Sif was pissed at his reluctance to say anything about Litsa and the others—he either didn’t know or wasn’t authorized to say anything, she figured. However, she was hungry. The questions could wait. It wasn’t like she and Hunter had a choice, anyway. She would keep her eyes open, observe, and listen. Hopefully, that would provide some answers. “I suppose I could eat a bite or two. Hunter?”
He was fully dressed now, staring at his new boots, which had just conformed to the shape of his leg. “I’ll be damned.” He glanced at the major. “I’m hoping you still know how to brew a strong pot of coffee.”
And they did. Real coffee, which Sif hadn’t enjoyed in what seemed like ages. She laughed, thinking that it was almost two hundred years if she counted the days on a calendar.
They were seated in an open room—a chow hall—where other people dressed like Major Murphy sat at small tables and ate, each of them staring at her and Hunter like they were from another world.
The major stepped away to bring them some food, leaving them alone.
“So, initial thoughts?” Hunter whispered.
She leaned close to him, kept her voice low. “First, this is a military op. They still have a rank structure we’re familiar with, but it’s like the Navy’s.” She tapped the insignia centered on her blouse. “Three broad stripes, an O-5, just like yours. He mentioned the North American Alliance, and that makes me think Canadian. Second, from their appearance, they don’t live in caves. Third, they have some kick-ass tech that they’re apparently not willing to share with the people outside, but some of what we had—satellites, comsats—is gone. Fourth, he called this a ‘staging base’—a staging base for what? And fifth, they refuse to tell us anything about Litsa.” She scratched at the small bump on her neck. “Oh yeah, and sixth, they haven’t told us why they darted us like zoo animals.”
Hunter nodded. “We need to take a look outside and see what’s on the ramp. If there is still a ramp.”
“Flying machines,” Sif said, using Litsa’s words. “It’s what the Takers use.” She looked around the room, met quite a few questioning eyes. She wasn’t afraid to meet their glances and felt a little satisfaction when they dropped theirs and stared at their plates. “They’re really trying to figure us out, aren’t they?”
“I do feel a little like a zoo animal, to tell you the truth. Darts in the neck aside.”
“Okay, I told you my initial thoughts. What do you think?”
“I agree with you,” Hunter said, “on every point. I recommend we accept their courtesy, watch, listen, and learn. We might get a whole new perspective about this new world of ours after we sit through their debriefing.”
Sif nodded, looked around the room. “I don’t like this place, Hunter. The vibes are all wrong.”
“I hear you. But, there’s a lot we don’t know. Litsa’s records told us a lot, but I’m going to assume there are still quite a few missing pieces to the story, especially when it comes to these people.”
Sif sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I think we heard all we need to know about these people from Litsa. That bullet in Talia’s leg spoke volumes, too. She’s just a kid. Maybe was just a kid.”
“I don’t disagree. I suggest we learn what we can, okay?”
Sif reluctantly nodded her head. She would listen, only because she had to.
The major returned to the table carrying two plates. “This is kind of a bare-bones facility, but this is still probably better than what you’ve been eating.”
Sif looked down at her plate—this was much better than what she experienced in the bare-bones facilities she had encountered. “Don’t tell me that’s a steak.”
The major sat down beside them. “You don’t like it?”
“What, do I look like a plant eater?” She sliced into the meat and popped a bite into her mouth. The taste wasn’t quite what she expected, but she didn’t really care. “What is this?”
“Bison, from the Northwest Territories. We have it flown in once a week.”
Hunter was already cutting into his, as well. “Buffalo?”
“In your time, cattle were a major food source, along with pigs and chickens, but now, bison are a major source of protein.”
Sif wondered what he meant—were cows, pigs, and chickens all gone now? More importantly, though, he mentioned aircraft. “You said flown in. You have an active runway here?”
“We do. We’ll be seeing it shortly.”
To Sif, that didn’t exactly sound like he was going to give them a tour. “Seeing it . . . how?”
“President Carlisle has sent an aircraft for you. When you’re done eating, it’ll take you to our main base. He’s eager to meet both of you.”
Sif put her fork down. “Wait a minute. We’re not leaving until you answer our questions.”
The major raised his hands, as if to say whoa. “And we will, Commander. We’re going to debrief on the flight there.”
“And where is there, exactly, Major?” Hunter asked.
“A place called Hay River, in what you knew as Canada. The Phoenix Complex.”
Chapter 37
Sif didn’t like the fact that they were being taken away before they learned what happened to Litsa and the others. And they were leaving Beagle here, too, as far as she knew. And they weren’t going to be able to talk to Lucas, either. She didn’t like it but had no choice.
As they exited the chow hall and stepped outside, she was shocked. She had never been to Ellsworth before, so she didn’t have a mental picture to compare the scene to, but she was sure it never looked like this.
The base itself, which now looked as if it barely extended past the runway and flight line, was surrounded by a high wall, maybe fifteen or twenty feet tall, spotted with guard towers—manned, she noticed—and topped with razor wire. To keep the Riy out? she wondered.
Within the walls were hangars, low-slung buildings, and—just as the major said—an active runway. “Those are C-130s,” Sif said, immediately recognizing the unmistakable shape of the transport aircraft.
Major Murphy nodded his head. “Basically, yes.”
“How in the hell have you kept them flying for so long?” Hunter asked.
“It’s not the same airplane you were familiar with. Everything beneath the skin has been replaced and improved. These airframes essentially have very few hours on them.”
Sif saw a line of six of the transports at the far end of the ramp, painted dark gray. Even at this distance, she could see some subtle differences. The engines looked smaller, and the propellers were curved, shaped more like some of the more modern European transport aircraft from her day. Sif also noticed a line of helicopters across from the C-130s. Chinooks. “Did you use those to bring Beagle here?” she said, pointing at the choppers.
“It took two of them, but yes.”
She looked around, scanned the rest of the flight line. Beagle was nowhere to be seen. “And where is our ship, Major?”
He gestured toward one of the large hangars behind the C-130s. “In there. Repairs are under way as we speak.”
“I hate to tell you,” Sif said, “but the fuel pump can’t be repaired. It needs to be replaced, and the only spare we have is onboard Resolute.”
“We don’t need it, Commander. We can produce the part here.”
“How the heck can you do that?” Hunter asked.
The major smiled. “The technology was beginning to mature about the time you left on your mission. I believe you called it 3-D printing?”
“You can print a fuel pump?” Sif said, incredulously.
“Print may not be an accurate description, but yes, we can make the part. Same thing with the uniforms you’re wearing. We scanned your bodies and produced the uniforms. I’m sure you’ll agree that they fit perfectly, right?”
Sif had to admit, it did. “And the boots? They cinched up tight to my legs, no laces.”
“Reactive nanotechnology. Your boots are designed to constrict when they sense
body heat, but only to a certain point. When the fit is snug, they quit contracting.”
He was explaining it as if he were talking to a couple of third graders. Sif decided they did, after all, have a ton to learn about this new world. “So, how do I get them off?”
The major pointed to a small round dot on the side of his boot. “Touch this spot for a few seconds, and the boots relax.”
“They relax.”
“Yes, they loosen enough to be slipped off.”
Hunter shook his head. “I know I’ve been gone too long when someone has to tell me how to take my boots off.”
“Your uniforms have reactive nanotechnology as well,” the major continued. “Rip the fabric, and it’ll repair itself. If you can rip it, that is. It takes a lot of force to damage these things.”
“So you’ve basically destroyed the local seamstress union, huh?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Never mind,” Sif said. She noticed a smaller aircraft nearby—one that appeared to be a Gulfstream GVI—painted white. It certainly looked presidential. “That’s our ride, I assume?”
“Correct,” the major replied. “The president’s personal aircraft.”
“Everything replaced and improved, I suppose,” Hunter remarked.
The major nodded.
“It’s not as big as Air Force One, but I guess it’ll do,” Sif said. “Before we go, though, I’d like to see Beagle.” Sif expected him to make some excuse as to why they wouldn’t be able to see their ship, so she was surprised at his answer.
“Of course, but it’ll have to be quick. The flight leaves in fifteen minutes.”
“That’ll be enough time.”
Beagle was in the hangar, just as he said. A group of ten or so technicians stopped what they were doing and stared, again with the same curious-yet-scared faces she saw in the chow hall. What troubled Sif was that it appeared as if almost every access panel was removed, much more intrusively than what would be required to fix the fuel pump and radio. “What are they doing to my ship, Major?” she said, trying hard to hide the panic in her voice.
“Not to worry, Commander. They’re giving Beagle a complete inspection, and before you ask, yes, they can put her back together again. We have all the technical specifications. We were able to upload the maintenance diagrams and manuals for both Beagle and Resolute from our central database.” He nodded at the techs, who took that as their signal to get back to work. “When they’re done, Beagle will be as good as new. Maybe even better.”
She didn’t like this, either. But, like everything else, she wasn’t really in a position to do anything about it. “As long as I can still fly her,” Sif said.
She saw the major look at the digital time readout on his sleeve again. “We need to move. Wheels up in five minutes.”
“Are you coming with us?” Sif asked.
“What, stay here and miss the opportunity to talk to two astronauts from the early twenty-first century? I wouldn’t miss this flight for the world.”
Sif glared at him. She didn’t particularly like the feeling of being a walking, talking museum piece.
Chapter 38
Even from this distance, Litsa could see the two astronauts as they walked across the field toward a small, white flying machine, accompanied by a man the others said was the leader of this place.
Sif and Hunter were wearing the uniforms of the Takers and certainly weren’t being led anywhere against their will. Like she was.
None of it made any sense. They seemed so genuine, so truthful. When she first saw them, the heat rose in her neck, and she gripped the bars of the window with a fiery anger. It was all some kind of trick, Litsa thought, but to what end? Why did they need to bring two of their kind to the Dak and spin some sort of incredible story to gain her trust, just to have the last remaining members of her clan end up in this stinking holding cell?
No. It didn’t make any sense. There must be another reason why they were not placed in here with the rest of them. Along with Conrad, Geller, and Talia, there were about twenty others she didn’t know, taken from their village a few nights ago, too, all under guard.
Sampson, one of the other villagers, told her of the stories he had heard of this place, how people were taken here first, then transported somewhere else on board one of the big gray flying machines. To where, no one knew, but no person taken from here was ever seen again.
The people of Sampson’s village also lived in a set of caves some distance away from her own Dak, but they were different—more docile, afraid—even now cowering against the back wall of the pen, holding one another. Some of them cried all night long, it seemed. Litsa spent the night looking for a weakness in the structure—loose bars, a weak hinge, anything she could exploit—but found nothing. Among the people trapped in here, only she, Conrad, and Geller seemed willing to find a way out. Talia, still weakened from the gunshot wound in her leg, slept for most of the time. Her fever had not returned, so at least that was a good sign. The Takers seemed especially interested in her leg wound and for a moment acted as if they were going to separate her from the pack, but Talia summoned enough strength to stand tall and feign strength, and she remained with the rest of them.
Litsa was afraid to think what they would have done with Talia had they taken her away.
She had heard stories about how the badly injured were usually killed during the raids, and only the healthy ones were taken away. If not for Talia’s show of strength—and, Litsa admitted, Hunter and Sif’s care—Talia would be dead now, discarded because of her injury like a piece of trash.
Litsa watched as Sif, Hunter, and the other man stepped aboard the white flying machine, and the door closed behind them. She continued staring through the bars as the machine roared into the sky and turned north, finally disappearing from view. She wondered where they were going, and if it was the same place where they would be taken. Hunter and Sif were shown courtesies, clothed, and most surely fed, while she and the rest of the people in here with her were treated like animals. If they were going to the same place, Litsa figured the fates that awaited them would be quite different.
She wasn’t going to go without a fight, though. She knew she could count on Conrad and Geller—Talia, too, once she regained her strength—but as for the rest of them, she wasn’t sure.
Litsa spoke to Sampson at length and learned what had happened to his people. His tribe, as they called themselves, lived not too far away from her own Dak, only fifteen miles or so to the east. Sampson said they, too, experienced the hives moving farther north and were forced to relocate within the past year. The hives, he said, were many. He was surprised to learn that Litsa’s people fought the hives, burned them, and forced them to retreat. His people, he said, always ran away.
Litsa was amazed that only fifteen miles separated their peoples, yet they approached survival in such different ways. Her clan was more regimented, where survival meant living by a rigid set of laws and expectations, which, if broken, resulted in swift punishment. Sampson’s people, by contrast, had no set of rules. The difference between their two groups was striking to her. If she did start a fight, she might end up getting a lot of them hurt or killed and wasn’t sure if it would be worth it. There would be a time and place, though, she knew, when she would act.
Looking at the group of people in the pen, she wondered how many other clans or tribes were out there, and how many of them had been ripped from their homes by the Takers. More than that, though, she wondered what had become of them.
Sampson stood beside her.
“I saw you watching them,” he said.
Litsa nodded. “They are the ones I told you about, the ones who came from the stars.”
“They are with these people?”
Litsa glanced beyond the bars in the direction the small machine had headed. “I don’t think they are,” she said. “But I just don’t know.”
If they were, Litsa thought, she would kill both of them with
her bare hands.
Chapter 39
By the calendar, it was nearly two hundred years since Sif had experienced the joy of being in a jet at altitude—she was flying again, and it felt good, even though she wasn’t at the controls. The pilot turned north-northwest immediately after lifting off, and Sif watched the landscape shrink away as he climbed. According to Major Murphy, it would be roughly a two-and-a-half-hour flight to cover the nearly 1,300 miles from Ellsworth to the Phoenix Complex, located near what used to be known as the town of Hay River, Canada.
Sif was a little disappointed in the jet itself, especially since it was supposedly a presidential aircraft. She had seen the interior of Air Force One once. This, by comparison, was more business class. The interior was finished much like any other corporate jet—a roomy cabin, with six seats, polished wood, and soft leather throughout. Imprinted into the leather on each of the seats was a symbol she recognized—the mythical phoenix, its wings curved upward as in the first moment of flight. Fitting, she thought. Rising from the ashes.
“What kind of fuel are you using?” Hunter asked.
Sif wondered, too, since according to the records in the Dak, most of the areas of the world famous for crude oil production were overtaken by the Riy.
“Synthenol,” Major Murphy said. “Not the JP-8 you remember, that’s for sure. It’s algae-based. We grow it.”
“You grow your jet fuel,” Sif said. She was beginning to sound like a broken record but couldn’t help it.
“Synth is very stable and has a much higher energy density than fossil fuels. We can tweak it to fit a number of different applications. Your Beagle, for example, is being modified to handle synth right now.”
“What?” Sif didn’t like that they were messing with their ship like that.
“Don’t worry, Commander. Like I said, she’ll be better than new when we get done with her. And anyway, once the existing fuel in her tanks is gone—or the fuel reserves in Resolute, for that matter—Beagle would be a great big paperweight. We don’t have the capacity to produce enough liquid oxygen or hydrogen to keep her operational for long.”
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