by Timothy Zahn
“Report,” he said.
“At least eight men and twelve burros approaching from the east,” Kyle told him. “Could be traders, but I didn’t recognize any of them.”
One of the others, a short balding man named Wadleigh, gave a snort.
“You scrambled us for traders?” he demanded.
“I didn’t recognize any of them,” Kyle repeated, standing his ground. “Who knows who they are?”
“They’re traders, kiddo,” Wadleigh explained with exaggerated patience. “The animals alone prove that. Unless you think someone’s opened a Hertz Rent-A-Burro for the L.A. gangs to use?”
He looked at Orozco. “I thought this stone system was supposed to have enough nuances to keep us from having to drop everything every time one of your sentries got nervous.”
“Is that what you think?” Orozco asked calmly. “That Reese just got nervous? That’s your professional military opinion?”
“Don’t pull that professional military crap on me,” Wadleigh said scornfully. “I may not have been a sergeant in the army, but I do know something about tactics and strategy, thank you.”
“I’m sure you do,” Orozco agreed. “And your suggested course of action?”
Wadleigh rolled his eyes.
“Fine,” he growled. “As long as we’ve been interrupted anyway, we might as well play it through.”
“Thank you,” Orozco said. “Get your fire teams together, and get to your posts.”
“Sure.” Wadleigh threw another look at Kyle, then gestured to the other two men and strode off across the lobby toward the hallway that led to the rear of the building.
Orozco let them get to the far side of the cracked fountain basin in the center of the lobby before clearing his throat.
“By the way, Wadleigh,” he called after them, his voice loud enough to be heard all the way at the back of the balcony, ‘scramble’ refers to aircraft. The proper term for activating ground forces is either ‘turn to’ or ‘lock and load’.”
Wadleigh threw a glare over his shoulder. But it seemed to Kyle that the glare was tinged with embarrassment, and the man turned and kept going without saying anything. A few seconds later, he and the others disappeared down the hallway.
“Idiot,” Kyle said quietly.
“That the way a soldier talks about his superiors?” Orozco asked.
Kyle grimaced. “No, sir. Sorry.”
“Better,” Orozco said, nodding. “Doesn’t change the fact that Wadleigh is an idiot, of course.
But he’s an idiot who’s willing to pick up a gun and help defend our home and our lives, and for that he deserves your respect. Now, what’s your reading on our visitors?”
“They probably really are just traders,” Kyle admitted. He’d stood up to Wadleigh’s scorn just fine, but under Orozco’s steady gaze he could feel his confidence melting into a vague feeling of foolishness.
“But the back of your neck’s still prickling?” Orozco persisted.
Kyle thought about it.
“I guess so,” he said. “Yes, it is.”
“Then you made the right call,” Orozco said. “Always listen to your neck and your gut. What’s their ETA?”
“Probably about ten minutes,” he said. “Maybe less. They were moving pretty fast.”
“Were they, now,” Orozco said. “Interesting.”
“Why?” Kyle asked.
“Because quick movement attracts the eye, which is something to Be avoided these days,”
Orozco said. “Besides that, peddlers and traders working a neighborhood don’t generally want to rush through it. Not without a really good reason.”
He shifted his M16 to his left hand and drew his Beretta.
“Here,” he said, reversing the pistol and handing it to Kyle. “You and Star take backup position around the right side of the fountain. I’ll hold my rifle either across my chest or else pointed at the visitors. If everything’s okay, I’ll lift the muzzle to point at the ceiling.”
“And we should come out then?”
“Or you can stay hidden,” Orozco said. “Your choice. If I instead lower the muzzle to point at the floor, start shooting. Remember to take out the ones with weapons first.”
“Right.” Kyle took the gun, checking the safety, the clip, and the chamber the way Orozco had taught him. Then, heart pounding, he gestured to Star and headed across the lobby to the fountain.
Orozco counted out seven minutes before he heard the sound of shuffling feet and clattering hooves coming along the street from the south.
That alone was unusual. A short block and a half south of the building’s archway, lying on its side across the street, was an old city bus that had probably been sitting there rusting since Judgment Day. The bus’ body was in remarkably solid condition, though, which made it an ideal spot from which to launch an ambush. Orozco had occasionally toyed with the idea of using it as an observation post, but had concluded that the lines of communication back to the building were too iffy for it to be safe for any of his young sentries.
But strangers had no way of knowing the bus was harmless, which was why those approaching Moldering Lost Ashes usually avoided the whole questionable situation by coming in from the north. Either this new group was strong enough not to care about possible traps, or else there was someone—or something—to the north that they were even more anxious to avoid.
Whichever it was, this could end up being a very unpleasant morning. Lifting the M16 to ready position across his chest, Orozco mentally prepared himself for combat.
If it was a raid, though, the bandits were playing it cool. The first man to come into view was wearing a holstered sidearm, but both hands were busy with the leads of two of the burros Kyle had mentioned. His face was turned upward as he walked, his oriental eyes clearly searching for something on the wall above the archway.
Orozco let him get three more steps, then cleared his throat.
“Afternoon,” he called.
The man jerked and came to an instant halt, his eyes snapping from his survey of the building to Orozco and his rifle.
“Afternoon,” he said cautiously. His voice carried a slight accent, just enough to show that English probably wasn’t his first language. “Excuse the intrusion. I’m looking for the Moldavia Los Angeles.”
“I’ve heard of the place,” Orozco said, nodding. “Luxury condos in the heart of greater Los Angeles, starting in the low 80Os.”
The other man drew back a little, probably wondering if the man with the military-issue rifle also had a radiation-scrambled brain.
“Uh…” he began.
“Long gone, of course,” Orozco continued, watching the man’s face closely. “However, if you’re interested in Moldering Lost Ashes, where the rooms are a lot cheaper, that’s a different story.”
The other’s forehead wrinkled even harder. Then, suddenly, it cleared.
“Oh, I see,” he said, visibly relaxing. “You’ve changed the name.” He frowned again.
“Moldering Lost Ashes?”
Orozco shrugged. A second and third man had now entered the field of fire, both also armed, both with their hands also visible and safely occupied with burro leads.
“It fits the place better than Moldavia Los Angeles,” he said. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Nguyen,” the man said, nodding back over his shoulder at the first of the two men who’d come up behind him. “This is Vuong, my second. We’re from Chuck Randall at Keeper’s Point.”
“Are you, now,” Orozco said, feeling his tension ease a bit. But only a bit. Nguyen had the names right, but there were a hundred ways he could have come by them. “How come Randall didn’t come himself?”
“He’s not traveling much these days,” Nguyen said grimly. “Lost his right leg below the knee two months ago. Something new Skynet’s started putting in the rivers.”
“A new model Terminator?”
Nguyen shrugged. “All we know is that it’s metal, travels in wa
ter, and has lots of big teeth. No one’s gotten a pedigree for it yet.”
“Not to be rude, but could we possibly take this inside?” Vuong put in, throwing a look northward past Nguyen’s shoulder.
“What’s your hurry?” Orozco asked.
“A mile or so back we spotted a group of nasties paralleling us a few blocks to the north,”
Nguyen said. “Eight to ten of them, all heavily armed. I don’t know if they spotted us, or if they’re even planning on turning in this direction, but we’d just as soon be out of sight before either of those things can happen.”
Orozco grimaced. More swaggering young men with guns who would need to be taught to stay away from his building. Just what he needed.
“We’re almost done,” he assured Vuong. “So if Randall really sent you, he must have told you who you’d be dealing with”
“Yes, after a fashion.” Nguyen’s lips tightened. “But then, he also told us to look for the Moldavia Los Angeles. Obviously, losing his leg hasn’t affected his sense of humor.”
“Apparently not,” Orozco said, a little more of the tension easing. Only someone who knew Randall would also know what sorts of things the man found funny. “So who did he send you here to see?”
“He just told us to ask for Auntie Em,” Nguyen said. He frowned. “I don’t suppose…that’s not you, is it?”
“Hardly,” Orozco said as the last remnant of tension faded quietly away. That had been his and Randall’s private joke, one the grizzled farmer had come up with the last time he was here. “Go ahead and bring your people and animals inside—we’ve got a room over to your right past the fountain where you can put them.”
“Thank you,” Nguyen said, making no effort to take Orozco up on his invitation. “But even a private joke has two sides.”
“In other words, how do you know I’m the one Randall said you could trust?” Orozco asked.
“Correct.” Nguyen inclined his head slightly. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Orozco assured him, his estimation of the man going up a notch. That kind of caution, that refusal to ever take anything for granted, was how you stayed alive these days. “Here’s Auntie Em.”
He hoisted his rifle to point at the ceiling, giving Nguyen a full profile view of the weapon.
“Nguyen, say hello to Auntie Em. Auntie M16, say hello to Mr. Nguyen.”
Nguyen gave a slightly twisted smile.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Em,” he said. “I take it, then, that you must be Ms. Em’s keeper and guardian, Mad Sergeant Justo Orozco?”
“Call me Huss,” Orozco said, beckoning to Kyle and Star. “This is Kyle and Star,” he added as the two kids rose from their concealment and started across the lobby. “They’ll help you get your burros inside and unloaded.”
“Ah…you may have slightly misunderstood our intentions,” Nguyen said carefully. “We’re not necessarily planning to sell all of our goods to you.”
“I understand that,” Orozco said. “But given the late hour, and given that the Ashes is the safest place around, I’d hoped you would accept our hospitality for the night.”
For a moment Nguyen studied Orozco’s face. Then, he again inclined his head.
“Thank you. We would be honored.”
“Good.”
Orozco turned to Kyle as he and Star came up beside him.
“Mr. Nguyen and his party will be our guests for the night,” he told the boy. “They and their animals will be in the Lower Conference Room. Take them there, and on your way tell Pierre I want him to stay at his post, but that the rest of his team can stand down and give you a hand getting our guests settled in.”
“Got it.” Kyle gestured to Nguyen. “This way.”
They boy headed off toward the conference room, walking sideways so that he could watch the traders’ progress as they picked their way across the lobby. He hadn’t stuck the Beretta into his belt, Orozco noticed, but still had it ready in his hand. Like Nguyen, like Orozco himself, the boy knew better than to take anything for granted.
Orozco waited until the last of Nguyen’s group was inside. Then, stepping beneath the archway, he signaled the man in the sniper’s nest across the street to come in. Once he was back in the building, Orozco would have him take over the post here at the entrance.
And then Orozco would have the unpleasant task of admitting to Wadleigh and the others that, yes, the party Kyle had spotted were just traders. The information would probably lead to more snide comments about Kyle’s paranoia, which thanks to the politics of life here, Orozco would have to endure in silence.
As Kyle had already noted, Wadleigh was an idiot. What was worse, he took things for granted, and this incident would simply reinforce the man’s mental laziness.
If there were any justice in the world, Orozco mused, Kyle would survive for a long time, while Wadleigh would suffer a quick and unpleasant death.
Baker appeared from the sniper’s nest and headed briskly across the street. Orozco gestured to him, then pointed to the floor beside the archway to indicate his new post. Then, cradling his M16
under his arm, he headed across the lobby to close down all the rest of the fire teams.
Including Wadleigh’s.
No, there was no justice left in the world. Not anymore. Justice had died on Judgment Day.
CHAPTER
SIX
The storm drainage tunnel was dank, fungus-infested, shin-high in fetid water, and tight enough that Connor and David couldn’t walk without stooping over.
But it was underground and out of sight of HKs and T-600s. That alone elevated the experience to the level of a walk in the park.
They were nearly to their target when Connor spotted a narrow slit of pale light angling in from the tunnel’s roof. David, in the lead, noticed it about the same time and signaled for a halt.
“Does that look suspicious to you, too?” he whispered to Connor.
Connor studied the dim light. They’d passed beneath similar openings at various points along their journey, most of them a result of warped or broken manhole covers that had once protected access points into the tunnels.
But none of those other covers had been inside a Skynet staging area. This one was, and it demanded a higher degree of caution.
“We’ve come this far,” Connor whispered back. “Let’s take a look.”
David nodded, taking a moment to fold up the strip map he’d made of the tunnel and tucking it away inside his jacket. Then, getting a grip on his shoulder-slung MP5 submachine gun, he started forward.
They reached the ray of light without anything jumping out of the darkness or, worse, opening fire. The manhole cover was at the top of a five-meter concrete cylinder, accessible via a set of rusty rungs set into the cylinder’s side.
Connor peered up at it. This particular cover wasn’t cracked, but had merely been angled slightly up out of its proper position, either by movement of the ground around it or by a small warping of the cover’s seating. The gap itself was very small, no more than half a centimeter across at its widest.
More significant than the gap’s origin was the fact that it had clearly been there a long time. A single tenacious vine had taken root in the tunnel wall where the light shone, its roots poking through cracks in the concrete, its leaves positioned to drink in the meager bit of sunlight.
Of even greater significance was the thick layer of rust and grime visible on the cover itself, which meant it had lain undisturbed since long before Skynet had set up its staging area in the warehouse above. Possibly since Judgment Day itself.
David had apparently come to the same set of conclusions.
“Looks clean,” he whispered. “Be careful not to move it.”
Connor nodded, rotated his own MP5 downward on its shoulder sling, and started up the rungs.
Caution was definitely the order of the day—if there was a similar layer of rust on the upper side of the cover, moving the plate would probably disturb it. Skynet’s Te
rminators were experts at ferreting out such subtle clues of Resistance presence.
The rungs, fortunately, were sturdier than their coating of rust suggested, and Connor reached the top without incident. Hooking his right arm through the top rung, he pulled out the snoop kit with his left and unrolled its length of bendable but slightly stiff fiber optic cable. He slipped the elastic band around his head, adjusted the eyepiece over his right eye, then bent the tip of the cable into a right angle and eased it up through the opening.
The good news was that David’s map and navigation had been right on the mark. They had indeed reached the warehouse Blair had spotted the previous night. Turning the optic cable in a slow circle, Connor could see two of the HKs she’d described, still maintaining their silent guard at the parking lot’s corners.
The bad news was that the tunnel wasn’t going to take them beneath the warehouse itself, as David had suggested might be the case. It was close, certainly—the tunnel ran nearly parallel to the building, angling slightly away at the far end. Unfortunately, the entire passageway was very definitely outside the wall.
He looked down at David, still waiting at the bottom of the shaft, and shook his head. The other grimaced and nodded acknowledgment.
Connor raised his head and once again focused on the view through the eyepiece. The wall the tunnel was paralleling didn’t look all that healthy, he noted. In fact, it looked way too fragile to still be holding up that much roof. Some trick of the warehouse’s internal structure, perhaps, that made the wall look weaker than it actually was?
Or had Skynet actually taken the time and trouble to reinforce the building?
There was no way to tell without actually getting inside. But whatever the situation, it probably wasn’t anything they couldn’t fix with a few chunks of C4 along the bottom edge of the wall.
He was figuring out the best places to set the charges when a T-600 appeared around the far corner, striding alongside the south warehouse wall like a sentry on patrol.
Coming directly toward the manhole cover.
Connor’s first impulse was to yank the optical fiber down out of sight. But movement attracted the eye, especially a Terminator’s eye, and the machine was already close enough to notice even a movement that small.