by Eric Flint
Boylan fizzed on, lost in the beauty of the cataclysm. "Imagine! A complete change in the ocean currents occurring nearly instantly! Storm systems and climate disrupted on the spot! Given the elasticity of the plates, who knows but that we might get volcanism out of this?"
"The people," Brunner said, forcefully. "The survivors . . ."
Boylan's lips straightened. She looked at him, and pointed at the missing isthmus.
"What we need to do now is study and record the processes and phenomena that have been unleashed," she said firmly. "The people will have to be left to historians, don't you think?"
Brunner's glance sought the Scout, who took a breath and bowed low—excessive respect for one far exceeding the bower's humble estate.
"Dr. Boylan," he murmured, honey-voiced. "Your enthusiasm for science is well known and manifest. I wonder if you might have the means among your programs, or"—he bowed to Brunner as might one to a comrade—"if you, Ichliad Brunner, might have among yours, a means to predict where these triple tsunami might strike, and when? Perhaps we are best placed to offer warning, if not solace, to those who still live."
* * *
There was no response to Brunner's call on the following orbit, and nothing on the automatics indicating that the Stubbs was online. Chief Thurton, apparently again against objections, permitted the station to broadcast a multiband warning to the world below once the Scout pointed out that he might do the same from the comfort of his own ship, if the station preferred not to.
As to specific warnings, that was barely possible. A tsunami travels transparently in open ocean, its wave a rapid but nearly invisible swell in an already tumultuous world. They had no resources to determine speed, nor even to insure that the first burst of monster wave against nearby shores had continued beyond the initial coastline.
Eventually Jack was pressed into service with the satellite, sampling coasts and islands visually, with his observations of specific sites added to the warning the scout gave. What lives were affected by this they could not tell: the surface spoke not at all to them, along any of the regular bands. Periodically he returned to view the isthmus area where a few sandy shoals amidst the deep gash of a river of darker water triumphantly flowing from the west were all that was left of the former barrier.
"An army of liberation?" Jack asked heavily of the room. "Is that what was here?"
"Does it matter?" Boylan answered impatiently. "They are beyond concern at this point, are they not?"
Brunner held to his tasks and said nothing, working as if he could prevent further disaster by the strength and purity of his research.
Eventually, the Scout returned, bearing with him a station-issue portable.
Bowing a bow of respectful request to equals, he waved the portable as if it were a child's rattle or toy.
"The main computer was able to share with me demographic information reported by planetary authorities, and later by those splinter groups claiming authority. Some of it conflicts, some of it is probably purposefully wrong. I would like to use overlays of the various records you have of the last Standard, with particular emphasis on the past three days."
This was said to the room at large.
Jack looked at Boylan, who was tending her screens, working as if the words had not been said.
Brunner sighed and bowed, finding it within himself to add the flourish which brought his acceptance close to that of accepting a comrade's necessity.
"Yes," agreed the Scout, "there is some of that, isn't there?"
"Some of what?" asked Boylan, raising her face from her work.
"Must be a Liaden thing," Jack said, rolling his eyes, and nodded at the Scout. "How can I help?"
* * *
Liz was talking to the Scout via the Stubbs, and Liz was not happy. Redhead hovered nearby, one eye on the machine and the other on the horizon. The air was bad, pollution and radiation levels high—she saw it all on the screen as the Stubbs did its upload.
"The shuttles that brought us down might still exist," Liz was saying, sounding like she'd be mad if she wasn't so damn tired. "So what? They're hellengone back down where the city used to—"
"In that case," the Scout interrupted. "They do not exist, my friend. Nothing exists there anymore."
Liz rubbed her face.
"I've broadcast a plea for assistance," the Scout continued, "but Klamath has not been a good neighbor these last dozen years and it is painfully clear there is no immediate commercial advantage to be had."
Liz shook her head. "Merc unit here. I don't have much in the way of bargaining chips, but I do have some off-planet resources. Beam Merc Headquarters, tell 'em Lizardi's good for the fare . . ."
Redhead saw it first, the tell-tale wobble in the land.
"Quake, clear and down!" She was parched, and her voice didn't travel; Skel bellowed a repeat before going down flat.
Exhausted Lunatics ran from under tree and makeshift shelters. You didn't want to be under anything when the wave came through and you didn't want to be standing, either—in fact, you couldn't; it was like trying to stand on a tarp stretched out over the sea with the tide coming in.
Whomp!
Redhead was flat when the roll hit, and Liz, already sitting cross-legged, bobbed around as the dirt groaned and a few more trees fell, and that part was over.
Now came the hard part for her: the ground felt unsteady and swollen under her, like it was thinking about splitting open or folding over, or . . .
The second stage passed, too, and she sighed into the scorched ground before pushing upright. Liz was still at the Stubbs; she swept her hand out toward the scattered Lunatics—
"Injury check!"
Redhead rose unsteadily and hinted at a salute with her right hand while grabbing up the staff she'd picked up from down-wood. Her speed and size conspired, giving her a chance to get through tree-fall and such in a hurry. The circuit here was familiar, and this time there were no new casualties among the troops.
The civilians . . . there were still a few out there, and as long as they didn't actively shoot or throw rocks it didn't matter if they came along. They'd already been on short rations and shorter morale when they'd stumbled on the Lunatics and their grasp of Trade and common Terran was less than good. Some of them still grabbed for their amulets and lucky pieces instead of hightailing to open land . . . and there were a couple more among them injured.
She got back to the Stubbs in time to hear an exasperated Liz snap, "Tidal? We're a good three days' march from anything approaching shore side, assuming I can still read a map. Unless things have changed . . ."
"The tsunami made some new dents, but nothing that extreme," the Scout offered. "The under-plates themselves are doing something we can't quantify yet. The planetologist and the weatherman are working to define—to predict. Moment . . . Ah. Tech Brunner shows me that your location gained altitude in the last upheaval. Higher by about the height of your redhead, I think."
"That's interesting," Liz grated. "But it doesn't get us out of here."
The line buzzed empty, then the Scout was back. "It does not," he admitted quietly. "Give me the headcount at your next check-in—your people and the civilians. I do not wish to commit insufficient transport—and I would prefer a better landing zone."
That, thought Redhead, sounded like he was going to get them transport—and apparently it sounded like that to Liz, too.
"Will do," she said, sounding easier. "Here's your connection!"
Liz waved her over. Redhead muttered a quick report: "Lost three of the locals overnight but everybody else came through fine. Might've been a sprained ankle there . . . but that's livable."
Liz nodded and moved away, hand up to grab somebody else's attention.
Redhead sat down and punched the "talk" button.
"Redhead here."
"Here's Tech," she heard, followed by his calm, unflappable voice. It was like easing in for a swim after a hot, horrible day, his voice; the water so cool it
felt like silk . . .
"Redhead, you are untroubled by the earthquakes?"
She laughed, hand to face.
"That's not true, Brunner. I hate 'em. I feel like the whole damn world's trying to shake me off it! And that's when the locals aren't praying for me one minute and shooting at me the next."
"You have a good commander, Redhead," he murmured. "I think you will not have those problems much longer. If you have a portable, or paper to hand to record this . . . we think you can expect waves of about the same strength as you recently experienced at approximately every nine standard hours. I stress that this is approximate. Recent events are—unprecedented, which makes prediction . . . difficult. So, there will be a resonance, if we are right, a larger kick-in-the-pants, as Jack calls it, perhaps every fourth or fifth. Also, there will likely be random sharp waves."
"Got it," she said, memorizing what he told her; she'd lost her portable, with her books and games and all—gods, it seemed like years ago, at that firefight at—
"And so," Brunner was continuing, "the rest of the information is that in the short term we see no major precipitation. This is good; it keeps some of the fallout radiation above you. You are not under the jet currents carrying the worse loads yet. The long-term is much harder."
"Snow?" she offered.
Brunner laughed.
"Not snow, no. What is happening is that we have new water flows in the ocean, new and unstable. This will affect the . . . the . . . mesoscale events, the regional weather and possibilities for local and regional. Weather we cannot predict so well. We are um . . . perhaps aided in that we know where you are and will be able, to some extent at least, to concentrate our efforts in predicting for you. It would be best for us and for you, if we can receive frequent updates. They needn't be non-stop, but perhaps a reading each orbit or two that we travel overhead . . ."
"That's what—about fifteen times a day?" She chewed her lip. "I'll see what we can do. Might need to add somebody to the talk list . . . but if mostly you need the unit switched on, we ought to be good for that."
A pause then, and then Brunner's voice came as if he was partly turned away from the mike.
"Yes, we will monitor at all times, but will expect voice communication as you need, else three times per day. Perhaps you should take our tide warnings and we will set a schedule from there?"
"I can do that. Send away!"
* * *
Brunner woke, his body already calling for tea and chernubia. He kept time now by the next time he was needed at the microphone, or what sort of weather was imminent. It happened that this time, his waking and first meal coincided with the day's first scheduled report from the surface, where Lizardi's Lunatics slowly moved through the smoldering remains of what had once been a vast forest toward an abandoned hilltop farmstead, hoping to find shuttles waiting to bear them to the station.
That there would actually be shuttles—that sat between the Scout and the station master.
He heard raised voices as he approached the weather room, one of them Boylan's, one the Scout's. Then Jack chimed in and the level rose.
"We have to go in!"
"There's nothing we can do."
"The chief insists that we cannot land." That was the Scout, and it hurried Brunner's steps. Cannot land? But—
"It's disturbing the science!" Boylan shouted. "We knew from early on there was little chance . . ."
Brunner ran, bootheels noisy against the floor.
"What has happened?"
His three associates fell silent. The Scout bowed, slowly, as between equals.
"I see we need not wake you for this news."
Jack stepped up, ushering Brunner toward his seat.
"I slept late and had a meeting with the intern," said Boylan defensively, "and when I arrived, we were beyond range already."
Brunner turned to face her, his stomach twisting. "What has happened?"
She turned away from him. It was the Scout who leaned forward and touched the pad, started the recording. There was noise, bursts of sounds that once he would have mistaken for thunder.
"Tech! Recon squad found us a nest of leftovers. Liz tried to talk to 'em but you hear what they're saying. Hold them ships till you hear from us cause it looks like they got themselves some anti-air stuff. Bastard's tried to sneak in through . . . damn. Out."
"Last orbit?" Brunner demanded, though he could see the time on the scan. "This happened and no one told me?" He spun, coming up out of the chair so quickly the Scout fell back a step.
Boylan turned to face him. "What could you have done?" She shouted. "Nothing! There's nothing you can do for them, Brunner, and the sooner you stop pretending—and him, too!—the better, for you and for the mission! Mercenaries are paid to die!"
Breath-caught, Brunner took a step, his hand going out of its own accord, snatching up a coffee cup left on the counter—
Jack moved, clinks subdued, caught Brunner's shoulder and pried the cup from his hand.
"Sorry, Tech." The hand squeezed his shoulder, perhaps meaning comfort, then Jack turned, cup yet in hand as he nodded to the planetologist.
"Let's get some breakfast, hey? We'll be able to work better after we've had something to eat."
Boylan looked at Jack, then at Brunner, her eyes wide and her face hard.
"Later today," she said, and her voice was soft. "I marked it in the event file. Later today the tides will be bad. Ugly. I'm not sure they're survivable. I'm sorry, Brunner."
He stared at her, vision spangling. He blinked and felt the tears, hot down his cheeks.
"Right." Jack took Boylan's arm and steered her toward the door.
"Coffee. Coffee'll help us both, and company, too . . ."
Weeping, Brunner watched them leave, then turned back to his instruments, tapping the event file up.
"The times are there," the Scout said quietly. "I believe that the quakes are due six orbits from now. Before that, there is the enemy. With the right weather, with luck, perhaps they may sneak past to a place of safety. It would be wise of you to prepare a forecast, my friend. I go to see if calls for assistance will be answered."
The Scout bowed, gently, and Brunner replied, "Comrade."
* * *
The civilians were dead; the gun took the couple the land had let live. Liz pulled what was left of the Lunatics back some, and sent scouts out, looking for a way around trouble. Joey came back, reporting no joy. Auifme didn't come back at all, which Redhead guessed amounted to the same thing.
"We got no good choices," Liz said. "Weatherman upstairs says there's bad weather coming—worst we seen. Weatherman's a cheerful boyo, but he's not being cheerful about this. Wants us to get to a safe place pronto, by which I gather he means off-planet and maybe out-system.
"In the meantime, the Scout's guaranteeing transport, but we've got to make the rendezvous point before that weather hits."
Scandal shook her head. "Hell, Liz, that ain't no choice; it's one choice!"
There were a few laughs from around the circle. Miri finished up her half of the last ration bar in her pack, had a drink, and passed her water jug to Skel. They'd stripped down to necessaries some while back, taking just enough to keep 'em to the rendezvous. That was before they'd run into the crazies with the Forsbo 75, o'course, not that anything they'd had left would've answered it for good.
"There's a little obstacle between us and the rendezvous, in case you hadn't noticed," Skel said to Scandal, when Liz didn't.
"So, we run for it," she answered, pushing her helmet up off her face with a grimy forefinger.
"It's an option," Liz allowed. "I'd like to up our odds some, though. I'm thinking in terms of a diversion. Something to draw the gunner's fire while we're sneaking past in the direction we need to go." She looked 'round at them, taking her time.
"I'm looking for a volunteer."
Miri took her water jug back from Skel and snapped it onto her belt. Outside the circle, a baby wind twist swirled into
being, stirred the dust, threw a couple stones and dissipated. Inside the circle, nobody said anything.
"I'll do it," she said, and heard Skel draw in a hard breath, exhaling it on a laugh.
"Hey, no, now. Stealing my thunder, Redhead?"
She shook her head at him, but she was looking at Liz. Liz, whose face had gone still, eyes narrowed; who'd gotten her off of Surebleak and given her a fighting chance.
Well, and sometimes you fought, and sometimes you lost. Even she knew that.
And, besides, she didn't intend to lose.
"Makes sense," she said to Liz's hooded eyes. "I'm smallest. I'm fastest. Got the best chance of getting in, doing the job and getting back out."
