All research on the vaccine, immune boosters, and gene drive had ceased. Zack hadn’t visited the bird lab in three weeks; all his time was spent in Lab Dome’s main facilities, researching the virophage. Presumably lab techs were still caring for the sparrows in the underground annex, but he no longer cared. All that mattered was finding a way to help Susan and Caity.
More and more of Lab Dome had become a hospital. Lieutenant Amy Parker, head nurse, had recruited Settlers to carry out the basic care of those in a coma, so that she and the trained nurses could keep the IVs delivering nutrients, monitor the v-comas, and nurse those still recovering from the destruction of the Settlement. All facilities and resources were strained almost as far as they could go. Meals had become mostly soup, and soup had become mostly fresh meat, dried vegetables, and seaweed. Last night Zack had dreamed of fresh raspberries with crème fraîche.
Blatt… blatt… blatt blatt blatt…
The experiments he was running told him nothing. For one thing, analyses of consecutive spinal taps from the same patient kept turning up new proteins. Zack could discover what the proteins were made of, he could discover how they reacted in solution with other substances, but he didn’t know what they were doing in a human brain. He didn’t know what inactive genes were being prompted to become active, other than the allele that had begun the metabolic cascades. He didn’t know how to wake up the v-coma victims, or what would happen when he did. He didn’t know anything.
“Dr. McKay,” a lab tech said.
He didn’t even look up to see which lab tech it was. “Ignore the sirens. The missiles can’t affect the domes.”
“It’s different this time.”
Then Zack did look up. “Who are you?”
“Ben Corrigan. Dr. Steffens assigned me to you. I’ve been assisting you for two days now.”
The man was clearly a Settler, sunburned and muscled and dressed in homespun. Yet he had prepared slides deftly and… yes, the notes on Zack’s tablet were clear and complete.
Corrigan said, “I was a high-school biology teacher. Before the Collapse.”
“And you joined Colin Jenner’s Settlement?”
“Yes.” Corrigan’s expression said he didn’t want to talk about it.
Blatt… blatt… blatt blatt blatt…
Corrigan winced. Zack said, “You’re a superhearer.” Victim of a different microbe, R. sporii. Corrigan’s brain had been rewired in the womb. Virus and virophage, enemies, had coevolved to make use of different parts of the same organ in their hosts, presumably in competition but with different effects.
“Yes, I’m a superhearer,” Corrigan said. “And whatever is going on out there, this attack is different.”
“Different how? What do you hear?”
“Ground and air—you know that already. There are large disturbances out there, and more coming.”
“The domes are impregnable to anything short of nuclear energy.”
Corrigan said nothing.
He had waited too long to act.
Jason watched helplessly from the command post as New America assaulted the base with weapons that he had not known still existed. The three F-35s emerged from the clouds and swept low overhead, dropping bombs. These exploded spectacularly against the dome’s energy shield, producing noise and fury but so far no damage except to the already charred forest beyond the perimeter. Although—what would happen if one of the jets flew a kamikaze mission directly into a dome? As far as Jason knew, that had never been tried.
The F-35s flew off, but they were not the main offensive.
Eight Strykers lumbered over the horizon, armored moving buildings. Each could hold eleven soldiers. The Strykers’ slat armor could withstand RPGs, and their ordnance, including the biggest guns ever fitted to this type of vehicle, could take out anything from a soft target to concrete bunkers. Jason had not known so many Strykers were left; there had been none at Sierra Depot. These had come overland from somewhere distant, plowing slowly through saplings and over rubble, skirting the ruins of cities. Where had the fuel come from? And did HQ know?
Jason couldn’t contact HQ, or anything else. The Strykers took positions facing all six airlocks and began firing. Any soldier who stepped outside to communicate with the signal station would be instantly reduced to a bloody pulp. After they had done trying out the Strykers’ ineffectual 105mms, the Strykers would simply wait in position, with New America’s troops bivouacking behind. Eventually Monterey Base, already low on food, would either starve or surrender. It was a siege, as if this were the thirteenth century and Monterey Base some medieval castle. But unlike thirteenth-century fortifications, the base had neither arrow slits and parapets from which to fire, nor rats to eat when the siege got too bad.
So it all came down to the tunnels from the annexes. New America would know the tunnels existed; all domes had one underground or underwater airlock. It was built into the incomprehensible alien design. But did they know where the base’s tunnels terminated? If so, a force would be waiting there. If not, they would have troops and snipers covering as much of the surrounding area as possible, waiting for someone to do what Jason had waited too long to do: get a message to the signal station to deploy the Return.
Assuming the signal station had not already been taken out.
Then, an added insult, a Bradley lumbered from the woods. A Monterey Base Bradley, the one that Jason and J Squad had abandoned to board the Return for the trip to Fort Hood.
Hillson came up behind him. “Sir.”
Jason didn’t answer. If he had carried out his plan before now, this might not have happened. If he hadn’t waited to attack Sierra Depot because he didn’t want to reveal to HQ that the Return was capable of more than he’d told Strople… if he hadn’t waited to see how many of his troops would be stricken with v-coma… if he hadn’t waited for definite orders…
“Sir…”
Jason turned from the ineffectual bombarding of his alien castle. “Do we have any intel about the signal station?”
“No, sir.”
“About the tunnels?”
“Captain Goldman listened at the exit. He didn’t hear anything, but that doesn’t mean squat. They’d wait quietly.”
“Send one of the superhearers with Goldman.”
“We don’t—”
“The Settlers have three of them, plus one kid.” Sergeant Tasselman had registered all the Settlers, with as much information as he could pry out of them.
Hillson didn’t convey his surprise, but a pleased look crept into his eyes. “Yes, sir. Permission to accompany the superhearer.”
“Permission granted.” Jason turned back to the clear dome. “Hillson, you ever fight in a Stryker?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Me, too.” Jason could almost feel the inside: hot metal, the stink of too many bodies in too tight a place, of urine and bad breath and ammo, the Congo jungle vivid on the view screen. But remembering the inside of a Stryker was better than remembering what the outside had done to an enemy village.
To Hillson he said, “The three adult superhearers are Sarah Waters, Colin Jenner, and Benjamin Corrigan. Take Corrigan.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bombing had stopped now. The Strykers sat motionless, waiting. Jason sent for and briefed Elizabeth Duncan. “Sir,” she said, “there’s no need to go yourself.”
“I’m going. Take command.”
“Sir—”
“That’s all, Major.”
Her expression didn’t waver. If she disapproved—and of course she did—it didn’t show. Once again, Jason marveled at her self-control. It was an admirable military trait, but it also made him uneasy. She would back him up on this counterattack, but how far would she back him up on a direct defiance of HQ? He wasn’t sure, which is why he hadn’t as yet told her his entire plan.