Sudden bright light blinded the three crewmen. “Lower your weapons,” said a calm voice not ten feet away.
Farley and Broben traded a glance when Boney beckoned them from the opened hatchway. “Maybe we got here first?” Broben ventured.
“That’ll be the day,” Farley muttered. “Come on.”
They got up from behind the plastic storage bin and ran to where Boney covered the hatchway. Farley stopped halfway in.
Five stiff figures lay on the floor, spotlit by small but powerful flashlights held by Shorty, Garrett, and Everett. The five Dome troops had already been stripped of their smartsuits and weapons.
“How the hell did you manage this?” Farley asked.
Shorty grinned. “Wasn’t us, cap,” he said. And raised his flashlight beam to show three more black-clad figures armed and standing farther down the narrow rampway.
Farley reached for a gun that wasn’t there in a holster he wasn’t wearing as one of the figures stepped into the light.
“I’ll save you, Captain Fearless,” said Wennda.
TWENTY-FOUR
“You have to let me go sometime,” Wennda told him, acutely aware of the others watching the two of them.
Farley stepped back but kept his hands on her shoulders. “Says who?” he said.
She smiled, and right then Farley knew that he was in for the whole ride.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
She jerked her head at Arshall and Sten, who were shaking hands with a grinning Garrett and Everett. “They were already hiding in my room when my father confined me to quarters,” she said. “We came straight here. Well, we made one stop.”
She turned from Farley’s hands on her shoulders and bent to drag forward a duffel bag Farley recognized as the one Shorty had brought from the bomber. It clanked when she moved it.
Farley looked at her questioningly and she gestured for him to open it. He unzipped it and whistled. “You are just the whole shebang, aren’t you?”
“If you say I am.”
“I do.” Farley’s handclaps reverberated flatly in the narrow rampway. “Merry Christmas, boys,” he called, and began pulling out service .45s, holsters, cigarette packs, several yards of .30-caliber belt ammo rounds, and the Browning M1919.
Garrett picked up the machine gun. “Hiya, dreamboat!” he crooned. “Did you miss daddy?”
Broben grabbed a pistol and glanced meaningfully at the doorway, which they had closed after everyone entered the rampway. Farley nodded at him. “All right,” he called. “Let’s line it up and move it out. Plavitz on point. Martin—”
“Captain?”
Farley turned. Samay and Berne stood before him. Berne looked at the ground and fidgeted. Samay looked eager, a racehorse at the gate.
“You’re not coming,” Farley said.
Samay shook her head. Her eyes were very bright. “We have to stay and finish this,” she said.
“We didn’t mean to start a revolt,” Farley told her. “We only want to go home.”
“You were just the catalyst,” said Samay. “Many people have been unhappy with our present situation for years. The commander’s become—” she glanced at Wennda “—let’s say too unilateral.” She shrugged.
“You don’t have to be diplomatic on my account,” said Wennda. “He’s the reason I’m leaving.” She looked at Farley. “One of the reasons,” she amended.
Samay looked surprised. “You’re not coming back?”
“Sten and Arshall will. But no, I’m not coming back.”
Samay accepted this with a nod. “Well. I know better than to try talking you out of it. But we certainly could use you.”
“Should I stay and help strategize his downfall?” She shook her head. “He’s still my father. It’s better this way.”
“I understand.” Samay shrugged. “We’ll still miss you.”
Wennda frowned. “He’ll keep communications offline,” she realized. “Except for his people. He’s probably already got a subroutine ready to go.”
Berne smiled wickedly. “Jorn cloned the key servers onto salvaged units a few years ago,” he said. “He’ll bring them online for us if the mains go down.”
Wennda smiled but her eyes glistened. “Uncle Jorn,” she said. “Tell him goodbye for me and I’m sorry I had to go.”
“I think he’d be the first to say you should.” Samay turned to Farley. “We’ll jam the airlock,” she told him, “but we can’t stay here and hold them off.”
“You’ve already done plenty.” Farley held out a hand. “Good luck.”
Samay looked at the offered hand. “Strange,” she said. “We’ll never know what happened to each other.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” said Farley.
She clasped his hand. “Good luck,” she said.
“Sammy,” said Broben. “You can’t do this to me.”
“Oh, lieutenant.” Samay gave him a sympathetic smile. “You can go back and be an agent for change without me.”
“Sure I can,” said Broben. “But it won’t be near as much fun.” He beckoned her to him and held out his arms. She slid her rifle aside on its strap and stepped into his awkward hug. He patted her back and then let her go. “Keep your fuses tight, all right?”
“And you remember to sign your work.”
He chuckled. “You got it, kid.”
Farley looked at Wennda. “You ready?” he asked.
She snorted. “No. But that’s never stopped me.”
The canyon floor was at least a mile wide, but the fissure seemed narrow because the cliffs were so ungodly high. Indigo sky and blazing sun, cliff shadow stark along the flat and barren wasteland of the valley floor. Not one rabbit, not one bug. A heritage of weeds.
The party had been quiet since they’d stepped from the concealed accessway and into honest daylight, squinting as they went from the dark passage to the scree-filled slope that led down to the canyon floor. For the last hour the only sound had been their rhythmic bootfalls on the hardbaked ground.
Plavitz had point and Martin had tail-end charlie. Just ahead, Garrett slowed down to let Everett come up beside him and hand off the heavy Browning. Arshall and Sten ran near them. The four big men again were taking turns lugging the Browning and the ammo belt.
Broben stared at the ground and devoted every ounce of energy to putting one foot in front of the other. Shorty hooked his thumbs beneath the straps of his duffel. Yone trotted along near Martin, apparently having little trouble keeping up with the doubletime pace.
Farley’s hastily assembled bundle of fatigues, A-2 jacket, and minimal gear bumped in time with his jog as he and his crew made their way single file in the cliff shadow along the ragged fissure edge. He barely even noticed the body armor he wore. The stuff was some kind of mesh weave, matte black and a quarter-inch thick, lighter than cotton and feeling as if it contained liquid. He would never have believed it could stop a bullet if he hadn’t already seen it stop several of his.
Beside him—unexpectedly, unbelievably—ran Wennda.
Farley called a break just before the fissure opened out onto the broad expanse of crater.
Garrett set the Browning on the ground and flopped down beside it, chest heaving. Boney sat down, took off his boots and socks, and examined his feet. Broben practically fell down, then dragged himself up to sitting with his back against a rock. Francis had not wanted a smoke since his release from the infirmary, so he handed out his remaining cigarettes.
“No smoking in the crater, boys,” Broben wheezed.
Farley was winded, too, but he knew better than to let it show. He remained standing and made himself take deep breaths. The sun was nearing the western cliff edge and soon the fissure floor would lie in twilight shadow. A thousand feet to the north the black canyon walls abruptly ended, framing the bright rectangular entrance to the crater bowl.