Dragon Quadrant (The Sentinel Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  Ortiz and O’Keefe pounded on the metal door to the foundry, screaming for someone to open up.

  “Run!” Carvalho yelled from the truck. There was panic in his voice.

  The two Blackbeard officers sprinted for the truck. The water hit like buckets in the face the instant they left the shelter of the eaves, so thick Tolvern felt like she was drowning in it. The water was already up to her calves in the street, and the two women fought to get through it. The water kept spouting ahead of them, and paving stones spit into the air, splashing down in a cascade of mud and stone.

  Tolvern and Capp both got in the front, bringing so much water with them that Carvalho, sitting behind the wheel, held up an arm to block the spray. The back door opened and two people scrambled in. O’Keefe and Ortiz. Oglethorpe was already in the back of the truck, and muttered a complaint as they shook off like a pair of wet dogs.

  The ground heaved in front of the truck, and a massive shape squirmed up through the mud and broken paving stones. Carvalho got them moving before Ortiz had even closed the door, and drove away in reverse before Tolvern could get a good look at whatever it was that had come out of the ground.

  #

  “I didn’t call because the com system is offline,” Carvalho explained as they rolled down streets that were as much canal now as road. “So I had to come out and find you in person.”

  “The com is still down?” Tolvern asked, frowning. “I thought Smythe was going to have it up and running by midday.”

  Rain thundered on the roof, and while the truck had plenty of clearance, it was slow going pushing through all the water. They came upon what looked like a sinkhole, except it was rapidly filling with runoff. O’Keefe told them in a tense voice to turn around. That was no sinkhole, she said, it was where another toad had broken up through the roadbed.

  “Something to do with the network,” Carvalho said when Tolvern pressed him about the communications system. “We lost computers or something—I don’t know what he is babbling about, you will have to talk to Smythe yourself. He wants to run diagnostics before we leave the planet.”

  Oglethorpe was messing around with weapons in the back, and Tolvern glanced back to see what he’d brought with him. He’d once been special forces, and still fought well in spite of a messed up shoulder. He’d hauled a small arsenal of rifles, shotguns, and hand cannons along, and she figured they might need them if any more toads popped out of the ground.

  “Tell me about the fugitives,” she said, turning back to Carvalho. “Are they still holed up on their ship?”

  “This has nothing to do with me,” Ortiz said. “I want to be let out.”

  “With toads coming out of the street?” O’Keefe said. “Come with us to the yards. They have a perimeter. You’ll be safe until the deluge is over.”

  “Fine, but only until the rain stops. I’m not joining your crew for a thousand guineas.”

  “Yeah, we get it. You’re scared,” Capp said.

  “That is right, Captain,” Carvalho said in answer to Tolvern’s question. “They negotiated with the port authorities, landed in a field a few miles from the yards, and have been sitting there ever since. Nobody has talked to them—I figured it was better to come get you first.”

  Capp studied Carvalho. “Something’s wrong, ain’t it?”

  “I am fine.”

  “I can see it on your face, luv,” Capp said. “Look at him, Cap’n, and tell me I’m wrong.”

  Carvalho’s brow was furrowed, and he hunched over the wheel. And it wasn’t just his posture; his voice was strained, with none of its usual swagger. The presence of giant killer amphibians in the streets might have explained it, but Tolvern had spent enough time with Carvalho in the swampland of Hot Barsa to recognize something else was troubling him.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then looked at Tolvern. “Not sure you want it coming out in front of the new recruits. Not until you’ve got them settled.”

  “I won’t be put off,” O’Keefe said, “and Ortiz won’t be put on, either. Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say it in front of us.”

  “Go ahead, Carvalho,” Tolvern said.

  “It is the com system. Smythe brought it up for testing before he took it offline again. There was a subspace from Mose Dryz. He mentioned his fleet and rendezvousing with Admiral Drake.”

  Capp groaned. “That dumb Hroom. Why the devil would he do that? Doesn’t he know better?”

  “I don’t understand,” O’Keefe said. “What’s the matter with sending a subspace?”

  “It means the buzzards know where we are,” Tolvern said. “If the general sent it, Apex heard it. And that means they know we’re on Samborondón.”

  “Sounds like a lot of worry,” O’Keefe said calmly. “Maybe they weren’t listening. Maybe they’re four systems away.”

  “You haven’t faced the buzzards,” Capp said, “or I fancy you wouldn’t be sitting back there all smug-like.”

  “How long did you say until we leave?” O’Keefe asked. “A couple of days? Get into orbit, get cloaked—we’ll be fine.”

  Tolvern shook her head. “The sensors can’t relay a time when they picked up the subspace, only that it arrived. You need the communication system for that. And it was offline for six days. Who knows when the general sent it, or when the buzzards heard. If he sent it six days ago . . . well, let’s hope he didn’t.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tolvern began to think the threat of toads was over-hyped by the time they reached the outskirts of town. The rain lashed down, pounding on the roof and destroying visibility out the front. Thank God for the viewscreen, which used sensors to construct and display their surroundings. The water channeled into big canals that flanked the road, but by now they were overflowing, and an uprooted tree blocked their path where it had washed across. The truck was partially amphibious, and could go through deep water, but it couldn’t get past the tree.

  The six of them climbed out of the windows and waded into water that was nearly waist-deep. Carvalho and Oglethorpe hooked up a winch to drag the tree out of the way, and the rest of them established a defense perimeter to watch for toads.

  Tolvern peered into the gloom, trying to see anything through the curtains of water and the churning, muddy canals. She had a rifle, but wondered if a life jacket might not be a more critical need as the current sucked at her legs and tried to yank her from her feet. Forget giant toads, the floodwater would drown them if they weren’t careful.

  Capp shouted a warning.

  The canal erupted to their right. A huge, lumpy shape crawled onto the road, ten feet tall and twice as wide as the truck. With a giant, lumpy head that was half the size of the animal itself, and two enormous, bulbous eyes, it really did look like a giant toad, all except for the pig-like snout.

  Tolvern was standing closest, and lifted her rifle as one eye swiveled toward her. The toad’s mouth opened, and a black tongue bunched at the back, ready to strike.

  She shot it in the mouth. Capp and Ortiz fired at the same moment, and O’Keefe opened up a split second later. Carvalho and Oglethorpe dropped the winch and fumbled with their weapons.

  The toad bellowed, a sound that was a cross between an enraged bull and a trumpeting elephant. It hopped backward, and disappeared into the mud and water. She caught a glimpse of its lumpy back emerging from the water, aimed her rifle, and fired again before it was gone.

  “Watch yourself,” O’Keefe said. “We didn’t hurt him, we only pissed him off. He’ll be back.”

  “Stay on that winch,” Tolvern told Carvalho and Oglethorpe. “No matter what happens, you keep working.”

  She’d no sooner said this than the toad burst out of the water again, this time from the other side of the tree. It opened its mouth and tried to swallow Oglethorpe, who’d just got the chain fastened around the trunk. He looked up in time and ducked away, taking shelter between the branches of the tree and shouting for help.

  Tolvern had more time to place her sho
t this time. She aimed at one of its huge eyeballs and squeezed off a shot. It hit a transparent membrane and ricocheted off.

  Tolvern had expected to blind it in one eye, but instead, all she’d done was attract its attention. It hopped over Oglethorpe, who was still cringing among the branches, and splashed into the water in front of the others. The resulting wave swept Carvalho from his feet, and he vanished beneath the surface. Tolvern kept shooting, but the bullets may as well have been bouncing off stone. The toad squatted to leap at her again.

  Capp fired her hand cannon. The grenade hit the animal on the underside of its neck and detonated on impact. It roared again, this time a higher, squealing sound, full of pain. It went under the water, and this time when it came up there was thick, blue-red blood streaming down from its throat. It took a giant leap toward the canal, fleeing, and a huge spray of mud and water lifted when it hit.

  “That’s right!” Capp shouted. She slammed another grenade into the hand cannon. “You want another one? Come back and get it.” She looked around. “Carvalho!”

  He came up sputtering. He slogged back across the road, cursing about having lost his rifle when he went under, seemingly oblivious to Capp’s relief.

  “Get back in the truck, everyone,” O’Keefe said. “That’s not the last of them.”

  Indeed, two more attacked in quick succession as they drove/floated off a few minutes later. The first was a huge toad, even bigger than the first, which appeared suddenly ahead of them. It seized the entire truck with its powerful tongue, but before it could get its mouth around it and contend with the spikes, another, slightly smaller toad hopped out of the river to their left. It, too, caught the truck with its tongue, and soon the two animals were jerking it back and forth between them.

  Inside, the passengers shouted as the fighting tossed them about like ice in a tumbler. Finally, the big toad gave up on the truck and went after the little toad instead. The smaller toad was nearly two thirds its size, but it soon got the thing in its mouth. The bones of the smaller one crunched, and a flailing back leg kicked the truck away.

  The truck rolled onto its side, but it was built like a tank and largely undamaged. Even as the larger toad was still crunching its oversize meal, the humans jumped out and used one of the spikes as a lever to flip the truck upright. They sped off before the toad looked around for dessert.

  Yet another toad caught them moments later, and here they learned the value of the spikes. It got the truck in its mouth, but when it tried to crush its prey, the spikes impaled its mouth. It spit them out and shook its head, bellowing in anger. Once more, they righted themselves and continued on their way. The whole experience was terrifying, but they’d emerged unharmed, and were now passing through a forested stretch and relative tranquility.

  “This isn’t the way to the yards,” Ortiz said a few minutes later.

  “Who said anything about the yards?” Carvalho responded.

  “You did! You said I should come with you to the yards and wait it out. That there’s a perimeter.”

  “He didn’t say that, you bonehead,” O’Keefe said. “I did!”

  “We have a stop to make first,” Tolvern said. “How much farther?”

  Carvalho consulted his computer. “Another thousand yards or so, then down a road to the left. Morpho’s in the middle of a field. Shouldn’t have to look too hard.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with this,” Ortiz said.

  “Fine,” Tolvern said. “Stop the truck, Carvalho. Let him out. Go ahead, Ortiz, I’m sure you know how to swim.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. I didn’t agree to any of this. Take me back to the city.”

  “Shut up, you wanker,” Capp said, “or I’ll throw you out myself.”

  Ortiz started to say something else, but Carvalho cut him off in Ladino, and that finally ended his objections. They took the “road” on the left, which was underwater and only identifiable by the absence of trees. The rain kept thundering down. Soon they emerged from the woods.

  “It’s got to be here,” Carvalho said, squinting down at the viewscreen. “Where could it—diablos!”

  He hit the brakes, and they slid to a sloppy halt. There it was, Morpho, looming ahead of them. They’d very nearly run into the blasted thing. The spacecraft had sunk partway into the mud, and had been misidentified on the viewscreen as a small hillock.

  They all tumbled out, including Ortiz, who wouldn’t be left alone inside. Tolvern tried to shield her eyes and mouth from the water, but the rain was coming down so hard that it felt like she was drowning.

  She muttered an oath as she took in the ship. “How the devil are we going to get inside?”

  “She ain’t got much armor,” Capp said. She patted her hand cannon. “How about this old beauty?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s got enough to deflect high-velocity space debris—there’s no way a grenade or two will do the trick. Oglethorpe, see if you can raise Blackbeard or the yards. Tell them our predicament.”

  “There’s a plasma torch at the foundry that’ll cut through the skin,” O’Keefe said.

  “Don’t do us much good here, do it?” Capp said. “And I don’t fancy going back for it and facing them toads again.”

  “Com link still down, sir,” Oglethorpe said.

  Ortiz had sloshed ahead, muttering in Ladino, and Tolvern could still hear him, though he’d vanished into the rain, like a man walking through a waterfall. She caught a glimpse of movement along the hulking form of the spacecraft as he made his way around it.

  “Or you could go in through the open door,” he called back.

  They hurried up to where he stood next to the ship. Sure enough, the bay doors were open, rain pouring into an empty cargo space. A loading ramp extended down and disappeared into the water. Tolvern kicked around in the water until she found the edge.

  “Everyone armed? Good, let’s go.”

  They made their way up the ramp and into a cargo space about thirty-five feet long and fifteen feet wide. Water was already lapping nearly to the opening, and if it rose another few inches, it would start to flood the cargo bay.

  Worse than that, Tolvern realized as she looked around. The airlock leading from the cargo area into the rest of the ship was also open. Once water rose into the bay, it would stream into the rest of the ship, maybe all the way to the electronics and engine room. Crew quarters, bridge too.

  The others looked to Tolvern for guidance, and she nodded and gestured toward the open airlock. Ortiz had come in with them, but now tried to slink back outside.

  O’Keefe and Capp collared him. “Oh, no you don’t, you coward,” O’Keefe said in a low voice.

  “Someone give this tosser a weapon,” Capp said. “If it comes to shooting, you can do your job, mate.”

  Carvalho slapped a pistol into Ortiz’s hands and glared, as if daring him to run off or use the weapon to bluster his way free.

  “Fine,” Ortiz said irritably. “But don’t think this changes anything.”

  The hot, humid air of Samborondón’s climate gave way to a stench of sweat, vomit, and urine as they made their way across the cargo bay and into the passageways on the other side. Partially empty ration containers lay rotting on the floor, and they came upon a place where someone had loosed his bowels in the hallway. There was strangely sweet scent mixed in with the stench.

  “Ugh,” Capp said, her face scrunched up. “Smells like someone took a shite on a birthday cake.”

  The corridor branched in two. Tolvern held Oglethorpe and the still-reluctant Ortiz at the juncture, then brought the other three along with her toward the bridge on her left. They reached it moments later, only to find it empty. More filth here, the rubbish ankle deep: half-empty tubes of peanut butter paste, meat sauce spilling from packets and going rancid, an overturned bin of wheat kernels, like someone had been eating it raw. Dried vomit sprayed the console at the captain’s chair. Gobs of what looked like mashed-up slug slime splattered the flo
or.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Tolvern said.

  “Hell, no,” Capp said. “You don’t think we’re gonna get the plague or the sweaty dance or nothing?”

  “Not unless the buzzards show up and spit up in your face.”

  “How you know they ain’t here already?”

  The captain didn’t know, now that she thought about it.

  The four of them didn’t linger on the bridge, but went back to where Oglethorpe and Ortiz were still waiting. They cautiously took a jog in the corridor, went past the empty mess hall (itself filthy with food and other waste), by a bathroom that was beyond disgusting, and into the living quarters. There were only two rooms. The first had a single bunk, and here they found one of the two fugitives.

  It was Djikstra, the one who’d led them to the Kettle System to look for the Singaporeans. He lay motionless on the bunk, face pale and waxy, apparently dead. Befouled clothing, vomit, and more drying gobs of snot-like substance covered the floor. Tolvern’s stomach heaved at the stench.

  “Don’t go in there, Cap’n!” Capp said.

  A trickle of nervous perspiration beaded at Tolvern’s temple. No, this wasn’t the plague or the sweaty dance, that illness that left people thrashing helplessly until they were soaked in sweat and dying of exhaustion. It was an even more frightening disease. But she didn’t think it was communicable, not like that. Still, she remained in the corridor rather than enter and verify that Djikstra was dead.

  Carvalho moved to the second room. “I found the other one, Captain.”

  It was Megat, and he was alive. This room had four bunks, and the man sat on the edge of one of them, his bare feet on the floor, right in the filth. His chest was bare, but he wore thin, pajama-like trousers below. Stubble covered his face; his eyes were bloodshot. He carried no weapon, and Tolvern lowered her gun after a quick glance to make sure the room was clear.

  “Capp, make sure the other one doesn’t get up or try anything funny. I think he’s dead, but we won’t take chances.”