
Then Peter Cross looked directly into the imager. His blue eyes seemed to stare right out at her, and Anthea felt his words tug at her heart. "I will never stop my work," he vowed. "Not until I succeed in making a better world so that my wife and baby son no longer have to live in fear."
When the recording ended, Anthea nodded silently and solemnly to herself. "That's something we can all wish for."
CHAPTER 33
Inside the sleek spacecraft, Jommy recovered, sleeping as if in a coma, then feeling weak and disoriented when he woke. Counting on Joanna's help, he tried to think of a way they could save Earth and prevent the extinction of both humans and slans. Both of them felt a sense of urgency, knowing that Jem Lorry would be meeting with President Gray soon. Worse, Joanna told him the ominous main occupation fleet from Mars would arrive within days.
As she checked her systems, Joanna glanced up to see a flash of fire as an explosive projectile came flying toward her ship. "Jommy! Someone's shooting at—" She didn't have time to complete her warning before the explosion struck the side hull. The metal plates buckled inward, and fire tore open the wall.
Jommy staggered to his feet, feeling angry and helpless. He saw the ragged scavengers outside, coming closer. "They didn't take long to creep out of their hiding holes." The looters had scavenged firearms from civil defense armories and from the cold, dead hands of civilians who had tried to defend themselves. Now they closed in on the landed tendrilless craft.
Joanna ran to her cockpit systems, struggling to power up and fire her small battery of defensive guns. Three brief shots rang out, and the bright bursts scattered the attackers outside, giving them a brief respite. Joanna got her engines activated, and the damaged ship shuddered. With a blast of rockets, the scout heaved itself a few feet off the ground.
The angry scavengers shot whatever weapons they had managed to cobble together. Before she could lift the ship out of reach, a thrown grenade took out her rear engine, causing the ship to spin. The spacecraft's rear smashed into the wall of a nearby building, bending one of her guidance fins.
Jommy gripped the back of Joanna's pilot seat for balance as the ship collapsed back to the ground, raking the street with a flare of screeching sparks. Oily black smoke poured in fr
om the engine compartment. Joanna looked at him, stricken. "Looks like we're not taking this ship anywhere."
Though broad spiderweb cracks obscured the cockpit window, he could see tattered-looking people closing in from all sides. He recognized some of them, saw their scrapes and bruises, the angry expressions on their faces—in particular one man with sharply squared shoulders and a fresh cut on one cheek. Deacon. He must have recognized the scout ship that had attacked them before he and his people could finish with Jommy. . . .
Jommy reacted with instinctive loathing, and a red undertone of anger suffused his face. "That's the man who cut off my tendrils."
Deacon's gang seemed to realize that they had snared themselves big prey. Jommy imagined how the scarred gang lord would use the captured enemy craft to consolidate his power, swooping along the streets and assassinating rivals. At the front of the advancing crowd, Deacon waved his dagger in the air as he ran forward. He seemed to think nothing could harm him.
The spacecraft's remaining engine groaned and whirred. Smoke polluted the air in the compartment. "If that man wants to capture my vessel intact, he's not showing much restraint." Joanna flashed a grin as smooth as broken glass. "And I plan to show even less restraint." She opened fire with the ship's energy weapons.
The dazzling beams struck Deacon squarely in the chest, turning his entire body into a cloud of reddish mist, shattered bone, and greasy smoke. He disappeared in mid-shout.
The other scavengers scrambled to a halt. Four of them dropped their makeshift weapons and ran away in a panic. Another hurled an empty pistol at the side of the tendrilless ship; it struck the hull with a harmless clang. Then the whole mob vanished into the shadowy streets like cockroaches fleeing a bright light.
"They won't cause us any more trouble." A faint undertone of disappointment rode on the tendrilless woman's words.
Jommy lurched back to the engine compartment and used flame extinguishers to smother the crackling fire. Joining him to inspect the damage, Joanna shook her head. "The energy cells are cracked. The ship's ruined, completely ruined."
His brow furrowed with concern. "We can't stay here. Exposure to those cracked cells can be more hazardous than facing a desperate gang." He pulled on Joanna's arm. "I hope you didn't intend on going back to Mars any time soon."
The woman's face showed a mixture of conflicting emotions. "I'm not returning there until we've got a viable resolution to this unnecessary war. I'm staying at your side, Jommy."
Earlier, when she had helped him escape from Cimmerium and grudgingly admitted the possibilities of his idealism, he hadn't been sure how to read her. Like many of her race, Joanna had developed tight mental blocks that kept him from sensing her innermost thoughts. But he suspected that she was more than intrigued by him, more than perplexed by his strange optimism. Even though she was aware of his bond with Kathleen, Joanna actually seemed to be in love with him. . . .
"Jommy, what were you doing at the palace? What were you searching for when that gang found you, when they cut—?" She stopped herself.
"I came to the city to find something—something vital." He reminded her of his father's disintegrator weapon, which she had previously seen him use to great effect. "I know exactly where it is. I found it. I had my hands on it—then those scavengers came." He lowered his head, then drew strength from his resolve. "Come on. We've got to retrieve it. I'm not going back to the ranch empty-handed—especially if Jem Lorry's going to pull one of his tricks."
Before abandoning the wrecked scout ship, he and Joanna stuffed supplies into a pack, though they found it difficult to see and breathe in the thickening smoke. Since he had already activated the locking mechanism on the door to the vault that held his disintegrator, he knew exactly what sort of equipment he would need. Joanna also packed two small hand weapons. Though they had once been on different sides of this conflict, he was glad to have the tendrilless woman at his side.
"Joanna, if we don't get out of this, if we can't end the tendrilless war, then I am at your mercy. You can claim me as your prize and take whatever reward or promotion that's your due. At that point, it won't matter anymore."
"It'll always matter, Jommy. You said it yourself." He answered with a faint smile. Perhaps he truly had gotten through to her after all.
They exited the smoldering wreck and trudged away, never looking back. The scavengers could have the broken hulk with its poisonous smoke and radiation that leaked from the destroyed engines.
As sunset threw long shadows across the streets, bonfires began to blaze in cul-de-sacs and alleys. A few candles and kerosene lanterns shone behind broken windows, where people huddled around the light and warmth. It would be another dangerous and harrowing night for the survivors in Centropolis.
He and Joanna stalked toward the site of the palace, both of them sensing that unseen eyes were watching them. They clambered over stones, dodged girders and broken glass.
In twilight, they finally reached the battered vault that lay like an egg in a nest of shattered debris. When he saw dark bloodstains spattering the stones, Jommy wondered how much of it was his own.
Joanna found the discarded bottom half of the man Thompkins, who had been severed in two by the slamming vault door. Untroubled, she kicked the loose legs, knocking them aside with a wet ripping sound so she could reach the vault door controls. "I wish people would pick up after themselves," she muttered.
Jommy was pleased to see that his dismantled tracking device still dangled to the controls by a few loose wires. "We better open the vault door, retrieve the disintegrator, and get out of here as fast as we can. It'll be dangerous negotiating our way out of this crater in the dark."
"Especially if we have company again." She peered warily into the shadows.
Struggling to function without his tendrils, realizing now how much he had relied on them, Jommy removed the necessary equipment from his pack and installed a new power source to run the vault's pistons. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, but he managed to rig the mechanism and charge up the weary motors of the security door. Once again, the pistons hummed, and the tilted door groaned partway open until the hinges jammed.
From inside, they heard a sliding, wet thump, and Jommy realized it was the top half of Thompkins dropping the rest of the way into the vault.
Suddenly, all around them in the dimness, hundreds of bright torches appeared, surrounding the crater. In the thrown firelight, the people looked like scarecrowish trolls, a wild tribe closing in on two victims. Without saying a word, Joanna dug in her pack and withdrew her hand weapons. Gunshots rang out from the scavengers, and bullets ricocheted off the rocks next to Jommy and Joanna. One pinged off the partly opened vault door.
"This isn't going to be as easy as I thought," she said.
Painfully aware of his lost tendrils, Jommy said, "Those are either Deacon's men, or a new gang's already moved into town."
"It seems I created a job opportunity for a potential new leader." Joanna slowly turned around, took aim at one of the capering figures, and shot him dead. Her moment of triumph was short-lived as a volley of responding shots peppered the rubble around them. She ducked behind a large chunk of concrete. "Maybe we should come back at a better time."
"Never. Not while we're this close."
A rocket-launched explosive detonated nearby, sending a spray of rock splinters and clattering pipes and broken glass. Jommy hunched behind the tilted wall of the displaced vault chamber.
Joanna looked for another target and coolly took a second shot, which sent one of the torch bearers scrambling away, his bobbing light like a drunken firefly in the darkness. She snapped at Jommy, "Get inside the vault, find what you need to find, and then climb back out. I'll hold them off as long as I can."
"Not good enough. There's no time." With his shoulder, he knocked Joanna backward through the partly opened door. She fell into the vault, and he heard her clatter among the broken shelves and scattered debris.
"What are you doing? It'
s dark in here!" He heard her trip and let out a gasp. "Hey, how many bodies did you leave lying around?"
Another grenade hit, exploding against the back of the vault. He heard shouting and screaming, more gunfire. A swarm of angry scavengers boiled over the rubble, coming closer. He could see their snarling faces in the torchlight.
Jommy scrambled in through the gap, hoping the door's pistons would hold just a few more seconds. Before he dropped inside, he seized the blinking device attached to the locking mechanism, then yanked it free. As he dropped down, the immensely heavy door slammed shut with a hissing groan, sealing them inside the impregnable vault in total blackness.
Next to him, he heard Joanna breathing hard. >From outside, the scavengers' banging and pummeling sounded oddly distant through the thick walls.
"Well, we're safe now. We can spend the night here." His voice seemed disembodied in the rich darkness. "There's just one problem. We can't open the door from the inside."