by Mark Teppo
“Hyacinth's job was to make sure a team got sent,” I say.
“Yep,” Mere says. “They may have walked away from the family, but they still have some influence back home.”
“So in return for an Arcadian, they'd get the Mnemosysia data?”
“But that's not what happened, is it?” she continues. “Your team didn't play ball the way they were supposed to, and Secutores's trap failed to catch anyone.”
I shake my head. “No, it failed to capture me.”
Mere snorts. “I thought we covered this. It's not about you.”
“But it is,” I tell her. “Phoebe and I have worked together in the past, and we have a working relationship. I'm point. She's support. That's the way we've always done it. I should have been lead on the processing boat, but I got distracted by the whaling equipment. Phoebe would have waited for me if it had been the two of us, but we had Nigel. We weren't used to working as a trio, and when I fell back, he naturally stepped up. He got the chemical dose that was meant for me.”
And then I understand Talus's role in all of it. “Talus was the plant,” I say. “How did he survive all of this if it wasn't simply by turning the boat over to Secutores? He talked Nigel into attacking the harpoon boat, specifically to force Phoebe and me to do what we did. To separate us.” I cast my mind back and dredge up details about the fight on the harpoon boat. Little things that had been odd, but not so much that I had stopped and looked more closely. But now, a different picture emerged. “They were supposed to catch me, but they hadn't counted on Phoebe and her rifle. That threw things off enough that I was able to engage them. And then…”
I recall the errant grenade and the explosion that had holed the boat. The sound of water, rushing into the breach. The ocean, eager to claim the tender. When the storm rolled in, any chance of reuniting with the Prime Earth boat vanished.
“Escobar wanted to hand you over,” Mere says.
I nod. “Do you see how that fits? Talus came back to shore. Secutores built a new trap—knowing that I'd come find you—and we managed to get away from them again.”
“But Hyacinth had Nigel. Why'd they cut up Nigel?”
“It's like you said: to get us angry. To keep us from looking at the big picture.” I lean against the desk. “What if Talus and Escobar didn't know about the chemical agent? What if all they were told was that Secutores was going to capture an Arcadian. Escobar gave them enough data to create an effective trap. That's why it was out on the water. It makes it easier to keep one of us in one place if we can't flee. But they didn't know about the chemical agent. When Talus saw what Secutores had, he realized what was really going on. Whoever had come to Escobar was playing off his alienation from Arcadia. They hoped he wouldn't think too hard about why they wanted an Arcadian, and maybe he didn't care, but when Talus saw the weed killer, that changed things.
“That compound comes out of defoliation research, and there's no way any Arcadian would have anything to do with that research. And why would Hyacinth create something that is just as deadly to them as it is to Arcadians? It's not strategically useful. However, to an organization like Secutores?”
“They were delivering the means of their own deaths.”
“Right. That's what Nigel's death is all about. It's a big fuck you to Secutores. You get nothing.”
Mere nods, following my line of thinking “Nigel was harvested for another reason, wasn't he?” she says. “It wasn't just cutting him up to give Secutores the middle finger. He was tainted, wasn't he? He had had a big dose of that chemical agent. Hyacinth was taking tissue samples, because if they can develop something that is resistant to it, they go back to having the advantage. It's an arms race.”
“And Arcadia has no idea that the war has started.”
“Unless you tell them,” she says.
“Unless either of us tell them,” I amend, understanding why Belfast wanted to snatch Mere. Mere nods, eyes downcast, as she accepts the idea of her value.
“So, who was in the Mercedes?” Phoebe asks suddenly.
She's leaning against the doorframe. “The Mercedes,” she repeats. “They're still looking for you two. There's nothing stopping either of you reaching out to Arcadia or any news outlet. But you haven't yet. You don't know who you can trust, which means you're unclaimed assets. Both sides want you.”
“That's why you killed Talus,” I say. “He was the only one who knew both parties.”
“I killed Talus because he betrayed us,” Phoebe says.
“You're right, though,” Mere says. “We're the only connection between Escobar and Secutores. Secutores is still trying to finish their job and deliver an Arcadian; Escobar—”
“Escobar just wants me dead,” I interrupt. “Let's not make it grander than it is.”
“He wants revenge on Arcadia,” Phoebe says. “It really isn't about you.”
Mere coughs, putting her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “It doesn't seem like Escobar's style,” she says.
“You want to go find out who is in those cars, don't you?” I ask Phoebe.
She nods, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
THIRTY-FOUR
Phoebe's all for going into La Serena and finding out immediately, but I talk her into waiting until the morning. During the night, if the squad is Arcadian, they'll outnumber us—even if we manage to surprise them; if they're Secutores, they're going to be extra vigilant against an Arcadian assault. We don't have enough intel to perform an effective raid.
Plus, Mere points out that we're going to have to leave immediately after the raid, and she wouldn't mind a decent night's sleep before we start running again.
After Mere turns in, Phoebe and I assess our arsenal. The villa is set back from the main road that winds through the Valle de Elqui, and so we don't worry about being conspicuous as Phoebe opens the trunk of the car to reveal three aluminum cases.
“When did you start following us?” I ask as I open the first case on the right. Foam padding with slots for four pistols and extra magazines. Only three of the four slots are filled. I can guess where the missing pistol is.
“Pudahuel,” Phoebe says. “I didn't bother with Rapa Nui.”
“Why?” I ask as I tug one of the pistols out of its foam slot. A CZ 75. The gun is in pristine condition, and it seems small in my hand.
“P-01,” Phoebe says, reading my confusion. “The Czech Republic has been making guns again. Has been for more than a decade.”
I remember the arms markets near the end of the twentieth century. The CZ was a Czech gun, created by a pair of brothers, but its design was a state secret. They couldn't sell it in Czechoslovakia, and so all of their production was focused on the international arms market. At some point, the Czech government started to have second thoughts about being labeled as arms dealers in the historical record, and gun exports stopped.
I couldn't help but think of Kirkov as I held the gun. He had carried a 75 as well, though his had been one of the older models. Forged barrel with steel slide and frame. Ring loop on the hammer. Much heavier in the hand. The weapon of an old soldier.
I put the pistol back in its slot. It's not the right weapon for me.
“You didn't get off the plane in Rapa Nui,” I say as I open the next case, getting back to the question I had been asking. “Why?”
“It's an island,” Phoebe says, “in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”
Her explanation brings a smile to my lips. “Had enough of islands?”
“You weren't going to stay long,” Phoebe says, ignoring my jibe. “Santiago was the obvious next stop.”
The second case contains the parts for a sniper rifle. Another Sako, judging from the skeletal frame of the stock. “There's a garden on Rapa Nui. Mere says you swam all the way back to Australia. Wouldn't the garden have been restorative?”
“There is no garden on Rapa Nui,” Phoebe says. “There hasn't been for two hundred years since you killed the steward.”
“You
knew?”
“Of course,” she says. She sighs, seeing my expression. “How could you have forgotten? It wasn't that long ago.”
“It…” I stop. How could she know? Had she been there? If so, why had Mother let her keep the memory and take it from me? “Phoebe, do you know what happens when we go into Mother's embrace? She takes some of our memories away.”
A strange expression crosses Phoebe's face, something almost like fear or revulsion. “Why would you let her do that?”
“I… I don't have a choice. At least, I didn't,” I say. “Wait. Are you saying that you remember everything? How is that possible?”
“I've never let Mother embrace me, Silas,” Phoebe says.
I sit down heavily on the edge of the trunk. “Never?”
She looks at me, and the revulsion flashes across her features again, though in its wake what is left on her face is a growing anger. “You were there when I died, Silas,” she says. “You let them put me in the ground and let Mother embrace me.”
“I was,” I say, saddened that I can't recall all the details of how Phoebe had become an Arcadian.
“I never wanted to forget what happened,” she says. She flips the car keys at me, and I catch them awkwardly. She turns and walks off without a word. Not toward the house, but toward the trees that line the road. She moves gracefully and efficiently. Not in a rush, but moving away from me in the most expedient manner possible.
I sit there and watch her go, trying to figure out what centuries of hate would do to a person. How old was her body? I wondered, doing the math. How fractured was her mind? But it wasn't. Of all of us, I realized with a start, she might be the least damaged.
* * *
The third case contained grenades. A mixed dozen of flashbangs, concussive, and incendiary. More than enough to cause trouble. While I wander around the villa, waiting for dawn, I have more than a few hours to ponder how Phoebe managed to procure this arsenal. I stare at Mere's chart until I have it memorized, and I surf through the news cycles, filling my head with the banality of the human world. I make my own timeline, examining what we think has happened over the past few weeks and how that might look from both Secutores's perspective and from Hyacinth. I think about Arcadia and my various conversations with Callis, as well as the possible reasons why he hadn't answered the phone in Santiago. I examine Mere's map with her tiny marginalia about various sites, and I think about this data the way that a good commander would. The way that Secutores would.
Shortly after the sun rises, I start rummaging around the kitchen. There isn't much, but the smell of freshly brewed coffee is enough to rouse Mere from the bedroom. She wanders into the kitchen, still yawning, and she perks up noticeably at the sight of the full coffee pot. She's wearing a gray t-shirt, no bra, and a pair of loose cotton pants decorated with green and red and yellow triangles. Her hair is both matted and frenzied, a sure sign that her sleep wasn't all that restful.
“Morning, sunshine,” I quip.
She growls at me as she pours a cup of coffee. Shuffling over to the table, she sits and wraps her hands around her cup. I can feel her glaring at the back of my head as I work at the stove. “What are you so chipper about?” she grouses.
I glance over my shoulder. “I thought you'd be more pleased to have breakfast waiting for you when you got up,” I say.
She pastes a false smile on her face as she cocks her head to the side. “Oh, Silas, you shouldn't have,” she says mockingly. “What a lucky girl I am. Are you going to take me shopping later?”
“Of course, my darling,” I respond. “I thought maybe we could get some diamonds and a puppy.”
She makes a noise like the strangled sound of air escaping from a balloon, and it takes me a moment to realize she's imitating a squeal of delight.
“No diamonds, then?”
She turns the escaping air sound into the flatulence of a raspberry, and then devotes all of her attention to the cup of coffee in front of her.
I fill up a plate with the hodge-podge ensemble I've managed to create from the various leftovers in the tiny refrigerator. Standing behind her chair, I lean over and arrange the plate and silverware in front of Mere. I catch myself before I touch her hair, and I return to the stove where I can busy my hands with cleaning up. Behind me, I hear the clink of the fork against the plate.
“No puppy,” she says after a while. “Not right now.”
I stop washing the pan. “Okay.”
“You have a plan, don't you?” she says.
I nod. “I do.”
“I can tell,” she says. “You're being sweet about it, but I can tell you're ready to go. You don't like waiting.”
I turn around. “No soldier does. Not when he knows his mission.”
“And what is our mission?”
I smile.
She sighs. “Maybe what I should be shopping for is a bulletproof vest,” she says.
* * *
After breakfast, I clean up the rest of the villa while Mere takes a shower. I have no idea how long she rented the place, but there's no reason to leave any sign that we'd been there at all. I haul the sack of garbage out into the back yard and dump it into the hole I had been planted in. As we're loading the car, Phoebe emerges from the trees and calmly gets into the back of the car. Mere gives me a withering look, and I'm left wondering what exactly has been decided was my fault.
On the way to La Serena, I outline the plan to Phoebe. Her frosty demeanor thaws, as I suspected it would at the idea of doing violence. As we reach the outskirts of the city, Mere diverts into a shopping district where Phoebe and I get supplies: heavy tape, carabiners, horrifically touristy ponchos, disposable cell phones with preloaded blocks of minutes, Bluetooth headsets, sunblock, and hats.
It's going to be a warm day. Unlike Phoebe, I need a little skin protection.
Mere drives to the central market, letting us off a few blocks prior. By the time we get to the edge of the square, Mere's already deep in the teeming chaos of the farmer's market. She's wearing a light blue scarf in her hair, making her easy to spot. She's got a basket on her arm, and is strolling slowly along the aisles, shopping for fresh fruit and vegetables.
Mere has Pedro's cell phone number, and she was supposed to call him after she parked the car, asking him to meet her at the market. He shows, not long after Phoebe and I get into position, and I watch him circle the market until he's on the same side as Mere's car. He parks his scooter in the shade of a building, and with a nervous glance around him, starts walking toward the market.
I can't blame him. I can tell he's very proud of the scooter, which means it's well cared for. As soon as he walks past me and is swallowed by the market, I get up from the chair I've been sitting in outside a tiny café and wander toward the scooter.
It's not very big, and not made for two, but it'll do. The ignition key—on a tiny chain with a silver medallion—is hanging across the base of the handlebars, just as Mere asked. It's not obvious if you aren't looking for it. Without breaking stride, I snatch it up and keep walking.
We've had to make some assumptions in our planning. Phoebe has been watching the road near the villa all week, and she's confident that whoever is in town hasn't made Pedro as our contact. But they're looking for Mere and me; they know what we look like. The market is an obvious spot to buy fresh produce. It'll be one of several places they have eyes. We just need to make sure they're just watching and not lying in ambush.
I keep an eye out for a G-class Mercedes. Like a Land Rover, Phoebe said. Should be easy enough to spot.
As I turn the corner at the end of the block, I catch sight of a suitable candidate, coming from the west. I duck into a nearby shop—one selling women's clothing—and idle near the front windows. A few minutes later, a silver G-class Mercedes drifts by. Tinted windows, but I can see well enough to count four men inside. As I look over a rack of scarves, I pull my new cell phone out of my pocket. Under my coat, a pair of grenades shift against my side.
> I speed dial the first number. “One and four,” I say when Phoebe answers.
“Four,” she confirms quietly, and through my earpiece I hear the background noise of the market as she leaves the line open. “Two in market,” she tells me. “Locals.”
Mere has been made by two people in the market, both locals. The strike teams had circulated pictures. See these people? Call this number.
The four guys in the Mercedes were the response team. Quick, too, which suggested they were based nearby. Where was the other car?
I buy one of the scarves, green with streaks of purple and red in it. One Mere might like, I find myself thinking as I stand at the register. I wave off the offered bag, and tie it loosely around my neck. My wide-brimmed hat is somewhat flexible and I mash it into a more distressed shape. It's not much in the way of changing my appearance, but with all the people on the street, it should be enough.
Before I leave the shop, I put my optics on. The sunlight is starting to hurt my eyes.
I leave the shop and head in the direction the Mercedes had been going. I find it, parked, two blocks away from Mere's car. There's only one guy in it. “One and one,” I say.
Phoebe acknowledges. “Time to go,” she says.
I put her on hold and dial the other number in my phone. I let it ring a few times, and then end the call. Mere should have felt her phone vibrating. I cross the street and head back toward Mere's car and Pedro's scooter.
The strike team wants Phoebe and me, and they know Mere will lead them to us. They'll follow her, and as soon as it is clear that she and Pedro are going to get into a car, there is going to be a scramble. If the second Mercedes isn't already prowling the edge of the market, a frantic call will be made to get it on the street. Though I suspect it's already in play.
As I turn the corner toward the market, I spot Mere and Pedro walking up the street. I cross over to the other side—the side where Pedro's scooter is parked—and slow my pace accordingly. Let them get to the car first. I keep my eyes on the crowded market, looking for some sign of people moving with purpose.
