by Rick Barba
* * *
Petrov sat now, stunned.
Kate Starling had rejoined her on the bench. Volk stood behind his table. He put his hands flat on it. Then he leaned forward, head down.
He said, “I’m sorry, Petrov.”
Petrov stared at him. “I’m the designated fear carrier,” she said.
“It appears so,” he replied.
Her eyes darkened to anger. “The Hunter,” she said, teeth clenched. She turned to Starling.
Starling shook her head. “This is something new,” she said.
“Entirely new,” agreed Volk.
Petrov turned to him. “Let me find him,” she said.
Volk shook his head no. “This is not on you,” he said.
Petrov jumped up, hands on hips. “How can you say that?”
Volk’s eyes flared. He rose up to his formidable full height.
“This is not on you,” he repeated, slower. “You are restricted to camp. You’ll take a four-week leave of recovery. Understood?”
She dropped her hands. After a few seconds, she took a breath and said, “Yes, sir.”
“I’ve called in all of our hunting parties,” said Volk. “We have plenty of provisions for winter. Everyone stays in camp for now.” His look was fierce. “Now go. I have much to do.”
Starling took Petrov’s arm and guided her outside. Chung, the guard, nodded as she passed. The women walked across camp without speaking. Cooking smells filled the air, the smell of game, and it sickened Petrov. When they reached her tent, Starling held open the flap.
She said, “I’ll see you for tea in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I do,” said Starling.
* * *
Petrov sat on her bedroll.
Shadows floated across the tent’s sun-facing walls as Reapers walked past outside. Each shadow was a nine-foot specter. No amount of visualization could change that. Replaying the slaughter in loops, Petrov stayed and fought every time, trying every shooting angle so that CK’s head wouldn’t explode and Jeannie Natter wouldn’t be slit open like a sausage casing.
Every tall shadow would haunt her—awake or asleep, it didn’t matter—until she took action.
Shortly after nightfall, Petrov cleaned her rifle, sharpened her knife, filled her canteen, and stuffed her travel pack with dried food. She strapped a small tube tent and bedroll to the pack frame.
Avoiding campfires, Petrov slipped out of New Samara.
* * *
She hiked cliffside trails along the Indian Peaks—Apache, Navajo, Kiowa—in darkness for five slow, painstaking hours before pitching the tent in Arapaho Pass.
At dawn, Petrov woke and continued east. She moved fast, knowing Kate Starling would visit her tent soon, find her gone, and inform Volk. They would guess where she was going, so she wanted a solid head start.
By sunrise, following the old Fourth of July Road, Petrov was past Nederland. By nine, she could see Bear Peak ahead, backlit by the sun.
By noon, she was atop Devil’s Thumb, where her hunt would begin.
* * *
Tracking is part method, part instinct.
Even the best-trained bloodhound is stymied when the physical trail goes cold. A good tracker sometimes needs to look up from the ground to find other signs of the prey’s destination or purpose.
Petrov was a good tracker. In fact, it was her specialty, one reason she led Reaper hunting parties.
Traces of the Hunter were plentiful on Devil’s Thumb, and the physical trail was easy enough to follow at first. But the first meta-clue came before Petrov even descended the spire. As she stood at the lip, she heard a distant droning from the northeast.
She watched as two big-shouldered ADVENT cargo transports slowly approached, then passed directly overhead, loudly. A thick, armored section of prefabricated military-grade wall dangled by cables beneath each craft. Robotic gun-turrets bristled at the corners of each wall section.
She watched them fly to the southwest.
As they did, she remembered Central Officer Bradford’s words: We think they’re building some sort of high-altitude facility over on the Western Slope. Judging from the cargo, ADVENT was making a military move into the high country. A forward operating base.
Maybe the Hunter was spearheading that move. Maybe he was recon. Search and destroy.
Maybe that’s his base.
Petrov eye-marked the exact spot where the big haulers disappeared over the snowcapped peaks of the Divide. Then she pulled out her mapbook and plotted their course. She knew that ADVENT flew as the crow flies, locking dead-on to final destination coordinates. After all, they controlled the skies completely; no need for evasive waypoint flying. So she drew a straight line from Devil’s Thumb southwest into the Elk Mountains.
If she lost the Hunter’s trail, she would follow the line as closely as possible, given the terrain.
Then she descended the Thumb and examined the ground. The first footprints were just off the rocky talus. The Hunter’s tracks were large and deep, and his footwear left a distinctive sole mark. In places they disappeared completely, sometimes for fifty meters or more. Then they’d reappear with a long, two-grooved landing skid.
The tracks led southwest. She followed them for an hour. They disappeared completely in a meadow where a patch of ground was blackened by engine burn. A transport pickup.
She stood on the spot for a minute, then consulted her map.
The Elk range was wild, rugged country, accessible only via backroad passes and trails. She estimated at least two days, maybe three, just to get across the Divide.
As far as Petrov knew, no Reaper had ever been back there before.
She would be the first.
FOUR DAYS AFTER the grisly discovery at Tuhare Lake, leaders of all twelve Skirmisher tribes in the Intermountain West region answered a summons from Mox. Each brought a squad of their best soldiers, as requested.
The meeting convened at the new Wildcat camp location. After the ADVENT attack at Turquoise Lake, the Wildcat crew had hauled the entire village west, deeper into Colorado’s Western Slope. They’d resettled in gladed terrain next to a creek-fed basin near the bottom of the old Snowmass Village ski runs.
The first evening, Darox and his Kestrel tribesmen made their grim report to the gathering. Their presentation included disturbing images of the massacre scene. Then Mox spoke.
“I bring greetings from Betos,” he announced. “I also bring news and a proposition.”
Sitting behind Mox, Darox ran his fingertips lightly over the scar on the back of his head. He glanced at Mahnk next to him, who looked miserable. Mahnk had finally completed his neurochip extraction rite just the day before. The procedure made him so nauseous that the post-rite ceremony had to be postponed.
“We face two existential threats,” said Mox. “We propose a mission that may address both. As the humans say, kill two birds with a single stone.”
A few of the tribal leaders exchanged puzzled glances. Most Skirmishers took things very literally. Metaphors and human tropes were often lost on them.
“We have all heard of the Assassin now,” continued Mox. “You have seen her image. Speaking with you individually today, I have learned that her Kestrel ambush may be just the latest in a series of recent incidents.”
“Let her come again!” cried a female voice in the back. “We will tear her apart like tissue paper!”
This got the audience fired up; there was a metaphor they understood. Mox patiently waited out the yelling and chest thumping, then raised his hand.
“Revenge will be ours, brothers and sisters,” he said calmly. “Hear me out.”
Darox watched closely. Mox had a natural, unforced command presence. The crowd immediately quieted, and respectful faces turned to him.
“Our long-scouts recently discovered an ADVENT hive of activity not eight miles from here,” said Mox. “Maybe you have heard reports or seen the heavy t
ransports passing to the south.” He made an angry fist. “Those are not reconnaissance patrols. This is a material incursion with, I fear, permanent designs.”
Murmurs rippled across the audience. “So it is a combat outpost?” called out a voice.
Mox raised his hands.
“We do not have details yet,” he said. “But it appears to include a troop garrison. Sentries have spotted ADVENT soldiers patrolling passes under the Maroon Bells. It may be an attempt to establish a provincial center.”
Another voice called out, “About time they imposed some order on these unruly mountain settlements.”
This prompted general laughter.
Then a chief with fearsome face tattoos stood up in the front row. “Could this explain the appearance of the cowardly Assassin?” he bellowed.
“It could be related,” nodded Mox.
“The alien monster clearly hates Skirmishers,” said the tattooed chief. “Perhaps ADVENT is building a mountain base for her, with the express purpose of wiping us out.”
“There is much we do not know yet, Praag,” said Mox. “But you could be right.”
Darox glanced over at Koros and Rika. The hike back down from Tuhare Lake had been excruciating. Both carried their grief and shock in stoic silence, but it was clearly rooted deep, particularly in Rika. Over the past days, he’d spent much of his time with them. Camp rituals kept them busy, but they needed more. They needed vengeance.
Mox took a few more questions, then got to the point.
“We will drive ADVENT from our mountains,” he said. “But we must flush out this Assassin. The new outpost may be the monster’s lair, her base of operations. But we believe that, even if it is not, an assault there may lure the Assassin to support the facility. And if she does, we will be ready, trap laid.”
Darox suddenly stood.
He said, “A point, sir.”
Mox turned to him. “Yes?”
Darox indicated the other Kestrels sitting beside him. “We respectfully ask to be included in any expedition to the ADVENT outpost.”
Mox looked at Koros, then Rika. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Granted. Anything else?”
“No, brother,” said Darox.
* * *
The strike force was large by Skirmisher standards. Most tribal activity was hit-and-run, conducted in small squads. But Mox put together a full platoon-sized detachment of five separate clan-based squads, each with six warriors—five soldiers plus their tribal chief as leader. The rest of the visiting tribes would help the Wildcat cohort secure the new settlement location, setting up sentries and checkpoints in the passes surrounding Snowmass.
Mox also added a four-man recon fireteam to the strike force. Led by Darox, the team included Rika, Koros, and Mahnk. Rika looked sullen when Mox announced the assignment, but she made no comment.
Mahnk, of course, was thrilled. “We spearhead an assault on a heavily fortified position!” he exclaimed. “What could be more glorious?”
“Our role is recon, brother,” said Koros, amused. “I suspect our job will be to find the secret back door.”
Mahnk chortled. “And then bash our way inside!”
Koros secured two ten-round shotgun mag-loaders into the ammo pouch on his combat vest. “We will be right behind you, friend.”
Darox laughed. But Rika stood up, grabbed her gear, and walked toward the supply tent. They watched her go.
“She is taking it hard,” said Koros.
“Understandable,” said Darox.
Mahnk’s smile disappeared. “I will apologize,” he said, rising to follow Rika.
Koros grabbed Mahnk’s arm.
“No,” he said. “She needs to be solitary with her thoughts. That is how she is. How she’s always been.” He looked at Darox. “I do not envy your job, Captain.”
Darox thought a moment. Then he asked, “Did she lose anybody special?”
Koros shrugged. “We are all brothers and sisters,” he said.
“Yes, we are all kin,” nodded Mahnk, blinking.
“But sometimes there is someone special,” said Darox.
“Really?”
“Yes, Mahnk.” Darox looked over at the other troops gearing up for battle. “We are mostly human, after all.”
* * *
Scout intel placed the ADVENT “hive” near the old quarry town of Marble. Although the straight-line distance from Wildcat was eight miles, Marble sat on the far side of a nearly impassable line of high peaks. The next morning, Mox’s adjutant Loka was monitoring the regional weather forecast coming out of New Denver.
“Heavy snow squalls at higher elevations,” she reported. “Not good.”
“How soon?” asked Mox.
“Soon,” she replied. “You do not want to be on a rock face above ten thousand feet.”
So Mox led the Skirmisher detachment on a fifty-six-mile detour, following old roads north through El Jebel, then curving around the high peaks back south. They skirted the notoriously lawless settlement of Carbondale. From there it was straight up the Crystal River Valley to Marble.
Skirmishers were hardy and fit, trained to jog double-time for long stretches. Even so, it was nearly sundown when they finally spotted the old town up ahead. They hadn’t seen a single ADVENT patrol or flyer on the entire trek.
Mox called together his squad leaders.
“We camp for the night,” he said. He pointed out a wooded spot near the river. “No fires.”
As the full detachment plunged into the pine trees, Mahnk moved up beside Darox. Snow flurries swirled through the branches.
“This is a little odd, don’t you think?” he asked quietly.
“How so?” replied Darox. He found a protected hillock, so he dropped his pack and slid off his sleep sack.
“Too quiet.”
Darox nodded. “It is quiet.”
“No ADVENT anywhere.”
Darox opened his canteen and said, “Our scouts tracked the transports here.”
“Well, I just used my scope to check ahead,” said Mahnk, pointing down the road. “Marble looks completely deserted. Not even stray dogs.”
“Our scouts do not make mistakes, brother.”
“But then where is the outpost?” asked Mahnk.
Suddenly, Mox’s voice boomed through the trees: “Recon!”
Darox widened his eyes. “I think somebody wants us to find out.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, weapons drawn, Darox’s recon team dashed along Crystal River to the town perimeter. Marble was indeed abandoned. All structures and roads were in utter disrepair. It looked as if nothing had been disturbed in decades.
“Nothing but ghosts,” said Mahnk, gazing at a toppled building with a sign that read, “Crystal River Jeep Tours.”
“Another dead town,” said Rika abruptly. “How shocking.”
The others looked at her. It was the first time she’d spoken in hours. After a few seconds, Koros said, “These mountains are unforgiving.”
“Unforgiving?”
“Yes, sister.”
She said, “Everything is dying up here.”
Koros looked around and said, “All I see is life everywhere, living on.”
Rika gave him a dark look. “Are you serious?”
Koros nodded. “I am.”
“Well, aren’t you the happy fellow.”
“I am, sister,” said Koros. “Although I admit I do wish that life cared more about me.” He shouldered his shotgun. “When I die, which could be any minute now, I will probably curse life for going on as if I never existed.”
Mahnk, who’d been following the conversation with a confused look on his face, said, “Wait. What is that sound?”
They all listened.
Suddenly, a wave of loud mechanical clanking and grinding rolled across town. It came down a cracked asphalt road marked “3C” on a road sign.
“Heavy machines?” said Koros.
They took off at a trot along the roadsi
de. After a half mile, the asphalt veered rightward, following a small creek up a side canyon. Another series of sharp, grinding sounds reverberated off the canyon walls. Darox stopped and checked the GPS map in his wrist intel unit.
“This is Yule Creek,” he said. “The road runs a mile farther to an old marble quarry.”
“Ah,” said Koros, “that explains the town’s name.”
“It explains a lot actually,” said Darox, scrolling up a report.
Yule marble was very famous marble, it turned out. The immense, flawless deposits of metamorphosed limestone, found only in this canyon, were considered the purest in the world. Yule marble had been used to build the exterior of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery, two iconic human monuments that didn’t mean much to Darox, though he understood they had great symbolic significance.
More important to the moment: The report he read noted that thousands of massive eight-by-eight-foot marble blocks had been carved out of the interior of Whitehouse Mountain just up the road. This left a vast, luminous cavern, geometric and perfect, lined with 99.5 percent pure calcite.
“The entire mountain is a marble-lined vault,” said Darox, still reading.
“What?”
Darox looked at Rika. “Perhaps ADVENT is using the quarry to build some kind of super-secure storage facility.”
“To store what?” she asked.
“Good question.”
Suddenly, about a mile up the canyon, the lights of an ADVENT Troop Transport rose vertically into sight above the tree line. A second one followed, then a third, then two more. They spread into a loose V formation and, with noses dipped, accelerated slowly down the canyon toward them.
The team scrambled into the trees and watched the boats ferry past.
“Five transports,” said Darox.
“That’s a lot of troops,” said Koros.
Mahnk smiled. “Enough for robust combat.”
The sky was darkening fast. It was another mile to the quarry site, and the deep growl of heavy machinery grew louder every step of the way. Twice they had to avoid haulers rolling down the road. To circumvent an ADVENT sentry checkpoint, Darox led his team across Yule Creek and up a rock ramp on the opposite canyon wall.
