“I don’t understand,” said Farley. “We spent a full day in it just fine.”
“We are at the bottom of a crater that is nearly three kilometers below the surface. Only here are the air pressure and temperature high enough to support life. That is why the shelters were built here.”
“The Redoubt and the Dome,” Farley realized.
Yone nodded. “There may have been others elsewhere, but only the two here could have lasted so long. And to this day they watch each other with great suspicion and dread across the heart of the thing that destroyed them.”
“Jesus,” said Broben. “Aren’t you the lucky ones.”
Yone looked at him. “People could not have survived in such conditions for centuries without being very clever and very strict, as well as being lucky,” he said, not recognizing Broben’s irony. “Resources are limited. There is no room for waste. Repurpose, reuse, repair. Every child is taught this so completely it is more like a law of nature than a set of rules. Life is highly regulated, and everyone must be useful.” He shrugged. “It has to be that way.”
“Two hundred years in a bottle,” Farley mused.
“In a bottle meant to last a tenth that long at most. But yes.” Yone considered them a moment. “Perhaps you can understand how shocking it is to see new faces,” he said. “To interact with a new person, when everyone is someone you have known since you were born. I am always reminded that I am not from here. I earn the calories I consume, but I will never truly earn the trust of my hosts. A new person will always be a stranger.”
“And then nine of us show up,” said Broben.
“Nine of you show up,” Yone agreed, “in an aircraft that can defeat the Typhon. And our enemies have it.”
The crew had got hold of a gray ball the size of a softball and were throwing it around in the barracks courtyard. Without gloves there was no point in rifling it to each other, so they were throwing pop flies and bouncers.
Garrett snagged the ball and was about to throw it again when he caught sight of Farley watching from the doorway. “Hey, look who’s up!” he yelled, and threw a long high fly his way.
Farley caught it. “Guy needs his beauty sleep,” he said, and threw it back.
“Gosh,” Shorty said in Jack Benny’s voice, “I’m sorry you had to cut it so short.”
Plavitz came around a corner, talking with the smartass joker they’d met here yesterday. Lang, Farley remembered. As Plavitz stepped into the courtyard he grinned at his crewmates and held up a stick like some conquering hero. The crew cheered, and Plavitz patted Lang’s shoulder. They immediately started organizing a game of stickball, recruiting from the male onlookers among the barracks residents.
Farley watched a moment longer, taking in the excited chatter, the perplexed expressions of the drafted players, the close horizon and faint geometry perceivable in the sky. The bizarre normalcy of the scene before him.
“Screwy, huh?” said Broben.
“You read my mind.”
“You want I should call a meeting?”
“No, let’s let them run a while before we put the leash back on.” Farley looked away from the incipient pickup game. “Where’s that potato peeler you used on your mug?” he asked. “I want to hit the head and make myself look at least as civilized as the rest of these monkeys.” He nodded at the crew.
Broben smiled knowingly and told him where he’d left the razor. “Have fun,” he said.
Farley thought it was an odd thing to say until he saw the facilities. Room for two, no sink, no towels. A brief jet of something that didn’t quite feel like water shot when you passed your hand through a gap in a vertical metal cylinder on one wall. The slanted toilet bowl held no water, and nothing stuck to the porcelain. Or whatever the hell it was. And it flushed itself when you were done.
Broben gave Farley a thumbs-up when he came back. “Say, mister,” he said, “you didn’t see an ugly, smelly guy dressed like you a second ago, did you?”
“Shit, shower, and shave,” said Farley. “Couldn’t figure out the shower part, though.”
“Nobody could. But there’s gotta be a garden hose around here somewhere.”
Farley leaned close to him and sniffed. “Fire hose,” he amended.
“Jeez, one shave and he’s a hygiene film—hey, here comes your dreamgirl. For your sake I hope her sense of smell ain’t so good.”
Wennda had entered the courtyard and was watching the crew trying to explain stickball to the men they’d drafted to play. Farley tried not to smirk at Martin showing Yone how to pitch. Wennda saw Farley across the courtyard and smiled and waved.
Broben put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Well, will you look at that,” he said. “Why is it always the pilots?”
“You don’t see Clark Gable and Jimmy Cagney playing tail gunners, do you?”
“Would it kill them to play a copilot sometimes?”
Wennda wore a jumpsuit and not the skintight and paneled combat outfit she’d worn earlier, but someone—it had to have been Garrett or Everett—wolf whistled as she walked across the courtyard. Either she didn’t hear it or she ignored it. Or possibly, Farley realized, she had no idea what it meant.
“Captain Farley,” she said. She nodded at Broben. “Lieutenant.”
“Broben,” said Broben.
“Yes.”
Broben smirked and Farley dug him in the ribs as Wennda pulled what looked like a wad of cellophane from a pocket. She snapped it like a washrag and it went stiff. She tapped it and it glowed to life. “I thought you’d want to talk with our doctor about your injured crewman,” she told Farley.
“Very much, yes,” said Farley, a bit perplexed.
Wennda touched the glowing panel a few more times. A red light flashed and a faint tone sounded. A moment later Wennda was holding a miniature and apparently solid bust of a fine-featured black woman in the palm of her hand.
The woman smiled. “Wennda,” she said. “Good morning.”
Wennda shifted her hand so that the miniature woman faced Farley. “Hi, Dr. Manday,” said Wennda. “This is Captain Farley. You’re treating one of his crew.”
“I certainly am,” said the lifelike image. “Hello, captain.”
Farley glanced uncertainly at Wennda. Her expression said What are you waiting for?
He leaned closer to the woman on Wennda’s hand. “Hello, doctor!” he said, feeling as if he were falling for some prank.
Wennda looked amused. “You don’t have to shout. And she can see you fine, too.” She made a little pushing motion and Farley stepped back, feeling his face go hot.
“Could you give us a status report?” Wennda asked the doctor.
“Of course.”
Farley felt a sudden dread. “I’d like—” he started to tell Wennda. He stopped and looked at Dr. Manday. “Doctor, I’d like for my men to hear this, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
Farley nodded at Broben, whose expression said You sure about this? Farley rolled a finger, and Broben gave a piercing taxi whistle. The crew quickly gathered around, making a terrific fuss about the lifelike image on the nearly invisible device in Wennda’s hand. The doctor blinked and smiled patiently.
“All right, simmer down,” Farley ordered. “This is Dr. Manday. She’s about to give us the news on Francis, so keep it quiet. Go ahead, doctor.”
Dr. Manday’s gaze shifted back to Farley. “All right,” she said.
“Holy moly,” said Shorty.