Glinting along the sharp line of the horizon behind the main dome were the farming and industry domes with wisps of white rising from their big converters. Like specks of dust around the main dome stood Polaski’s personal flight of warships, along with the heavily armored shuttles that worked between the base and the orbiting fleet.
Nowhere across the billion square miles of frozen desert was there any sound, save for my breathing and the hissing from the radios.
“Okay, Torres,” said Elliot, “we’re tracking the drones’ communications all over the system, and we got a visual on their biggest fleets, at the torus and out at H-vi, whatever it is they’re doing out there. Chan says FleetSys is ready to pin down the password they respond to, and your system down there’s been programmed to try more than a thousand of ’em. You got any last-minute bright ideas, cough ’em up.”
“No, Tyrone. We’ve got her birth date, government ID number, system memory size, hashing seeds, launch date—every number she ever used. I’m not going to think of anything else, and we’ve asked every other human who ever knew her. That’s it, Tyrone, it’s time to try.”
“Okay. You got the switch.”
“How’s Chan?”
“Chan says if you’re gonna do it, Torres, do it.”
I kicked the coupling loose from the antenna array’s trailer, and with a last glance at its annunciator lights I climbed back into the cab.
When I’d driven several miles back toward the main dome, passing close to the wreck of the landing dome, I reached over and typed the start command into the terminal on the seat. COMMAND ENTERED, it said. In minutes the drones would either be back under our control, many generations later, or we would be left helpless forever.
Something on the surface caught the morning light at that moment, an object resting on the ground near my course. I climbed down to look just as Elliot’s voice crackled in my headset.
“Christ, Torres, they’ve stopped.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What’s stopped?”
The frozen ground crunched under my boots as I trudged across the surface, listening to Elliot’s breathing now, on top of my own.
“The drones’ communications. Everywhere in the system they just stopped, the instant the first password went out.”
In front of me was a gravestone, neatly carved and sunk into the ground next to a mound. Its chiseled letters caught the morning light.
“Torres?”
“Yes,” I said. RODERICK CAMDEN McKENNA, 2028–2049.
“They’re turning this way. All of them. Even the ones that were nosing around the Chinese at Asile. All of them, Torres.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Trailing Clouds of Glory
H
ow long until they’re here?” I said.
“The closest are the ones lifting off from H-vi, and they aren’t more than four hours out. They’re really humping, Torres—eight Gs. And I don’t think it’s ’cause they heard their mama calling, either.”
“All right, listen. Chan should keep trying passwords while they’re on the way. In the meantime, get on to Polaski and tell him what’s happening. His units are back on the base somewhere, and he’s got to start evacuating. Tell him I’ll meet up with him in the dome in half an hour.”
“That boy’s gonna take your balls off, Torres.”
“No, he’s not. Because if the drones are leaving H-vi unguarded, I know what he’s going to do. Now get moving—I’ll talk to you later.”
With a last glance at Roddy McKenna’s grave, I started back to the main dome. By the time I reached it, trailers were moving troops out to the ships on the surface.
Polaski was in Trinity Square, talking into a radio. He was angry.
“Ground assault,” he said into the handset. “I want ground troops on those ships. I don’t care if it’s three Gs on H-vi. If the crews can handle it, so can the grunts . . . They want what? Mister, you tell them they answer to you, now. The colonel’s not available. Here.” He pushed the phone into my stomach and turned away.
“You really stuck your dick in it this time,” he said as I followed him up the alley. “So let’s go see what Snow White and the dwarves have to say about it.”
“You haven’t begun evacuating yet?”
“I’m moving troops, Torres.”
The commandos’ district was still dark and cool. Polaski stopped at a door like all the others and kicked it open.
Inside, morning light filtered in from a courtyard in back, while in the corner a computer played Welsh folk songs. Two couples danced, either still up from the night before or up very early. The smell of breakfast came from the back.
Barefoot on the dirt floor, Pham turned in a quiet circle through the hazy light, dancing with a younger woman. She wore just her cotton pants and a white blouse, with the tails tied up in front to leave her waist bare. She scarcely glanced at Polaski when he slammed the door and jabbed a finger at her.
“You!” The other couple stopped, but Pham and her companion ignored him.
Polaski kicked the computer off of its chair.
“You’re needed,” he said.
A shadow fell across the room and Bolton stepped in from the courtyard in back. He carried his combat knife in one hand and a stout, half-finished walking stick in the other.
Polaski glanced at him and then back at Pham.
“We’re going to the alien base on Six,” he said, “and the Rats—”
“The drones,” I said from the door, “are three hours out. We need to evacuate.”
“We’re going to Six, Col o nel,” said Polaski to Pham, “and the grunts won’t get their feet wet in three Gs unless you’re there to hold their dicks for them. So move it.”
“No,” she said. She stood quietly with her hands in her pockets, and for a minute no one spoke. Motes of dust glinted in the sun as they drifted past her.
“You’re in no position to refuse,” said Polaski at last. “You’re the one that got thrown off our ships in the first place, and you’re the one that our own clients don’t want on their side anymore.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And the drunk who gutted my operations chief. Or we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Yes.”
“That’s right, ‘yes!’ So move!”
“No.”
Seconds passed.
“Evacuate people is more important,” she said.
“Fucking Christ,” he said. He turned to Bolton.
“You’re needed, too, Lieutenant. Not for any of your fancy crap, either. I need you out there to fight.”
“I expect, Sergeant Polaski,” said Bolton, with just enough of a pause to let the rank sink in, “that the lady is right. There are still civilians on the surface.”
“There aren’t any civilians anymore, Bolton.”
“No? Not the children on the farms, or the ladies in the obstetrics ward? Come.”
“All fucking right.” He swore again and looked around. “So go ahead and get your dead weight off the base! At least it’ll get them out of the way of my ships.” He stood with his hands on his hips and watched as Pham moved toward a telephone.
“Move!” he said.
She stopped again and turned around. She slipped her hands into her pockets and waited. Polaski’s eyes narrowed and the seconds slipped by.
Finally he spun on his heel and stalked back to the door, pushing me out of the way as he passed. The door slammed back against its hinges and he disappeared up the alley.
“So,” said Bolton, stepping the rest of the way into the room. “His Lordship dares not concede the invincible foe, lest he smell the ill wind of discontent upon his own keep. Tuyet, the west lock-tunnel, I think. The cannon fodder will have the main lock quite gummed up by now. If you’ll arrange for the ground transport to the shuttles as they land, I’ll begin evacuating the domes. Mr. Torres—I assume your people are preparing the civilian ships for breaking orbit? Good. Then if you would have the shuttles br
ought down to the west lock, we should be able to catch them up in good time.”
Still carrying his walking stick, he sheathed the knife and motioned his companions toward the door.
O
h, bloody hell.” Three hours later Bolton stood rooted to the center of Trinity Square in a swirling cloud of dust, leaving me to wait for a trailer to pass so I could see what he was looking at. The trailer’s tail swept past to reveal Charlie Peters standing in the billowing haze on the far side, leaning on his cane and watching intently as the trailers roared toward the lock.
Bolton glanced at me in exasperation, and then back at Peters. “You were to pack yourself onto the first shuttle, Father!”
“Aye, that’s what you said. But I didn’t fancy myself—”
His words were cut off by another tractor grinding past. Only two more trailers were left to go, evacuating the last twenty commandos, a few bedridden patients from the infirmaries, and the base’s medics, who had stayed until the end. Polaski and his ships were long gone.
“Good God,” said Bolton.
He wasn’t looking at Peters. The next trailer had passed, and he was looking up over Peters’ head. The trailer made its final turn, and my own view of the dome beyond Trinity Square became clear.
A wall of shapes filled the sky. They settled toward the surface of the planet, glinting dully in the midday sun. They were descending toward a point beyond the horizon.
Then a small ball of flame tumbled toward the ground in the midst of the fleet, separating into streamers of flame. It was our shuttle that had just taken off. Filled with civilians, it had stumbled into the midst of the incoming ships with its light weapons still mounted on it.
“Hold the next flight!” shouted Bolton. “Tuyet! Ring up the pilot, get her off southbound. Slow, now, don’t let her spook the incoming. Steady hands and her mind on the king, and she’ll be all right. Then get those two trailer-fulls off right behind her—they’ll be safer slipping away than skulking about down here. William!” He pocketed the phone.
“Everyone else not embarked yet,” he said, “get into the assembly building. It’s the only structure with its own air.”
“Yes, sir,” said a lieutenant. “But not quite everyone, sir. There’s a woman in labor, and she’s having some trouble. The medics don’t want to move her.”
“Boy or girl?” said Bolton.
“Beg your pardon, sir?” The lieutenant looked blank.
“Boy or girl?”
“Um, boy, I think, sir.”
Bolton eyed the ships on the horizon. “Bad time to be born, isn’t it? All right, keep someone with her and wait till our friends make a move. For now they’ve either made a god-awful miss, or they’ve stopped for tea. You, Father—Torres, you too. Let’s get some tin over our heads, shall we?” He motioned toward the vehicle assembly building at the end of the square.
I didn’t move. “The antennas,” I said. I was still watching the distant black shapes, now hard to see on the horizon.
“How’s that?” said Bolton.
“They traced the bogus password back to the antennas I left out on the horizon. That’s where they’ve landed.”
“Not for long, then. Come along.”
“Poor little fellow,” said Peters, looking absently around the square.
“The baby?”
“Aye. Its father was one o’ those poor sods who died in the fissures, you know. Didn’t want to go—Polaski had him half beaten to get him out of his wife’s bed. The day that David Rosler . . . well, you know.” He glanced at Pham.
“Enough of that,” said Bolton. “By God, but you two have dreams for brains. Let’s go.”
“No, just a minute,” I said. “Bolton, you’ve given me an idea. Charlie, you get on in—if they bring the mother in, they’ll want your help. Bolton, get some of your people and follow me. As long as our visitors are just sitting out there, I think I’ll offer our prisoner a deal.
Pham posted a guard in Trinity Square around the vehicle assembly building, where most of the civilians waited. Radios crackled in tense conversation with the ships in orbit. Elliot and the others on the ships were trying to come up with a way to get more shuttles down to us, even while more and more drone ships approached. Soldiers on the ground eyed the horizon or the black sky overhead, and held their weapons in sweating hands and shrugged to shift the oxygen tanks on their backs to get more comfortable.
Bolton posted a guard in Miller’s square, where Rosler had died, then watched doubtfully as I approached the drone in its cage. Bolton carried a grenade launcher on his back, but he still wore his shorts and t-shirt, and still carried the walking stick in one hand. He swung the tip against his calf over and over. Peters stood next to him, leaning on his cane and ignoring everyone’s advice to get under cover.
In its nine months in the square the drone hadn’t moved, nor had it made any sound through the speaker next to the cage. At least—we knew—it hadn’t sent any messages to the other drones in all that time, either; once the shielding had been put into place it had never been turned off, even briefly, for fear that the drone might have picked up too much information about the base.
“I don’t wholly approve, Torres,” said Bolton. “Your plan makes me a little apprehensive, if the truth were known. I don’t imagine this fellow’s even aware there is a password, and I certainly don’t think it would give it up if it were. Personally I’d rather take a chance and slip out on a shuttle, and just go home.”
“Home, Bolton?”
“Um . . . yes. As you know.”
I’d loaded the drones’ communications codes into our transmitters one last time, and now, while the drone ships waited on the horizon and still others approached from space, I set the metal case with the codes down at my side and held the terminal in the other hand. I spoke toward the cage.
“These are the communications codes that control your species. They are what your ships have come to this planet to look for, but your friends do not know where they are. If you will tell me the password that belongs to these codes, I will open your communications.”
“Yes,” said the drone from its speaker.
“Well,” said Bolton behind me. “You’ve been forgiven your little deceits regarding the fissures, it seems.”
I glanced at the sky. The drone remained silent.
“Well?” I said.
“You first,” it said.
The mutual leaking of military information, Penderson had said, is a learned art. The drone remained motionless in its shadows, hidden from the sun.
“No,” I said.
Silence.
At least the drone seemed to know the password—an important step, because this was our last chance to learn it. I felt the pressure of Bolton and the others watching.
“When I open your communications,” I said to the drone, “then you will say the password.” A compromise.
“Yes,” it said.
I looked back at Bolton and Peters. My hand was sweating on the handle of the terminal. Bolton glanced restlessly around at his troops. Peters looked mostly confused, with the lines on his old face deepened with his frowning.
“All right,” I said, turning back to the drone. I reached for the switch and held it on. Then I straightened up and got ready to enter the password into the terminal. Once in, the broadcast disabling the drones would follow in seconds.
Nothing happened.
“Say the password,” I said.
Still nothing.
The drone remained silent. Deceit, too, Penderson had said, is a learned art. The seconds crawled by, and turned into minutes. Bolton’s stick tapped like a metronome against his calf.
“I’m afraid you’ve been hoisted with your own petard, Torres,” he said. “Come on, give it up.”
A radio crackled as tense voices came in from the distance.
“Another minute,” I said. My fingers twitched on the terminal’s keys. I stared at the speaker, willing it to make a sound. My e
ars popped, once and then again, but I paid no attention.
The minute passed. “Torres,” said Bolton, his voice firmer now, “look down.” I pulled my eyes away from the speaker and looked at the slate-black ground. A layer of dust had risen up and was drifting eastward.
I set the terminal down gently and groped for the handle of the codes case, unable to take my eyes off the sight at my feet.
“How long?” I said. “How long have we got?”
“From a small breach like that?” said Bolton. “We may be all right for days, if the converters stay intact. I’m more concerned with what’s coming in through that breach. Let’s go now, start backing out. Eyes sharp.” He unslung his launcher, then something small and dark zigzagged through the air, too quick to follow.
“Wait,” I said.
Bolton armed the launcher.
“Now, Torres! We’ve risked our necks for you long enough. Now move!” I backed away reluctantly, unable to give up on the password.
We’d turned toward the assembly building, northward, when a ripping sound began close by. The air filled with smoke, then Peters shouted. A line of flame was eating its way across the wall toward him.
Bolton moved his launcher and fired down the alley. With a crump and a rumbling concussion the flame went out. Someone backed into me. I fought to keep my grip on the case.
A dozen drones appeared at the end of the alley leading the other way, to the south. They were thicker and squatter than the one in the cage, and they wandered back and forth without apparent purpose, back and forth past the far entrance to the alley. Bolton fired again.
“All right, back it up. North, all of you. Torres, get a hold of Peters there and run like the devil!”
“South!” shouted another. “They’re coming up from the south, too!” Tiny shapes flitted through the air.
“Get away—”
Someone fell as lances of blue flame shot into the square from the south. I grabbed Peters’ arm and shook him out of his confusion, then the wall next to us exploded and crumbled. Peters’ arm jerked in my hand and he stumbled. In the next instant Bolton sent us flying while something crashed to the ground where we’d been standing.
A Grey Moon Over China Page 41