Blood Binds the Pack

by Alex Wells

  “Ms Meetchim, I was told you needed to see me?” he said, with his usual studied pleasance.

  Ms Meetchim held out a data reader to him, which he took. “Please read aloud what I’ve highlighted. I wish your opinion on it,” she said.

  He glanced over it, and the words washed across his skin like icy water. Why yes, he was in a great deal of trouble. But he would keep playing the game in the hopes he could salvage it. What other option did he have? So in his most neutral tone, he read the quote as if it was just another bit of business: “I expect all documentation to be prepared, as you have had several weeks’ warning of my arrival. See notice provided in data card packet and hardcopy carried by Rift Ship Kirin for exact requirements. Compliance on this ground is mandatory and expected.” He lowered the reader. “This is rather alarming.”

  “Don’t bother,” Meetchim said. “I had your apartment thoroughly searched.”

  Surprise. He ought to be surprised. Shocked, even. And he was, simply not in that way. “Did you find anything interesting?”

  “A curious absence of certain things,” Security Chief Lien said. “And unmarked data cards.”

  “I’d no idea that was a crime.”

  As if he hadn’t spoken, Ms Meetchim continued on: “What I would like to know is for whom you are actually working.”

  There was no getting out of this, no lies he could spin quickly enough. Meetchim had already made up her mind, and Lien as well. Shige wasn’t certain if it was more or less horrifying that they’d come up with something that was at least partial truth. The question now was how he would take this dive down. Protesting his innocence? He doubted that would save him from being thrown into the desert. Should he reveal himself as an agent of the Federal Union? There was the barest of chances that it might save his skin; with an inspector coming, who would want to have to explain the mysterious disappearance of the on-planet agent? But that would also compromise an investigation he’d put years of his life into, and warn them just how much the BCRE knew of their plans and actions. And what about Mr Yellow – no, that was a ridiculous thought, Mr Yellow was perfectly safe.

  Shige was inclined to be loyal, perhaps programmed for it with genetic or behavioral modification, and even knowing that intellectually didn’t make the urge to protect his mission any weaker. Going meekly to his death while casting up a smokescreen of corporate espionage would serve that purpose well. Ayana would want that, and while he was sure retired Prime Minister Hamadi Rollins would weep at his younger son’s by-necessity secret funeral, neither of those things did him any good. He was an empty vessel, always filled with the purpose of others. How fitting that he’d end up as an urn empty of ashes.

  “Well?” Ms Meetchim said, impatient.

  And then he thought, of all incongruent things, of Kazu, the night he’d left. Kazu, face almost lost to shadow as he stuffed a few belongings into his backpack and prepared to abandon his precocious little brother to the mercies of the schooling he hadn’t been able to handle himself. Kazu, reaching out to ruffle Shige’s hair with genuine affection, his eyes dark with… yes, regret. Shige heard his last words clearly in that moment, as if Kazu reached forward from the past: Sorry, kiddo, but they finally emptied me out on smiles and lies. All I’ve got left is “fuck it” and run.

  And of all things, the thought made a little smile quirk Shige’s lips. “Fuck it,” he said, trying it on for size.

  “Excuse me?” Ms Meetchim said. Lien’s thin eyebrows arched high on his smooth forehead. James Rolland wasn’t the sort to use coarse language, after all.

  What would Shigehiko Rollins want, if he ever managed to want something strictly for himself? He still didn’t know, torn between duty to the Federal Union and his strange, ever more urgent need to care for Mr Yellow. But he’d never find out if he didn’t try to live for it rather than die for everyone else’s purposes. With a bare movement of his fingers, Shige brought out two of the microdarts from his sleeves. “I said fuck it.”

  Meetchim opened her mouth. Shige moved, muscles as fast as a human could be genetically tuned, and flung the darts. Lien slapped at his neck, like he’d been bitten by an insect. Then his mouth went wide and open, and he sucked in one final, strangled breath before he crumpled. One of the security guards hit the floor at the same time. And Shige was already thumbing out two more of the darts, hands whipping to fling those as well. Two more guards down. The last of the guards, the last of his immediately reachable darts. He reached to rip the garrote from his coat hem as nearby the sharp retort of a gunshot sounded, incongruously, because the guards were all down.

  Oh, and what a curious sensation. He wasn’t aware of pain for a moment, merely that he couldn’t breathe, like he’d been kicked solidly in the chest. He staggered, fingers no longer so precise as he still fumbled at his coat hem. He caught sight of Ms Meetchim, wide-eyed and her hair disordered for perhaps the first time in her life. She held a small, snub-nosed revolver, and a corner of his mind made the complimentary note that she was standing quite properly with it.

  She shot him again.

  Shige dropped to the ground. He clutched uselessly at his stomach with one hand. He needed to move, he told himself, needed to move, she was right bloody there.

  More guards burst into the tent. One ended that line of thinking by kicking him hard in the stomach, and oh, there was all of that pain, driven out from where it had been hiding. He sprawled back on the floor.

  Ms Meetchim stood over him, her shoulders moving in time with her harsh breaths. Then the barrel of a rifle swallowed up his view. “Want me to?” someone asked.

  “No,” Ms Meetchim said from back behind that rifle. Her voice shook, then firmed. “He doesn’t deserve such mercy. Take him out onto the flats and drop him there. Let the eagles have him while he’s still fresh.”

  How… Promethean, Shige thought numbly as two guards grabbed his arms and dragged him from the tent. His head lolled back and he saw, not so distant, Mr Yellow looking at him. The Weatherman tilted his head back, scenting the air, then bent to look the security guard next to him in the eye. She did not look away.

  It hurt, a little, to think he’d been replaced so quickly. Why didn’t Mr Yellow want him any more? He’d been summarily discarded in favor of some ill-educated brute in a green uniform, no longer useful. As the guards dumped him into one of the jeeps – oh, that hurt, quite a bit, he felt all tangled up both inside and outside – he heard a muffled rumble and shouting from the direction of the mine.

  The Bone Collector flew over the shell of the world, and he did not like it any more this time than he had last time. But he focused, on the whispering currents of air, the lines of magnetic force that swirled from the vortices at the planet’s heart, the other lines of nameless energy in whispering blue that spun out from entirely different vortices and poured forth from the Well. And he found, if he used his body as a stable point, with the ground no longer firm under his feet, the experience was at least slightly less horrifying.

  The energy rippled, waves in a pool, more and more violent. They were close to the center of all things now, the lines thick, and trying to sort them all left him faintly dizzy. But it told him that something was happening, something that could not possibly be good. Still holding that link to his body, he slid close, rode those waves, and then heard the discordant sound. The Weatherman. The thing.

  His brother/cousin/son. The thought sickened him all over again. He hid himself in the swirls of energy and watched the patterns, felt how they moved around the Weatherman, how close he stood to the center. Not quite there, too high, but in the scale of the world they overlapped.

  And he felt the Weatherman reach. Felt one of the lines of power begin to twist into something discordant, suiting itself to the Weatherman’s harmony.

  And felt the roof of the world begin to crumble, cave in to reveal that beating, alien heart, ripe to be plucked out.

  No.

  He exploded into physical waking, his eyes flying open, and
jerked against the restraining harness that crossed his chest. For a moment, a different sort of panic welled in him, one without name, and he fought to swallow it down. He still heard the world’s song, the discordant note. He focused on that.

  “You OK?” the man next to him – Raff, that was his name – asked.

  The Bone Collector ignored him, scrabbling free of the harness. Legs unsteady, he made his way up the narrow ramp to the cockpit. All of the motorcycles and supplies the Wolves had brought had still left nearly half of the cargo hold empty. His steps might have echoed, but for the roar and hum of the wind outside.

  He nearly tumbled into the cockpit, catching himself before he ran into Hob. She stood between the two seats up there, occupied by Dambala and Coyote. All three looked at him sharply, though Dambala just as quickly jerked his attention back to the front. Outside the cockpit, the sky was black, the stars brilliant overhead, but washing out toward the horizon in the light that blazed up from the new scar in the ground.

  “What is it?” Hob asked, though she had to shout to be heard. She had an unlit cigarette between her lips, half-mangled from chewing. “Or, no. Can it wait? We’re gonna set down in a few minutes.”

  “He’s there,” the Bone Collector said, loudly. It should have been obvious to them. How at least Coyote wasn’t reeling with the sensation was beyond him.

  “He?”

  “The Weatherman. He’s at the Well.”

  “Shit.” She grimaced. “But we kind of figured…”

  “More than that, isn’t it?” Coyote asked.

  “There’s no time.” He grabbed Hob’s shoulder and squeezed, trying to convince her of the urgency in the only way he really knew. “They’re breaking through. He’s there. We have to stop him now.”

  Hob stared at him, uncomprehending, then began to swear as his words made the needed impact.

  “Boss?” Dambala asked.

  “How much time?” Hob asked, staring him in the eye.

  “We may already be too late.”

  She bared her teeth. “I ain’t ever believed that.” And she leaned in to shout to Dambala: “We’re goin’ straight in. Guess we gotta hope the element of surprise makes up for the element of not scoutin’.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The bodies had been cleared away out of the tent and most of the mess cleaned up, though the bloodstains on the flooring material remained. Jennifer Meetchim tried to ignore them, from the irregular pool where the traitorous Mr Rolland had landed to the long streak showing where he’d been dragged out. She had no sympathy for him, and was already cursing herself a fool for reacting emotionally in anger and not thinking to have him interrogated. His outburst hadn’t answered the question of who he worked for, though obviously he was highly trained and very well armed. The microdarts had been collected from the bodies of Chief Lien and the three guards, on the hopes analysis of them would yield some useful detail.

  But now she was left in a tent that smelled of antiseptic and gunpowder, her hands shaking faintly, and in want of a coffee. Curse Mr Rolland anyway. All of this was his fault. Two guards stood watch over her in the tent, in case Mr Rolland had accomplices, and she was sorely tempted to send one out to find her something hot to drink. It would settle her nerves.

  Another subterranean rumble rolled through the ground beneath her. A cavern, the engineers had assured her as they rushed out, after the first set of shocks. This was not unexpected. But would she please stay here, as it was too dangerous for her to approach before they had everything properly shored up. They’d seemed concerned over already having lost some miners and wanted to pull the rest back. The caution was so counterproductive, and she’d refused permission.

  The door of the tent opened, and Jennifer watched a security guard step in. She recognized the woman vaguely as one of Lien’s personal picks, who had accompanied them to the site. She’d escaped Mr Rolland’s little massacre by being sent to watch Mr Yellow in the meantime. The guard stopped and looked at her, though it felt more like she stared through to a point beyond Jennifer’s body.

  “Yes?” Jennifer said, impatient. “Shall I come out to the mine?”

  The guard did not answer, except to raise up her rifle in one motion. “We are no one’s tool.” A trickle of blood ran down from her nose. The barrel yawned wide, filling Jennifer’s vision. It spat fire, roared–

  And out near the mine, Mr Yellow, who seemed so intent on the open pit, smiled. A fresh wash of delicious blood scent filled the air as another rumble shook the ground, one more layer of rock standing between him and the meat of the world falling away.

  The osprey lurched, tilting down even more. The Bone Collector’s hands clutched tightly at Hob’s waist. She didn’t particularly blame him, since her own stomach rolled with the sensation of arrowing down while weaving and facing backwards. She gripped the handlebars of her motorcycle tighter. “How’s it goin’, Bala?” she asked.

  “It’s goin’,” came his grim reply over the shortwave. “Gonna put us down on the west side.”

  It would mean a lot more to her if she had any kind of idea what the west side of the camp looked like. Next to her, she felt all of the other Wolves, everyone but Coyote and Dambala, tense and waiting. Would have been safer if they’d all still been strapped in, but all they’d have going for them was the surprise of an osprey jamming down out of nowhere and them getting out as quick as possible.

  “They’re asking for flight codes,” Coyote said a moment later.

  “You got anythin’ for them?”

  “Of course not,” Coyote said. “Get ready.”

  Rattles and pings went across the hull of the osprey in a wave. Hob recognized that now as gunfire. The osprey bucked, lurched. Diablo and Conall went over, their motorcycles half on top of them, while everyone else hung grimly on and stayed upright by grace of the strength in their legs.

  “Change of plans,” Dambala suddenly said. “They just fuckin’ blew out our landing hydraulics. You’re gonna have to jump it.”

  “Are you fuckin’ serious?” Geri shouted.

  “Slow it down as much as you can, then,” Hob said. “Get the engines goin’, boys.”

  Hati and Lykaios had hopped off their own motorcycles to get Diablo and Conall righted. They all scrambled to get back in order. The faint hum of the electric motors was lost in the roar of the wind, another wave of shots pinging and thumping off the armored belly of the osprey. Hob stared at the closed cargo door and wished like hell she was still up front so she could see where they were going.

  The osprey shifted again, slowing abruptly. They all rolled a few meters backwards, scrambling to get their boots firm on the rough metal deckplates. Hob squeezed the brakes on her motorcycle and fought for balance as the Bone Collector’s hands tightened another notch. “I can’t fuckin’ breathe, you keep doin’ that.”

  “What?” Coyote said.

  “Nothin’.” Of course the Bone Collector couldn’t hear her. He always refused to wear a helmet.

  “Get ready!” Dambala shouted.

  A metallic crack and then more wind, how had she ever fucking thought there was wind before, came howling up through the cargo door as it began to move. Amber alert lights swirled into life around it. Through the ever widening gap in the door, Hob caught a dizzying smear of pale salt, lit with a splash from the floodlights. The osprey lurched lower, swung crazily wide. She could about feel Dambala wrestling with the controls. Sure sounded like his teeth were gritted around the curses that streamed over the shortwave. The osprey banked harder, then evened out. The ground rushing past below still seemed damn fast, salt and salt and salt and then the bright white of the floodlights bouncing back.

  “Good as it’s gonna get!” Dambala shouted. “Go!”

  Hob had made her life out of trusting her people. She didn’t hesitate. She revved her engine to a pitch she felt squeal up through her bones, and let go the brake. Her motorcycle leapt forward, gathering speed down the ramp of the cargo door. Then sh
e was out over open space, hanging, the Bone Collector trying to squeeze the breath out of her, maybe crack a few ribs in the process.

  Well, she thought in that split second. This was one hell of a way to die. Take that, you old bastard.

  Gravity arced her down and slammed her into the salt. Her teeth crashed together near shattering, her spine compressing like she’d be a goddamn half a foot shorter when this was all over. The salt wasn’t as smooth as it looked, and that saved her, let the chain mesh tires bite enough to keep from just sliding out. She fishtailed, leaned, arms and legs tight to burning as she fought for balance, grasped it, held.

  And then where the fuck was she?

  Hob tried to make sense of what she sped toward: the blinding splash of light, the chattering mine works and fencing that reared up from where the pit had to be, the sprawl of tents, the boil of people. She hazarded a quick glance behind her, saw a ragged line of motorcycles forming up. She didn’t have time to count, but she saw three down behind them, motorcycles broken to pieces. In the distance, she saw the osprey banking again, coming back. Good. If Dambala buzzed the site as many times as he could, it would add to the confusion. Had to be Coyote’s idea, since confusion was his trademark.

  She did a quick calculation of where she saw green and blue, where she saw the most machinery concentrated. That had to be the overseer side of the camp, since she bet they wouldn’t trust the miners to be close to the machines when they weren’t working. “South side,” she shouted into the helmet radio. The channel was crystal clear for once – thanks to the Bone Collector’s presence. “Right hand as we’re facin’. South side. Go for the fuckin’ greenbellies. Don’t give ’em a chance to group up. Diablo and Conall…” she waited for confirmation from them that they’d made it to the ground “…head north. See if you can get the miners riled up.”