“They’re monogamous, you know?” Kim had said. “All that flying, all that distance; tens of thousands of them crammed into a small space like this, all of them looking exactly alike. And yet somehow they snuggle up next to their mate at day’s end. Somehow they find each other.”
“In Maori culture, the birds are the messengers of the gods,” Mazer had said. “Legend has it that the first of our people came here in a fleet of waka, or canoes, following the flight of the godwits. They were the guides the gods had given us. There’s a song about it that the children sing.”
“Do you know it?”
“Most of it.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He laughed. “What, you want me to sing it? Now?”
“We’re alone. I won’t laugh, I swear. I think it’s fascinating. You don’t talk about this kind of stuff. Your culture, I mean. I want to know about it.”
“It’s a children’s song, Kim. It’s in Maori.”
“I’ll never ask you to sing anything ever again. I promise.”
He had felt silly, but there was such pleading in her eyes that he had acquiesced and sung it. He had even done the hand motions: the paddling canoes and the flapping and swooping of the godwits. She had watched his every move, the corners of her mouth curling up into a smile. When he finished, her eyes were misted with tears and she had told him that she loved him. The words had come out of her almost in a whisper.
He had not expected it. But to hear her say it was like lightning in his chest.
He didn’t know how to respond. Did he love her as well? And if he did, what were the consequences of him saying so?
The silence between them had lingered.
She wiped at her eyes, slightly embarrassed. “I don’t expect you to say anything, Mazer. I know you’re not ready to say those words. But when you are, if that moment ever comes, say them to me in Maori.”
Two weeks later he had left for China.
Bingwen was watching him. “You’re thinking of her right now, aren’t you?”
“I’m glad you got to speak with her, Bingwen. That makes me very happy. She’s a very special person to me, and so are you. When my friends become friends, I’m happy.”
Bingwen had smiled and was about to say something when a voice from the holotable filled the room.
“Greetings, gentlemen. My name is Lem Jukes. Thank you for returning our holo.”
The man’s head and torso appeared above the holotable. He gestured to his right and motioned others to join him in the holofield. “Victor, Imala, join me in here please. Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Imala Bootstamp and Victor Delgado, the team that has infiltrated the Formic ship and who will lead this effort.” Lem looked at something slightly to the left. “Thank you for setting up cameras on your end. We see you have everyone gathered.”
Wit went through the introductions, leaving Mazer and Bingwen for the end.
“Thank you for connecting us, Bingwen,” said Imala.
There was a time delay that took some getting used to. Wit and Lem kept talking over each other, realizing too late that they were doing it, and then they would stop and restart again. But soon they got into a rhythm. And once the Luna team began their presentation, things went much faster.
Lem showed them several vids from inside the Formic ship that featured the cargo bay, sleep chamber, garden, launch tubes, narrow passageways, and helm. Victor then described how he and Imala had reached the ship, and Lem went into detail about what resources he could offer in terms of weapons, suits, whatever the team needed.
“We’re a large group,” said Wit. “We obviously can’t fit in the shuttle Victor and Imala used. How do you propose getting us to the ship?”
“Using the same principle,” said Lem. “We put you in a ship, disguise it to look like flotsam drifting harmlessly through space, and you float right up to the hull of the mothership. However, since there are so many of you, we obviously can’t put you all in a single shuttle. Even if we packed you in like sardines, the shuttle would be too big and too conspicuous. The Formics would notice it, even if you were moving slowly and weren’t on a collision course.”
“Loading all of us into single ship is a bad idea anyway,” said Cocktail. “If something were to happen to the shuttle, the entire strike team would be lost. That’s putting all of your eggs in a single basket.”
“Agreed,” said Lem. “It’s safer to split you up. In fact, we propose putting each of you in your own individual vessel.”
A schematic appeared in the holofield. It was a small tube-shaped ship with the outline of a prostrate man inside of it—not unlike a coffin or a sleep chamber. “We call them ‘cocoons,’” said Lem. “Our engineers are building them now. As you can see, there’s only enough room for a single passenger. And it’s a tight squeeze. You won’t be able to move much at all, but that’s for your own safety. The smaller the cocoon, the less likely it will be tagged as a collision threat. We’ll attach small electrodes to your muscles to keep them active as you drift.”
“How many of these cocoons are you building?” asked Wit.
“Twelve,” said Lem. “Victor will go in one, plus eleven from your party. But we recommend that all of you come to Luna. You’ll need to train for a couple days to get used to maneuvering in a zero-G environment, and not everyone excels at that. We recommend that those who do well in zero-G constitute the strike team.”
ZZ said, “If twelve identical pieces of wreckage float toward the ship, won’t the Formics notice that?”
“They won’t be identical,” said Lem.
Random pieces of scrap metal began attaching themselves to the exterior of the cocoon in the holofield.
“Each cocoon will be uniquely disguised to look like wreckage. We’ll use the same approach Victor and Imala did. Paint, scorch marks, torn metal, broken conduit, whatever we can scrounge up. Some of you will be flat. Some of you will be bent forward slightly. We’re randomizing the shape, too. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a flat one.”
Lem reached forward with his hands and rotated the schematic, giving them a better view of the small propulsion systems at the rear and sides of the vessel. “To further save on room, we’re not including any flight controls or avionics. Instead, the cocoons will be remotely controlled. All you’ll have to do is climb inside, and our drone pilots will do the rest.”
“Even with those adjustments,” said Deen. “Twelve pieces of flotsam doesn’t seem very inconspicuous. It worked for Victor and Imala because they were one piece of scrap. Twelve is a lot more than one.”
“Consider the size of the thing,” said Mazer. “It’s enormous. The cocoons could come from all sides and angles. And we could stagger their arrival over the period of a day or more so everyone isn’t getting there at the same moment. In fact, depending on how we design the op and the individual objectives, arriving at different times is best anyway. The first wave infiltrates the ship. A second wave secures and holds the passageways. A third wave takes the cargo bay. Et cetera.”
“That’s the idea,” said Lem. “And our shipbuilding crews intend to help in another way as well. Your twelve cocoons won’t be the only pieces of wreckage approaching the ship. For the Formics to ignore you, you must blend in with the environment. But you can’t be invisible if you’re the only things in the environment. So we’re making at least three hundred other remote-controlled projectiles to create a sea of wreckage around the Formic ship that we completely control. These mini floaters will be smaller than the cocoons in most instances, but collectively they’ll create a haze of wreckage for you to drift through.”
“Beyond that,” said Victor, “the mini floaters will also allow us to test the sensitivity of the Formics’ collision-avoidance system. In other words, if the Formics start firing at anything that twitches, regardless of how slow it’s moving, we’ll know we need to reevaluate our approach.”
“When will these cocoons be ready?” asked Wit. “And for that matter, how quickly
can you build three hundred remote-controlled projectiles?”
“We have an entire production line dedicated to this effort,” said Lem. “It’s the largest such facility of its kind in the world. I have a warehouse full of people who are working around the clock. My father is putting the weight and resources of his company behind this. Juke Limited is committed to ending this war. We’ve built a shield of ships between Earth and the Formic mothership. Now we’re ready to end this once and for all. That is, if you’ll join us.”
“You’ve told us how you’ll get us there,” said Wit. “What happens next? Arriving is only the beginning. You said you had discovered a vulnerability?”
“That is the carrot we’ll leave dangling,” said Lem. “Agree to work with us, and we’ll show you how to cripple the ship and kill everyone on board. Otherwise, we’ll take this strategy to another strike force. There are others we can approach, but our strong preference is to work with you.”
“We need to debate this among ourselves,” said Wit. “But if we agree, how would we get to Luna, and how quickly could we make this happen?”
“Give me a verbal commitment, and I will send an aircraft to retrieve you and carry you to one of our launch sites in Finland.”
“How will you retrieve us?” said Wit. “We’re in the middle of a war zone. The skies aren’t safe.”
“Let us coordinate that. China is being more agreeable to opening its air space, and Juke has aircraft throughout Southeast Asia. The logistics we can work out. Our priority now is cementing the strike team. We will await your answer.”
The Luna team said their farewells, and Wit disconnected the call.
“Well?” asked Wit. “What does everyone think?”
The room was quiet a moment then ZZ said, “I’m not crazy about those cocoons. No movement. No flight controls. I’m not claustrophobic, but I think I would be after a few hours. And what do we do if our suit malfunctions? Or if the remote controls fail? Float off into oblivion? Asphyxiate? We can’t exactly call for help. We’ll be far away from each other. The moment we rush to another’s aid, our cover is blown and the Formics start shooting.”
“We wouldn’t be able to defend ourselves either,” said Cocktail. “I don’t like that. We’d be floating targets. And not just for a brief amount of time either. It will take us days to float to the ship if we’re drifting at a negligible speed. And it’s not the boredom that bothers me. It’s knowing that I could be vaporized at any moment. That would drive me insane. I think the concept is brilliant, but if the Formics were wise to us it would be like shooting fish in a barrel, and we’d be the fish.”
“I agree,” said Lobo. “The cocoons are loco. But they’re also an idea that might, actually, God willing, work. I’m not too keen on the idea of climbing inside one either, but I feel better knowing they’re being built by Juke. This is the most advanced ship manufacturer in the world we’re talking about. If anyone can do this, they can.”
“I’m with Lobo,” said Mazer. “Lem Jukes strikes me as a little too arrogant for his own good, but there’s no denying the fact that the man has resources. No government on Earth makes as big a commitment to space tech and engineering as Juke Limited. Better suits. Better life-support systems. And their shipbuilders live and breathe this world. They understand the conditions, they know the physics. If they say they can build a cocoon that will look like a hunk of harmless junk, I believe them. I agree with Cocktail and ZZ that the cocoons have their drawbacks, but there’s no golden solution here. Any approach is going to be high risk.
“But even if they didn’t have any of that to offer—the ships, the suits, none of it—even if they didn’t have so much as a belt buckle to give us in terms of equipment, we still need these people. They have Victor. The guy not only got inside the ship, but he also got to the heart of it and back out again. Without detection. The intel he has changes everything. Until an hour ago, that ship was a giant question mark. With Victor we have something to work with. We wouldn’t be going in blind. We could actually plan an infiltration with some degree of confidence. And when they say they know how to destroy it, I believe them. Whatever vulnerability they’ve discovered, whatever they have up their sleeve, they seem pretty confident about it. I say go.”
“Shenzu?” said Wit. “What say you? If we do this we’d be abandoning our post here.”
Shenzu dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “The past week has been a master’s class for our field commanders. They have learned much from watching all of you. And China will be open to other outside commanders as well. That tide has turned. Ketkar from India will come. Others from Europe and the U.S. will come as well. Strategists we can rally in abundance. I will see to that. For whatever reason, my voice has some weight now. This isn’t a concern. The rarity in this war is a strike team that’s cohesive enough, trained enough, and single-minded enough to pull this off. That’s us.”
“Us?”
“Of course,” said Shenzu. “Don’t think for a second that I’m not coming with you.”
CHAPTER 18
Soldier Boy
When Bingwen heard that he’d be joining the MOPs and Chinese officers for dinner, he expected the food to be better than a sludgy protein drink. Canned vegetables perhaps. Or maybe crackers with an MRE, if he was lucky. So when the server in the cafeteria line handed him a plate loaded with steaming beef strips, fluffy white rice, and fresh sautéed vegetables, Bingwen stared at it, stunned. “Is this all for me?”
Mazer was ahead of him in line and picked up a bowl of pudding from the dessert racks. “You don’t have to eat all of it if you don’t want to.”
“Are you kidding?” said Bingwen. “Of course I’m eating it. This is more than I ever got at home. Can I have one of the puddings, too?”
“Help yourself. It’s à la carte.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you can pick and choose whatever you want.”
“In that case, I’m taking two.”
Bingwen grabbed a bowl of chocolate pudding and a slice of peach pie and put them both on his tray.
Mazer tugged at Bingwen’s sleeve. “All right, hippopotamus. Better come with me before your eyes make promises your stomach can’t keep.” He led Bingwen to a small table in the dining hall away from the MOPs and Chinese officers scattered elsewhere around the room.
“Do you eat this well every day?” said Bingwen. “Or is this a special occasion?”
“Why?” said Mazer. “What do they normally feed you?”
Bingwen mimed the ingredients as he described them. “Scoop a shovelful of dirt into a blender. Add sugar and water. Toss in some spinach leaves and a teaspoon of bile. Blend to a nice disgusting paste.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It is. Sometimes when they cut our rations, I almost don’t mind.”
“Your rations? I didn’t know the food situation was that bad. Now I feel guilty for eating this.”
“You shouldn’t. You’re guests of China. You’re commanding armies. You need your strength. We’re rice farmers. We’ve been half starved since we were born.”
“Was it really that bad in your village?”
Bingwen shrugged. “Sometimes. Not usually. We’d get fruit and meat every once in a while. The best is when one of the water buffalos got too old. Then we’d feast like kings. Have you ever had a buffalo burger?”
“I’ve had buffalo wings,” said Mazer. “But those aren’t the same thing.”
“Buffalos don’t have wings,” said Bingwen.
“It’s what we call tiny, spicy chicken wings.”
“Then why don’t you call them chicken wings?”
“Don’t let logic spoil all the fun in life,” said Mazer. He stabbed some of his beef and ate it. “I’m curious. What do you think of the proposal from the team on Luna?”
“What do I think of you climbing inside an iron coffin and floating through space like a sitting duck? I think you’re several kilos short
of a bushel.”
“You wouldn’t do it? If you were a soldier, I mean.”
“I’d do it in a heartbeat,” said Bingwen. “I’d be the first one to climb inside. I want to blow that ship to a billion little pieces. That doesn’t make the op any less crazy.”
Mazer nodded, as if that was answer enough. After a moment, he said, “I’ve talked to Shenzu about you, about where you came from, about what you and I have been through. I told him what you did for me. How you saved me life. He was very impressed.”
“I’m a very impressive young man. That’s why I got two desserts. I’ve earned them.”
“I’m serious, Bing. I told Shenzu that they should give you special attention.”
“I like keeping a low profile,” said Bingwen.
“Too late for that. Shenzu looked you up in the government database.”
“I’m in a database?”
“Of kids who have taken the placement exams.”
“I haven’t taken the exam yet. I’m not old enough. I’ve only taken practice tests.”
“They keep a record of those as well. Shenzu says you did exceptionally well on all of them.”
Bingwen shrugged. “I’m good at taking tests.”
“You’re good at a lot of things. Shenzu has recommended that you be sent to a special school.”
Bingwen stopped chewing. “A school? Where?”
“Somewhere in northern China. I don’t know where exactly. Shenzu didn’t reveal much. I got the sense that it’s somewhat secretive. All I know is that it’s a military school for a small, select group of children. Gifted children. They would provide you with everything. Room, board. You would never go hungry again.”
“A military school? They want to make me a soldier?”
“You already are a soldier, Bingwen. They want to make you a better soldier. But this has to be your decision. You have to do this because you want to, because you think you have something to offer, not because Shenzu said so or because I’m the one telling you about it. This is your call.”
Earth Awakens (The First Formic War) Page 28
