Jarek stared at the apathetic wall, waiting to see if there’d be any more. When he was sure there wouldn’t be, he tried removing his hand and re-activating the glyph, but was unsurprised to find nothing happened.
So, finally, he turned to take in Mosen’s reaction.
Alaric’s son was still fixed on the glyph with a tight-lipped stare.
“I’ll be damned,” he finally said.
“Probably,” Jarek agreed.
Mosen finally broke his gaze away from the glyph to sneer at Jarek. “No I love you, though, huh? That’s cold, man.”
Jarek sputtered through a few false starts before finally settling with, “Oh, eat a dick, Mosen.”
That just got a satisfied smirk out of the bastard, but it didn’t last long. Soon enough, his expression sobered.
“Well, congratulations Slater. You were right.”
Slowly, emphasizing the movement, Jarek slid a hand up to cup behind one ear, as if trying to hear better.
Mosen shook his head and looked back toward their convoy before replying. “You’re an unbearable prick, you know that?”
Jarek shrugged. “Only to people who’ve broken my face in the past twenty-four hours. Them’s the rules.”
He hesitated over his next words.
“For what it’s worth, though, I’m sorry about all the shit I said last night. If it makes you feel any better, I only turned to psychological warfare because I thought you might actually kill me if I didn’t shake things up.”
“I would have,” Mosen said quietly, his gaze distant, pensive, and maybe just a bit troubled.
The candid detachment in his words made Jarek feel cold inside.
“You don’t understand what it’s like, Slater—what these men have been through. What it’s like to be made a puppet, to serve for over a decade whether you want to or not.”
Jarek’s mouth was halfway open to say he knew a thing or two about being made to march to the beat of someone else’s deranged drum before it really hit him. Everything he’d experienced with Conner. Everything since then. Terrible as it all had been, it really did pale in comparison to what Zar’Golga and his raknoth had done to some of the humans under them. Especially to Mosen.
“I guess I haven’t really thought it all through,” Jarek finally admitted. “It’s always been a little too easy to cast you all as comic book bad guys in my head.” He turned his hands palms-up. “Especially when you were all actively trying to kill me and whatnot. But you’re right …”
“Christ, Slater. Keep going and I’m almost going to be sorry I tried to kill you”—he looked up as if counting—“four times.”
“Well don’t go soft on me now, big guy.”
Jarek willed his faceplate open with a careful thought.
Mosen seemed suspicious of the dropping of barriers until his gaze fell on what Jarek could only assume was the epically extensive bruising on the left half of his face.
“We have to go to Cheyenne Mountain, Mosen. From there, we can see about sending out search parties for Krogoth and your fath—and Alaric. But right now, we’ve got exactly one real shot at getting our people someplace safe. Cheyenne’s the right call.”
Mosen silently worked his jaw in a fashion that reminded Jarek just a little too much of Alaric’s habitual leaf-chewing.
“Fine,” he finally said, and started to turn back for the convoy.
“Mosen.”
Slowly, Mosen looked back over his shoulder.
Jarek fumbled for the words he’d thought he’d wanted to say. He probably shouldn’t have opened his mouth without a plan. But now that he had …
“It’s not too late, you know.”
Mosen said nothing, so he pushed on.
“Once we make it to the bunker, after we hand these rakul bastards their asses on a nice shiny platter … I know it’s bad, man, but there’s no damage that can’t be overcome. Golga’s not around anymore and—”
“And what?” Mosen said quietly. “You going to say I can get off the sauce and have another shot at getting my pa back and having a nice, happy life?”
Jarek winced. “See, it sounds silly when you say it like that.”
Mosen started down the steps, apparently not seeing fit to dignify that with a response.
“C’mon, guy,” Jarek called after him. “I’m just saying maybe if we make it through all this, we can all have another shot at our lives.”
Mosen at least told him to shove it after that, but Jarek was pretty sure it was only halfheartedly.
“You should talk to your father, young man!”
Mosen just marched into the field of wild grass, middle finger held high over his head.
“Good talk,” Jarek muttered to himself.
“Masterfully done, sir,” Al confirmed.
With a clear target in sight and far too much nervous energy riding in the platoon, Jarek figured they might as well make all haste. Especially since getting further away from Pittsburgh and Columbus seemed prudent.
They drove on through the remainder of the day and most of that night. Michael was ecstatic when Jarek told him the news of Rachel’s message. On the whole, the spirits of the convoy seemed to be coming around after last night’s breaking point.
Things were good. Almost too good.
There were no issues at all, really, except for the deer one of their trucks hit in the pre-dawn hours. Fortunately, the truck managed to shed enough speed that the damage wasn’t too bad and the deer wasn’t pulverized. They quickly loaded it into the truck to be used for the day’s meal once they were ready to stop.
At least it wouldn’t go to waste. The troops actually seemed pretty excited at the thought of eating something that hadn’t come from a can or the soil.
When the light of dawn finally began to stretch over the horizon and his sleeping passengers began to rise with complaints of aching legs and empty bellies, Jarek guided the convoy to a halt by a spacious, out of the way farmhouse that looked to be in decent repair. Or standing, at least.
It was in good enough shape that he wondered if it would be occupied. A quick sweep inside, though, revealed it was neither occupied nor in nearly as good a shape as he’d originally thought.
Still, it’d do for a meal and a quick rest.
According to Al, they were only a few hours out from this Cheyenne Mountain Complex. He’d been sorely tempted to just keep driving until they had their answer—and, universe willing, he had Rachel in his arms. But his men’s grumbles, his own rumbling belly, and the tiny voice of caution in the back of his mind had won out.
Every square inch of him wanted to believe they’d be safe when they reached Cheyenne. That their people would be waiting for them with open arms, thick walls, and heavy weapons to cover their asses.
But he didn’t know it. Not for sure. And until he did, it just didn’t make sense to approach a potentially dangerous situation without a bit of food and rest.
Now wasn’t the time to get careless.
With the venison, the last of their canned goods, and the wild onions a couple of their men had had the acumen to identify and pick while Jarek and Mosen had been investigating Rachel’s trail, they could have whipped up a lovely little stew. As it was, though, everyone was too damn tired and hungry to wait, so breakfast consisted mostly of cold canned goods, tiny fried onions, and hunks of pan-seared venison the platoon sucked down as fast as their two poor cooks could toss them out.
Once most of them had filled their indignant bellies, they swapped their lookouts so the last hungry mouths could dig in, and everyone else set to the familiar routine of preparing to bed down for the day hours.
Jarek ate with the last shift, ruminating over their next moves. He didn’t plan on waiting till nightfall. Approaching in daylight meant they’d be easier to see coming, but he’d rather be able to clearly see the lay of the unfamiliar land than go flying in under the radar but completely blind.
They’d sleep until early afternoon, then be on their way
.
He found Michael and Chambers in one of the upstairs rooms, Michael grinning abashedly as Chambers, also slightly flushed in the cheeks, carefully bound his ankles and wrists. After the scene at the motel, it seemed no one else had any desire to be sleeping anywhere near Michael.
“Did you crazy kids want a touch of privacy?” Jarek asked from the doorway.
Chambers shot him a dirty look.
He spread his hands, putting on his best innocent face. “Just don’t forget the safe word. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Grow up, man,” Michael said, only blushing all the harder.
“Not if I can help it.” Jarek strolled into the room and, seeing that Chambers had already finished up, tossed Michael’s blanket over him and handed Chambers’ blanket to her before he lay down beside Michael opposite Chambers.
Chambers adjusted Michael’s blanket for him before laying down next to him and getting herself comfortable. Jarek resisted the reflexive itch to make light of the affectionate kindness. It was actually kind of nice to see. Two people just doing their thing, surviving, and still managing to stumble onto a tiny bit of the normal human experience in the midst of all this shit.
So Jarek just lay back and tried to relax as Michael drifted off between them and Chambers continued rustling around for a comfortable spot.
Tired as he was, sleep didn’t come. Nor did that relaxation.
There were just too many thoughts racing through his mind. Too many hopes and problems and potential complications to even dream of stilling them without a gallon of whiskey or some weapons-grade anxiety meds.
What if he’d been wrong? Made the wrong call?
What if he got them all killed?
He’d never wanted this. The leadership. The responsibility. Part of him wished he could go back to the way things had been when it had just been him and Al and their ship, no deliberate cares and no set compass but their annoyingly persistent morals. No one else to worry about. No one to let down. No danger of becoming everything he’d despised about Conner and the rest of the big wigs he’d had the displeasure of meeting throughout the years.
He missed it.
Then he looked over and saw that Chambers seemed to have finally drifted off with her back pressed up against Michael’s side. For some reason, it made him smile. And with that smile came the first stirrings of peace to his troubled mind.
How long had he been lying there now?
It didn’t matter.
Rachel. Rachel mattered.
For the first time, Jarek allowed himself to feel the hope that’d been trying to kindle in his chest since he’d heard Rachel’s second message. So close. They were so damn close he could all but feel her skin at his fingertips.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow they’d find their people. And he’d find Rachel.
The gentle arms of sleep were reaching out for his tired mind now, memories of his and Rachel’s too-brief encounter in the ship drifting pleasantly through his head.
Tomorrow.
A languid smile stretched across his face.
Then a gut-wrenching roar shook the air and the lookouts started shouting bloody murder.
18
“I’m in,” Johnny said before Rachel had even finished her sentence.
She looked around the spartan barracks room that had been an acting supply storage closet before the Enochians claimed it as their temporary home in The Complex. They were all there now, discussing next moves. Except for Nelken and Pryce, who were off seeing the facility’s backup generators or some such with Dillard’s systems engineers.
Rachel had seen a lot more of The Complex as they’d moved the rest of their people in. She’d even wandered out for part of the official tour and taken a gander at the base’s cavernous water reservoirs and the crops they’d cultivated outside, well out of view of the main road.
It was all plenty interesting and impressive. But it was time for her to get back to the plan. It was time to go find Jarek and Michael, and to do it fast.
Which brought her back to the matter at hand.
“First off,” she said to a waiting Johnny, “you’re not invited—”
Johnny started to make an indignant gesture.
“—for multiple reasons,” Rachel pushed on before he could speak. “Not the least of which being because we need those big guns of yours watching your friends here twenty-four seven until we get back.”
“And,” Drogan said, “because I cannot run as fast with two should we lose our transportation and need to flee.”
“And because this is a crapshoot operation to start off with,” Franco added from beside Elise’s cot, frowning up at the lot of them as he finished working that morning’s rations through her gastric input. “I don’t need to be from this planet to know the chances of finding a few men out in open country are slim to nonexistent.”
Much as Rachel wanted to tell the Enochian to take his pessimism and shove it, Franco wasn’t wrong. And she couldn’t really blame him for being short on polite smiles these days, given what was happening to his daughter right before his eyes.
The knowledge alone that she was becoming something alien was probably bad enough. The Enochians’ changing appearances couldn’t be helping matters either.
Haldin and Elise looked more like extras from an old Star Trek movie than humans at this point. Rachel had expected the change might follow along a similar progression to that of a raknoth shifting to battle mode. Scaly green hide. Slightly elongated snout and angled brows. Fangs and claws.
What was happening to the Enochians, though, was much less outlandish, and somehow all the more disturbing because of it.
True, their skin had taken on a kind of cracked appearance, not unlike a dry clay bed, and a slight greenish tinge had begun to set in. But the oddest part was the host of subtle anatomical changes that seemed to be taking place.
Head, elbows, hands, shins, feet—every surface that could conceivably be used for striking seemed to be shifting to structures more suited for hitting or being hit. The Enochians were being forged into humanoid weapons. And, unlike the way the raknoth could normally switch their adaptations back and forth with their human hosts, Rachel got the impression that these changes wouldn’t be so readily reversed.
She sighed and rubbed at her eyes with her palms, searching for anything to say to justify her and Drogan’s decision to go back out looking for Jarek, Michael, and whoever else happened to be with them.
No surprise wisdom leapt out at her. Just the desire for a nap.
Between her mind’s relentless worrying about Jarek and Michael and the tense toss-and-turn fest that had been trying to actually sleep in The Complex surrounded by Zach, his raknoth-hating zealots, and their secret raknoth leader, Rachel hadn’t managed to get much rest last night.
Go figure.
“Franco’s probably right,” she finally said, “but we have to try anyway.” She looked at Johnny. “Just like you have to stay here and make sure none of the crazies come try to set fire to your not-so-earthly best friends.
“Yeah,” Johnny said slowly, looking back at the still forms of Haldin and Elise. “When you put it that way …”
“When she puts it that way,” Franco said, his eyes fixed on Elise’s still face, “it almost sounds as if she feels she’s no longer bound by her promise.”
The words came from a place of anguish rather than reason. She knew that. But it didn’t make them cut any less deep.
“Franco …” James said, his tone lightly chiding, or maybe pleading.
“We’ll keep her safe,” Phineas said, his face impassive, his eyes never leaving Elise.
Johnny looked like he wanted to say something in Rachel’s defense but wasn’t ready to tread on the grieving father’s toes for it.
“I’m doing the best I can,” Rachel said quietly.
It was inadequate. Unhelpful. But it was all she could say.
“I will see to it that Nan’Grohl and Nan’Sorba rem
ain here as well,” Drogan added. “They will not require sleep, and it would be wise to keep them away from the local population anyway.”
Franco shut his eyes as if reciting something to himself and tore his gaze away from Elise to look at Rachel and Drogan. “Of course. I’m sorry, I … Well, I hope you find the others.”
Rachel forced a wan smile and gave him a grateful nod. Then she and Drogan left the barracks to go find Nelken.
Slim chances and settling the details with Nelken aside, only one other question remained.
Did they tell Mayor Dillard—or Nan’Dola, as Drogan had since identified him—that the two of them were even thinking about leaving?
Their own people giving them the tenuous go-ahead was one thing. Clearing the air with their odd new host might be another.
Assuming he didn’t end up arguing with the venture, as he well might, knowing Dola was on board would be a welcome reassurance. But would the Mayor take advantage of their absence? Could this place really be safe for their people if he knew they were gone?
It was probably a moot point, as they were pretty sure they wouldn’t be getting out of The Complex without the cooperation of Zach or whoever else might be manning the doors. Not without some hasty telepathic compulsion, at least, and that didn’t seem the wisest of choices.
“What are you thinking?” she asked Drogan, who seemed to be contemplating their relative lack of departure options himself.
“We will talk to Nan’Dola,” Drogan finally said, looking none too pleased about it, “and I will see to it that he listens.”
That settled that, then.
The Complex’s main command room featured an impressive collection of computers, entire walls of displays whose numbers bordered on overwhelming, and other equipment Rachel couldn’t even guess at. A good deal of it even still seemed to be working, though she wasn’t sure how much good that could be doing anyone now that the Net was down.
As she’d half-expected, if not hoped, they found Zach there, poring over a group of displays with a couple others. There was, however, no Mayor to be found.
Retribution: Book Four of the Harvesters Series Page 16