by D.C. Clemens
Chapter Twenty-Five
Adrift
I felt afraid to be relieved, fearing it would only be pulled away as soon as it established itself. The water was lapping up on shore without any sign of irregular movements, that is, until my eyes refocused farther out on the horizon. The silhouette of a form I had never seen before appeared, not seeing how it could have been any ordinary boat. It ballooned as it cruised toward us in haste. A dull roar also became perceptible. I then realized some measure of the roar came from a couple of huge fans at the back of the transport. The rest of the droning resulted from the engines sucking in the air, allowing the craft to glide over the water using a cushion of air. It was a hovercraft. I always knew they were large, but I was not prepared to see something capable of carrying a few tanks. The amphibious vessel propelled itself onto the beach and greeted us by lowering its ramp. A few vehicles also joined our evacuation, but I was in too much in a haze to notice anything else. Actually, being atop the craft did not help my spirits too much. It was obvious we had the space to fit a group twice as large, making it feel far to empty. For the first time, I felt the number of survivors diminishing.
With another Injector likely not far behind, the hovercraft glided off the beach as soon as the ramp elevated off the ground. Using my knowledge of lunar astronomy, I saw that we turned east. We clocked several more miles in that direction before sighting the stern of a large Navy ship in the distance. As we neared it, I saw that the ship had a large ingress, permitting the hovercraft and other similar vessels to dock within. Siena later informed me in her quiet way that it was known as a well deck. We entered the ship with no sign of the evil presence in pursuit, not that I still didn’t feel like it was there.
“Oh, this is the Arians,” said Siena when she caught the rustic name written above the entrance.
“What about it?” I asked, watching her eyes gazing intently at the words.
“Nothing,” she replied, shaking her head to release the trance she was in. “I just remember Helmtor was almost stationed here before someone changed their mind.”
Her voice was practically imperceptible. She walked away, leaving me to stare at our newest haven’s name until we passed under it. The hovercraft docked inside the ship behind another of its kind.
As we were disembarking the hovercraft, I overheard someone inquire, with a voice that would be hard to neglect, “Who’s the spirit warrior?”
I turned to find a tall naval officer addressing the now dwarfed major, who in turn pointed out Yitro in response to the shipmaster’s question. Yitro had regained most of his strength and looked to be his normal self again, with the added glow of having just escaped death’s corner.
“Not bad, son,” the officer respectfully said to Yitro. “You helped save a lot of lives.”
“Thanks, but I just followed his idea,” Yitro responded as he turned to regard me.
In a single long stride that covered the length of three ordinary-sized steps, the naval officer came up to me and scrutinized my drooping frame, which made me feel more than a little uncomfortable. I never thought myself as short. I knew I was above average in height, but I felt no better than a child with him towering a head over me. He would have made a good defender in shockball in his younger days, if not at that moment.
“Welcome aboard my ship,” he said in his domineering tone. “I’m Captain Fideon. You are?”
“Roym Rosyth,” I answered, my drained voice by no means rivaling his.
“Well, Mr. Rosyth, I’m glad to meet someone who can keep their head long enough to create any kind of plan, especially one that works.”
“We got lucky. There was only one.”
“I’m sure you and your group are famished,” he said abruptly, relaxing his tone as he skimmed the other members of my party. “I’d like to hear all about your ‘lucky’ plan in detail over a meal, if you don’t mind. Info on any defeat of theirs is always useful and hard to come by.”
“Sure, that sounds fine, uh, sir.”
“Good. My men will show you to some sleeping quarters to clean yourselves up. Not everyone in your group has to eat now, of course. If they would rather get some rest first, that would be completely understandable.”
It was Neves and Delphnia who were not ready to eat and talk with the rest of us. They let themselves retire to their chambers. Those who wished to eat were led into the mess hall, where the captain was already waiting for us at a table in the middle of a room that could fit four hundred people, and which currently held less than thirty. Various plates of fish and fruits were also prepared for our arrival, the biggest feast I had seen in a long while. The captain and another officer to his right let us eat for a few minutes in peace. The captain ate with us, but at a methodical pace, as his eyes were, more often than not, on me. About halfway through our meals, I could sense the captain was eager for us to start the description. Yitro and I were the ones who recounted our recent history. Seeing as I came up with the plan, I did most of the talking. The narrative went by uninterrupted, our hosts hanging on to our every word, looking as if they were hearing a fairytale. When the last word was spoken by Yitro, the captain remained silent for some moments, his eyes casted down at the brink of the table with his finger circling the rim of his half-filled glass of white wine. The silence persisted as he mulled over the new data. His eyes finally rose back up to us.
“They’re pretty arrogant, aren’t they?” he rhetorically asked, taking a long draught from his glass afterwards. “Of course, that saved your lives. In nearly every report I’ve read and heard, our armies have encountered multiple Injectors in most battles, that is to say, unless there is a larger force nearby. In these cases, the smaller force is usually flanked by a single Injector. In most circumstances, the smaller force tries to regroup with the larger one, which I believe to be a mistake. Your story has just abetted that theory. A relatively small force can indeed defeat an Injector without relying on an overwhelming effort. It seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it? Wanting to split apart our thinning forces?” He drank the last mouthful from his glass.
“We had air support, tanks, and a spirit warrior, sir,” I thought best to point out to him.
“That’s not a problem for most major armies, expect perhaps spirit warriors,” he retorted coolly. “Unless we’re attacking a Tower, the enemy largely ignores tanks and the people inside them. They know we can’t see them for accurate shots, and their needles can’t penetrate the armor. In fact, there’s no indication that they have any other type of projectiles in their arsenal. In the few times they do shoot to kill, they only seem to fire their needles at a greater velocity, not use a different type of weapon. Our enemy is clearly not a conventionally equipped or a conventionally thinking war machine, and that has led to our predicament. Far too many of our leaders react as if we are fighting an invading army, but I don’t see it that way.”
Siena was the first to respond to his enlightenment, for she was always the most comfortable in this type of setting. “I’ve never seen them as an invading force either. Technology as advanced as theirs should be able to more easily, um, for lack of a better phrase, wipe us out. I believe you’re right, captain. The Injectors are not war machines. As a scientist myself, I equate them more to elaborate syringes.”
“Ah!” the captain stated with an impressed grin. “Then you’ve taken it a step further than I have. I was going to say they reminded me of scientists going about a mad experiment, but your metaphor is more apt, Miss Tillar, seeing as they are probably mere instruments rather than the designers.”
Siena smiled politely in return, but more out of awkwardness than pride.
Meanwhile, the captain regarded everyone, as I imagined what I might do at the end of a lecture, but I was never that respected, and continued by saying, “So keeping all that in mind, I hope to refine my strategies and hopefully convince my superiors to try more unconventional tactics. In any event, I’m pleased my men have now seen tangible proof t
hat our enemy is not invulnerable.”
It seemed as if he was about to stand from his chair as a sign of our parting, but he was interrupted by Bervin asking, “But what about the Towers? I mean, aren’t they the origin of the whole thing?”
“A valid point,” said the captain, readjusting himself in his chair. “However, until we can adequately fight back the Injectors, and those they infect, they will have to remain a long-term goal. While obviously a problem, the more people scatter, the less effective they become.”
“I always wondered why the Towers choose to remain fixed in one spot for as long as they do,” I conjectured to no one in particular. “You think they would remain in the air to spread the infection, but their shape and actions are specifically meant to bury into the ground. I can’t come up with a purpose for this.”
The captain said, “As far as I know, no one has been able to study a Tower’s impact crater. In truth, I doubt anyone has really tried. Still, an interesting reflection, Mr. Rosyth. What was your occupation before all this?”
“I was a biology professor.”
“A science teacher, eh? I’d soon make you a field commander,” he said with a tone that was complete opposite of one I was expecting, for it was completely serious.
“I appreciate the compliment, sir, but I’ve seen more than enough battles.”
The captain’s demeanor unexpectedly changed with my statement. His expression became grave and his voice deeper. “Unfortunately, Mr. Rosyth, fighting will be a part of our lives for a long time to come. It would be best that you, as well as everyone else in your group, to start accepting that fact now. If there are enough people left who still have a fighting mentality, we might still have a chance.”
His keen eyes stayed unwaveringly on mine and I knew by them alone that he was right. This floating town could never be our permanent haven and I should not treat it as though there would ever be an ounce of a possibility to stay indefinitely. It didn’t even matter if the war miraculously ended tomorrow. There would still be an entire world waiting to be rebuilt, an endeavor that would take generations in of itself. But our generation was now cursed to fight for survival. Perhaps it was time to stop pretending I could remain on the sidelines.
“How long can we remain at sea?” I heard my mother inquire of the captain.
“Depends how often we can be refueled,” he answered, leaning back in his chair. “We’ve been lucky so far. Our enemy has not targeted many of our oil fields and fuel reserves. We do have less, naturally, but we have less machinery to fuel as well.”
“Are we planning to dock somewhere, then?” asked Siena.
“Not for now. The higher-ups will unlikely tell us to go ashore anytime soon, seeing how this last attack went. Some refueling tankers are in our convoy, which should keep us running for four to five weeks, longer if we’re frugal and are able to add to their flotilla.” The officer leaned in and whispered something to his captain, who then stood up reluctantly. “It has been a pleasure to meet you all, but there is much to do. I would give a proper toast to our survival and to those who perished if I had any drink left, but hopefully raising my glass will suffice.”
Everyone soberly mimicked his deed.
