“Trees,” said Gold-Eye, pointing at them. “Good to hide. Safe from Ferrets later.”
“Not so good for lightning,” commented Ella, looking back at the approaching storm. She looked around again, hoping to see something else or suddenly remember some closer haven…but there was nothing there. She felt too tired to think any further, too weary to come up with ideas of her own.
“The trees it is,” she said finally. “We’d better get across the storm-water channel before the rain hits. Gold-Eye, do you feel strong enough to help drag Drum?”
“Yes, but…” Gold-Eye said, holding up his injured hands—one with two fingers splinted and the other purple and black with bruising.
“Ah…I forgot,” muttered Ella. “I wish the big bastard would just wake up.”
“I am awake,” said Drum, his high-pitched, reedy voice piercing above the distant growl of thunder. “I’ve just been gathering my wits for a few minutes.”
He propped himself up on his elbows and said, “Is that the Meat Factory over there?”
Ella didn’t say anything. She just stared at his strange, round, pinkish face till he smiled and said, “You came and got me.”
“Yes,” said Ella. She couldn’t help smiling herself. “We did.”
Drum nodded and, reaching out with one large hand, patted hers gently. Then he did the same to Ninde and Gold-Eye. He had never touched them voluntarily before, except to help or drag or throw them. Never lightly, with a smile.
“We’d better go,” he said. “I’ll piggyback you, Ella.”
“I’m okay,” protested Ella, but when she tried to stand up, her knees buckled and she fell against Ninde and Gold-Eye. They held her up, and Drum lumbered around to kneel with his back to her. Still protesting, she wrapped her arms around his neck and collapsed on his back, weakly putting her legs through his stirruped arms.
“You smell of seawater,” she said to his high wet-suit collar. “But…thanks for the lift.”
“Hang on,” said Drum, and then they were away, moving quickly between the cars, heading toward the cemetery hill and the mighty pines.
Behind them, the rain hit the Meat Factory, splashing it with huge drops. Wind blew more rain inside the hangar doors, where rank after rank of Myrmidons and Trackers stood in silence. There were three Overlords there now, standing next to a pyramidal pile of Myrmidon bodies. Three dead Myrmidon Masters lay at their feet, their postures suggesting suicide.
One of the Overlords—Black Banner—was holding a gas mask with a cracked lens. No words were spoken, but it was clear the Overlords were communicating with each other. Emerald Crown was pointing at the door to Red Diamond’s storage area, and Silver Sun was waving its long-taloned gauntlets around, indicating the standing Drones and the Myrmidons.
Eventually some sort of agreement was reached. Other Myrmidon Masters strode out from the ranks of the waiting creatures and approached their Overlords, going down on their knees to shuffle the last few feet.
Again no words were spoken, but the Myrmidon Masters shuffled back, stood up to bow, and returned to their forces, shouting commands in Battlespeech.
A few minutes later, six maniples were marching through the rain toward the gate, with Trackers loping ahead, faces wet from sniffing through the puddles. Wingers were leaving their captive nets behind and taking to the stormy skies, flying low in ever-widening circles around the Meat Factory, wings battling the rain and wind.
The storm front moved on, leaving soaking showers in its wake. It crossed the road and began to turn the thistle fields to mud—but not before Trackers found the abandoned trolley and then the footprints and drag marks of the humans. Confused by the absence of accompanying scent, they milled about and scratched at each other, till one went back to report the anomaly.
A few minutes later a Myrmidon Master was there, a mind-call medallion firmly stuck to its forehead as it examined the trolley, counted the footprints—and then began to follow them.
The storm-water channel had already begun to fill with water rushing in from the distant beginnings of the storm, but Drum waded through with ease, Ella on his back and the others holding on to him.
They were about to go straight up the other side when Drum looked back and saw their muddy footprints on the concrete, and deep impressions higher up on the earthen bank—impressions too deep to wash away.
“Walk along for a while,” he said, turning back into the current. “Lay a false trail.”
“It’s okay for you—you’ve got a wet suit on,” said Ninde, struggling along behind him. “I’m drenched….”
“Would be anyway,” remarked Gold-Eye correctly, as the rain suddenly burst upon them, huge fat drops splintering into spray on his nose and making loud plops in the rushing water. “How far?”
“This will do,” said Drum, about fifty yards along from where they’d entered the channel. There was a wider concrete apron there, so they wouldn’t leave any obvious footprints in the mud higher up. And the rain would wash the apron clean in seconds.
“Are you okay back there, Ella?” he asked.
“No,” replied Ella. “But I’m hanging on.”
“Hold on tighter,” instructed Drum, launching himself up the apron. Bent forward almost double, he let his momentum carry him up the side. Gold-Eye and Ninde followed more slowly, with several slips and minor fallings-back.
“Tread in my footsteps,” warned Drum as they left the concrete. “Confuse anything following.”
“Should I check to see if anything is?” asked Ninde, touching her Deceptor crown.
“No!” said Drum and Ella in unison. Then Ella turned her head just a little to look at Ninde and said, “There could be Wingers above us in this rain—and they can see a lot better than we can.”
“I was just asking,” said Ninde. “You’d think I couldn’t be trusted, the way you two carry on. If I hadn’t been there in the Meat Factory, no one would have been rescued.”
“I know,” said Ella seriously. “And we’re all very grateful.”
“Oh,” said Ninde, and shut up.
AUDIO ARCHIVE—STOREROOM #7 PICKUP • SAL AND LISA
Sal: All I know is that Robert and his team tried to get into the University and didn’t come back. Neither did Emil’s team last year…and who knows how many before that….
Lisa: So…it’s a difficult mission. We’ve had them before.
Sal: It’s not a difficult mission, Lisa. It’s almost impossible. Shade’s been sending people in there for five fucking years!
Lisa: Well, he needs the instruments and data….
Sal: For what?
Lisa: To find out how the Change was effected….
Sal: And what if he does find out? Shade was created by the Change! He…it’s not going to want to kill itself to turn it back.
Lisa: I’m not listening to any more of this crap! Shade has done more for us than anything we managed by ourselves. We’re organized, equipped, actively fighting against the enemy. Where were you before you came here, Sal? Living like some wild animal, always hunted, never knowing where to hide…
Sal: Okay! Okay! I admit all that. All I’m saying is that Shade is not a person. He doesn’t give a shit about how many of us get killed. It’s a thing, created by the Change—and one day that thing is going to realize it’s not a person, and then we’ll be doubly fucked.
Lisa: Shut up!
Sal: Of course, we’ll both be dead in the fucking Uni or our brains will be doing the rounds inside something else. We should just rack off like Sam and Paolo….