"He didn't do those things just so there would be one single lord, a being of genius, but they had the effect of humbling all the tribes when he did them. It was just his way of revealing himself, but because of it he became the sole head of the tribes."
— Popul Vuh, Part Five
Epictetus, his favorite Greek philosopher, had once said, 'It's not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.' Tom wondered what it said about him that he would far rather be the one taken by the enemy, than the one left behind, watching a loved one be taken.
Selfishness, perhaps: that he'd rather cause that pain than experience it himself, ever again. Ego: believing that he could bear up under the challenge better than the rest of his family would. And, yes, a little desperate love as well: to willingly cast his body between theirs and danger. He knew what people said about him — why John said people followed him so willingly — but he knew he was no hero. Except in the most cynical sense of the word: 'someone who gets other people killed'.
He could bear anything other than watching that happen to yet another person he cared about, even endure another round of Espheni hospitality. One moment he'd been screaming in denial, watching a flying Skitter drag John up into the sky; the next, before he'd even finished catching his breath in relief that the other man had fought his way loose, another hornet had taken advantage of his distraction to grab him. And now ...
"You're brooding again," a familiar voice murmured, and Tom blinked, his line of thought completely derailed. The hornet-thing was gone, and with it the choking grip of its tail around his chest, the dizzying sweep of sky and cloud, the distant snap of sudden thunder; he was standing in the middle of a very familiar room instead. One several hundred miles — and several years — away from that bridge in Charleston.
He couldn't possibly be there, but it was also impossible to mistake his surroundings for anything other than the clean blue walls and orderly furnishings of his bedroom back in Boston. It hadn't actually looked that way since before the invasion, he knew; he'd slept in its decaying ghost only the month before, during his and John's retreat from Karen's tower, and there'd been almost nothing left of the haven it had been during the years he and Rebecca had raised their sons there. Only dust, debris, and desolation. But the sight of it restored tugged at his spirit with a nostalgic yearning he couldn't quite block out, even knowing that it couldn't be real.
"He'll be fine," the soothing voice repeated, and Tom glanced toward the open doorway, swallowing hard at the sight of Rebecca. Why did they always have to use Rebecca?
"I know he will," he said — then blinked at the utter familiarity of it, how automatically the words had fallen from his mouth. Maybe this wasn't so much like Karen's virtual programming, after all; this was the memory he'd been dreaming variations of for weeks now, though it was the first time it had felt so vividly real.
"Boys. He was upset too, you know; just didn't want his daddy to see it. Nine years old, and his first time away from home. So I told him to look up at the moon tonight." His long-dead wife walked closer, sliding her hands up his chest with a soft smile. It was hard, so hard, not to lean forward and sink into that touch.
"Because as long as the moon is up, he isn't alone; chances are, someone else in the family is staring up at that same moon," Tom said stiffly, cutting the conversation short with the words she would have spoken next.
Her smile brightened at that. "You're beginning to get the picture," she said approvingly, then reached up to press one palm against his cheek. Her hand was warm, and yielding, and utterly, utterly wrong in some way he didn't have the words to explain. "It's so easy to get discouraged, when you first realize how small you are and how very big and scary the universe is. Knowing you're not alone can make all the difference in the world."
...She'd said that to him once, too; or, at least, the real Rebecca had. But not in the same conversation.
A frown dragged Tom's brows together as he stared down into that pale, beautiful face. "Why are you telling me this? Why these games? You have to know by now that interrogating me this way won't work."
Rebecca pulled back a little at that, giving him the arched brow that had always meant, 'Dear, don't be so obtuse.'
"Nice try, Tom," she said in chiding tones, shaking her head. "You promised me we'd talk before dinner."
What was going on? "I'm not interested in ..." he started to say, then groaned, bending over to wrap an arm around his ribs as a stabbing ache flared up in a band around his chest. "What ...?"
The word caught harshly in his throat; Tom coughed, then blinked his eyes open again and flinched as his center of gravity abruptly tipped over, literally on its ear. Rebecca wasn't there anymore — and he wasn't standing up, either; he was lying on his side, on a hard, leathery-feeling surface, curled around the bruising left by the flying Skitter's vicious grip. He'd lost consciousness less than a minute into the flight, and clearly, something had seized the opportunity to disturb his mind in that vulnerable state.
Something — or someone? It hadn't felt as harsh as his previous encounters with Espheni mental influence, and too detailed to be pure flashback or the invention of an unconscious mind. But there was another possibility, given recent discoveries. One he'd have to put some more thought into when he wasn't under unfriendly eyes.
A pair of feet moved into his line of vision, human feet clad in worn work boots. Tom wondered for a moment if he was going to be kicked, but they stopped a few yards away, and he slowly tipped his head back for a look at their owner. Trousers, shirt, worn jacket, the face of a boy in his late teens or early twenties — and the swell of a harness visible between thin shoulders. This would be the voice of his captor, then.
"Welcome, Tom Mason," the boy said, tone measured and flat: parroting the words of an Overlord somewhere out of sight. Someone had cropped his hair brutally short, and he had just a hint of dark fuzz above his lip; he was older than Ben, probably closer to Hal's age range, and fairly freshly harnessed by the lack of other visible alterations. Probably out of one of the new city-camps — one of the children Cochise had told him had been taken.
"You know my name," he said, stating the obvious as he sat up. He didn't feel any other notable new wounds, just the ache in his chest, and somehow he doubted this was where the Espheni took their usual captives. Was he on one of those ships? Maybe even the one tethered over Charlotte, that he'd just been plotting how to take down? He sort of doubted it — solely on the grounds that things were never that simple.
"I do," the boy replied, eerily serene like every other actively harnessed child he'd encountered.
Some days Tom felt incredibly guilty for what he and John had done, killing Karen — she may have chosen to join the Espheni when given the chance, but surely she never would have done so without the brainwashing she'd undergone first — but she would have returned the favor, if they hadn't stopped her. Right now, all Tom could hope to do was to one day give all the Espheni's slaves, human or otherwise, the chance to make choices of their own.
He glanced around again as he pushed to his feet, hoping to catch sight of the puppeteer, but there were too many shadows to guess which one it occupied. There was enough open space in the ugly, organically textured room to be sure they were definitely on something bigger than a beamer or one of the courier ships, though; several glass screens were suspended along one wall, lit up with surveillance imagery showing people going about their business inside one of the laser-fenced enclosures.
"Do you know his name?" Tom asked pointedly. "This poor kid you're using as a mouthpiece?"
"He's not important," the kid in question replied, blandly.
It was statements like that that wore down on Tom's determination never to act solely out of anger; that made him wonder whether genocide of another group of sentients ever could be moral, and what he'd do if that option was ever made available to him. What he would become, if the war wore on for much longer.
"And that belief, right there, is why you haven't yet won this war," he replied, gritting his teeth in impotent fury.
"Perhaps," the Espheni continued, implacably. "Your complete inability as a species to accept the logic of your situation has, at times, rendered the course of our conquest ... unpredictable. But that will not save your people from its inevitable conclusion."
"We've proven you wrong so far, we'll prove you wrong in this as well," Tom insisted, craning his neck to peer further into the shadowed nooks and crannies of the ship. "So are you going to show yourself, or are you too afraid to come out and do your dirty work?"
"There is nothing dirty to be done," the speaker replied, eyebrows arched as if in surprise. "I have a simple proposition; one that might serve both our goals. You have proven yourself a leader. Assist us with the next stage of our war effort, and we will exempt you and your family from what is to come."
Did he honestly expect Tom to respond positively to that? "I've heard this offer before. 'In exchange for sanctuary, we will set aside a protected area where human survivors will be relocated.' If this is what sanctuary looks like to you, then I definitely made the right decision, and nothing you can say to me is likely to change my mind." He shook his head, gesturing toward the images playing out on the screens.
"They remain alive, do they not?" the Espheni countered. "Had there not been traitors within the ranks of the guard, the inconvenience you represent would have been removed when the original offer was refused. It would be fitting were we to gift you with the same reward as they: genetic alteration into a more useful, mindless form. But that would be a waste of your potential. Agree and turn over the weaponry acquired from your Volm allies, and we will return you to your city and spare those closest to you from the transformation to come."
Useful. Mindless. A chill swept through Tom; he normally believed in choosing the option with the greatest chance for survival, but if ever there was a fate worse than death, that would be it. "What happens if I refuse this offer?"
"Have you willingly gone along with anything we've chosen to do so far?" The young man's voice was practically dripping with disdain as he conveyed the Espheni's rebuttal. The shadows shifted again, and the alien itself finally emerged, staring down at Tom as if to underscore his ultimatum. "You will have forty-eight hours to consider your choices. Until that time, you will join those below."
"And when I say no a second time?" Tom tipped up his chin, staring at the slender being towering over him. Like the Espheni he'd seen before, it wore some kind of skin-tight clothing; unlike most of them, however, this one's garments gave off the impression of a uniform, something stiff and probably armored.
"Then your family will be first in line for alteration as we perfect our new frontline soldiers." The kid delivered the ultimatum without so much as a hint of hesitation. "It is a shame the testing process is so prone to error."
He said nothing more, but he didn't have to. Tom swallowed through the rush of nausea, then inclined his head, playing for time. "I will consider ... very carefully," he said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.
"We shall see," it replied, then turned its face away, stalking back into the shadows. "Forty-eight hours. Do not forget."
Tom opened his mouth again, unwilling to let the alien have the last word — then closed it again as the floor fell away under his feet, dropping him into a space choked with threads and cords of Espheni biotech. It was like being trapped in a coffin-sized capsule wrapped with stretchy black licorice; one that kept descending at a steady rate, not quite faster than his stomach could keep up.
His breath came short in his chest for a long, panicked moment — until he realized what it was doing. This wasn't another cell; it was an elevator. He laughed, the sound a little frantic and breathless even to his own ears, and braced himself to meet whatever challenge was coming next.
From ground level, the inside of the Espheni prison was even less appealing than the views that had been transmitted back from Charlotte. They really had spared no effort wrecking anything left whole from the original invasion; all buildings more than a few stories tall gaped like broken teeth against the skyline, leaving every street choked with rubble. Even given the destruction, though, it was easy to tell he wasn't in the prison closest to Charleston; John was going to be furious. And his kids were never going to let him out of their sight again.
Tom dwelled in that thought for a moment, picturing the faces of each of his family, then sighed and folded all that fraught emotion away again, taking in the loose crowd staring back at him from several paces' distance. None of the prison's inhabitants looked very welcoming, though he really didn't blame them for their mistrust. If they'd seen that elevator thing before, it probably hadn't brought anything beneficial; the Espheni would have make things easier for him if it had sent him down in the grip of another hornet instead.
Which, actually, had probably been the point. Everything those beings did had some logical reason, and often more than one, as abhorrent as they often seemed to human ways of thinking. He wouldn't be surprised if their line of thought this time had gone something like: if Tom Mason didn't survive the next forty-eight hours, he probably hadn't been worthy of their offer anyway, and either way, he'd be one less thorn in their side.
"Who are you?" someone said; and another picked up the question. "What are you doing here?"
"The same as any of you," he said, raising his voice and holding his hands up placatingly as he met as many of the judging eyes around him as he could. "My apologies; they didn't exactly give me time to pack when they snatched me out of Charleston, or I would have brought gifts for my new neighbors."
Some of the ragged, hungry-looking refugees shook their heads and drew away as he proved himself less interesting than they'd hoped; some of the others narrowed their eyes, undoubtedly assessing where he'd fit into their pre-existing chaotic hierarchy. Preferably on a lower rung than they did. One of the onlookers looked genuinely upset, though; a man around Dan's age, who stepped closer at Tom's words.
"You came from Charleston?" he asked, in a voice worn raspy from illness or overuse.
"Yes. Is this Greensboro? Or Richmond? Or did they take me west or south after they got me away from the city?" He could probably piece it together himself eventually, but it gave him something to say, some room to establish a working relationship with these people whose goodwill he'd depend on for the next couple of days. He didn't have any preexisting bonds to rely on, here.
The older man didn't respond to the question, though; he shook his head sharply, the distress in his expression sharpening to something painful. "Are you saying Charleston's fallen? I was on my way there with my family when the hornets found us — we ran into one of those friendly aliens, the Volm, who said it was still free. I drew the hornets away from them so they could make it — but if they took them anyway —"
Tom shook his head as the man's voice rose in panic, trying on a reassuring smile. "No, no. Charleston was still standing last I saw it; I'm sure your family's fine. I was just ... unlucky. Where are we, by the way? I know this isn't Charlotte."
"No, it's Greenboro ... or was," one of the others said sourly, a woman in her mid-thirties with her dark hair shorn off close to the skull and an infected scratch marring one cheek. "It's just another Espheni ghetto, now. Even if they don't have Charleston yet, they will soon; we're all gonna die in here, or someplace just like it."
"I don't believe that," Tom said, meeting her gaze evenly. "I can't believe that. If I know my family, they're already on their way to find me, no matter how many other prisons they have to tear down to get here."
"Feel free to delude yourself," she spat back, "but don't expect the rest of us to buy it. Especially when you came from up there."
"Not by choice," he began to explain — then sighed as she turned away, striding off with a huff.
"It was nice to meet you!" Tom called after her, then shook his head in frustration when she threw a finger back over her shoulder in response. Several of the remaining onlookers had lost interest after her reference to the ship as well, turning their backs on him with unease flickering in their expressions. Only a few remained behind — and of those, around half seemed more hostile than genuinely curious. Though again, he could hardly blame them.
If the camp had a leader, he or she didn't seem to be there at the moment; hiding somewhere within line of sight to keep off the Espheni's radar, perhaps? Regardless, there didn't seem to be any point in standing around until someone pressed the matter. He looked around again, turning slowly in place to identify which direction was south, then strode casually out of the open square where the ship had set him down. The few people standing in that direction backed off rather than interact with him, though, looking away rather than meeting his gaze. Maybe if he could find the nearest edge of the laser wall, and pinpoint a weakness in it somewhere ... well, it might be futile, but it would keep him busy until either someone did approach him, or the cavalry arrived. One way or the other, he was going to get out of here; that was all there was to it.
Tom oriented himself by the direction of the sun and shadows as he walked, nodding politely to anyone he passed. Even those folks he didn't recognize from the square looked wary until he passed them by, though, huddled in makeshift shelters or whispering to a close companion. Very few bothered to meet his eyes; one of those was a solitary man with dark skin and a sharp, assessing look, but he didn't ping Tom's danger sense and he didn't give any sign he wanted to speak to him, so Tom kept walking.
It took him maybe ten minutes to reach his goal. Part of a university had been within the boundaries of Greensboro's fence; a fallen 'LIBRARY' sign caught his eye as he picked his way through the rubble, but the bricks that had been part of the building were soot-stained and crumbly, not a hopeful indicator that there might still be anything useful inside. There was a lot of brick construction in that area of the city, actually, mostly discernible now by the dull red particulate mixed with the ever-present concrete-and-asphalt grit. Laundering that out of his clothes was going to be a real chore when he got back to Charleston; it stained nearly as badly as rust.
The fence was visible from that spot, but he couldn't see any sign of the tether. He'd probably have to walk the circumference of the fenced area to find it, and that could take a while. But what other option did he have? After all the planning they'd done for Charlotte, he knew that the power line's location would be where to expect any attempt at rescue. And its proximity, or lack thereof, to the rail lines would also tell him whether there was any chance that that would occur within the 48 hour grace period the Espheni had offered him.
The scuff of a boot behind him told him that further exploration would have to wait for later, though. Someone had finally decided to bite. Tom didn't want to fight any of the other prisoners, but he couldn't just assume whoever it was would feel the same, and he knew he couldn't be seen as a pushover, either; this first solo confrontation was going to be key. He might not have John's experience behind bars, but he didn't need anyone to tell him that apparent weakness was no protection when faced with a bully determined to assert their position.
"Can I help you?" he asked, throwing an unhurried glance back over his shoulder.
His guest was the lone watcher from earlier, the one who'd stared as he walked by. The stranger still didn't look hostile, but he definitely wanted something if he'd tracked Tom all that way.
"Perhaps," the gentleman replied, tilting his head thoughtfully. He spoke English with a slight accent; not quite British or Australian. Maybe South African? "Back there, you said that you were ... unlucky. But you do not act — or dress — like one who relies on luck."
He'd been in the square then, too. Tom had to admit, he probably did look suspiciously clean and well-fed, compared to someone who'd been living in a place like this ever since the Volm left Earth, regardless of his idle worries about laundry. He supposed that was what passed for a first world problem, these days.
"I guess that depends on how you define 'luck'," he said carefully, keeping his hands easily visible. "I was unlucky enough to draw the attention of a particular Overlord a couple years ago, and escaped when he meant to kill me. Then I compounded the error by allying my group with the Volm when they first arrived. After we turned the Beamers dropping fence posts away from our city, the Espheni must have watched and waited for their opportunity to catch me above ground, hoping to disable Charleston's defenses by removing me. They're going to be very disappointed, if that's the case."
The stranger frowned at that. "I had heard that there was a settlement in Charleston; my last community was visited by a woman in a prop plane over a year ago. But we found her claims difficult to believe, and yours are even more outrageous. I don't suppose you have any way to prove them?"
"I'm afraid they took my weapons, although ..." Tom's brow furrowed as he realized he was still wearing all of the clothes he'd been abducted in, and they didn't seem torn or rumpled. Taking care to move slowly, he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets, and swallowed hard as his questing fingers encountered the slick curved surface of the Volm communicator. He'd taken to carrying the comm everywhere since John and Hal had left, not wanting to miss a call from them or Cochise; he couldn't believe it hadn't been found on him. And if the Espheni hadn't searched far enough to take that ... had they left him anything else of use?
A crinkle betrayed a folded piece of paper in one of his other pockets, and Tom huffed a disbelieving laugh. Of course he'd have one of the those on him; he still thought the damn things were ridiculous, but in the absence of high tech anti-counterfeiting measures and their stringent requirements, his advisors had argued, why not paper certificates with a likeness drawn on them? Literally drawn: there was a guy in the administration whose sole job now was to sketch illustrations by hand for people who'd grown up with computerized 3D imaging technology.
"I don't know if I'd call this proof; more like an embarrassment. But, here." He pulled one of the slips of paper slowly back out of his pocket, gesturing with it toward the stranger.
The other man took it, glancing perfunctorily down at the rectangular shape — then looked again, sharply, glancing between Tom and the New US Credit bill. "This is ... you?"
"Unfortunately," Tom replied, grinning ruefully. "I told them it should be Manchester, because he's the one that made sure the settlement there was more than just a militia in the first place, or even Porter, because there wouldn't have been any Boston militias without him. But they insisted — for the same reason George Washington was on the one dollar bill, or so they claimed. But it was only after I was elected that the city managed to get a semi-functioning economy up and running as more than just a barter system again, so ... yeah. Tom Mason, at your service, though I still answer easier to 'Professor' than I ever will to 'President'."
That wasn't to say he hadn't reconciled himself to the new title over the last couple of months; he was even reluctantly fond of some of its variants, particularly John's 'no-shit President of the New United States'. But those were stories for another time. His babble seemed to have served its purpose already; the stranger looked much more open and less suspicious, now.
"Just how many survivors are there in Charleston?" the man asked, incredulously.
"Somewhere between five and six thousand now," Tom shrugged. He was well aware of what those numbers would sound like; that was as much and more as all the original Massachusetts militias together, before they'd been split apart and whittled down to under two hundred by time and Espheni malevolence. A drop in the bucket compared to pre-invasion populations, but more than most survivors they'd found had ever expected to see again. "I wish I could be more precise, but it's been a couple of months since we last took a census, and not everyone wants to identify themselves to the government. Given the givens, we usually just mark those down as officially unnamed residents, but I think some of them are either getting double-counted or not counted at all."
The stranger whistled lowly, shaking his head. "Perhaps I'm a fool, but — I cannot believe anyone would make up a lie that outrageous," he said, handing back the note. "I don't suppose you'd have any use for an electrical lineman in that city of yours? Dingaan Botha."
It was Tom's turn to widen his eyes. "Actually, believe it or not, we just might. We've only got the one guy in Charleston running our entire power plant, and he has other responsibilities as well — he'd be thrilled to have some assistance, particularly given the demand created by the continuing expansion of our population. One of the many points of stress in the lashup we're currently calling a government. We have quite a few people who left their white collar jobs behind to become warriors, but there are some interesting gaps among the nuts and bolts professions."
"Then I think perhaps we might have something to talk about," Dingaan smiled back, extending a hand for a quick, firm shake. "This is not the first alien prison I have been in, you see; I escaped from the one in Richmond, before a black hornet found me again and brought me here. If I can get us out, can you keep us free?"
If his new friend was telling the truth — that was terrific news. "I can't absolutely guarantee anything, until I can contact my people. But after that — yes. The Espheni had to make a special effort to get me this time; it won't happen that way again. How do you propose to get us out?"
Tom didn't like the idea of leaving so many people behind in captivity — but this wasn't Charleston, the people here weren't the Second Mass, and he had to get back to the Second Mass before he would have the resources to be able to free everyone else, anyway.
"Very carefully," Dingaan replied with a smirk. "But the details can wait — they'll be dropping food in a few moments, and I've only been here a few days longer than you have. If we miss the drop, no one will save anything for a newcomer, and food isn't so plentiful that we can afford to miss a meal."
Tom could understand that; even in Charleston, even now, they didn't have enough that they could afford to waste even a crumb. If he never saw another starving child, it would be too soon. "Lead the way," he said, gesturing back over the path of footprints marked out in silhouettes of grey and red dust.
Dinner turned out to be a single can of Spam, salvaged from a bag full of preserved food dropped from a Beamer. Tom had never been a big fan of the processed meat, but it was still in date, and it was better than some things he'd had to eat over the last couple of years; he still smiled every time he remembered John's diatribe about canned goods stashes and the apparent ubiquity of tuna. In a way, opening that can also felt like a back-handed victory; after turning them away from grocery store after dry-goods warehouse early on in the resistance, when he'd still been mostly just a scout for the militia, the Espheni were being forced to give up all that jealously guarded food after all. Sometimes, it really was the little things.
Dingaan ate a can of refried beans, and apologized in advance with a wry grin. Tom really hadn't expected to make a new friend that day, and he still wasn't just going to trust the man out of hand, but he already appreciated Dingaan's pragmatism and sense of humor. He'd be a good addition to Charleston if he really could do what he promised.
Once they were done eating, Dingaan graciously showed him to a relatively cozy retreat on the second floor of a half-destroyed building to continue their conversation. One corner of the former office space, twice the size of a standard bedroom, was open to the evening sky; there was enough ceiling left to keep the sleeping corner dry, however, and the damage seemed to have kept other prisoners from coveting the space. It was better than he'd had a time or two on the hike south from Boston, not to mention his plane crash adventure, so Tom wasn't about to complain about his new friend's hospitality. His definition of 'luxury' was highly context dependent of late.
Dingaan had furnished the room with a couple of chairs; one of them had clearly seen some recent use, but the other was still thickly layered in dust. He brushed at it perfunctorily with a worn sleeve, then gestured Tom toward it. Almost without thinking, Tom checked the position of the ceiling breach and the door, orienting the chair so he could keep an eye on both; then he sat down, gratefully taking the weight off his feet.
"So. Tell me about your escape."
Dingaan took a seat in the other chair, leaning forward to brace his weight on his elbows as he took a deep breath and began to explain. "There are many differences between the two camps I've seen — but many similarities as well, the most important of which is the green barrier."
Tom nodded. "They tried to set up a similar barrier in Charleston, but we were able to drive them away before they could complete it. And our scouts have seen a fence like that around downtown Charlotte, as well."
"It vaporizes anyone who touches it. But it is based upon electricity, and I know electricity. Do you know the concept of a Faraday cage?"
The word sounded familiar, like something Tom might have read in a science fiction novel, but not enough for him to define it. "Sorry, I taught history, not physics," he shrugged.
"A Faraday cage, or Faraday suit in this case, is an enclosure formed by conductive material or by a mesh of such material, used to block electric fields," Dingaan explained. "I made a sort of armor based on this principle — strips of metal attached to an insulating fabric to cover as much of the body as possible, including a helmet. It's not perfect; it's impossible to shield every square centimeter of skin, given the need to grasp things and breathe, and the limitation on available materials means it will begin to fall apart right away. You can't just put the suit on and walk through the wall. But it will protect you long enough to climb one of the fence posts, if you are quick."
Tom tried to imagine gambling his life on whether or not a scientific principle learned in theory would save his ass in a real situation; brave man. Although he supposed that was more or less what he'd done with historical principles, the very beginning of his involvement with the Second Mass. His original thesis — that making the occupation difficult enough for the invaders would eventually drive them away — might not have been proven, but the facts of Charleston's situation otherwise more than spoke for themselves.
"How long will it take to construct a suit for both of us?" he asked. It didn't sound particularly complex — but finding the materials, and assembling them in secrecy, would probably be more difficult.
Dingaan shrugged. "I think I have enough fabric already," he said, nodding to a mound in one corner that Tom had taken for torn curtains at first glance. "And the tools to make them. I've secured enough strips of metal for one suit, as well. We will need enough for another, two helmets, and copper enough to wind around both suits. It is not a great amount of material — the challenge is locating it, not assembling it. We could find it right away, or it could take many days."
"We don't have many days — or, at least, I don't. The Espheni in the zeppelin up there gave me a forty-eight hour deadline before they force me to make a choice I have no intention of making." Tom nodded at the hole in the sky, noting absently that the moon was up, and nearly full; it would be fairly bright out until it set. "Have you asked anyone else if they know where to find the materials you need?"
Dingaan grimaced. "I did not wish to make anyone suspicious, and I had little to trade in any case. But if you're on a deadline, it might be worth it to try. And the search will go more quickly, with two of us."
"All right, then. Tomorrow," Tom nodded, then glanced back up at the sky again.
Despite what he now knew — that humanity was far from alone in the universe, and that one of those sparks of light out there had given birth to a superpredator even deadlier than they were — it still looked the same from down below. The stars still shone; the moon still rose and set, looking down on every member of his family.
The moon. Tom froze as he remembered the vision he'd experienced before waking on the Espheni ship, and narrowed his eyes at the bright, gibbous shape hanging above. If that visitation really had been a message from the Dorniya — what had they been trying to tell him? What did they want him to see?
"Tom? Is something wrong?" he heard Dingaan ask.
"I'm sure it's nothing, it's just ..." he began, then sucked in a sharp breath as something did change. A brilliant green dot appeared on the surface of the moon, held for a breath, then blinked out as swiftly as it had come. "Did you see that?"
"What, the moon?" Dingaan replied, skeptically.
"No; there was something on the moon," Tom shook his head. That color — it had been almost the same shade as the fence. That had to mean something, didn't it?
"I don't see —"
"Just give it a minute," Tom insisted. There was no way he'd just happened to look up at the one and only time that was going to happen; even in a world where aliens had advanced predictive abilities and/ or ESP, that was unlikely. But it couldn't be something that had been there ever since the invasion, either; someone would have noticed something long before now. Unless he was going crazy; he wouldn't bet against that, either.
He waited, and waited, counting slowly under his breath — then almost at the minute mark exactly, the green dot appeared again, bright and unmistakable. "There!" Accounting for the scattering effect of the atmosphere, it was probably a lot smaller than it looked at the source, but even so ... if that light originated on the moon, how powerful would it have to be for them to see it all the way down on Earth?
Dingaan swore under his breath. "Lasers," he said, vehemently. "Of course."
"What?" Tom frowned at him.
"I had wondered how they could power these walls, and all the beamers and mechs, when everything was at a standstill such a short time ago! But there are theories — before all this happened, NASA had been researching the idea of beaming power down from solar satellite collectors for years, based on Nikola Tesla's theories. We know wireless power transfer is at least possible on the small scale; people were working on charging stations for personal electronics that didn't require plugs, that sort of thing, before the invasion. There! Sixty seconds, just about," he concluded, pointing up at the moon. "They would lose better than half of the energy in the atmosphere — but with the help of a few satellites, they could hit the whole world from up there."
Tom swallowed, stomach sinking at the idea. "Do you really think that's possible?"
It would explain a lot about the Espheni's sudden and rapid re-expansion ... but at the expense of putting a solution to the problem way out of humanity's reach. Did the Volm even have any spaceworthy craft still on Earth? He'd have to ask Cochise, but he thought they'd disassembled most of their single-passenger landing pods to build their bunker. And then there was the fact that this was proof that the dreams weren't just a product of his own imagination; just like when he'd seen the DNA report, he wasn't sure whether to feel relieved that he wasn't going crazy, or terrified of what it meant for the future.
"The technology may be far beyond our grasp — but the theory? We've known its potential for more than a hundred years," Dingaan shook his head. "It's obvious, now that — ah, there it is again; definitely a regular pulse. My only question is why now; why didn't they set this system up from the beginning? Did they think they wouldn't need it? Or did it merely take that long to construct?"
"I don't suppose it matters either way," Tom shrugged. "What matters now is getting past the fence."
"True, true," Dingaan sighed. "Well — you're welcome to sleep here, if you like; there isn't much in the way of amenities, but it's better than anything else you're likely to find before nightfall."
"That sounds great, actually — though, do you mind if I stretch my legs first?" Both for the reason Dingaan was likely to assume — it wasn't as though the structure had any running water — and to give him a chance to use the communicator in private.
"You hardly need my permission," Dingaan chuckled, shaking his head. "Mister President."
"Didn't I tell you? Call me Tom," he grinned back, then headed for the doorway. "Back soon; and thanks again."
He tried the communicator he'd left with John first, but neither John nor Hal, who'd used it to speak to him last, answered. He tried not to let that worry him. The last he'd seen of them, they'd both been alive; but they were both sure to be very busy, given the attack Charleston had just repelled.
He gave it a few minutes, then switched the frequency and tried Cochise next. There were times his scout team was in a position where he couldn't answer, but fortunately, that wasn't the case that night.
"Professor Mason. It is good to hear from you," the Volm answered, immediately.
Tom gave a low, relieved laugh. "Better than you know, my friend. The Espheni sent a lightning raid against Charleston — I'm in the prison camp at Greensboro, now. Fortunately, they didn't empty out my pockets."
Cochise said something pungent in his own language. "Was anyone else captured?"
"No, don't worry. It's just me. I think they followed a group of refugees to us; the remains of the Keystone group. John found them while he was out scouting. They said Hathaway was taken to one of these camps as well, but it must be Richmond, because I haven't seen anyone I recognize here."
Something else to think about later — had they offered a similar deal to the one they'd offered him to Hathaway? Could it be Hathaway who'd tipped the Espheni off where his people would have gone? Tom hoped not; the last thing the city's morale needed was to find out the last leader of the old order had turned collaborator.
"I am sorry, Professor. I am afraid I will be very little help; we have not yet discovered a way to circumvent the green barriers, short of flying over them."
"That's all right; I made a new friend today who might know a way out. That's not why I called. Look. Last week, when we talked — you said you'd figured the Espheni had constructed a new power source, but you were having trouble tracing its location."
"That is correct," Cochise replied, with a sigh. "We have determined that it produces a measurable increase in background microwave radiation on the planet's surface; unfortunately, we have yet to discover a way to track that radiation to its source."
"Radiation ...?" Tom blinked, momentarily knocked off course by the specter of the defense grid. "Is it harmful?"
"It is less than a quarter of the average electromagnetic radiation absorbed from the sun," Cochise said. "It is not enough to be harmful to the Volm; I thought it unlikely to be more harmful to humanity. Though of course, we can breathe chlorine, where you cannot, so my supposition may be in error; I should have mentioned it sooner."
Tom blew out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face in relief. "No, no; that's all right. The important thing is — I think I know why you're having such a hard time tracking it."
"Oh?" Cochise perked up at that. "What have you discovered, Professor?"
Tom cleared his throat, glancing up at the sky and counting in his head. "Are you outside? If you are, then look up right ... now."
Puzzled silence was the only answer from the comm for several long seconds ... followed by a lengthier spate of Volm cursing that made him wish the device had a recording function.
"Yeah, that was about my reaction," he replied with a dry chuckle. "I don't suppose you have any spaceships still hanging around somewhere we could use?"
"Unfortunately, we do not," Cochise replied, grimly. "I will have to contact my father for assistance — but these smaller communicators are not adequate to reach the greater Volm fleet. I shall have to return to the master cache and unearth the long range unit; it may take some days to accomplish, and a high-power transmission of that nature will be difficult to conceal."
Tom grimaced; he supposed that answered the question of why the transmitter was buried in the first place. "I'd like to say that I wouldn't ask you to risk yourself for this, but given how important the power source is ..."
"Even if you did, I would insist," Cochise confirmed, then paused. "Before I inform my team of our change in course ... I have news for you as well. In our recent search, we encountered a school populated by what I must assume are children from the nearest detention camp. They were all of eligible age, but I observed none with harnesses; they wore uniforms instead, and chanted nonsensical words about brotherhood with the Espheni at the behest of one of their number. The buildings were fenced, and guarded by mechs and Skitters."
An appalled shudder worked its way up Tom's spine. Just how long had the Espheni spent studying the planet before they invaded, anyway? "It seems they're taking inspiration from the worst of Earth's history again; the Hitler Youth, this time. Brainwashing the kids to get to the last hold-outs among the adults."
Teaching them to love the shining wire; his kids would have understood that, he thought. But anyone could break, given enough grooming and pressure — he was so, so grateful that none of them had ended up in that situation. He was a terrible role model, there, too; always rescued or able to escape before it came to that point, the worst of the consequences heaped on other people's shoulders. Hopefully, they wouldn't ever have to find that out the hard way — like the kids in those camps were, right now. One more worry for the post-war future.
"I am sorry, Tom Mason."
"No, no, don't be — at least we know they're alive," he replied, wincing. "And that they'll probably stay that way until the Espheni have done whatever it is they're planning to do to all the adults they're rounding up. Let's just hope your father gets your message before things get that far — or we find some other way to reach the moon."
"I will do so," Cochise confirmed, solemnly. "You are certain you do not require more immediate assistance?"
"No, I'm good. The news about the power source is definitely more important than waiting around to escort me out of this place. Though if you hear from my family before I do — let them know I'm all right?"
"I will do so. I wish you luck in your escape; I will contact you again once the transmission has been sent."
"Thank you, Cochise," Tom replied, equally solemnly, then sighed and signed off.
His sleep was shallow and fragmented that night. Tom had been expecting that: new place, new worries, new company. There'd been studies done in the old days about how it took at least two nights in a new situation before the human brain fully shut down in rest, and adding all the current stressors on top of that was too much for even his exhaustion-trained sleep habits. He gave in about halfway through and sat watch for the rest of the night, staring up at the sky and racking his brains for ways to trade nothing for something.
It had sounded like copper was the most critical fail point in Dingaan's plan, and the people who'd been in the camp since the walls went up would have a much better idea than he would where to find the wiring or piping or whatever they'd need to strip to get it. But could they mine that resource without anyone figuring out what they were up to? Regardless of the odds, he didn't exactly have much choice.
He sighed, watching the thin clouds slowly scudding over the stars, and thought about his family. How they'd finally turned a corner with his daughter's condition, and how proud he was of his sons. And John. If John was there too, he would probably ...
The thought trailed off as Tom quirked a smile. If John was there, he'd be the one they'd need to go to; the one who either knew where everything was, or knew who would know. Whether he could be persuaded to help a stranger would be another story, of course. And if he did have copper to hand, he'd probably be using it to make some new brewing system to keep his control over the drinking business, not saving it against a rainy day.
...Could that be his angle? Tell the people talked to that he was planning to make alcohol? Moonshine, to blunt the sharp teeth of the cold nights and make the wasteland of their daily lives a little more bearable. Now that might be an idea they might even be willing to extend credit on. Tom hated to tell a blatant lie for his own gain, but he would do anything to get back to his family, and if the Volm did manage to hit the power station on the moon thanks to his intel, they'd all be free soon anyway.
There were no perfect choices here; only the least worst. And if his life had taught him one thing, it was how to make the most of what he'd been given.
He pinged the communicator one more time before daybreak, when his host stirred and closed the window of privacy. There was no immediate response that time either, though given the early hour he still refused to jump to conclusions. Hal had probably left the thing in a jacket pocket while he and his girlfriend reintroduced themselves to showers and clean sheets; there was no point borrowing trouble just yet.
Dingaan laughed ruefully when Tom laid out his plan, proclaiming it worthy of a politician indeed. For once, though, Tom didn't mind the comparison; it was a use for those skills that he didn't have to feel guilty for. They struck out with the first several people they approached — some uninterested, some unable, and some too untrusting to help — but it was only a matter of time before they turned up a guy who knew a guy who'd worked maintenance in the area before the explosions, and had an idea where to find a bike shop as well. The bikes themselves had long since disappeared, but helmets still thronged the dark, dusty shelves in plenty.
There were other hazards in the camp besides uncooperative human beings, of course; Skitter patrols were a regular presence, and the ship slowly circled the entire perimeter of the camp, focusing its cameras on any event of interest. They seemed to ignore humans cooperating with each other, or keeping out of each other's way; but any hint of a struggle or suspicious activity, and alien attention would descend on the unfortunates below. He even witnessed a hornet fly down to pull one particularly argumentative guy away; he'd been fighting over the last can of creamed corn with a young woman carrying a child too small to be useful to the Espheni.
Tom didn't want to know where that guy had gone; he paid careful attention to the patrol patterns, and to Dingaan's stories of the things he'd seen, moving the copper stocks they found from doorway to doorway carefully between circuits of the ship's cameras. It would be even more of a problem when they actually had to approach the fence, so better to learn the timing in the day before it became a question of survival that night.
In many ways, those hours reminded him a lot of the earliest days of the Second Mass: dodging aliens he didn't yet know how to predict or efficiently kill, approaching people raw from fresh loss to convince them that what he asked of them would benefit their future as much as his. Only this time, he didn't have his family with him, nor any orders to follow other than his own. He was very glad he'd already found an ally and made a plan; being locked up on his own for any longer than a couple of days was not likely to be very good for his mental health.
Once again, he was struck by the sheer cruelty of the setup; it was more even than a mostly-logical and unromantic mindset could really justify. The Espheni clearly had the capacity to understand human behavior on a macro scale, even if the finer details of emotion-based cause and effect occasionally escaped them; that suggested their own motivations should be roughly intelligible in return. But the only rationale Tom could think of was, frankly, even more terrifying than the idea that they didn't mean anything to the star-faring species. That they did mean something to them ... and that that something was entirely negative.
How could they possibly defeat an enemy so much more advanced than they were if the material benefit was only the bonus — if the whole purpose in coming had been to erase them from the face of the Earth? Somehow, he didn't think there was the equivalent of a death star exhaust port just waiting for a lucky rebel to fire a torpedo through, here; or if there was, no one had yet managed to slip the plans to the resistance.
Tom dismissed that train of thought with some difficulty, prying open a can of water chestnuts for that evening's bare bones meal and taking direction from Dingaan on putting his suit together. It didn't make a very satisfying supper, not nearly enough of it and far too bland, but at least it crunched satisfyingly between his teeth while he 'sewed' wire through the backing material to secure larger pieces of metal together like a jigsaw puzzle.
"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," he muttered, shaking a pricked finger and sucking away a drop of blood that welled to the surface.
"Hmm?" Dingaan looked up from his own work, wrinkling his brow at Tom.
"Oh — nothing. What do you think, will this work?" He crimped the last bit of wire into place, then held up the torso piece for Dingaan's perusal.
Dingaan eyed it thoughtfully, then nodded, flashing a wry smile at him. "I think it is — you would say, close enough for government work?"
Tom gave a rusty chuckle, nodding back to him as he set the armor back on the floor. "What now, then?"
"Finish the helmet — then stow the pieces in the duffel bag from the bike shop, and we'll take a walk down to the fence after dark," Dingaan shrugged.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. It's not complicated; only a matter of life and death," he snorted. "I'd worry more about what comes next: getting away from the camp once we are outside it. So now that I have shared my plan — will you share yours?"
Tom tilted his head at him, thinking that through. "And if I said I'd prefer to have proof the suits work before revealing that information?" he asked, keeping the question light rather than confrontational.
"And if I prefer to be certain there will be more than a trap waiting for me on the other side?" Dingaan replied with lifted eyebrows. "I am sure the details of my escape would be valuable to our captors."
"Fair enough," Tom admitted with a nod. "We've got to trust each other at some point; that's the only way we get out of this. So why not now?"
He reached into his pocket, then pulled out the communicator and thumbed it on. "Hal? John? Anyone there?"
Dingaan's eyes widened at the sight of the comm. "That's no alien technology I've ever seen — but it's not human either. Is it from the Volm I've heard about?" he asked.
"Yep." The comm made a faint staticky noise; Tom nodded to Dingaan, then transmitted again. "Hal? John ...?"
"...Dad?!" Hal's voice transmitted back. There was a rhythmic metallic sound in the background, punctuating a loud rushing noise, but the words came through clearly enough. "Holy shit! Where are you? Are you all right?"
Tom sat back in his chair, relief rushing through him at the sound of his son's voice. "In Greensboro, actually. Looks like my scouting days aren't completely behind me after all."
"Just wait 'til Marina hears about this," Hal laughed in disbelief. "Forget about getting out of the office ever again. Wait — you're in the prison there? Then how'd you get your hands on the comm? Are you out already?"
"I think that would be a little quick, even for me," Tom replied, shaking his head. "Would you believe they took my guns, and the knife off my belt, but didn't search my pockets?"
"You're kidding me," Hal laughed again. "God. Dad. You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice. Lexie completely freaked, and Pope spent most of the last day ripping strips off people with his tongue and staging an armed occupation of the kitchen."
The mention of Lexie worried him, but asking if it had something to do with her abilities probably wasn't wise with a stranger listening in on his end, and who knew how many others on Hal's. He could easily imagine John's behavior, though; and for once, reports of his prickly obstinance only filled Tom with relief. "John's all right, then? I thought I saw him get back up — but he fell pretty far."
"Yeah, he's fine. Limping a little, but he got the all-clear from Anne. Some of the rest of us are banged up a little, but not bad, and we only lost a few — mostly Marshall's people, and you. It'll be a few days before we can get to Greensboro, though; we were sort of hoping you were in Charlotte. D'you think Cochise could help?"
Oh; was that what that noise was, in the background of Hal's voice — a railcar, clacking along at a good clip. "Dan went ahead with the plan, then?"
"After Pope yelled at everyone for awhile," Hal snorted. "We're on our way now; we'll be there sometime after nightfall. I'm here with Maggie and about half the Berserkers; Pope's at the front of the train with Lyle, Anthony, and Weaver, and Ben's in the back with the rebel Skitters. Most of Captain Marshall's people are with us as well, and the rest of the Second Mass fighters. We're expecting to get ambushed, once they realize where we're headed, but we've got enough firepower we should be able to blow right through them."
Dingaan made a disbelieving noise at that; Tom shrugged at him, then continued. "Bring any alternate transportation along?"
"'Course we did; just like when we went to Jacksonville. Just in case. Why?"
Tom grinned. "Cochise is busy elsewhere — but I made a new friend, too. An electrical lineman; he's figured out a way over the fence. Sounds like we'll be climbing our way out of here around the same time you're taking Charlotte. I know it's ninety miles or so, but —"
There was a scrabble of noise, and then another voice: Maggie's; Hal must have dropped the comm. "Are you serious, Tom? We ought to change your name to Houdini. Yeah, of course we'll set out the minute the shooting stops. You'll be okay in the woods 'til we get there?"
"Better than trying to walk all that way, that's for sure," he admitted.
"Yeah, I get that," Maggie chuckled. "Put your friend on, would you — no, get off me, Hal, like you wouldn't do it too if you weren't so busy being Mason Junior."
Somehow, Tom didn't think she'd meant him to hear that last part, but he handed the comm over to Dingaan anyway with a lifted eyebrow. "Touch here, to transmit."
Dingaan shook his head, then thumbed the button. "Ah — this is Dingaan Botha? Of Phoenix Utilities, Johannesburg."
"Well, Dingaan Botha of Phoenix Utilities, Johannesburg: my name's Maggie, of the Second Massachusetts Militia. Currently of Charleston. I've got a lot of armed and motivated soldiers here, and you've got precious cargo. Take care of the second, and you won't end up on the wrong end of the first, you hear me?"
Dingaan chuckled again, in disbelief. "Yes, I hear you. I feel a bit like I wandered into someone else's hero's journey when I wasn't looking; but, I hear you."
"Don't worry, you'll get used to it. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow," she said, tone only half a threat; and then there was a rustle of noise again, as someone else scrambled for the comm.
"We'll all be wishing you luck, sir — and we'll pass this on to Pope soon's the train stops, don't worry," Tector came on the line.
Tom shook his head, warmed by everyone's concern. "Better wait 'til the fight's over — getting distracted's the reason I'm here in the first place, I'd just as soon we don't add any complications to this particular rescue," he replied, then cleared his throat. "And — thanks, Tec. Keep an eye on my boys for me?"
"You know I will," Tector replied. Then Hal filched the comm back.
"Good luck, Dad. See you tomorrow."
"Good luck to you, too," Tom replied, then took a deep breath. "Mason, out."
"Well?" he added, tucking the comm away as he glanced at Dingaan, lines crinkling around his eyes. "Satisfied?"
Dingaan shook his head. "I don't know if satisfied is the word for it. Amazed, perhaps." He didn't say that despite deciding to trust, he'd been taking Tom's claims with a grain of salt — but he didn't have to; it was only common sense. "I think I look forward to meeting these friends of yours. That was your son?"
"My eldest, yeah; and his girlfriend, and that last was our best sniper. A good friend," Tom nodded.
"And this — John you asked for? They mentioned him several times, as well, under another name," Dingaan observed, curiously.
"John Pope is ... complicated. But the short answer is, he's my ... partner, I guess I'd say. Or boyfriend; though that sounds ridiculous to me for a pair of guys in their forties." Tom wrinkled his nose.
He didn't ask whether that would be a problem; he didn't think it necessary. Dingaan seemed the type to have a much more practical grasp on his priorities.
"New relationship, then, I take it?" Dingaan replied casually, proving him right.
Tom chuckled. "By way of having been friendly enemies for a couple of years first? Pretty much. Like I said ... complicated." He thought about saying more, but cut himself off there; no need to offer a further apologia to someone unacquainted with any of the other parties involved. A lot of people had a right to be pissed at John; it would be nice to have a friend who didn't.
Dingaan nodded at that, an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Too wise to woo peaceably, eh?"
Tom was in the middle of taking a swig out of a water bottle when the Shakespeare reference registered, and he choked, hastily coughing into his fist. I pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts did thou first fall in love with me? "Maybe. Anyway. Moving on ... what do you think, just after moonset sound like a good time?"
"Should be. I know the patrol schedules; there'll be several seconds when no Skitters are in sight and the ship's over the far side of the compound. From there, it'll just be a matter of making it to the fence and waiting for another window. It'll be a bit of a lightshow — that can't be helped — but it'll take them some time to get a crew outside the fence to look for us. Particularly if the boss upstairs is a bit distracted by other nearby events." Dingaan jerked his thumb toward the roof.
Tom grinned at him. "Sounds like a plan, then," he said. About as much of one as he ever had, at least.
"Sounds like a plan," Dingaan agreed, then stood and stretched the kinks out of his back. "All we have left to do is ... wait."
-(7/10)-