“Fucking command,” Michelin mutters.
“What instructions?”
“They came with beaucoup spent matter charges. In their backpacks. Somebody back home wants this place blown to gravel, that’s what I gathered, that’s what Gamecock—I mean, Lieutenant Colonel Roost—figured when Coyle and the sisters took us over, us and the Voors. Poor Muskie bastards didn’t stand a chance.”
“Coyle killed them all?”
“De Guzman tried. Too tight for that. Some got away, don’t know how many.”
“What about Teal? The ranch wife?”
Neemie shakes his head. “Michelin and I got away, and I think maybe Gamecock. But you know what’s really scary? There’s something else down here! Like bundles of thick straw, only moving and fast.”
“We’ve seen them,” Brom says. “Kobolds.”
“They filled the tunnel and flooded in on Coyle and her team just as they were zeroing the Voors—executing them, man! Coyle was a fucking fiend—”
“Had her orders, she said,” Michelin adds. “Weird fucking face on her.”
“—and de Guzman with that fucking lawnmower…” Neemie swallows but it won’t go down and he strokes his throat as if to help it. I’m amazed he can still talk. “But then we were backed into a big space and it filled with those straw bundles, straw creatures, coming in from all sides, and I swear, I swear this is true—”
“It is true,” Michelin says, looking up.
“Coyle’s team pulled us out of there, laid down more lawnmower, pulled us into another tunnel where there were these crystals, big, clear crystals. And when they started laying charges, pulling them out of their packs like Girl Scout cookies—the crystals turned black! The walls turned to, like, black glass and got spiky, and the spikes snagged Magsaysay and then Ceniza, ripped her suit—and, man…”
“Help me up,” Michelin says.
“They both turned all black, shiny,” Neemie says. “Like statues.”
DJ throws me a look as we help lift Michelin back to his feet.
“Medusa,” I say and instantly regret it. Ackerly and Brom are ready to book to the top and run straight out onto the Red. It’s just a matter of seconds before everything closes in on all of us.
“We didn’t see the finish,” Neemie continues, “but they were pinned on the spikes and their legs and skintights and everything—”
“Solid, shiny, filled with fireflies,” Michelin says. “Some fucking defense!”
“Whose defense?” Brom asks. “Who’s defending who?”
Time to get back to essentials.
“Where are they now?” I ask.
“Coyle was going deep before everything mixed,” Neemie says. “Down to a place the old Voor called the Church. They strung him up and he tried not to tell them, but Rafe…”
Michelin’s eyes go horse-wild again. He throws out one arm, bangs the walls, as if he’d break that one, too.
“Hold him, Brom,” I say.
“He’s hurt, man,” Brom says. “We have to get him to the top and out of here.” Brom’s eyes beseech.
“Don’t forget what’s waiting outside,” Ackerly says, voice cool. “Are they still holding good Skyrines?”
“I don’t know who’s good or bad,” Neemie says. “We got away in the freak. Kazak and Vee-Def were helping Gamecock. Coyle beat the colonel down bad when he questioned Kwak’s orders. And then Kwak dies—he just expires. Still spouting crap about old moons and dust and shit, and that snaps everybody. Believe it. Nobody goes home.”
“Who’s in charge?” Michelin asks. “I’ll follow orders if I just know who’s wacko and who’s not.”
“DJ,” I say, and he perks up instantly, “guide us back to Sanka. Now.”
“Right,” he says, and turns to the others. “Southern gate, fellows. On me. We’re packing up to go home.”
I don’t contradict him. It’s a good story. Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t.
DJ leads us with firmer conviction and a lot more motivation. He’s still intent on running his gloved fingertips along the grooves, as if he’s reading the walls. There’s green dust again—these tunnels are older, the grooves more worn, and somehow that’s reassuring. We follow them back along a scuffed trail of many footprints.
DJ looks back at me and whispers, “This dust, it’s fucking strong tea. I’m seeing shit. What about you?”
I don’t want to hazard an opinion. We’re stretched way too thin. I’d rather die on the Red than face rogue Skyrines or black spikes. For the moment, thinking things through is more than I’m good for—but even so, there’s a peculiar newness in my head.
Something fresh and unexpected.
And then—scaring the hell out of me—
Takahashi Fujimori.
His face rises like a dull orange ghost in our beams. Behind him are Brodsky and Beringer. Believe me, Skyrines can shriek like little girls.
Then we get real quiet. That kind of shock is not good. We could have killed each other. Jangles subside and we catch our breath.
“Where you guys been?” Tak asks.
“We’re retreating in good order to the southern gate,” Ackerly says, strolling past. “Permission to abandon this shithole, Master Sergeant.”
“Follow us. Sanka’s up ahead.” Tak asks me, “Any sign of Captain Coyle and her squad?”
“Could be way down deep,” I say. “They’re going to demo this place. Blow it the fuck up. We don’t know anything about anything, Tak.”
“Yeah. We were sent to find you. We make one last attempt to locate Captain Coyle and her team, see what the fuck they’re up to—issue a final notice that we’re all gathering at the southern gate, organize vehicles and weapons,” he shoves out his hands, “and push through the Antag line. There’s a dust storm outside, a real good one.”
“Saw it from a watchtower,” Beringer says. “Great screen. Might give us cover.”
“Outstanding,” Neemie says, fingering the rips on his skintight. “Blind and out on the Red in our pajamas.”
“We’re hoping the bright boys in orbit have decided to regroup and open up a distraction,” Tak says.
“Hoping?” Brom asks.
“In here, it’s fucking bughouse,” Beringer says.
“You’re telling us?” Michelin asks.
Ten minutes later, we’ve come to the roundabout just before the southern garage, where Joe is squatting beside a Voor—de Groot’s son, Rafe. Rafe is in decent shape considering but minus his skintight, face bruised, sullen.
Joe, with a sour look but no words, takes us all back to the southern gate. There de Groot and two of the Voors are lifting Gamecock on a stretcher, up into the cabin of the Chesty.
“He’s not going to make it,” Joe says, out of our CO’s earshot. “They have some story to tell. You?”
I try to pass along what I might or might not know. As I finish Kazak comes around from the vehicle’s lock hatch.
Tak and Kazak and I slap backs, but it’s a brief moment. Kazak is in surprisingly good shape after what he’s been through.
Rafe stands beside his father after they finish loading our CO. Both regard us with weary disgust. De Groot looks to have been chewed all over by rats and his face is swollen almost beyond recognition, but he’s still upright, proud, defiant.
Joe sums it up. “Coyle and her squad are working from a different set of orders. The Voors are coming with us.”
“Who’s been lying the hardest?” I ask.
Joe ignores the question. “Any sign of the rest of our team?”
“None we’ve seen.”
“The ranch wife?” Joe asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“She’s gone over to the Drifter,” Rafe says, but before he can explain what that means the floor shakes under us. The walls shiver and dust sifts from the ceiling.