We’re about to lose the asset!
A voice kept screaming at her from the back of her head. Ever since the invasion had begun, she’d been fighting her mounting anxiety, keeping a tight rein on it. Right now, not having Ethan here wasn’t helping to calm her. Zimmerman was competent, but he didn’t have Ethan’s grasp of tactics.
Her thoughts continued to yell at her. We were supposed to have decades more to prepare for this! Their ‘experts’ had said the invasion wouldn’t happen for at least another twenty years. A whole generation, with which to breed dozens of assets capable of fighting the aliens.
But they only had the one asset, and now crazies were swarming his location. Maybe Ethan is right. Maybe the aliens do know what we’re up to, and they’re moving to directly disrupt us.
That almost brought her up short, and she stopped shooting for a second before resuming.
If the aliens were going to disrupt the GDA, what would be the most efficient way to do it?
She thought about the survivors back in the armory, whose deaths she’d ordered without a second thought. That decision reminded her of the sort of calls she used to make during enhanced interrogation sessions with suspected terrorists. She’d always been able to make those calls feeling fully righteous, knowing she was defending her country, and protecting her compatriots.
But in the years since, she’d had to reckon with what she’d done, in a way that had troubled her sleep, with nightmares jolting her awake most nights. She knew her decision to order those civilians’ deaths would only make that worse.
I thought I left those decisions behind. But here I am, making them again.
But was she truly the one making them? Or had something gotten inside her?
She shook herself. I’m in control. Everything I’m doing, I’m doing to save humanity. It doesn’t matter what it will cost me, personally.
They pressed through the woods, mowing down crazies intent on reaching the farm. In between the GDA fire, Janet could hear the distant crackle of hunting rifles and shotguns, as well as some automatic fire. The sounds of the people on the farm defending themselves as best they could.
They had already tried approaching the farm from the road, but the Ravagers were too thick there. The narrow dirt road was packed with throngs of them, and as the lead Bradley got close, the savages swarmed it, heedless of the danger to themselves.
Janet had never seen anything like it before. If they’d continued, the savages would have covered the Bradley like a human blanket. Their bodies would have piled up before its treads. The press of humanity was such that the road was rendered impassable.
So she’d ordered a hasty retreat, with the idea of coming through the forest on foot instead, where the blackjack oaks would act as obstacles to obstruct and thin the mindless army.
We just need to break through long enough to secure and extract the asset.
That was fine in theory, but was proving much more difficult in practice. As they drew closer to the farm, the tide of Ravagers grew denser, and some of them began to turn to shamble back toward the GDA operatives.
“Focus on the ones approaching us,” Janet yelled. “Defend yourselves!”
The soldiers didn’t need to be told. They were already picking off every crazy that turned back and headed toward them.
More and more were doing that, however. Janet couldn’t help but read intentionality into the change in tactics. Yes, the way they swarmed groups of survivors fit the GDA theory about how the aliens were using the Ravagers. But the speed with which they switched targets suggested someone monitoring the battle from above, directing their brainless troops as they saw fit.
More crazies appeared through the trees on both sides, in a three-way flank. Reacting instantly, Zimmerman arranged his unit in a dual-rank horseshoe formation, with those in back firing over the heads of those in front.
For a while, they held. But the Ravagers kept coming.
Janet’s heart was hammering against her chest, her blood pounding past her ears in a deafening rush.
Everything she’d worked for was crashing down around her.
Is this my fault? If I’d given my word to the Edwards that the asset wouldn’t be harmed…
…I would have him in hand already.
Even a convincing lie might have averted this disaster. But here she was, with the asset less than a kilometer west, and she was completely unable to reach him. He would surely die, now. If highly trained government operatives couldn’t fend off the massive horde, then a bunch of farmers with hunting rifles surely couldn’t either.
They had to fight on. Everything hinged on this. They’d only been able to take so much ammunition and firepower with them on foot, and it would run out eventually. But they had to assume that they could stem the tide.
Even so…for the first time, Janet began to worry that they might lose not only the asset, but their own lives in the process.
She slammed a fresh magazine into her pistol and resumed firing.
30
4 days to extinction
The woods thinned, admitting more and more sunlight through its canopy to form bright pools on the forest floor.
Max slowed Yago to a walk, wary of coming out into the open without checking for potential hostiles first.
Then, through the trees, he saw them: multiple military vehicles, all arranged in a circle in the middle of an open field.
Janet’s camp. It had to be. The chances of another cohesive military unit operating in this area seemed pretty close to zero. When he spotted a black Escalade, chrome glinting in the sun, that clinched it.
He led Yago back through the trees to tie him to a sturdy-looking oak. Then he returned to the edge of the woods to observe the camp from behind the broadest trunk he could find.
No more than four soldiers were in sight from this position. Two of them stood in the back of a truck, while another was visible through a gap between two vehicles. The fourth lay atop a cargo truck with a sniper rifle.
Occasionally, Berserkers would walk by the circular encampment. Sometimes solitary, sometimes in groups of two and three. They took no notice of the soldiers, who let them pass unmolested. Apparently, they weren’t keen to attract trouble if they could avoid it.
Max had encountered a few Berserkers during his trek through the woods, but riding Yago, he’d been able to outpace them easily. Firing his Ruger seemed like a bad idea, if he could avoid it. Clearly, there were plenty of people nearby whose psyches had been compromised by the aliens. He wanted to attract them about as much as the soldiers did—probably less.
The Berserkers’ presence in this field was interesting, though. What if I could use them to hide in plain sight?
They all seemed to be headed in roughly the same direction, and if Max walked out of the woods toward the camp he’d be going against them. That would probably get him noticed.
But to his left, a rise in the ground ran parallel to the road nearby. If he exited the woods there, and used the hill to conceal himself, he could get on the other side of the camp and approach from the same direction as the Berserkers that were happening by.
That might get him close enough to slip past the lookouts. It seemed like his best shot, anyway. No doubt the soldiers all had seen images of his face. Likely, they’d memorized his description. But who among them would expect him to come to them? He’d be hiding in plain sight.
Probably, it was a crazy idea. But it was all he had. So he set it in motion anyway.
He withdrew deeper into the woods, then jogged parallel to the forest’s edge, mindful of roots and holes underfoot. The last thing he needed right now was a twisted ankle.
When he reached the long hill, he sprinted from the trees, unhesitating. By sticking near the road, he was able to stay completely out of sight from the camp.
The rise ended sooner than he would have liked—it put him about level with the camp, rather than behind it as he’d planned. But a couple Berserkers were approaching from
down the road, shambling toward the camp. Hopefully, they would provide the cover he needed.
As a final touch, he grabbed the fabric of his t-shirt near the neck and tore it. Then he grabbed a stick from the base of the hill. Finally, he mussed up his hair and let his facial features slacken. Now he looked more the part.
The Berserkers stumbled past, and Max emerged from cover, trying to look aimless as he looped around for a pass at the camp.
From this angle, he could see only two soldiers. One of them seem focused on the two Berserkers ahead. The other glanced at Max, and his heart leapt into his throat.
Then, miraculously, the soldier said something inaudible to the other and withdrew from view.
Piss break, maybe? Either way, it was extremely good luck.
Checking on the other soldier once more, Max dashed for the nearest truck and slid underneath it.
He lay there for several long moments, his face pressed into the grass as he waited for the remaining lookout to call out a warning to the others. But nothing happened. He hadn’t noticed Max’s move—probably, he hadn’t noticed Max at all.
Crawling slowly closer toward the camp’s interior, he checked out the circular space between the vehicles. A pair of boots walked by, and Max held his breath.
The returning lookout. The sound of him mounting the back of the truck Max was hiding under came next. The soldier was returning to his post.
Max was in.
Taking extreme care not to make any noise, he pushed himself the rest of the way to the other side of the truck. Once out, he rose carefully to his feet, checking all around him. No one. Other than the lookouts, the rest of Janet’s unit either had to be inside the vehicles or simply not here at all.
He drew his Ruger.
A few places caught his eye as possibilities for where they could be holding Cynthia and Peter Edwards. There were two trailers, along with a couple cargo trucks and other vehicles with windowless storage compartments.
Traveling clockwise, he reached the first cargo truck, which had light-brown fabric covering the back. He carefully lifted one of the flaps and peered inside, spilling light into the interior.
There was nothing there but crates, boxes, and bags. He lowered the flap.
Next, he reached the first trailer and mounted the metal steps. He tried the door, the metal handle hot against his fingers as he slowly attempted to open it.
A click from the handle made him wince, and he glanced behind him. None of the lookouts he could from this vantage point had heard. They remained facing outward, tuned only to threats coming from the surrounding terrain.
Max pulled the handle the rest of the way, but the door wouldn’t budge. Locked.
Gingerly, he returned it to its default position and stepped back down to the ground.
He would check the other trailer next. To reach it, he would have to travel almost one-third of the camp’s circumference. Willing himself not to make any sudden movements, and hugging each vehicle he passed, he plodded toward his goal.
Already, he was beginning to lose heart. Of course everything in the camp would be locked and secured. What had he expected? And even if he managed to find Cynthia and Peter, did he really think he could free them and sneak them out of here without attracting notice?
But then, this had never been about the viability of freeing them, had it? It was about silencing his conscience, and putting a stop to his guilt-ridden nightmares.
He reached the second trailer and again carefully mounted metal steps.
This time, the door opened.
That made him hesitate, surprised at his own success. But only for a moment. He stepped inside, leading with his Ruger.
Inside, an agent dressed in rumpled business-casual attire was sitting at a compact desk. His eyes widened when he saw Max, and he started to rise, pushing himself off the desk with one hand while the other moved to his hip. But there was something labored about his movements.
“Freeze,” Max hissed, aiming the handgun at his head. “Stay quiet or I’ll shoot.”
The agent stared back at him with gritted teeth. Then he drew in a deep breath, and Max gestured sharply with the Ruger.
It didn’t matter. “Get the tranqs,” the man called, his voice no doubt audible to the lookouts through the door Max had left open behind him. He yelled again, louder: “Get the tranqs!”
The man smiled. The expression looked somewhat pained, but he was remarkably calm for someone with a loaded Ruger pointed at his head. “I don’t know how you got here, Max, but we both know you’re not going to shoot me. Why don’t you put down the weapon? It’s safer for all of us, that way.”
Tranqs. He shouted for tranquilizers. Right now, the lookouts would probably be scrambling for them. They’d rush the trailer and overpower him.
Even if he’d been willing to kill them, they still grossly outnumbered him. This was over. Coming here was just as stupid as he’d feared.
Let me in.
It was the same voice he’d heard back in the gas station. Tara’s voice. The soft, feminine tones were identical to the voice owned by the person he’d slept beside last night.
A thought occurred to him, then. What if this was an attempt by the aliens to control even him—the only person able to meaningfully oppose them?
Let me in.
Well, he did have nothing to lose.
So he let her in.
The moment he did, reality splintered.
31
4 days to extinction
As he backed toward the open trailer door, Max kept the Ruger trained on the agent hunched over the desk. “Stay there.”
The man remained where he was, though his body was rigid, like a compressed spring.
Max turned to step down onto the first metal stair. Across the camp, one soldier was passing out black tranquilizer guns from the cab of a truck. Max spotted four men who were already armed with them.
Then, he saw the fifth: standing in the back of a tactical truck, closer than the others. Already taking aim at Max.
He raised the Ruger and fired, attempting to shoot the thin-barreled tranq gun out of the soldier’s hand. He missed.
An arm snaked around his neck from behind, tightening against his trachea. He grabbed at the bicep, struggling to dislodge it, but the grip was too tight.
Across the camp, several others were taking aim. Darts flew, and three of them feathered Max’s chest.
The arm was still tight around his neck. His vision hazed, and blackness enveloped him.
32
4 days to extinction
Go back, the voice said.
So he did. Back to the trailer, with his weapon raised.
Max kept the Ruger trained on the agent as he backed toward the open door.
He lowered his aim and shot the agent in the thigh. The man yelped, gripping his leg as he fell sideways. When he hit the floor, he screamed.
Max turned to step down onto the first metal stair. Across the camp, one soldier was passing out black tranquilizer guns from the cab of a truck. Max spotted four men who were already armed with them.
The fifth stood in the back of the tactical truck, just as before. Max raised the Ruger and fired. But he missed again.
Or rather, he missed the hand he’d been aiming for. Instead, he blew out the man’s throat, leaving it a bloody mess as the soldier flopped backward over one of the barricades that ran along the sides of the truck bed.
“No,” he said out loud. “That’s unacceptable. I won’t kill them.”
And so Tara’s voice echoed through his mind again:
Go back.
33
4 days to extinction
Max kept the Ruger trained on the agent as he backed toward the open door.
His weapon dipped, and he pulled the trigger. The man’s thigh ruptured, blood flew, and he fell sideways, screaming.
Max turned to step down onto the first metal stair. Across the camp, one soldier was passing out black tranquilizer
guns from the cab of a truck.
He shifted his aim toward the back of the tactical truck, where a soldier was already pointing a tranquilizer gun his way.
This time, Max steadied himself by expelling all the air from his lungs. His shot blew apart the man’s hand, and the tranq gun flew through the air.
He returned his attention to the four men holding tranq guns on the other side of the camp. The first round shattered one soldier’s shoulder, spinning him like a top, the tranq gun tumbling from his grasp as he staggered back, clutching his fresh wound.
The second round found a kneecap. Its owner crumpled.
Two darts found Max’s chest. His vision swam.
Go back.
He was back in the trailer. Ruger trained on the agent as he backed toward the open door.
He shot the agent’s thigh, exited the trailer, and shot the tranq gun out of the first soldier’s hand. But this time, he moved left as he fired on the soldiers across the camp.
The movement disrupted his aim, and the ploy ended with darts protruding from his torso and neck.
Go back.
He did.
He went back again and again, running through iteration after iteration of reality. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Tens of thousands.
Each iteration ended with the soldiers shooting him with tranquilizer darts, or with him killing one of them. Neither outcome was acceptable, so he went back.
He went back.
He went back.
A lifetime passed as he ironed out every possible error, every wrinkle. His Ruger P89 held only sixteen rounds—fifteen in the magazine and one in the chamber—so he had to dole out each shot with precision, and no misses.
He went back, but he’d yet to truly begin. In reality, he was still standing in the trailer’s entrance. But somehow his cognition had expanded radically, such that he was able to run thousands and thousands of simulations, all in the space of a heartbeat. He also had perfect awareness of the camp, and of the soldiers’ reactions. He didn’t know why.
Mother Ship Page 16
