The vid winked out. Turley had been reading the statement, Wit noticed. Wit had seen how the man’s eyes scrolled right to left. His heart wasn’t in it either. A majority of Strategos might be calling for Wit’s court-martial, but Turley almost certainly wasn’t one of them. He was a hawk if there ever was one.
What surprised Wit most was that Strategos hadn’t figured out the solution. He opened the site’s e-mail and sent an encrypted message directly to Turley.
COLONEL, WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, I CANNOT IN GOOD CONSCIENCE ABANDON THIS EFFORT. TODAY WE WERE ABLE TO HELP HUNDREDS OF CIVILIANS AND DEVELOP A TACTICAL MANEUVER THAT INFLICTS HEAVY ENEMY CASUALTIES. YOU CAN SEE EVIDENCE OF EFFORTS AT OUR SITE. TO LEAVE NOW WOULD BE TO ABANDON THE THOUSANDS AND TENS OF THOUSANDS OF CIVILIANS WE INTEND TO HELP AND PROTECT IN THE FUTURE. FOR THEIR SAKE, I MUST REFUSE YOUR DIRECT ORDER AND SUFFER THE PERSONAL CONSEQUENCES.
IN THE MEANTIME, MAY I MAKE A SUGGESTION THAT MIGHT SOLVE YOUR DILEMMA? LIE TO THE WORLD. LIE TO THE SECURITY COUNCIL. TELL THEM CHINA REQUESTED OUR INSERTION. TELL THEM THEY ASKED FOR OUR HELP. PRAISE THE CHINESE FOR TAKING SUCH SWIFT ACTION IN THE DEFENSE OF THEIR CITIZENRY. HONOR THEM. SHOWER THEM WITH COMPLIMENTS. USE OUR VIDS AS EVIDENCE. GIVE THE CHINESE BRASS ALL THE CREDIT. THE CHINESE WILL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO VALIDATE THE CLAIM. TO DENY IT IS TO TURN THEIR BACK ON THEIR PEOPLE AND CONDEMN WHAT HAPPENED TODAY.
He didn’t sign it. He didn’t want to use his name in any communications.
* * *
They found an abandoned hotel that night north of Chenzhou. Looters had ransacked the lobby. Wit took keys from behind the front desk and divvied them up among the men.
It was a nice hotel. There was hot water and soft beds. The air checked out. Calinga and a few others went out and returned with several cans of spray paint. Greens and browns and black and grays. Wit didn’t ask where they had gotten them. They all met in the courtyard and camouflaged their containment suits. Then they returned to their rooms, hung their suits, and allowed them to dry.
Wit checked the news. Strategos had made a public statement praising the Chinese for requesting assistance from MOP troops. The press was directed to the footage of the transport ambush and rescue of Chinese civilians. It wasn’t Wit’s e-mail exactly, but it was close. The Chinese had wasted no time in responding. They praised MOPs’ actions and promised that the government would continue to pursue all avenues to protect its people. It wasn’t exactly a corroborative response but, more important, it wasn’t a denial either.
Wit shut down his holopad and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had lost four men today, a tenth of his army on his first day of war. He couldn’t sustain those losses. His whole unit would be wiped out in a little over a week at that rate. No, likely sooner. The fighting would get worse and more intense the closer they came to the lander. Plus the Formics would wise up to whatever tactics Wit and his men implemented. The enemy would adapt, reevaluate, change their MO. They would come at Wit in ways he hadn’t considered.
Wit pushed all thought of the Formics aside.
He exhaled deep.
He let his muscles relax.
Then he allowed himself to think of those he had lost. He opened that part of him. He pulled from his memories. He brought to mind all the ridiculous moments they had shared. The pratfalls and dumb mistakes. The pranks and slips of the tongue. The dares given and the dares performed. All the moments that only he and they would find remotely amusing.
He had thought perhaps that such memories would make him laugh all over again, that he could stir up a cheerful mourning.
But no laughter came.
And when sleep finally took him and the Formics came in his dreams, the only laughter he heard was theirs.
CHAPTER 20
Post-Op
Mazer’s eyelids slowly opened and he squinted at the light. Colors appeared in his vision, dark at first, blurred and melted together like soup—browns and blacks with speckles of white. Then the colors slowly took shape, solidified, and came into focus. They were timbers, Mazer realized, structural braces, trusses seen from below. He was lying on his back, looking up at a ceiling. Holes in the roof let in thin shafts of piercing sunlight. He heard voices. Hushed and to his right. He turned his head. The grandfather and Bingwen were ten meters away, sitting on the floor, eating rice with their fingers, using wide jungle leaves as bowls. Their bodies were turned slightly away from him. They didn’t see him. Mazer knew this building, he realized. He had been in here before. Twice. It was the farmhouse.
Mazer opened his mouth to speak, but it took a moment to find his voice. When it came, it was raspy and quiet and weak. “How did I get here?”
The old man and the boy turned, startled. Then they smiled.
The old man spoke in Chinese, “Well, look who’s returned to the land of the living.”
They came over and knelt beside him. The old man lifted a cup to Mazer’s mouth. “Drink this. Slow sips.”
Mazer drank. The water was room temperature and had a tinny taste to it.
“You’ve been asleep for four days,” said the old man, putting the cup aside. “Five, if you count the day you spent out by the crash. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Crash, Mazer thought. Yes, there had been a crash.
“My unit,” he said in Chinese.
The old man’s face became grave. “Your friends did not survive the accident. I am sorry. You would have died as well if not for Bingwen.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He brought you back here. Then he and a few others brought you back from the grave.”
There was a blanket draped across Mazer. The old man pulled it aside and revealed heavy bandages wrapped around Mazer’s midsection. The bottom layer was gauze, but the additional layers were strips of fabric of various colors. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“They operated on you,” said the old man. “A midwife and Bingwen here.”
“It was mostly the midwife,” Bingwen said. “I just held things open and translated. She did all the cutting and stitching.”
Mazer’s hand carefully went to the bandage. There was a dull ache in his abdomen he hadn’t noticed until now. A tightness.
“Your insides were damaged,” said the grandfather. “The machine said we had to fix it or you’d die.”
“What machine?” Mazer asked.
Bingwen reached to his side and held up the Med-Assist. “The batteries died three days ago.”
“It dictated the surgery to you?”
“In English,” said the old man. “Lucky for you Bingwen speaks good English.”
“Lucky for me,” said Mazer. “How did the surgery go?”
The old man shrugged. “It took a long time. Mingzhu, the midwife, did not want to do it. She cried and refused and said it was a waste of time. Bingwen and I and your friend made her finish.”
“My friend?”
“The doctor,” said Bingwen. “The American. Kim. She helped us.”
Mazer was confused. “You mean her voice. Her voice helped you.” But how did they know Kim’s name?
“It was her voice on the device, yes. But she was on line, too,” said Bingwen. “The device called her. She was very concerned for you.”
“You spoke to her? The actual person?”
“She took us through the surgery. She saved you. And she helped us monitor you afterwards until the batteries died. She tried to get us evacuated, to bring a ship to our position. But she was unsuccessful. There are hundreds of such requests, she was told, and no medevacs are getting through. She was ready to come herself, but no private pilot would bring her here.”
Mazer could hardly believe it. Kim. Was that possible? They had spoken with Kim. She had guided them, saved him. He looked down at the bandages around his stomach. He wanted to call her, thank her, hear her voice, not the impersonal voice of the device, but the voice that spoke to him, the voice that had feelings and promises woven into it.
“How was I afterwards?” he asked.
The old man squirmed. “In a lot of pain. Delirious. You cried out many times. You ran a fever. Kim had us give you antibiotics and keep you asleep. I thought you had died on two different occasions, your breathing was so shallow. There were other medicines we needed but didn’t have. I’ve been feeding you water and nutrients. The machine said you had a thirty percent chance of survival. I thought your chances were far worse.”
“I’m glad I proved you wrong.”
“You’re a fighter. Even when you sleep,” said the grandfather.
“Fight has nothing to do with it,” said Mazer. “It was the medicine, your efforts, and a good dose of luck.” He reached out and put his hand on the grandfather’s arm. “What is your name, friend?”
“Danwen,” said the grandfather.
“Thank you, Danwen.” He reached out with the other hand and took Bingwen’s, squeezing it with what little strength he had. “Both of you.”
He removed his hands. The motion took an enormous amount of energy, as if his hands were four times as heavy as normal. He looked to his left and right. “Where is Mingzhu? I’d like to thank her too.”
Danwen and Bingwen exchanged looks. The boy scowled.
“They left three days ago,” said Danwen. “In the night. Bingwen had brought back a rifle and ammunition from the crash. We had food as well, cans and things that Bingwen and I had buried and stockpiled and went back to the village for. Mingzhu and the others took it all. Even the water buffalos. They left us with nothing.”
Mazer looked at the cup. “You have water.”
“Rainwater,” said Danwen. “We catch it off the roof and boil it. We dare not drink from the streams. Not with the mist.”
“Smart,” said Mazer. “For boiling what you caught and for avoiding everything else.”
“It doesn’t taste very good,” said Bingwen.
“Beats dying of thirst,” said Mazer. He turned to the old man. “Where did the others go?”
Danwen shrugged. “North. With everyone else. All the survivors are moving that way.”
“You two didn’t go with them.”
“We weren’t going to leave you,” said Bingwen.
Mazer squeezed the boy’s hand again. “Again, thank you.” Then his brow wrinkled and turned to Danwen. “How did you move me here? The crash site had to have been several kilometers away.”
Danwen answered eagerly, as if he had been waiting to share this story. He told Mazer everything, throwing in tiny details that he knew would build the drama. Bingwen looked down at the floor at first, then excused himself, busying himself elsewhere in the farmhouse. When the old man finished, Mazer called the boy over and extended his hand. “I owe you my life three times over, Bingwen. I can’t thank you enough. What you did was very brave.”
Bingwen took the offered hand and shook it. “Repaying the favor,” he said, wiggling his cast in the air.
“How’s your arm?”
“Fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Not if I don’t use it, that is.”
Mazer felt exhausted then, his eyes heavy, his muscles weak, as if the world was slowing down again.
“Leave him be,” Danwen said to Bingwen. “He needs his rest.”
Mazer wanted to argue. He had been resting for four days. He needed to move, he needed to get his body up again. He was useless lying here. He was endangering Bingwen and Danwen. They should move on. There was nothing else they could do for him.
He felt his breathing slow into the rhythm of sleep. He fought it, but the darkness pulled at him and wrapped him in its silent blackness.
* * *
The crack of thunder woke him, loud and booming and rolling through the valley. He was still on his back on the farmhouse floor. It was dark out. Rain was pounding the roof, leaking through half a dozen holes in the ceiling and forming puddles on the floor. Mazer turned his head. Bingwen was asleep beside him, his back to him, practically touching him. At one point Bingwen may have enjoyed a corner of Mazer’s blanket, but it had since fallen off, and now Bingwen lay huddled in a fetal position, cold and shivering.
Mazer lifted his arm and pulled the blanket off himself and onto the boy. The night air felt brisk and biting against Mazer’s exposed skin, and he wished the old midwife had left him with his shirt.
Mazer turned and saw Danwen standing at a window, looking out into the storm. The old man held a long thin object in one hand, over a meter in length, with the end of it resting against his shoulder. Mazer couldn’t tell what it was until lightning struck, and a flash of light lit up the man’s front. The sword was old and thin with an ornate hilt of a dull, unpolished metal. A family heirloom perhaps, or a costume piece for cultural events. Not a very good weapon. Certainly not much against a squadron of aliens, should they arrive.
I should be the one standing guard, Mazer thought.
Only, he didn’t have the strength to stand. He barely had the strength to move his head and look about. And when his eyes began to droop again—despite the cold and damp and roar of the storm—he couldn’t muster the strength to fight back the pull of sleep.
When he woke, it was daylight. The storm had moved on, and sunlight stabbed through the holes in the roof, reflecting off the puddles on the floor and casting sprinkles of light onto the walls. Bingwen and Danwen were nowhere to be seen, but someone had draped the blanket back across Mazer’s chest. He forced himself to get up, rolling to one side and then pushing up with his arms. The movement sent a jolt of pain through his abdomen, but he knew, considering what he’d been through, the pain could have been much worse. He got on all fours, feeling shaky and a little unsure of himself. Whatever they had given him to keep him asleep was taking its sweet time getting out of his system. He felt something hanging from his hip, and he realized then that he had a catheter in him. He had been wearing it all this time and hadn’t even noticed. He reached down, winced, and pulled it out.
He got one foot under him, then another, and stood. His legs were shaky and weak; he felt light-headed. He shuffled to the doorway and braced himself against the jamb. Danwen and Bingwen were right outside, squatting by a small cook fire, boiling more water and rice.
“You shouldn’t be up,” said Danwen. “The machine said you should stay off your feet for five to six days.”
“Close enough,” said Mazer. “Who put a catheter in me?”
Danwen looked confused. He didn’t know the word.
“The bag that catches my urine,” said Mazer.
Danwen reared back his head and laughed. “That was the old midwife. Of all the instructions the machine gave us, that was the one step she didn’t fuss about.”
“That’s not true, Grandfather,” said Bingwen. “She fussed plenty about that, too.”
“Well, her heart wasn’t in it,” said Danwen. “It took little arguing to convince her.”
“Tell me what’s happened since the accident,” said Mazer. “With the war.”
Danwen put down the pot he was holding. “Better if I showed you.” He walked past Mazer through the door, dipping under Mazer’s arm as he went, and crossed the room to the open windows. He waved Mazer over. “Come, if you can walk now. See for yourself.”
Mazer shuffled over to him, and Danwen gestured out the window. The valley below was stripped of vegetation. Where there had once been rice fields and thick tropical vegetation on the edges of the valley was now scarred earth—mud and exposed roots and puddles of dirty rainwater, as if someone had peeled back the skin of the world.
“The aliens did this?” asked Mazer.
“They call them Formics now. That’s the name the army has given them.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve gone down to the valley a few times now to search for supplies. I usually take from the dead. I am not proud of it, but that is how we have survived. I’ve found clothes for you. There is a shirt over there in that box, if you’re ready to wear it.” He pointed to a crate over in the corner. “The people ran from their villages with what little
they could carry. I’ve brought up bags of food, pots for cooking, necessary things. I’m not the only one who picks from the dead either. I’ve seen other people as well, survivors like us, digging through the people’s belongings. They tell me things. The Formics are peeling away the land, they say. All of the biomass. Plants, animals, people. All biological matter. They’re scooping it up and collecting it all into a giant pile. A mountain of biomass, rotting in the sun beside the lander. I believe them. When the wind blows north from the lander, you can smell it. A rotting stench. A smell so powerful, it turns the stomach. Two days ago the machines came through this valley. Bingwen and I watched them. They stripped the land without even touching it. The machines drove forward and the scorched land peeled away.”
“Shields,” said Mazer. “That must be how they’re stripping the land. It’s the same technology they’re using to protect the lander.”
“I do not know technology,” said Danwen. “I only know that they are evil. Destruction and death is their only business. First they spray the mist. Whatever it touches wilts and dies quickly. Then the wind carries it elsewhere. Over time the plants touched by the wind wilt as well, sometimes an hour later, sometimes as much as a day. Soon everything shrivels and dies. Then the Formics return and scoop it all away.” He looked behind him, saw that Bingwen was still squatting by the fire twenty meters away, and spoke almost in a whisper. “The boy’s parents are dead. I found them a few days ago in the valley behind us. They had been killed with the mist. I went back the next day with a shovel to bury them, but the land had been stripped. They were gone. Their bodies are there in the rotting mountain. I have not told Bingwen. No boy should have to know such things.”
Earth Afire (The First Formic War) Page 32