Cameron ran after him a few steps as he headed for the forest, but Derek yelled at her, "Cameron, get back here. Let him go."
Cameron halted and Savage disappeared, fading into the blackness between the trees.
Derek issued combat orders, taking the first patrol. Marching along like a dazed distance runner, he circled the fire, then headed all the way out around the perimeter of the open field, keeping a safe distance from the forest on the north side.
Diego removed the larva from the cruise box and placed it outside. He tested its responses to a number of stimuli--different touches, movements, and sounds--until the larva inched away, curled up and ceased responding at all. Tank was reclining on the grass, a safe distance from where the larva lay. Cameron stared at the larva blankly, trying to quell the storm rising inside her.
His boots shushing through the grass, Derek walked past them. The fire flickered over his face. He'd completed the route five times, passing right in front of them, and not once had he spoken. Aside from the large black crescents under his eyes, his face was pale. His lips, moving as he mumbled to himself, looked blue.
Savage had left his shirt on the ground, and Szabla leaned over and picked it up. Removing her ripped undershirt, she slid his shirt over her bare skin.
Derek moved past them and around the fire like a ghost, and Szabla raised her head to watch him walking away. She tried to laugh, but it came out angry. She lowered her voice so that Diego and Rex, sitting on the far log across the fire, couldn't hear her. "He's not being level and he's not making good assessments."
Cameron ran her fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp near the back.
"He's not taking charge," Szabla hissed. "He hasn't been on top of things since he's been back. It must feel too similar to--"
Cameron interrupted, her voice slow, weighed down. "He'll get it under control. He always does." She leaned over and gently touched the larva's back before she realized what she'd done and pulled her hand away.
"I called in to Mako today. Just before I paged Tucker."
Tank propped himself up on his elbows. Cameron turned slowly. "You did what?" she asked.
"You heard me. I am the AOIC and I have grave concerns about Derek's ability to lead this mission. Now that a legitimate threat has been introduced into the equation, I'm even more concerned. We need to bump him and reestablish the chain of command."
"With you taking over."
"That is how it works," Szabla answered coldly.
Cameron found a stick and pushed it into the ground, her lips pressed together. "Glad we're being supportive. His comrades in arms. I mean, if he can't count on his platoon--"
"Cameron. Fuck you and wake up. This isn't Aunty Jane going into rehab. This has turned into a serious military op. Loyalty is not the most useful attribute right now."
Cameron cleared her throat sharply. "What'd Mako say?"
Szabla looked away. "My complaint has been registered, but he doesn't want to contradict an officer downrange. If he shuts Derek down, it looks bad all the way around. It would take a substantial amount of pres-sure to get him to do that--we're not gonna have the time to tap dance around."
"So what are you saying?"
"At some point, it might be worth being more...active, even if it means we get brought before the commander when we get back," Szabla said. Cameron shook her head, cursing softly. "You're gonna be key here, Cam." Szabla leaned back, studying the sky. "You're the one every-one trusts, though why exactly that is beats the shit out of me."
Cameron looked over at Justin, but he was watching the fire, the flames playing across his face. Tank angled his arm back, cracking his shoulder.
"Regardless of how swell and interesting our scientists and Derek might think this thing is," Szabla said, jerking her head toward the larva, "we have no idea what it's gonna metamorphose into. Savage's story may be true."
Tank regarded the larva suspiciously. Justin laughed, a dry, hollow laugh. "Or we could be wrong and this thing could be harmless."
Cameron's face contracted as though she were going to cry, though she felt no tears moving through her. "I hope so," she said quietly. She rose, brushing the dirt from the log off her behind. "In any event, I'm gonna go warn Ramon and Floreana."
"Who?" Szabla asked, but Cameron was already heading for the road.
Szabla pried a piece of bark off the log between her legs. "Maybe the world is coming undone," she said. "Cam didn't request permission."
The wind was drawing through the watchtower again, howling like a banshee. Somewhere, moving beneath the surface of the sound, Derek thought he heard his baby daughter's laugh. It twirled like a wind chime and vanished back into the howling.
He trudged along the field, reflecting about responsibility. It was something he spent a lot of time thinking about, particularly Before. He had a responsibility to complete the mission, to assist in all aspects of Rex's survey, but there was also something more than that. A responsi-bility to life, a responsibility to protect things that could not protect themselves.
He had failed once already.
Chapter 43
Cameron called out once as she neared the small house so as not to surprise the couple or find herself on the wrong end of a swinging ax. She gazed at the dark stretch of the forest in the distance, the ribbons of garua hanging in the air like bands of fabric.
Ramon met her at the door, his dark hands and dirty fingernails pro-nounced against the light bloque on which they rested. "Hello, gringa," he said. Cameron noticed for the first time the space between his front teeth, a gap from which he drew attention away with the sharp line of his mustache.
"Hola," Cameron said. She started to speak, but he stepped forward and embraced her. Awkwardly, she allowed herself to be hugged.
"You are good to have come and checked on us," he said.
"How is she?" Cameron asked.
Ramon stepped back, gesturing for Cameron to come inside.
Floreana was sitting in a wide wooden chair at the kitchen table, her legs spread and her stomach bulging out before her. She was dozing off, her head rolling forward before snapping back up. Cameron and Ramon watched her for a few moments, and Cameron felt her first smile in a long time rise to her lips. Floreana's eyes finally flashed open, catching a glimpse of the visitor, and then she was wide awake, scolding her husband.
"It's all right," Cameron said. "I'm just glad to see that everything's okay. How are you feeling?"
Floreana groaned, lacing her hands dramatically around her belly, as if carrying a load of laundry. She stood, arching forward to stretch her back. When she saw the expression on Cameron's face, her smile van-ished. "What's wrong?" she asked.
Cameron shook her head. "I'm sorry to alarm you." She looked down at her boots, her men's size-ten feet. "As if you don't have enough on your mind right now."
"What?" Ramon asked. His thumb twitched against the scar of his index finger.
"Well, that thing you talked about, whatever it was, it may have killed one of our men. I'm just concerned... I'm concerned if it comes near here that you... the baby...I don't know." Cameron's face was flushed, though she had no idea why. She fought to keep the softness of her emotions from seeping into her voice. "I would stay here myself to stand guard, but I can't. It would be breaking orders."
Ramon smiled at her affectionately, and Cameron realized how fool-ish she must sound to this kind, simple man--a woman offering to pro-tect his house.
"We'll be all right," Ramon said. "Though I thank you."
"For what?" Cameron asked.
Floreana stepped forward, resting her hands on Cameron's shoulders. "For your thoughts," she said. "For your kind eyes."
Cameron looked down. She twisted her boot on the dirt ground, leaving the imprint of a fan.
"You are not like most of the others, you know," Floreana said, tilting her head in the direction of the soldiers' base camp. "We have watched them, joking and planning and quarreling." She shook her he
ad. "You are not like them."
The urge to respond defensively rose in Cameron's throat--just as quickly, it quelled. "Why?" She surprised herself. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes felt loose, as if they were slipping in their sockets.
Floreana raised a hand, laying it gently on Cameron's cheek. Cameron had not been touched like that by anyone except Justin since childhood. She felt suddenly young and naive, powerless. "You have so much to give," Floreana said.
Cameron raised a hand, gripping Floreana around the wrist and pulling her arm away. She smiled once, curtly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm...not used to... " She studied the small fireplace, feeling Ramon's and Floreana's eyes on her.
She turned to leave, then stopped herself. Slowly, she raised her head, again meeting Floreana's eyes. She saw her own trembling hand pointing at Floreana's stomach. "May I?" she asked.
Floreana nodded. "Of course."
Cameron reached out and laid her hand across Floreana's full belly. Her knees felt weak, on the verge of buckling, so she sank down, planting them on the dirt floor. Floreana pulled the blunted edge of Cameron's hair off her cheek and drew her softly toward her stomach. Cameron turned her head, resting her ear flat against the globe of Flore-ana's belly.
She closed her eyes and listened.
Chapter 44
Savage was back in the forest. Sometimes he felt he belonged there-- that was his curse and his blessing. A kid from the bad side of Pitts-burgh, a city of smokestacks, drab concrete, and cigarette butts in gutters, and yet he'd spent more time than he'd care to remember sur-rounded by nothing but fronds and trees and things that went hiss in the night.
Slung low in the fork of a tree as if awaiting prey, body streaked with dried mud and grime, eyes beading white behind a mask of filth and the dusty tinge of a wild man's beard, Savage cocked his head and listened for the faintest sound. Camouflaged with mud, he blended into the branch, coiled along its length like an anaconda. He dropped from the tree and stepped into the hunt.
Stalking through the wilderness, hunting and being hunted, it made his balls tighten with the thrill. He could still remember the way it felt when he belly-crawled up behind a cluster of gooks on a stakeout, stood with his M-60 hammering in his arms like a living thing before they could even turn around. Like he'd shattered the third plate with as many baseballs and won the fuckin' Kewpie doll.
He was shirtless, streaked with mud and rain and sweat. He moved effortlessly, picking through the terrain like a native thing, whistling behind tree trunks, easing through underbrush, flowing through show-ers of vines so precisely that he blended with their movement.
Using no compass, he navigated through the darkness, feeling the plants wet against his face. He paused about a half mile from the spot where the creature had struck, pulling the Death Wind from his ankle sheath. He flexed his arm, curling his fist to his chin, and made an inci-sion along the backside of his forearm. It was not deep; it would let blood, but not too much blood, and it would heal quickly.
Turning his face up so the rain fell across his cheeks, he exhaled deeply, the noise whisked away in the wind, then continued through the mud and the leaves.
Blood curled down his arm, wrapping itself in thick bands around his wrist, moistening his palm and fingers until they were hot and sticky. He left blood on the fronds and leaves, in droplets on the mud, on tree trunks against which he leaned.
He left his blood on the forest.
The creature cleaned herself fastidiously, rubbing her forelegs over her face like a cat. She pulled her antennae down, sucking the blood off them, then wiped her eyes. It was essential that she remove all food from her eyes and antennae so that it wouldn't interfere with her sensory per-ception.
Bending her enormous head down, she nibbled free the chunks of flesh stuck in the tines of her legs.
She fluttered her translucent underwings once, folding them neatly beneath their protective outer wings, and headed back toward the thicket of bushes nestled between the trees in front of her. She stopped and retched twice, long shudders originating in her abdomen, and brought up Tucker's thermite grenade. It flew from her mouth as if she'd spit it, plopping in the mud beside Tucker's head.
She eyed it curiously.
A distant vibration reached her antennae and they snapped upright. She froze, holding one foreleg off the ground like a bird dog pointing, and waited for further vibrations. There were none.
But then it reached her antennae, the pungent reek of alarm pheromones.
Slowed by the considerable weight in her belly, she plodded in the direction of the scent, swiveling her head to glance around for the wounded prey. Her movements were conspicuous, brazen.
There was an almost arachnid jerkiness to her walk, but also an odd grace. Despite the formidable length of her body, she never scraped against trees or broke branches, not even with her rounded back or hind legs.
The rain washed over her and the forest, confusing her slightly since it made the leaves and twigs vibrate with small, lifelike motions. It appeared agitated, the forest.
The first drop of blood she came across was nestled in the palm of a large fern frond, protected from the rain by a broader frond that stretched over it like an umbrella. She paused, sensing the blood. Then she sped up, crashing through the underbrush, her antennae quivering, her eyes focusing to take in mosaic after mosaic of the forest. Her feet pressed hooflike imprints in the mud.
The blood trail was clearly marked, smudged through the mud and the plants. She crossed a hunk of tree bark liberally doused with blood and her head pivoted a near half turn on her thin neck, her mouth working like a pulsing heart.
Then the trail ended.
She stopped, a vine draped scarflike over her shoulder. Her raptorial legs were raised, snapping back on themselves, hungry mouths. There was no more blood, just rain and leaves and air so hot it steamed beneath the canopy. She leaned forward, her head inches off the ground, and examined the mud, then the tree trunks and the plants surrounding her. Craning her neck, she ran her head over the ground like a vacuum cleaner.
Ten feet behind her, one of her footprints vibrated, then the mud bubbled upward beneath it as though the earth were belching. A dome pulled itself from the sticky earth, mud thick with filth draining off its sides in gooey sheets.
As the mud fell away around it, two arms became visible, ridged at the shoulders, then the back haunches of some jungle thing. The haunches rose like a sprinter's in the blocks, then Savage pulled himself erect. His eyes blinked open, flashes of white amidst brown.
In a single clean movement, the mud slid from the Death Wind knife clutched in his hand, plopping to the earth. The blade gleamed cold and steel.
He saw the creature's antennae snap to attention. She started to turn her head.
Savage's heart pounded in his ears. He heard nothing, though he knew he was yelling at the top of his lungs as he charged; it was just him and his heart thundering through his body as he leapt up on the thing's back, his boot almost slipping off the slick waxy exoskeleton before taking hold in a crunch of wing and body. He propelled himself forward across the length of the abdomen toward the torsolike thorax, arms out-stretched to hug the big boulder of a head that was swiveling to look directly at him over its own body. His shoulder struck her cheek just before the razor-sharp mandibles could turn into him like tusks, and the thing reared like a stallion, her wings kicking open beneath his legs, her spiked front legs flailing and crushing closed. He would've slid off had he not locked an arm around the long thin neck, the crook of his fore-arm and biceps cinched against the thing's throat, and his yell fell into a growl though he still couldn't hear it. He was snarling through clenched teeth like a dog, his face heavy with mud and his bare chest flat against her body as she reared and shook and reared again, her cutting jaws snapping shut on air and air and air. The edge of his knife was inches from his cheek.
The creature pivoted, striking the base of a tree roughly and bringing down a scattering of le
aves over Savage. He held his arm tight around her neck, locking up the wrist with his other hand, and nuzzled his face into the union of his fists under the knife, smelling mud and the scent of his own warm flesh.
Something crunched, a seam bursting in the cuticle, and the creature paused, only for a moment, but that was enough. Yanking the head to the side with all his force, Savage ripped the knife through her neck, dig-ging so deep he could feel the ooze against his knuckles. The creature's hissing went silent in a whistle of air that bubbled wetly from the sev-ered trachea in the gash. Shaking and twitching, she fell, her front legs folding so she looked as though she were kneeling. Her back legs gave out and she collapsed, Savage riding her down into the mud like a cow-boy, his legs forked over the spot where her thorax met her lengthy abdomen.
He flung the head aside, and it flapped limply from the sheet of flesh hinged on the intact cuticle at the back of the neck. His boots sank in mud almost to the ankles when he slid off the abdomen.
The rain had cleared some of the mud from his body, but he was still filthy. His hair was heavy, tangled with grime. He sheathed his blade, pat-ting it once affectionately.
He recognized the sour taste in his mouth. Combat juice, they used to call it, the saliva that flooded one's tongue along the sides. Some water had collected on a frond, and he poured it over his mouth and chin, drinking. Crouching to rest by a tree, he plucked a granadilla from the mud and split the shell with his thumbs, scraping his bottom teeth along the lining of the skin to get at the meat.
Once he no longer felt his heart moving in his chest, he rose and faced the dead creature. He grabbed her back legs and tugged, and the large body slid easily in the mud. She was surprisingly light given her size. She'd had a good fighting build--large body surface in proportion to bulk, low weight to leverage her strength.
It had taken him nearly an hour to get out there; it would be at least three more pulling the thing back to base camp. He began the trek, clenching the back legs between his biceps and sides and dragging the corpse behind him. The wings crumpled up under the body, their slick-ness helping him move it through the mud.
Minutes to Burn (2001) Page 26
