by Lucas Cole
“Explosion?”
He nods.
“Explosive? That material is explosive?”
He nods again, then points in succession to first the ore and then the black powder. He repeats the explosion sequence with his hands.
“The ore—and that powder—together they make an explosion?”
He is greatly pleased that I caught on so quickly and he slaps me on the back, the blow knocking me to the ground. I stand back up to find Peter back at the head of the line, the march resuming, our path apparently encircling the mining field.
I follow, my back stinging from Peter’s slap. Mountains of ore and a strange black powder—reminiscent of the Old Earth gunpowder—that together can form a powerful explosive. The precious ore would never be utilized as a mere explosive material, but it was good to know. I trudge on behind the others, fending off the fatigue and gnawing of my empty stomach with thoughts of profit. And revenge.
But I am still flesh and blood after all. The blues could march all day and night, I suppose, but I can’t and, risking the displeasure and contempt of my fellow brigade, I signal to Taggert that I need a break.
Taggert grunts and waves his log-sized arm. Peter responds in kind and the line of blues halts. We are at the edge of another ravine, so I plop down at the edge and dangle my feet over the side. The female blue sits beside me, dangling her feet likewise and I can’t help but laugh.
It seems I have a companion, like it or not. Mary can no longer smile, but she nods at me, as if to acknowledge her awareness of the situation—and maybe the humor involved. I wonder what she was like—before her mutation. I open my canteen and take a swig, then offer her a swallow. “It’s only water. No weed drink. No tea.”
She nods and accepts the canteen anyway. She takes a nominal sip, to be polite, I suspect. She hands the canteen back. A personable sort, I estimate. Intelligent, sensitive, and…she prefers my company. A lot of factors to commend her. Unfortunate that she still looks like one of the undead. Still, I admire her taste in men.
“At the station—you were a reactor scientist?”
She does not respond, but is listening. Watching me. Always watching. Her previously bright blue eyes once again are glazing over. Her resurrection would last longer if she dined upon my flesh, the way the reds would have done. I admire her restraint.
“Reactor Scientist?” I ask again.
She offers a brief nod, then looks away. A sore point. Previous life that of an intellectual, an upper class citizen of Rome, perhaps, but now, just another zombie clinging to a semblance of life, her future dismal. Her final moments to end at the hands of the reds or in a tsunami blast or just finally falling apart, disintegrating.
“Listen.” She turns her face back to mine as I speak. “Remember the tea—the life it gives, even for a short time. We’ll try to make it last longer. I know someone who works with plants and soil—a scientist like you. She’s…she’s out there somewhere, but we’ll find her. And there may even be a shot at a cure. A pathologist is working day and night on this, back at Station A.” I think about my own evolving system, my genetic metabolism changing from the effects of Abe’s brain digesting in my gut. Could her cure be closer than she knew—sitting here beside her? “There are other possibilities to consider, other ways to reverse whatever it is that happened to you. Understand?”
She stares at me and I wonder if she has totally drifted off into zombie land, but finally she nods and does the damndest thing: she reaches out and gently squeezes my hand in hers. Her hand is more like a claw, the skin dry and calloused, the touch of her alien, but the gesture is so gentle, so…feminine, that I do not withdraw from her.
What am I getting myself into? Ore. Spangler. Todd. Remember these obstacles. Remember Rome. Forget about saving a band of doomed zombies. Deadheads.
“I’m ready.” I stand and automatically reach out to help the female blue to rise. I realize the absurdity of helping up a creature that has the power to tear me to little pieces, but there you have it. Incredibly, Mary takes my hand and rises and when I turn I find that the entire troop of blues has stopped and are observing our interaction. They show no reaction, whether approval or disapproval, but simply turn away to resume their march alongside the ravine. Only Peter lags behind. Finally, he joins the others.
The desolate stretch of sand and scattered flint continues, but just over a dune appears the pronged metallic fingers of the shattered Station C, the scene of chaos; this is where it all started. The pace quickens now and the blues fan out, no longer content to follow single-file. We climb the dune and then down the other side, toward the station below. What an enormous explosion it must have been to rupture the dome roof like that and leave those massive girders and beams pointing at the sky like arthritic fingers. An ill-timed experiment with the black powder and ore? Or a purposeful sabotage of the reactor?
No landing pods. This was never meant to be a port. Large dock-side bays for loading and unloading were placed every hundred feet around the massive station. A desert terrain vehicle lies on its side, its tread ripped from its undercarriage, its metal frame pockmarked with shrapnel holes.
Evening is approaching and the wind is picking up, causing an eerie whistling as it passes through the damaged station wall. I wonder how Kimbrough is taking this all in, but I have lost sight of Taggert. Mary walks beside me and I wonder if she has taken on the role of my guardian. Or would it be guard? No telling how the mind of her boss, Peter, works.
The blues split up and shuffle off to different portals.
I come upon double doors leading into the station, but the mechanism is not working and the doors are ajar. I grab the side of one of the doors and try to pull it open, but it won’t budge. The blue female watches me with interest, perhaps amused. She reaches out and yanks open the door, the metal hinges screeching horribly in protest.
The strength I had gained from ingesting Abe’s genetic stew has worn off. No longer half-man, half-zombie? Or maybe just enough zombie to attract this blue female who has affixed herself to me? I am not sure where I stand anymore. I sigh and toss the concern away. Other problems await. We enter Station C.
The power is out and the interior is shadow-filled, the light rapidly failing as the suns outside make their descent. Sybaris is already reclaiming the station; mounds of sand choke the entrance and line the dark corridors in heaps. The wind moans as it passes through the empty halls and cafeteria and work areas. If there are ghosts here, they are the ghosts of ambition and greed.
None of this had to happen. None of it would have, had Rome not issued a proclamation fanning the greed of Todd and Spangler. Stupid to pit one man against another without knowing the environment, I think as I trudge over the gritty floor. But it was what Rome did in the ancient times and it was how Rome operated in these latter days. Through intimidation and conquest.
Mary is by my side as I enter this ravaged station. Where are the others? Where is the security? But we are probably under watch.
My immediate goal is not winning a planet, it is finding food. My hunger has become pain, almost nausea. Much more of a delay and I will be unable to eat. My search should be for weapons—this my training tells me, but all I want is food. The dining facility—no, the kitchen facility—is where I am headed.
I find my way to the deserted dining hall, drifts of sand on the tables and floor, half-eaten meals still on trays. The decaying body of a man is slumped over one of the tables. Food ahead: keep moving. Past the serving aisle and push the door open into the kitchen. And stare. Two figures, sitting on overturned crates, are chewing on food—my food—and they look up, startled, like rats caught in a pantry.
The man is older, hair cut short, his spare body clothed in the soft brown garb of a space traveler. The woman is attractive, her dark hair a mess but still beautiful, her uniform sweat-stained and dirty, but still becoming. She freezes, her hand raised to her mouth in the act of ingesting a glob of pasty substance.
“I know you
two from somewhere.” I say.
Carly smiles, then puts the food in her mouth and swallows. “I thought you were dead. Or worse.”
Gershom stands. “Ron. It is good to see you. Are you hungry?”
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER XVIII
Reunion
I do not bother to answer but pull up a crate and help myself to a handful of the pasty gray material that they are eating. I shove it into my mouth and swallow. I don’t know what it is or what it tastes like. I just know that it is food and I grab another glob. This time I stop long enough to taste it—it is much like dough, a basically neutral taste and dough-like consistency, but quite palatable.
“This is the basic nutrient from which the kitchen workers form the meals,” Carly says. “They process it into different-appearing foods with some changes in taste, but basically this is what we eat when we get it in its finished form.” It’s telling that my former shipmate—and lover—doesn’t rush into my arms. Near starvation trumps affection, I guess.
I nod, busy shoveling the dough-like stuff into my face. After another swallow, I remember Kimbrough. “Dr. Kimbrough—I found him. I’ve got to get him in here; he’s starving just like I am.”
“Kimbrough?” Carly asks, then her eyes widen and she leaps to her feet, her hand drawing a pistol from her hip holster.
I turn in time to see the female blue enter the kitchen, her eyes taking in the scene, her face incapable of registering the confusion she no doubt is experiencing. I grab Carly’s gun hand in one hand and motion to Mary with the other in what I hope is a calming gesture. “Don’t shoot. She’s a friend.” The deadhead female is unconvinced and steps back into the shadows and then is gone.
“You’re friends—with that?” Carly is studying me, her hand still holding her pistol. I notice that the pistol is somewhat pointing in my direction.
“I’ve got news for you—and you have to remain calm. You’re surrounded by them. By deadheads. But I’ve made friends with this particular group. They’re allies.”
“You’ve become one of them? You’ve gone over.” Her gun lingers in the air.
I take stock of my body, my mind, flex my hands, then shake my head. “No, I’m as human as I ever was. Why, I don’t know. But I am. Relax. And put that damned thing away.”
She holsters the weapon and sits. For now, the food is forgotten by all of us. “What was that—your new girlfriend?”
“A member of what I call the blue brigade. There are two armies of d—of mutated humans. Red and blue. The reds would have killed us already and be munching on our livers. The blues—they will likely not kill you, if you behave and do what I say.”
“You’ve communicated with them?” Gershom asks. “You’ve made amazing progress, Ron. I would like to be able to talk with them, also. It would be a blessed opportunity. It is why I am here.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll be here shortly.” I look at the food paste and munch on a smaller dab. My stomach is lurching somewhat from the unexpected feast. “I’ve got to find Kimbrough. Save some of the food for him, okay?”
“There are crates of the stuff,” Carly says. “Sealed in vacuum packs. Enough for a few years. Tell me more about your friends. You sure they won’t be snacking on us?”
But I don’t feel much like being interrogated by a jealous female right now. “Where’s Navarro?”
Gershom and Carly glance at each other. “He’s dead,” Carly says. “The deadheads torn him to pieces…and then they ate those pieces.”
“He was a brave man,” Gershom says. “He died trying to save us. He gave us time to get away from a marauding band of those, as you call them, reds.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” Carly says. “You brought him here, the same way you brought me. We’ve been working for you all along.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly what do you expect of me, Ron?”
“The higher life forms—the reds, the blues, the plant life and insects—are all fascinating, but it’s the soil that ultimately interests me. And it’s what interests EMC, the ore part. Your first priority is to get field sampling—.”
“Of the entire planet?”
“No. But from enough sectors to offer a fair statistical sample of the Sybaris landscape. Enough data to predict soil properties. Until we can get satellite technology from EMC and run infrared studies from orbit.”
“How does this advance ore mining?”
“It doesn’t. It advances my goal.”
“Which is?”
“The restoration of Sybaris. Climate sculpting, forestation, agriculture.”
“Elemental is pushing this?”
“No. I am. All Elemental cares about is their ore. Your work will help me with that, too.”
She contemplates the magnitude of her job, something she did not fully comprehend before. “I need to compile data, develop a digital soil map—did you say forestation? You mean to plant forests? On a desert planet?”
“Not the entire surface. Selected areas. Sybaris will always be a desert planet, but she will have some trees, maybe even a lake or two, in time.”
Her eyes narrow. “You sound as if you are taking ownership of Sybaris.”
“That’s the general idea. With mineral rights held by Elemental, the remainder under my control.”
“An entire planet?”
“Why not?”
“You’re as much a maniac as Todd. How much of my being here was at your direction?”
I hesitate. “All of it.”
“All of it. You handpicked me. Based on what—my training, experience…or my sexual attributes?”
Gershom looks embarrassed, but clearly curious as to my answer.
I can feel myself flushing. “All of the above. I selected you based upon a computer analysis programmed with my requirements and projected compatibility quotients, such as soil scientist, botanist, Roman citizen in good standing with no record of diseases or disabilities—.”
“And sexually compatible? You reviewed my pictures, my…other physical characteristics?”
“That was an element, yes. Everything factored in—.”
Now her face is flushing, a tidal wave of emotions flooding over her features. “I—I don’t know whether to be flattered or furious.”
A shuffling sound behind me.
I lower my voice. “Listen. Be calm, don’t make threatening gestures. And Carly—keep your hand away from your weapon. Do you hear me?”
She nods, but her eyes are wide with fear and her face pale.
I turn again and find the monstrous Taggert standing behind me, surveying our little lunch party. He reaches across my shoulder and snares a glob of the food paste, then shoves it into his mouth. Obviously not suitable for his kind, for he grunts in displeasure just before spitting out the stuff onto the floor.
I motion him to turn about and he obliges. There, still strapped to his back is the half-man, Kimbrough, looking a little crazed and starved, not unlike a zombie himself.
“Good Lord,” he says. “Food! Taggert, be a good fellow and set me down. I’ve got to eat something.” As Taggert obeys and begins unstrapping the papoose carrying the doctor, Kimbrough is straining toward the paste with a trembling hand. I drop some of the paste into his palm. “I’ve been so hungry, Ron, that I even considered gnawing on Taggert’s ear.”
I think this remark makes Carly even more pale.
“He’s joking, Carly,” I tell her. “I think.”
Taggert grunts and I do believe he is expressing his appreciation of Kimbrough’s gallows’ humor. In any case, he steps out of the kitchen as I prop Kimbrough up against a crate and help him access more of the food paste.
It’s a bit much to take in and Carly looks like she’s going to faint. “Easy. You’ve been through a lot. Breathe…breathe…there you go.” In a moment, her color is back in her face. I look down at the legless Kimbrough and realize what might be misconstrued by his appearance. “No on
e has been lunching on my friend here. Spangler, the so-called Red King, stole his legs—his prosthetics—and would not give them back unless…”
Her color is fading again.
“Let’s finish our meal. Plenty of time for explanations later. Right?” I nod at Gershom, who seems to be taking this all in remarkably well. “Where are liquids? Water, juice, and so forth.”
Gershom points to large metal doors. “Stored there. I took a look at the expiration dates and they will last another five years. May I help you?”
“I got it.” While fetching canisters of fluid, I hear the indomitable Gershom introducing himself.
“My name is Gershom. This is Carly. More properly Josephina Aphrodite Carly Sims. I lack the Roman nomenclature. I do not claim Roman citizenry.”
“I am Doctor Flavius Tiberius Calvin Kimbrough…the Third,” Kimbrough says, his voice muffled with food. “Pardon me.” He swallows.
“Here,” I say, handing Kimbrough the canister filled with cold water.
Kimbrough drinks. “Like the nectar of heaven.” Refreshed, he raises his canister in toast to Carly. “A pleasure to run into you like this, Miss Sims.”
“Carly. Carly is fine,” she says, recovering from her shock.
“Carly.” He turns to Gershom. “I have heard of you. A prophet from Old Earth. I have so much to ask you.”
Gershom looks pleased. “Indeed?”
“Kimbrough is a willing convert,” I say. “There are few and far between out here in the desert, eh?”
Gershom sighs, but nods his head in agreement. “Many are called, but few are chosen.”
“Eh?” Kimbrough’s interest is stoked, now. “What do you mean? Called where, chosen for what?”
I see a long discourse coming—and I admit I am curious to Gershom’s response—but it will keep. The arrival of several blues, by the sounds of shuffling feet, will postpone the discussion of such things.