Farley nudged Wennda and jutted his chin at the commander. “What’s he so cheerful about?” he asked.
Wennda leaned forward and looked at her father. She stopped clapping. “Something’s wrong,” she said.
Vanden spoke briefly to Grobe and inclined his head at Farley. Grobe nodded curtly and hurried away.
Farley’s pulse kicked up a notch.
A chime sounded and Wennda snapped out her cellophone and held it to her ear. “Sten,” she said. “What’s going on?” She frowned at Farley. “They what? How many? Just now? When did they leave?”
Farley studied Vanden and tried to stay calm as Wennda spoke. The commander stared back.
Wennda crumpled her cellophone and took a deep breath. “My father sent out a team to destroy your aircraft four days ago,” she said, staring pure hate at the commander. “Two of them just got back. One’s badly injured. The other’s reporting in.”
“Four days ago,” Farley repeated numbly.
“Right after your first meeting with him.”
The commander regarded him across the crowd. A rock in the rapids.
Farley nodded slowly. “Do I still have an aircraft?”
“Sten says they didn’t even make it into the Redoubt.”
Farley looked at his crew divided among the teams on the new-cut field. “We left our weapons back at the barracks,” he said.
Wennda touched his arm. “I’m with you, Joe. What do you want to do?”
“Anything but sit here a second longer.” He stood up and stepped out from the row of cheering people. Immediately a dozen people got up from different places in the crowd and began to converge on him. It looked like a magic trick.
The commander spoke into a com panel and the converging people produced nerve guns.
Farley broke into a run. “Back to barracks!” he yelled to the diamond. “Morgana crew, back to barracks, now!”
The players stood watching uncertainly. Farley waved them forward. “Get to your weapons!” he yelled. Knowing it was already too late.
Wennda ran behind him, talking urgently on her com panel. Behind her half a dozen troops ran full-out.
Something crackled past Farley and he smelled sharp metallic ozone. Heard the whine of the fired gun. Turned his head and saw Wennda on the ground. Felt an odd cold tingle spread across his back. Tried to move his legs and couldn’t. Watched the ground rush up to meet him. Heard his head hit hard. Saw the sun and all the other light go out. Smelled fresh-cut grass. Felt all feeling drain away.
TWENTY-THREE
The pain woke Farley up. A nail driven into the back of his head. Jaw muscles sore from clenching and scalp too tight for his skull. His teeth ached and invisible bugs crawled on his skin.
He opened his eyes and light stabbed in. He turned his head away and heard his neck creak. Shorty lay face-up a few feet away, eyes closed and teeth clenched and lips drawn back from gums. His hands were raised, fingers curled into claws.
“He only looks dead,” came Broben’s voice. “When he wakes up he’ll wish he really was.”
Farley turned his head the other way. Broben sat against the wall, grinning at him like a guilty dog.
“Am I right?” Broben asked.
“You don’t have to yell,” Farley rasped.
The grin widened. “I’m whispering.”
“Well, stop it.” He tried to sit up and couldn’t quite manage it. Broben came forward and offered a hand. Farley reached to take it and saw his own hand clawed like Shorty’s.
“It wears off in ten or fifteen minutes,” Broben said.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes.” He grabbed Farley’s forearm and helped him sit up.
Farley glanced around. They were back in their barracks, all the pullouts tucked away and the room bare except for the contorted bodies of the crewmen on the floor. “Jesus,” Farley whispered. “I don’t suppose they left our guns around anywhere.”
Broben shook his head. “Not even a slingshot.”
Farley stared at his clutching hand and willed it to relax. Stood up and leaned against the wall. “Slingshot or not,” he said, “we’re getting out of here. Help me wake them up.”
The crew hunched forward on unfolded couches or slumped at the edges of opened sleeping compartments. To a man they winced when they moved or when Farley’s voice got too loud. They looked like the dregs of some bachelor party that had overstayed its welcome, listening sullen and quiet like schoolboys on detention as their captain explained that the last four days here had been a sham, a distraction to occupy them while a six-member demolition team set out to destroy their only chance of getting home.
There was silence after Farley finished. Then Garrett said, “I say we bust down that shitty door and make a break for it, captain.”
“That’s one option,” Farley allowed.
“It beats sitting here waiting for a firing squad,” said Everett. “Or whatever it is they do.”
“They chuck you in the reverter,” said Shorty. “Boil you down to your parts and shovel you over the crops.”
Everett shrugged. “They can’t shoot all of us.”
“They shot all of us an hour ago,” Broben pointed out.
“I’ll still take my chances.”
Broben raised his eyebrows. “I bet those fry cookers won’t be on low next time.”
“I bet I don’t give a pointy turd.”
The door opened and they all looked as Grobe stepped in. He and his nerve gun surveyed the room.
“Dibs,” said Everett, and stood up from his couch.
Grobe smirked and leveled his weapon and stepped aside to let Berne in. The software technician had a mesh bag in one hand and a lidded bucket in the other. He was breathing quickly and sweating. His gaze darted around the room. “Food bars,” he said, jerking the mesh bag. He lifted the bucket. “Toilet.”
“Why don’t you just throw the food bars in the toilet and cut us out of the picture,” said Plavitz.
Berne frowned at him. “I just want to help,” he said.
“You wanna help?” said Garrett. He jabbed a thumb at Grobe. “Shoot this asshole.”
Berne scowled. “You’ll note I have no weapon,” he said. He looked at Shorty. “There’s an issue with the sun panel,” he said. He set down the bucket and pulled out his cellophone and shook it taut.
Grobe frowned. “I wasn’t told about this.”
“Engineering sent it to me on my way here.” Berne lit the panel and showed the screen to Grobe. “It’s here, in the shutdown sequence.” He turned to Shorty and held it up. “I was hoping you could—”
“Put the com panel away,” Grobe said.
Berne wiped sweat from his upper lip. “But this man was instrumental in—”
Grobe trained his weapon on the nervous man. “Now,” he ordered.
“I was only trying to save some work,” said Berne. He looked up at Shorty. “Perhaps I should just press enter and hope for the best?” he said.
Shorty nodded back solemnly. “Say goodnight, Gracie,” he said.
Berne twitched another smile and tapped the filmy screen, and the room went dark.
Shorty dropped from the upper bunk and landed on Garrett, who was already up from the couch and barreling into Grobe. The three men toppled over grappling. Grobe hit the floor hard with Garrett bear-hugging him. Shorty twisted the nerve rifle out of the stunned man’s grip.
From outside the door came the sound of more nerve rifles charging up after being fired. The door flew open and bright flashlights swept the room. Shorty brought his commandeered weapon to bear.
“Don’t shoot,” said a familiar voice behind one of the lights.