by Kelly Robson
“But—” said Kiki.
Minh interrupted her. “We can do a lot with remote sensing, but those results need to be ground-truthed with manual sampling.”
“I know,” said Fabian. “You didn’t come here to sit on a beach. You want to see the project site with your own eyes. That means you’ve already accepted a certain level of risk.”
He unzipped his coverall and pulled down the collar of his undershirt. A palm-sized lump of scar tissue webbed the flesh under his collarbone.
“I got this in Jerusalem, on my third trip. It was an arrow. I knew past population members killed people with sticks and stones, but it was hot. I had my hood down and my coverall unzipped. I felt invincible.”
“Why didn’t you have the scar tissue removed?” Kiki asked.
“It’s a teaching tool. I use it to remind people that coveralls can’t protect uncovered skin and, in any case, will only protect against piercing and slashing. They do very little against blunt-force trauma.”
“We’ll keep our coveralls zipped and our hoods up,” said Minh.
“At least until the situation is under control,” said Fabian.
Hamid gave Fabian a narrow, assessing glance. “That’s not why you kept the scar.”
“Hamid the large mammal specialist has me all figured out,” Fabian said. “Okay, why?”
“It separates you from the strategic historians. I bet everyone in tactical has an impressive scar. In fact, I bet you’re not considered a real tactical historian until you have one.”
“That would be barbaric.” Fabian chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering it. “But you’re not far wrong.”
“What’s the third thing?” asked Minh. “I want to start classifying microclimates.”
“The third thing is, I want to thank you for being adventurous. For trusting me to keep you safe. I’ll do everything I can to get you back to Home Beach today, and back to Calgary when the project is complete. I have a perfect safety record. It’s not going to change.”
When the meal was over, they tossed their dishes to the bot, changed into their protective coveralls, and loaded their equipment.
It was the smallest skip Minh had ever seen. Four seats, equipment in the cargo pit under their feet, and sleek safety-foam canisters overhead. Fabian offered Minh and Hamid the front seats. Fabian sat behind Minh, and Kiki strapped in behind Hamid.
On the inside of the fuselage, Kiki had fabbed a decorative relief of peaches.
The skip needs a name. Lucky Peach, Kiki whispered. I thought you might be getting homesick for your orchard.
On the upskip, Minh worked on her climate data, but once over land, she found herself staring at the skip’s feed. Their great circle route kissed the islands of southern Japan, shot across China, and skirted vast mountain ranges of central Asia. Their downskip initiated south of the Caspian Sea, a slow, controlled hurtle to earth.
At a thousand meters’ elevation, they raked through a flock of migrating birds. Their bodies thudded against the skip. Minh dug her nails into the foam restraints. Hamid shuddered.
“Whooper swans,” he said.
“The skip is fine,” Fabian said. “This design is rated for far bigger in-air collisions.”
“Birds don’t get much bigger than that.”
“They do in the Cretaceous.”
They descended over a field near a side channel of the Euphrates, at the far west side of the trench. The location offered a robust cross-section of land use—grazing, fields, orchards—but Minh only cared about the river. The reach was shallow and, unlike the main channel, appeared to have suffered only minimal human disturbance. Fruit trees studded the field, and green crops hugged the irrigated zone along the outer edge of the bend, sandwiched between the river and a steep rocky upland covered with carob, terebinth, and olive.
Fabian fired an infrared feed onto the forward bulkhead. “I’ve tagged and categorized past population members within three square kilometers. There are nearly two hundred, mostly agricultural laborers. Nine are nearby. They’re tired—they’ve been working all morning, and now they’re resting under the trees. I don’t think they’ll get too close.”
Minh’s patience was spent. Two and a half hours in a confined space with Fabian was enough.
“This is the health and safety workflow,” she said. “It has nothing to do with us.”
“Health and safety has everything to do with you.”
“Not if you do your job right.”
“Give me a minute. There’s military all around. The camp at the top of the ridge will send down a patrol. We can also expect a response from the closest village, five kilometers downstream, and the town ten kilometers upriver. They’ll come by boat, and they’ll move fast.”
“Are you done?” Minh asked.
“One final reminder,” Fabian said. “When I give the word, retreat to the skip. Top speed.”
Minh pulled up the skip’s feed. They were a hundred meters above ground, descending slowly. The ground cover below was so green, it was nearly shocking. Her seer couldn’t identify the type of grain yet. At the edge of the field, on the rocky ground near a wide carob tree, piles of crops smoked as if they were on fire. Figures popped out from under the carob canopy, each one tagged with a green diamond and an ID code. They stared up at the descending skip, brows contracted.
But those people were Fabian’s problem, not hers.
Minh grabbed the live satellite feed and overlaid the geographical targets for her workflow. It was ridiculously simple: two sediment samples using grab samplers, six benthic samples using slack nets, and as many core and water samples as she could get.
When the skip touched down, her whole body hummed, eager to get outside.
Fabian split the hatch. Hot air blasted into the skip. It smelled of herbs and smoke—like the inside of a tandoori oven she’d once seen, in a restaurant in Cusco, when Byron was treating. The levels of oxygen nearly made her swoon.
“Cameras up,” Fabian said.
A clutch of silver cameras flew out the hatch and circled the skip.
“Evac gurneys up.”
Four large floats slid out of the cargo pit and rose slowly toward the sun.
Minh watched Fabian closely. He could call this off at any moment, seal the door and prep the upskip.
“Boots down,” he said.
Minh was first out the door. She unshipped her cargo floats and ran through the field at top speed. The floats and one of Fabian’s cameras tailed her.
Barley. Minh’s seer identified the species. But not planted in neat rows, and not a monoculture. Forbs were scattered through the field. Planted, wild, or volunteer? But no time to stop.
Halfway to the river, the barley field turned sodden. The Euphrates had sprung its banks and licked its wet tongue into the field. Wherever the water touched, the crop was harvested, stiff shorn stalks poking from the mud. But why? The barley wasn’t ripe yet. In the dry parts of the field, the stalks were green and flexible, spikes narrow and clenched.
Maybe she should have brought an agronomist.
Minh spun through the feeds. Fabian had a camera trained on the farmers. They stood in the shade near the smoking piles of grain, watching the strangers, their faces twisted with shock and fear. The burning crop was green barley. Salvaging the grain from the flood, she guessed.
Everything’s fine, Fabian whispered. The local past population members don’t know what to do about us yet. They’ll probably stay in the shade. And the military response hasn’t even started. We have time.
Minh hit one of her soil sample targets. She shot a corer into the mud, twisted off the sample cartridge, and laid it carefully on the float. She gathered five more cores as she made her way across the soggy field to an old fig tree on the riverbank. She sent her overhead camera ahead to trap the flood scars on its gnarled trunk.
My sampling nests are all moving out into position, whispered Hamid, and the evac gurneys have released the biodiversity survey b
ots. Your gauges in the water yet?
Minh laughed. No, I’m still playing in the mud.
She called the floats carrying the riverine survey cameras and gauges, sent it over the surface of the river, and tipped them all in. Then it was time to get wet.
Erosion exposed half the fig tree’s root system. Long cords reached down the abraded bank, clutching the soil. She gripped the trunk with two of her legs and lowered herself into the river.
She couldn’t stop grinning—she was made for this kind of work. Stretched out underwater, she held fast to the roots, shoved the grab sampler into the sediment, and hit the trigger. When the blade sliced cleanly through the sediment, Minh hauled the dripping muddy mass to the top of the bank.
She was breathing hard and shaking. Blood pressure shooting through the orange zone. She dialed her adrenaline response way down. Tension drained from her body. Her coveralls clung.
Can I get rid of these clothes, or are you still worried about health and safety? she asked Fabian.
I’m surprised you still have them on. I bet Hamid you’d be down to your undershirt five meters from the skip.
Minh rolled her eyes at the camera overhead. She flipped down her hood but left her coverall zipped. As she dragged a water sampling rack through the river, she took a moment to look in on her team. Hamid was checking boxes on the biodiversity survey as Kiki collected geology samples.
Minh ran forty meters upstream to her next sampling point—a willow thicket hunched around a granite outcropping. Mud slurped under her toes; flies buzzed around her head.
There’s a two-kilo mammal ahead. Fabian whispered. Don’t be startled.
A rabbit burst from under a willow and fled, splashing through the floodwater. Minh crawled into the thicket, plucked a tuft of fur from a thorny forb, and tucked it into a sampling envelope along with a few grains of feces.
Small boat coming downstream. Finish up and head back to the skip.
Fabian fired her a satellite bookmark tracking a slender boat with six people rowing furiously. The contact countdown showed seven and a half minutes.
One sediment sample, a half dozen cores, a few racks of water samples, and genetic material from a rabbit. Not nearly enough. But seven minutes was a long time. She wasn’t worried.
Minh splashed into the river with the second grab sampler. The water was deeper there—good—she wanted to get wet again. She snaked a leg into the sediment, found a submerged root, and pulled herself down to take the sample.
Sputtering, she broke surface and called the float over. The sample was ungainly—when she tried to lift it overhead, she nearly dropped it.
Kiki and I are packing up, Hamid whispered. Send your float ahead so we can get your samples stowed.
Four minutes left. She could get one more benthic sample on the way back to the skip. Maybe two.
Minh hooked her fingers around the edge of the float and sent it coasting downriver, back toward the fig tree. She held tight and floated behind it, legs trailing.
Minh, what are you doing? Kiki whispered. Do you want to get killed?
I told Kiki you wouldn’t listen, Fabian whispered.
Minh shoved a slack net into the mud, then grabbed another net and shifted ten meters downstream.
They’re soldiers. They have weapons, Kiki whispered. Two minutes away. Can’t you see the countdown?
Minh bagged the samples and threw them onto the float.
Minh, get back here now, whispered Hamid.
She sent the float back to the skip and looked at the feed.
Six men rounded the bend, reaching hard with their paddles. The narrow boat was low in the water. Their faces gleamed with sweat. They were young, bare-chested, their shoulders covered in short cloaks. Their boat bristled with thick lances, long shining spines tipped with gleaming blades.
The contact counter flashed zero.
Same thing, every time, Fabian whispered. Someone gets into trouble.
Minh yanked herself out of the water and fled through the soaked barley field. Her legs churned the mud, ripping up plants by their roots.
You have eyes in the back of your head, Fabian whispered. Use them.
Minh checked her camera feed. The boat’s prow bucked as it skidded up the inundated riverbank. Three soldiers leapt out, lances in hand. Chasing her—three men, now six.
She should be faster than any human on this terrain, but the soldiers were gaining on her. Close behind—only ten meters. Nine.
A shadow streaked toward them. A black drone coasted over the soldiers’ heads. Its surface was studded with a sensor array.
The drone flashed. A soldier fell face-first in the mud. Another dropped beside him. The third fell to his knees and raised his lance, then teetered over backward. The remaining three skidded and ran for the cover of the fig tree. The drone chased them, flashed three times. They fell before they could reach cover.
The contact counter reset to six minutes.
Minh’s momentum carried her all the way to the skip, but she wasn’t watching where she was going. She was looking at the bodies lying in the wet field.
She collapsed against the side of the Peach, smearing mud over the amber fuselage. Kiki stood above her, framed by the skip’s hatch, coverall sleeves tied around her waist. Her arms were muddy to the elbows. Behind her, Hamid clutched a box of samples.
“Why did you kill them?” Kiki glared at Fabian, teeth bared. Furious. “You didn’t have to kill them.”
My fault. I wasn’t thinking, Minh whispered.
Fabian held out his hand. The drone skated through the air, retracted its sensory array, and settled on his palm.
“Calm down, Kiki,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. They’re dead,” Kiki spat.
“Better them than Minh.”
“You could have tried something else. Anything else.”
“Next time,” he said.
-14-
WHEN SHULGI REACHED THE fallen egg, people were converging on the site from the surrounding fields. He ordered them to leave the area, but they weren’t eager to obey. He was a strange naked man bearing no marks of authority, attended by no retinue, wearing no regalia. But the horse and his weapons were enough to impress them. They didn’t leave, but backed away to watch from a distance.
The monster scrambled backward through the mud and squeezed itself inside the egg. Six legs, yes; the barley farmers hadn’t been mistaken. Perhaps two had been lost in battle. Was it a human turned half-octopus or an octopus turned half-person? Was its spirit half-beast, or just its body? And where were its companions?
When Shulgi’s soldiers joined him, he would find out.
* * *
Through the whole flight back to Home Beach, Minh stuck close to the barley field feeds. Her camera orbited above the dead men, showing flies landing delicately on their ears, their lips, their staring eyes. Within a few minutes, a dozen soldiers arrived from a camp on the western ridge. When they spotted the bodies, they ran through the sodden field, gathered the dead in their arms, and wiped the mud from their blank faces. They hauled the corpses to the river, piled the carcasses on a barge, and floated them downstream.
Minh followed. But by the time they dropped into downskip over Home Beach, she’d seen enough. Every time someone looked into the eye of the camera overhead—into Minh’s eye—she saw the same thing. Anger. Fear. Confusion. It was too much.
After they landed, Minh put her fake on duty, crawled into her cubby, and slept for fourteen hours straight.
When she woke, whole sections of her work plan were overdue. Tasks blinked red and demanded to be time-shifted. She could grab them all and shove them into tomorrow, but it would cause more problems down the line. She needed to prioritize, delegate, problem-solve, but she couldn’t bear to think about project management. Not after what had happened.
Ten years back, she’d been a good project manager—hadn’t she? She’d always thought so. Prided herself on it, in f
act. But if she’d ever had the skills to run a large project, they’d atrophied from disuse.
Or maybe she’d always been a disaster. Yes. Six dead people proved it.
Minh sat on the beach, running analyses on the climate data until she was feeling normal again. She picked her microclimate survey points and assigned cameras and sensors to their positions. The sun was about to rise in Mesopotamia, and when it did, she’d supervise the vegetation surveys. Anything that couldn’t be automatically identified or was likely to have significant genetic variation from samples in seed banks would be prioritized for sampling, and their locations would inform the choice of the next landing site.
But when the Mesopotamian dawn came and the cameras shifted from low-lux mode into full color, Minh stepped away from the feeds. Those sunlit vistas took her right back to the barley field, the soldiers splashing to the ground, the sickening scent of burning green barley and fertile mud. She stared at the ocean and let the surveys run unmonitored.
Hamid sat in the sand at her side. He handed her a bowl of food and a water bottle. They ate in silence. Minh could only swallow a few bites. The food sat under her heart in a lump.
Hamid’s bowl was half empty before he finally spoke. “Listen, Minh. I don’t like what you’ve been doing to your endocrine system.”
“It’s none of your business,” she said. “Stay out of my biom.”
“Okay. But I need you to be more careful. If you hadn’t reduced your adrenaline, fear would have kicked in properly and brought you back to the skip without cutting it so close.”
Minh nodded. Her eyes prickled. She pinched the bridge of her nose, like she’d been doing all day. The flood would have to break through eventually.
Hamid dug his toes into the sand.
“According to TERN, past population members don’t die, not really,” he said. “This is a new baseline. When we leave, the timeline will collapse. When TERN comes back, those soldiers will be alive.”
Minh pulled her legs into a ball. “It’s a comforting thought.”
“You don’t look comfortable.”
“That’s because I don’t buy it. Do you?”