Easier said than done.
“Show me cartoons!” Dana wailed, flailing her legs.
“Stop wiggling around and watch the screen.”
Where Veritechs and Tactical Battlepods were exchanging depleted transuranics and vibrant bolts of energy.
“Now, isn’t this much more interesting?”
Dana twisted her head to one side and shut her eyes. “You can’t make me watch it.”
“Oh, no? Oh, no?” He leaned his gangly frame over her, his bony finger attempting to pry her eyes open, only to be kicked solidly in the groin.
“All right, all right, enough of this,” Zand said when he could. He disappeared for a moment, returning with a set of eyelid expanders of the sort used in optic surgery. “Can’t make you watch it, huh? Just watch this …”
Dana began to scream as Zand moved in on her.
He was standing over her, one hand clamped over her mouth, the eyelid apparatus in the other, an especially barbarous sequence running onscreen, when the locked door flew open and a broad-shouldered figure stormed into the office.
Emerson? Zand had time to think before the muscular RDF officer hurled himself at him.
Seloy had insisted that Miriya think carefully before making up her mind about taking Hirano—and raising him should something befall his mother. But Miriya had no time to waste on thinking. No sooner did Seloy sequester her in one of the huts than Miriya was stealing into the camp, searching for someone to ambush. Anything could happen here, especially with embittered Zentraedi like Ranoc Nomarre on the way, and she wanted a weapon. Not even fifty yards from the hut, she located her target: a recent arrival—a lone male—sleeping away the high heat of the afternoon under a shady breadnut tree. A quick chop to the base of the neck was all it took to dispatch him to temporary oblivion. Now, Miriya thought, to work the handgun free of the tight waistband of his filthy pants and conceal it under the untucked tail of Max’s hiking shirt …
“Are you Miriya Parina?” a child’s voice asked in Spanglish.
She turned, hiding the gun, and found herself facing a sad-eyed child of four, dark-haired and thickly built, dressed in a T-shirt and ragged shorts. “Hirano?”
“You’re a friend of my mother, yes?”
“Yes, Hirano. I am her friend.”
“She asked me to find you. She wants to know the answer.”
Miriya smiled. “Can you take me to her?”
Hirano took hold of her hand and began to lead her through the camp, past groups of Scavengers and others muttering Zentraedi imprecations. “Hirano,” Miriya said, “do you know what your mom has asked me to do?”
The child nodded. “She wants you to take me someplace. Then she’s going to come and meet us there.”
More than a year younger than Dana, Hirano seemed already hardened to life. There was nothing innocent or playful about him. He was serious, focused, sure of himself: a Zentraedi. Ill-suited to a Human world. “Are you frightened about going with me?” she asked.
“Frightened of what?”
“Of leaving your mom. Tell the truth, Hirano.”
He looked up at her. “I don’t remember you.”
“That’s because I only met you once, and you were a tiny baby then.”
“My mom said you were in the War with her.”
“Your mother was a great warrior.”
“She still is.”
Miriya stopped and knelt down beside him. “Hirano, not all battles are good ones or easy ones to win. The things your mother and her comrades are trying to do here are very dangerous.”
“She could get killed.”
“That’s right, she could be killed.”
“Then I would have to live with you and your child, and the three of us could fight the Humans together.”
Nothing more was said until they had reached the house on the edge of the mountainside. Seloy wore a white jumpsuit, adorned at the breast with the Zentraedi sigil, and a holstered weapon.
“It is time for magdomilla, Miriya—time for strategic talk.”
Miriya knelt at Hirano’s side once more. “Hirano, I want you to wait outside while your mom and I talk.”
Seloy grabbed Hirano by the arm and tugged him to her. “He stays. He has a right to hear your decision and know his fate.” She put her hands on her hips. “The meeting will begin soon, Miriya, and after that, there will be much to attend to. But the male groups are careless; any one of them might be traced to this place, and there could be fighting. If your answer is yes, I want you to leave immediately. A Stinger is waiting to carry the two of you to Mexico.”
Miriya’s thoughts spiraled. Seloy was testing her. Once in Mexico, she could provide the RDF with the location of the camp; but once committed to accepting Hirano, she was honor-bound to silence.
“What is your decision?” Seloy demanded.
Miriya showed her a cheerless smile. “I was so happy to learn you were alive, Seloy. Your friendship means so much to me, I thought nothing could come between us. But I was wrong. You can’t expect me to ignore what I’ve seen here. I want to help you and Hirano, but not if that means allowing you to make Earth unfit for Human life. You ask too much of me.”
Seloy smirked. “I feared as much. I shouldn’t have asked you to come. You are no longer Zentraedi, Miriya Parina.” She drew the weapon. Confused, Hirano made as if to hug her legs, but she pushed him away.
Miriya looked at her friend. “There was a time no Zentraedi would fire on another. Perhaps we’ve both betrayed the Imperative.”
“So smug,” Seloy said. “Show your weapon, Miriya—the one you took from the male. I left you unguarded deliberately to test you. Now, at least go to your death honorably.”
Miriya reached behind her to draw the weapon from the small of her back. As she did so, Seloy raised hers to fire, but Hirano chose just that moment to lunge for her. The weapon discharged but the projectile meant for Miriya missed its mark and streaked through the roof thatch. By then, Miriya had the borrowed handgun in front of her in a two-handed grip. Seloy kicked Hirano aside and dived to the left. Miriya yelled “No!” and fired.
And struck Hirano.
Twice repelled, the boy had run for his mother and caught the shot in the middle of his back. Miriya and Seloy stood gaping at his crumpled form. Miriya began shaking her head hack and forth in anguished disbelief. Seloy was confused, distrustful of her feelings. Did she love the boy? Did the agony she felt at his death make a mother of her? When she gazed at Miriya, her face was streaked with tears. Then her features torqued in rage and she charged, screaming “Hajoca!” Charged, screaming, squarely into Miriya’s gun.
The discharge all but blew her in half. Mother and son lying dead together … Miriya’s scream seemed to last an eternity. She couldn’t recall moving to Seloy’s side, crouching beside her, cradling Seloy’s head in her arms, rocking and keening. But there she was when the three women appeared in the doorway, weapons in hand, staring aghast at the scene.
“I am not Zentraedi,” she moaned. “I am not Zentraedi.”
“The Army of the Southern Cross knows all about the legendary exploits of Captain Wolfe,” Anatole Leonard said on being introduced to Wolfe. In the bubble-helmeted, billowy antihazard suit, the field marshal looked twice his normal size, almost too large for the City Hall briefing room. “People refer to your team as a ‘pack,’ if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’m flattered you’ve heard of us,” Wolfe told him through a fixed smile.
“Don’t be,” Leonard said, ignoring the sarcasm.
Leonard’s fleet of superhaulers had arrived only that morning, two days after the monorail crash, setting down near the Grand Cannon and at points north, east, and west of Cavern City to establish a defensive perimeter. CDC guidelines required nuclear/biological/chemical suits for everyone entering the city. Leonard was accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Joseph Petrie, and two Southern Cross lieutenants. Waiting for him in the briefing room were Carson, Mendoza, Mynalo, Lopez,
the Wolfes, and two epidemiologists from the CDC.
Given his history with Leonard, Max Sterling had thought it best not to attend.
“I’d like a summary of where things stand,” Leonard said, nodding to Petrie, who was recording everything via a fiber-optic rig designed into the face-shielded helmet of his suit.
Raphael Mendoza answered for Carson’s team. “The virus is spreading exponentially. Where there were seventeen confirmed cases on August fifteenth, there are at present sixty-five. Twenty-seven have already died of the disease; the rest are in isolation in the east wing of City Hospital. Calamities have increased as well, running the gamut from shootings to firebombings, though not all of these incidents are directly related to contagion and subsequent infection. Panic attacks, copycat crimes, mass hysteria, and personal vendettas all have to be considered as factors contributing to the rise in property destruction and general mayhem.”
Leonard mulled it over for a moment, then looked at Wolfe. “It seems you returned from your raid on the Shroud and Fist with quite a prize, Captain. Your pack should remember to delouse before returning to civilization.”
Carson spoke before Wolfe could respond. “Assigning blame is counterproductive, Field Marshal. We have a situation, and that situation needs to be dealt with, regardless of how it arose. And let’s not forget that three of Captain Wolfe’s teammates have been casualties of this virus.”
Leonard steepled his gloved fingers and looked long and hard at Rho Mynalo. “As long as we’re being blunt, Ms. Mayor, let me state that I’m opposed to having a Zentraedi sit in or otherwise participate in this meeting.”
Carson reddened with anger. “Rho has been a trusted member of my staff for three years, and I wouldn’t think of excluding him. As you well know, Cavern City has a Zentraedi population exceeding five hundred, all of whom are considered full members of the community. Unlike Brasília and Cuiabá, to name only two, Cavern has no Zee-town.”
“That may explain why your city alone finds itself victimized by a mysterious plague,” Leonard said. “The CDC has yet to demonstrate conclusively that Wolfe’s team was the only vector for this virus. Now, I’m not saying that Mynalo here is a double agent, but for the time being all Zentraedi must be assumed to be security risks.”
Carson shook her head. “I simply won’t have it.”
“In his reports, Captain Wolfe refers to the virus as a ‘Zentraedi weapon,’ ” Joseph Petrie thought to point out.
Wolfe shot to his feet. “I called it a malcontent weapon. Or maybe you fail to see the distinction.”
Petrie took it in stride, directing himself to Mendoza. “Do you deny that there have been attacks against Cavern’s upstanding Zentraedi citizenry these past two days?”
“No, we won’t deny that.”
“So it appears that not everyone agrees with the mayor.”
“There’s an explanation for those attacks,” Carson said.
Petrie’s grin showed through the helmet faceshield. “And that is that the Zentraedi’s apparent immunity to the virus has made them suspect.”
Intruding on a sinister silence, Rho Mynalo stood up at his chair. “Mayor Carson, I’m willing to leave if my absence will facilitate an understanding between yourself and the Army of the Southern Cross.”
Carson whirled on him. “You’re not going anywhere, Rho. If anyone, it’s the field marshal who’s leaving.”
Petrie started to reply, but Leonard silenced him with a gesture. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here,” he said in mock concern. “Why don’t we begin again, focusing on the ‘situation,’ as Mayor Carson puts it. The Army of the Southern Cross is willing and certainly able to lend its services to Cavern City—a Northlands protectorate—but only if we can be assured the freedom to operate as we see fit. We will honor all protocols by keeping the RDF fully apprised of our actions, but we will not take orders from them or anyone else. What this means, essentially, is that we want the authority to control the city’s power and telecommunications facilities, and to commandeer any and all housing, food, and vehicles. Strategic decisions made by me cannot be countermanded by the mayor’s office, nor by Captain Wolfe or any member of the RDF.” He paused to glance at Carson. “Do we understand one another?”
“You must be mad,” she told him. “I’m not going to turn this city over to you.”
“The decision is yours, of course. But ask yourself this: since Monument has given its blessing to the Southern Cross, will you still have a city to cede a week from now?”
His ultimatum delivered, Anatole Leonard had excused himself from the meeting, leaving it to Carson and Petrie to strike a compromise. The final solution, arrived at after four hours of heated argument, was satisfying only to Leonard’s aide.
Frustrated and angered by what he saw as Carson’s shortsightedness, Wolfe—only steps behind his wife—exited the briefing room while the mayor, Petrie, and the CDC people were still hammering out the details. In the corridor, he hurried after Catherine, catching up with her on the staircase to the lobby.
She recoiled from the light touch of his hand on her shoulder. “Look, Jonathan, I don’t have time right now to process our relationship.”
“This isn’t about you and me. It’s about Johnny. Have you had him tested for the virus?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, I was planning to let him get sick so he could miss a few days of school. And perhaps burn the house down at the same time.”
Wolfe went right on. “How about yourself?”
“Why, Jonathan, all this sudden concern is heartwarming.”
“I want you two to move into one of the clear shelters.”
“You want.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless I’m mistaken, you don’t live with us anymore, which means what you want no longer matters as far as we’re concerned.”
“It’s too dangerous to stay in the apartment. There are a lot of Zentraedi living in that neighborhood, and the way things are going you could get caught up in a riot”
“I know the risks. But I’m not about to stick us in some filthy shelter. Anyway, I have a job to do. Lea’s counting on me.”
Wolfe snorted a laugh. “Yeah, forget about the CDC or the Army of the Southern Cross, what this emergency needs is the services of a good spin doctor.”
“How dare you belittle me! Maybe I’m not in charge of maintaining law and order like the heroic Jonathan Wolfe, but what I do matters. And goddamn you for not remembering that you were the one who urged me to take the position in the first place!”
Catherine’s tears made a molten mess of him. “I’m only thinking of your safety, Cath. I know I’ve screwed up—we’ve screwed up—but we have to think of Johnny—”
“Since when has Johnny ever come first? What have you been to him all these years while I’ve been mother and father?” She raised a hand as if to slap him, but thought better of it. “If I’m such an unfit protector, why don’t you ask Geena Bartley to take care of him. She doesn’t work. She’s supportive of her husband. She’s willing to sacrifice everything for his career.”
“Cath, I only meant—”
“I don’t care what you meant. If you’re not going to be in my life, you have no right to interfere with my decisions. And no, Jonathan, I don’t have the virus: whatever hostility I’m projecting is of my own making.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Hollister was never cut out to be an anchor; she was too in love with the field, the image of the lone photojournalist reporting live from the front. That’s why she jumped at the chance of an assignment on the factory satellite. There, she would do a series of exclusives, break many a heart, cover the Hunter-Hayes wedding, and be a strong influence on a young reporter named Susan Graham, whose documentary on the SDF-3 mission would earn her a posthumous Pulitzer. How then, you may be wondering, did Hollister ever end up as Supreme Commander Leonard’s press secretary?
Altaira Heimel, Butterflies in Winter
“And on a pe
rsonal note, I’d like to say how happy I am to be back on the MBS Evening News, and I’d like to thank everyone for all the kind words and letters of support.” Katherine Hyson’s smile was strained, and the dullness in her eyes betrayed the effects of the sedatives that had contributed to her inordinately speedy convalescence. “Rebecer Holistin,” she went on, unintentionally garbling the name of the woman she blamed for her breakdown, “is currently on assignment on the factory satellite. And now for our top stories.
“Cavern City, beleaguered capital of the Venezuela Sector, remains the focal point of world attention tonight, as experts from the Center for Disease Control continue to seek a vaccine for the deadly virus that has held that city in its grip during the past week. Believed to have been developed by the malcontent group known as the Scavengers, the neurotoxic virus induces episodes of berseric behavior and, in many cases, death. Four hundred and fifteen cases have been confirmed since an RDF unit, returning from a raid on a malcontent camp, unwittingly introduced the virus to the city. Held hostage by the disease, Cavern’s thousands remain in virtual quarantine, rocked by sporadic rioting and mob violence directed against the Zentraedi population, who are evidently immune to the disease.
“Along with the presence of the Army of the Southern Cross, the crisis in Cavern has also made the city something of a political hotbed. While reports that Anatole Leonard received the tacit approval of the RDF have yet to be substantiated, spokespersons for the UEG will not disavow rumors that Leonard’s occupation of the district constitutes the first step toward the eventual ceding of Venezuela to the Southlands.
“One person who probably won’t be heard from regarding the Venezuela controversy is Braxton Milburn, former head of the UEG’s Ways and Means Committee, charged today with conspiracy stemming from Milburn’s connection to Tom Hoos and the ongoing Lorelei Network Scandal.
The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 34