by Dave Lacey
“But this type of decision and cover up got us into a great deal of trouble first time around. Do we really want to make the same mistakes again?” Erik Rasmussen asked, a vein twitching above his right eye. Atherton sighed. He looked down at the table top, the bags under his eyes appearing to sag even further. His lined face added an experienced weight to his words.
“I understand your point, Erik, but I stand by what I’ve said. Hope is a marvellous thing. It can lift an entire nation. It can stop men and women from faltering in the fight for life. It is a light shining in the darkness.” He paused, his smile sliding until it disappeared entirely. “But it is also the most dangerous of things. It can raise us so high that the fall seems all the worse for it. I would not have these people fall, Erik.” Atherton swept a hand across the complex that lay beneath them outside the picture window. Veerhan watched as the knuckles of Erik Rasmussen’s skin grew white on the hand that lay on the table.
“Derin is right, Erik,” said Arnold Schultz. The popular American was a talented scientist. His work, both before and after the invasion, had brought them here, on the brink of a discovery. “Our populace here are happy at present. Why change that balance.” Schultz paused, his gaunt features still and thoughtful. Then he smiled, and his face changed, the harshness gone. He ran a hand over his receding ginger hairline. “If it turns out we’re right, then it will be communicated immediately, I imagine?” Schultz looked across at Atherton for confirmation.
“Oh, immediately. I do not like secrets.” Atherton’s timeworn skin shook a little as he nodded. Schultz smiled.
“Then that, surely, is enough?” Schultz finished, looking around at his colleagues. There came a series of reluctant nods. “Then let’s return to the matter at hand,” he said, clearing his throat. “As I was saying earlier, our observations have led us to this point. It is hard to fathom any reason for the deliberate eradication of our indigenous plant life, other than the one we have come up with.” Henry Markesson, Lech’s boss, fired in a question.
“What if they did it to sow their own indigenous plant life?” he asked. Schultz was ready with his answer.
“Yes, we considered that. But then, where is it? Nothing has grown in the last eight years except weeds. It is highly unlikely that their plant life would have required quite so long to take. Unless, of course, it just will not grow. But we’ve dismissed that as a theory,” Schultz said, with finality.
“What if it was simply a destructive act?” Markesson asked. “What if they are just that, destructive?” Schultz pulled a face that suggested it was a possibility, but Veerhan thought he had considered that also.
“Then there is little we can do about it. But I cannot imagine that anything that exists in any of the universes is so aggressive that it just destroys plants and trees for the hell of it. There are other things they could have destroyed that they have not.” Schultz fiddled with the papers in front of him, slipping the top one to the back. He read from the next sheet. “So, with that in mind, we have contacted our various sites on Earth, and we have given them as much information as we have.” He stopped. The room became quiet.
After a moment or two, Veerhan spoke for the first time. “So what do we do next? What if your research is correct?” Veerhan swallowed and felt his face and neck grow hot. Schultz smiled at him across the table, his gratitude evident.
“Good question, Commander. Then we weaponize it. If we are correct, and I think on some level at least we are on the right track, then we should be able to weaponize quite easily. In fact, we are already working on a system.” There was a ripple of activity around the table. Atherton spoke first.
“Oh yes, and how is it progressing?” he asked.
“It is coming along quite nicely. There are problems, there always are, but I was hoping we could draft in some help from our friends in engineering, specifically the weapons department?” Schultz asked, turning to Markesson. Markesson tried hard to repress his curiosity. He leant back in his chair and rested his chin on his balled fist.
“We are very busy ourselves at present, of course,” he said. “We are readying the latest engines for our warships. If your weapon proves to be effective, we need something to get it there.” He sounded matter of fact, but Veerhan guessed that he really wanted to help, to be involved.
“I understand entirely,” Schultz said in response. Could he be counter bluffing, Veerhan wondered. Schultz carried on. “We will continue as we are. I am sure we will get there eventually.” Schultz interlocked his fingers on the table top and smiled at Markesson. Rasmussen never gave Henry Markesson a chance to counter offer.
“What are these problems you speak of, Arnold?” Rasmussen asked Schultz.
“It’s a question of heat resistance. Our special ingredient needs to be able to withstand the heat and destructive nature of an explosion in order to deliver its killer blow successfully. Presently, we are having difficulty making this a reality. Our test materials to this point are destroyed upon detonation.” Arnold Schultz paused. “We need a bonding agent, something that will survive the blast, yet yield its purpose afterward. It is proving most difficult.” Schultz frowned, again staring at the papers in front of him.
“So, I would imagine some sort of thermal coating then?” Veerhan asked, feeling easier. “Maybe something that will survive the blast, but would dissolve on contact with the atmosphere?” Schultz seemed not to be paying attention, but he nodded absently.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we need,” Schultz added in a quiet voice.
“Then you better get to work on it, Doctor,” Atherton added, his voice sonorous and his face grave. “Those people down there deserve our greatest efforts. If you are correct in your assessment and findings, then finally we may have something we can use against our oppressors.” He paused. “It is time we showed them that the human race will not go quietly into the night.”
Chapter 16
Initially, Jack thought he was dead. His mind was feverish, his body drained of all resources. The last eight years, almost everything of significance, passed through his mind in a blur: near misses, loss of life, successes, failures. His fevered mind tortured and misled Jack into thinking that everything was as it had been, that he was sometimes in reality, when in fact he was delirious. Eventually, like a weather balloon reaching the stratosphere, he rose from the darkness.
His eyes didn’t open immediately – he was dead tired and he didn’t have the strength. But he could hear voices. And he could feel his body. It throbbed. Like a giant’s heartbeat, his whole body seemed to pulse. His head hurt, and his side felt as though he had been through a stampede. He could hear Smithy, his voice low and relaxed. In his almost fully awake state, Jack felt the faint stirring of hope. He heard Millie’s voice too. She had made it through the maze to wherever they were. And then he heard a child’s voice.
And, hurt though he was, Jack recognized it. It was his son’s voice. Without much effort, tears found their way through his leaden eyelids. He could feel them tracing their way down the sides of his head. He blinked rapidly, clearing away the salty tears that acted as a lubricant. The room he was in was dimly lit. The corners were dark and quiet. His eyes were the only thing that moved. It was too much too soon for him to move his head. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but nothing happened.
A scrape of a chair, and Smithy was by his side. Somehow, he had sensed Jack was awake. Jack just stared at him, unable to speak. He hoped his gratitude was in his eyes and face.
“So, you’re back then?” Smithy asked him, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t sure for a while. You were pretty banged up. You are pretty banged up.” Smithy turned his head to look across the room. He turned back and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, and your boy’s here. And he’s fine, by the way. A little shaken, but fine.” Smithy jerked his head to the right while looking across the room again. Footsteps padded nearer, Junior’s face came into focus.
Jack finally managed to move something,
his arms. He held them out, embracing his son. But he still couldn’t find his voice. He just lay, hugging his son, and cried again. It was a long time since he’d wept, but now he couldn’t stop.
Smithy spoke again. “We’re in no great rush, but we should think about moving out when you’re feeling better. There are some supplies here, and we can make do for now.” He paused, looking at the back of Junior’s head. He went on, trying to be tactful. “I don’t want to hang around here too long though. We have no idea how big the opposition are, or were. And we have no idea how pissed at us they might be.”
Smithy stopped again, looking at Jack. Jack nodded, he understood. “Your wound isn’t so bad,” Smithy continued. “I’ve strapped it up as best I can. But we need to get you back. We need to let our doctors take a look at you, and they need to remove that slug you took.” Smithy paused, took a breath, then grew more serious. “So, I propose we begin by trying to feed you. Then we get you up and about, feed you again, then make a move. That way, at least we make sure you aren’t lacking fuel.”
Jack found his voice. “Okay, that sounds good to me.” He licked his cracked lips and carried on. “Sooner the better. Do they have any medication here?” The words seemed to drain him. Smithy shook his head before answering.
“Nope. I have some painkillers with me, but they have nothing here. Otherwise, you’d have been pumped full of everything I could lay my hands on.”
“It’s going to be hard going. I can hardly move.” Smithy was nodding before Jack had finished speaking.
“I know, but that’s mainly because we haven’t had the chance to feed you yet. You’ve been unconscious for six hours. I thought it more important you got rest, rather than try to wake you for food.” Smithy stood up and walked away from the makeshift bed. Millie came across.
“Hey, bro.” She nodded and smiled a tight smile. “Feel any better?”
Jack raised his eyebrows, amusement on his face. “Better than what?” he asked.
Millie shrugged and smiled again. “Yeah, dumb question, huh? Well, you’re gonna have to feel a lot better a whole lot sooner. We need to be out of here sharpish. I believe my boyfriend is preparing you a gourmet meal as we speak.”
Smithy appeared holding an enamel plate, with a very square piece of food on it. Smithy looked a little sheepish.
“Et, voila,” he said, one arm behind his back, waiter style.
“Jesus, what the hell is that?” Jack asked, suspicion etched onto his features.
“Corned beef à la Smithy. You not hungry?” Smithy moved as if to turn away.
“Whoa there, tiger,” Jack said quickly. “I never said that.” The food was gone in under three minutes. It was possibly the most delicious thing Jack had ever eaten. He even ran his finger across the plate, collecting the shards of shredded beef that hadn’t made it to his mouth.
They sat and talked for a further ten minutes or so, then Jack felt his eyelids drooping. Seconds later, he slumped back onto his cot, unconscious. Jack slept for another two hours, then woke feeling stronger and rested. It became clear the bullet had indeed missed his lungs. If not, he’d have been dead by now; it was that simple.
The others were talking again, heads huddled close together. Junior sat with the other children they had earlier rescued from the cages. For a moment, Jack just sat and watched. Millie and Smithy looked comfortable, and happy, despite everything that had happened. And the children. It’s amazing how quickly they recover, Jack thought. They weren’t fully recovered, obviously. But they were talking quite happily among themselves. Jack managed to shrug himself into a sitting position. He really did feel better. He cleared his throat and spoke above the muted chatter of voices.
“I’m ready for my next course now,” he said. He wore an angelic smile and his face was open and a little dumb.
Millie smiled at him, and replied. “Yeah, we’re just adding the finishing touches now.” She turned back to the bench they had been leaning over, then walked over to him holding another plate and a bowl. On the plate was half a can of beans and some more corned beef. It made Jack think of the old Wilbur Smith novels his granddad had given him to read as a boy. In those books, corned beef had been referred to as ‘bully beef’.
He licked his lips once more; it was a feast. He demolished the cold but delicious beef and beans, then gulped down the soft canned pears they had brought him in the bowl, and drank the sweet thick syrup. His body sated on sugar and carbohydrates, felt stronger now his stomach was full. Though not feeling like a world beater, he at least thought he could move about a little, maybe even enough for the return journey.
Testing his new found strength, he sat up and swung his legs round to the side of the cot. As he did, he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. His body swayed as though he would fall. But he didn’t. He closed his eyes against it and gritted his teeth.
Millie turned to watch him as he opened his eyes. “I’m not sure you should be doing that right now.”
“I know,” he said. “But, as the man said, we can’t hang around here forever.” He grimaced again. “Besides,” he paused as a fresh wave of pain pulsed through him, “I don’t want to be dead wood.”
Over the next two hours, Jack made circuits of the den, slowly extending the time he took until he could do it without feeling too faint. Millie hovered over him on one side, and Jack Junior provided a crutch for him on the other. Together, they made progress enough to consider making their move back to HQ. But there was also a little hesitance. They didn’t talk about it, but it was clear that each of them was harbouring their own wounds from the past thirty-six hours.
Tucked away in the relative peace and safety in the womb of the earth, each of them nursed their psychological and physical injuries. They had space, and places to explore. The children grouped together, naturally and without any hang-ups. The three adults sat and talked. And planned. Smithy had discovered considerable stashes of weapons, foodstuffs, tools and other useful items. They wouldn’t be able to take anything with them, however. It would be difficult enough to transport the four kids and Jack, without burdening themselves with more baggage. They would go as they had come. As light as possible.
“We could take two of the kids, me and Millie, then come back for the other two and you?” Smithy suggested, already guessing at Jack’s answer judging by the frown on his face.
Jack shook his head, his lips pushed together, puckered as he did so. “No. It’s too much. Too much risk, too much time, too much everything.”
“It’s nice to see you’ve recovered,” Smithy said, a little caustic in his response. “But you’re not in charge of everything. We get to make decisions too.”
“Not on this one,” Jack said. “I’m not having any unnecessary risks taken on my account. We go together, and I pull my own weight.” Jack closed his eyes against the waves of pain. He supposed it would like this until the bullet was removed. The longer it took, the more his life hung in the balance.
“We could come back with more of our guys,” Millie said, throwing her hat into the ring. “We could do it properly.”
Jack looked at her, his expression unreadable. His eyes, fixed on Millie, seemed also to be looking far into the distance. Finally, he closed his eyes and shook his head gently.
“No. It’s a good idea, but no. Once again, it risks more people’s lives. But, more than that, I’m not sure I can wait that long for an operation. While I feel okay now, I have pain. And I can’t imagine it will actually get better with time.” As if to underline his point, he winced as another wave broke over him. “My time is short. We have a window of opportunity here, and we need to take it.” He paused again, then closed his eyes as the last of the pain and nausea diminished. “I say we leave tomorrow morning.” Jack said this with such finality that the other two remained quiet.
“Fine, tomorrow it is then,” Smithy said, jumping to his feet. His expression was bright and breezy, but Jack could sense an undertow. He laid a hand on his friend’s a
rm before he moved off.
“You know I’m right, Smithy. It’s now or never for me.” He held onto the arm, as he stared into Smithy’s eyes. There was hurt there, but also acknowledgement. Smithy nodded once, then strode off to the other side of the room.
They ate together later that night. It had the feel of a last supper. Their last moments of isolation and peace. The last time they would be together in a group so small, for a while at least. At six the next morning, the troop of seven set off from the Hill. It was dark for the first two hours or so of the journey. Smithy had calculated that they needed to head north west to get back to their community. For the first hour they were able to travel underground along the tunnels, but after that they had to surface.
There were no Combers about, and they didn’t encounter any other groups of humans. After five hours at an even pace, they began to recognize landmarks. Millie split off at the five hour mark to collect the survivors, including Darren and his daughters, from the Coffey commune. Jack’s objections to this were overruled. They were close to home, she argued, and the risk was low. Smithy agreed. He would stay with Jack and the children so they could get back to the commune quicker.
The journey had taken its toll on Jack. Painkillers had helped, but for the last two hours things had slowly degenerated. Jack thought he could feel the misshapen bullet inside him, as though it were trying to burrow still deeper into his flesh. He saw it as a malignant entity with an insatiable appetite. Even though they fed him small amounts every hour, to prevent him collapsing from lack of energy, nausea was his constant companion.
Something was wrong. The good news, if you could look at it that way, was that he had fallen into a kind of stupor, thinking about his wound and his constant companion, the bullet.
When the attack came, they had only an hour to go. Eight of Coffey’s twisted army came tearing up behind the small band of adults and children, and they came with the charged energy of revenge. But their desire to see all of their enemy dead made them heedless of risk. They came on, without pause, until Smithy opened fire on them.