They had brought Bacillus subtilis to study how the organism survived in and adapted to an alien soil. A remarkable organism, it was able to survive in hostile environments for extremely long periods of time. The purpose of their experiment was to see if B. subtilis could be modified in order to promote plant growth in the Martian soil, as a precursor to future missions and eventual colonization.
Resolute was full of other experiments, not to mention a full botanical section, but this tiny bacterium seemed to pique their interest more than anything else onboard. He had no idea why, but he figured he would find out soon.
“Liv, results on flyer diagnostics?”
“Flyer diagnostics are complete, my liege. All systems are operational.”
Lucas had decided to have a little fun with Liv, and why not? He was all alone up here anyway. She still had Potato selected as his name—how, he had no worldly idea—but he decided to have her refer to him as “my liege.”
He had to admit, he liked the sound of it.
The flyer was designed to spend months in the thin Martian atmosphere, taking samples at different altitudes as it flew around the planet. Dropped from orbit in an aeroshell, it would enter the atmosphere, discard the ablative shell, and deploy its long, thin wings in the upper reaches of the atmosphere, where its solar-charged-battery power source would feed a propeller-driven electric motor. The machine was built to stay aloft in the much thinner Martian air, and as such would have a much easier time in Earth’s atmosphere, thus extending both its reach and loiter time.
He ran a number of drop simulations, and with a few adjustments knew the flyer would work.
“Liv, time until next communication window with the Phoenix Complex?”
“The next communication window will open in nine hours, forty-two minutes, my liege.”
For the time being, even though Sif and Hunter were alive and on their way to this place in Canada called the Phoenix Complex, he was stuck here in orbit. In time, he figured the ship would have to be abandoned after she was stripped of everything that could fit on the cargo landers, but that could be weeks, or even months, in the future.
Lucas stared outside at the world below. Resolute would be crossing into terrestrial night again in a few minutes, and everything below would be black. Such a different world now, he thought, so empty and dark. But there were survivors. It wasn’t a dead planet, as they had initially feared. And because there were survivors, there was a chance.
Chapter 41
Hay River, Northern Territories
Sif surely hadn’t expected this. They taxied toward a small group of buildings, and a large crowd of people—no, more like a large formation—lined the ramp. “Hunter, are you seeing this?”
“I see it.”
Troops, at least a hundred of them, standing at parade rest with what Sif figured was the banner of the North American Alliance waving in the breeze, a strange conglomeration of the Canadian flag and Old Glory—stars, stripes, and a maple leaf. In the center of the leaf was the same phoenix symbol on each of their uniforms, which made Sif wonder if the North American Alliance was nothing more than the Phoenix Complex itself.
“It was President Carlisle’s idea,” Major Murphy said. “He wanted to give you the welcome home you never received. It’s not as big as what you would have gotten, but it’s the best we can do on such short notice.”
“That was very thoughtful of your president,” Hunter said.
“If you’d like to make some remarks, we have a podium set up.”
“Remarks?” Sif said, surprised.
The major smiled. “You don’t have to, but everyone here has been buzzing about your arrival. It’ll be shown throughout the complex, too.”
“Afraid of a little public speaking, Navy?” Hunter jibed.
“If anyone will be talking, it’ll be you,” she said to Hunter. “You’re the commander of this mission, remember?”
“Yeah, but everyone wants to hear from the pilot.”
“You’re a pilot, too.”
“But as you always remind me, I’m not a naval aviator. I can’t land on a pitching deck in the dead of night and bad weather, my wings are made of lead instead of gold, and I hate to make unplanned public remarks.”
Sif huffed and looked out the window. As the jet came to a stop, the formation snapped to attention. There was even a band, she saw. And another sight that made her catch her breath: beside the flag for the North American Alliance, someone was holding Old Glory. They were really pulling out the stops. “Fine, the Navy will handle it, just like always.” She gave Hunter the evil eye, and then turned to Major Murphy. “What the hell do you want me to say?”
“It doesn’t have to be much, Commander. Just say what you’re feeling.”
That would not be a good idea, Sif thought.
When they stepped down the short set of stairs from the jet, Sif heard the opening notes of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” She and Hunter reached the bottom of the stairs, braced, and snapped a salute toward Old Glory, holding it until the last note.
The major stood beside them, also at attention.
When the anthem was complete, Sif strode up to the podium and adjusted the microphone to her height. She looked out over the assembled crowd—all troops, it appeared—and cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure what one would be expected to say after being lost in space for nearly two centuries but decided to wing it.
“At ease, everyone. Please.”
Sif was a little surprised as each of the officers turned to their respective ranks and ordered their troops to assume the proper stance. “Platoon!” they barked. “At ease!”
The troops assumed a more relaxed posture, and Sif smiled, glad to know that the basic drill and ceremony commands hadn’t changed.
Sif gripped the edges of the podium. “Lieutenant Colonel Hunter Webb, Mr. Lucas Hoover, and I would like to express our gratitude to all of you for welcoming us back home, and we’d like to pass our thanks to President Carlisle for his hospitality and thoughtfulness.”
Sif paused as a smattering of applause swept through the ranks. She glanced at Hunter, and he gave her a thumbs-up.
“It’s been a long, confusing journey for us, and we . . .” Oh crap, what do I say? It was only a moment of silence, but to Sif it seemed like an eternity. “And we’re looking forward to meeting and working with each of you . . .” I’m crashing and burning here. “Thanks again. Thank you.”
Sif stepped away from the podium as the troops applauded. Major Murphy gestured in the direction he wished them to take, and she and Hunter followed. As they walked through the ranks, the officers once again called their troops to attention, and the band played “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.”
“Nice touch, Major,” Sif said. “The songs, I mean.”
“They’ve been practicing.”
They entered a low-slung building and were again met by a formation of military personnel, who came to attention as they entered. When they snapped a salute, Sif returned it without thinking. There was something very comfortable about this place—from what they saw so far, there was a strong military presence, and it made her feel more at home. Surprisingly, though, her time with Litsa in the Dak seemed somewhat refreshing. Sure, their lives were tough and dangerous, but it was simple in a way she had never experienced. Uncomplicated might be a better way to describe it. No technology, no demands, just working together to survive. The only thing she could equate the feeling to was camping with her dad, when they were far away from the city, building campfires for warmth, fishing for food, and sleeping on the ground under the stars. She had always complained about it and was glad to get back home to her phone and comfy bed, but those trips seemed to recharge her batteries like nothing else and were some of her most cherished memories of her father. Sif wished she could have seen the Dak before the Takers came, and experience what their lives were really like.
Standing beside a set of elevator doors was a person in a dark gray suit who approache
d and held out his hand. He was small, about five foot six, with green eyes and close-cropped black hair. Sif was surprised at how similar his suit looked to those she was familiar with from her time.
“Lieutenant Colonel Webb, so glad to meet you,” he said. “My name is Jacques Nadeau, principal assistant to the president. President Carlisle is looking forward to meeting you.”
“Sir,” Hunter replied. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And you must be Commander Wagner,” he said. “You go by Sif, correct?”
“That’s me, in the flesh,” Sif replied. She noticed how similar he was to the political aides she encountered in her day—two hundred years hadn’t changed the slimy vibe one bit.
Jacques stepped toward the elevator doors, which slid open. “As Major Murphy told you, the Phoenix Complex is located underground. It’s a short ride to the executive level. Please,” he said, gesturing for them to follow.
“Commander Wagner, Lieutenant Colonel Webb,” Major Murphy said, stepping forward before they entered the elevator. “This is where we say our farewells. I have the next flight back to Ellsworth. As we like to say, duty calls.”
“A phrase we’re both very familiar with.” Hunter offered his hand, and the major shook it. “Thank you, Major.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Colonel. Commander,” he said, giving Sif a nod.
“Thank you for getting us here in one piece, Major. Have a safe trip back.”
With that, Major Murphy walked back out the door.
Sif followed Hunter toward the elevator, and she glanced at the assembled troops. There were ten of them, two lines of five, and they appeared to be a guard posting of some sort—they held no weapons, but Sif noticed a rack of rifles against a far wall, unlocked and available for immediate use.
The troops outside were well disciplined, with not a one breaking their glance as she and Hunter passed, but one of the guards inside was staring at her.
She smiled at him, and he smiled back. His name tape said “Fuller.” Sif looked away, then looked back again. He was still following her with his eyes.
Chapter 42
“How deep is this complex, Mr. Nadeau?” Hunter asked as the elevator descended with a hum.
“Call me Jacques, please. There are four main levels, Colonel, with the top level about one hundred fifty feet below ground. We’re going to Level Three, which is where President Carlisle has his office.”
“I can’t believe they were able to keep a place like this secret for so long,” Sif remarked.
“It’s bigger now than it was in your day,” Jacques said. “Over the years, we’ve constructed additional sections off of each of the levels. You’ll find it’s basically an underground city.”
“Population?” Hunter asked.
“At last count, five thousand, seven hundred, and two.”
Sif’s stomach sank. If this complex really was all that was left, apart from the people left outside, five thousand people wasn’t very many.
An electronic voice announced they were passing Level One.
“The first level is our armed forces level, one I’m sure you’ll be interested in. It’s also connected to most of the aboveground facilities we’ve built.”
“And the second level?” Sif asked.
“Living quarters, mostly. Our schools, too: grade school all the way up to university level. You’ll also find restaurants—maybe not what you were used to, but they serve a variety of cuisines you’ll recognize.”
“I could sure go for a nice, fat, juicy burger,” Sif said.
“And you’ll have one, Commander.”
“Passing Level Two,” the voice announced.
“The second level also houses our medical facilities. Like I said, the third level contains most of the government offices—the court, the legislature, and the executive.”
“Sounds familiar,” Hunter said. “It’s nice to see some of our democratic institutions survived.”
“We don’t consider ourselves a democracy per se, Colonel, but we do have regular elections for the legislature, representatives drawn from the adult population to serve a term of two years. Our judicial panel members—similar to the American Supreme Court you’re familiar with—are drawn from the elders.”
“What’s below the third level?” Sif asked.
“The lower level is industrial, mostly. Manufacturing, storage, power generation. That sort of thing. Part of the fourth level also houses our research labs.”
The way he said it, Sif figured he didn’t make it down there very often.
The elevator slowed to a halt. “Level Three,” the voice announced.
“Ah, here we are. Please, follow me,” Jacques said as the doors slid open.
Sif wasn’t sure what to expect. The few underground facilities she had been exposed to were nothing but a series of crisscrossing corridors with adjoining rooms, and none were very large.
This, she saw, was different.
Litsa could tell they were back on the ground.
The machine rolled and bumped as it taxied, and the guards were more active, walking among the cages and checking to make sure their prisoners were remaining calm.
There were others awake now, but they were subdued, still feeling the effects of the sleeping gas. Litsa played along, keeping her eyes half-open and letting her mouth hang, just like one of Sampson’s people beside her. Including herself, there were four of them in the cage, all female, and from what Litsa could tell, they were all roughly the same age.
She tensed as the machine braked to a halt, and the engine noise subsided. The guards took positions among the cages, evenly spaced. During the whole trip, they wore protective goggles and masks, so she never got a clear look at their faces. They held some sort of clubs in their hands, with a trigger on the handle. Litsa figured they weren’t simple clubs.
They dropped the ramp, and fresh air filled the cargo spaces. She took a deep breath—it smelled different here; the air was crisper, cooler, scented with pine and other plant life. Not like home at all. It was dark outside, and she was glad for it. If these people were anything like Sif and Hunter, she held an important advantage: she could see much better than they could, as long as they didn’t turn on any—
Lights. She squinted as the overheads in the hold blinked to life. She had to preserve her night vision, so she kept one eye tightly closed.
More of the Takers scrambled up the ramp, their boots thudding against the steel. And they didn’t waste any time. They unlocked the first cage and dragged five people—all men—from their small prison, stumbling, hardly able to walk on their own. Four trucks sat at the end of the ramp with their rear doors open, and they led the men toward one. Litsa took note of how they were moving, for she would have to appear just as sluggish. The next cage contained children, and Litsa’s anger grew. She had no children, but the thought of a child forcibly taken from its mother’s arms was almost unbearable.
Her cage was the sixth one back from the ramp, so she had a little time before they got to her. She lost track of Conrad, Talia, and Geller and couldn’t see where they were—until they opened the next cage, this one full of women. There was Talia, groggy but alive.
But something was going on.
A Taker standing at the top of the ramp motioned for Talia to be taken away from the others, and she was dragged toward a smaller vehicle parked beside the larger trucks.
It’s her wound, Litsa thought. They’re separating her because of her leg. The Takers were notorious for culling the wounded from their take, sometimes killing them on the spot. If Litsa heard a gunshot, she would sacrifice herself and take as many of these masked devils with her as she could. She could grab one of the batons easily enough, and with it, she knew she could reach one of the guards with a rifle before they could react. She had never fired a rifle before, but aiming and pulling a trigger seemed easy enough.
The sound of a gunshot never came, though, and for that Litsa was relieved. Maybe they were going to l
et Talia live.
There were men in the next cage. She saw both Conrad and Geller, and, like Talia, they were moved aside, taken to the smaller vehicle. Litsa wondered if they were dividing people by tribe, but not everyone in their group was part of Sampson’s people. There were a few others, taken from the eastern lands, including a woman who was loaded into a truck with two of Sampson’s females. No, Conrad, Geller, and Talia were being separated for some other reason. And they would probably take her, too.
That was fine. If she were with her own people—who were more willing to take action than those from Sampson’s tribe—it might be better in the end. She would rather struggle alongside wolves than cower among the sheep.
She studied the nearest guard through the slit of her eyelid. He had a baton, a smaller weapon on his hip—a pistol—and a knife safely tucked into a sheath on his thigh. It wasn’t big, but it could be useful, if she could lift it without him noticing.
They opened the fifth cage, all men again. One of them, though, was more awake than the others and began to struggle. Two of the Takers pulled the triggers on their batons, and the cabin was filled with a loud buzzing noise. The tips glowed bright blue. They touched the tips to the man, and he convulsed, groaned, and fell to the floor of the cargo hold, twitching. He wasn’t dead and didn’t appear to be injured, but he was completely incapacitated.
At least she knew how the batons worked now. Close up, it would be a useful weapon. It was too large to conceal, though, so she decided to concentrate on getting her hands on one of their knives.
Her cage was the last, and they unlocked the door and swung it open. Litsa remained limp, allowing the Takers to grab her and drag her out. Two of them held her up by her armpits as they moved toward the ramp. She kept her arms loose at her side and felt her hand bump against the man’s thigh to her right. She tilted her head ever so slightly and through squinting eyes saw how easy it would be.
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