Earth Thirst (39 page)

“You're going to make a deal, aren't you?” Mere says. “You're going to make Arcadia bow to you. You're going to make them beg you to save them, and they'll be so panicked, they'll accept anything you offer. It's a classic scenario. Allow a threat to develop and then swoop in with a perfectly reasonable solution. God, you'd think people would have figured it out after the US government used it on its own citizens after 9/11.”

Escobar raises his shoulders slightly as if the idea is interesting but not enough to fully capture his attention. “What do I need of Arcadia? I have been without them for more than two hundred years. Why would I want them to embrace me again?”

“Because you need their help,” I say.

He laughs. “Their help? The combined umbrella of what my family controls makes more—in pure profit—every year than the entire accumulated wealth that every Arcadian has squirreled away. I could hire every single private military contractor on this planet—today—without making a dent in my cash reserves.”

“You should,” I point out. “At the very least to keep them from being hired by the other guys.”

“Which
other guys
?”

“The ones you're worried about,” I say. “The ones who developed the weed killer in the first place and gave it to Secutores. I mean, Secutores did wipe out that team you sent to retrieve Phoebe. If it wasn't for the helicopter extraction, you wouldn't have gotten Phoebe.”

“It's a temporary advantage,” he scoffs. “Soon to be rendered useless against me and mine.”

“That might be true,” I admit, “but that's not their only research project, is it?”

His cheek twitches.

Mere spots his nervous flinch too. “They got nervous, didn't they? When they used the weed killer, but didn't capture an Arcadian. Suddenly their secret was out. They've been under everyone's radar for some time, haven't they? You don't develop a weapon like that overnight. That's why you tortured Nigel and taped it. You wanted to show them that you were still willing to play along. That was why you let Silas and me come to the restaurant. You were going to turn Silas over. Fulfill your part of the deal. Meanwhile, they had no idea that the one you really wanted was Phoebe.” Mere's figured it out too. “But we kept getting away from you, and Secutores kept getting closer. And now you've moved against them. They know you're not going to play nice. You need friends. You need to get that counteragent in place and you need to show Arcadia that it works.”

Escobar snarls at her, and Mere responds by snapping her arm up, pointing the pistol at his forehead. “Don't,” she says quite clearly, “I'm really on edge right now. I might not be the best of shots, but you're going to be pretty hard to miss standing right there. And I'm willing to bet you haven't received the genetic therapy yet.”

“You need someone to help you smooth things over with Arcadia,” I say, pulling his attention away from Mere, “That was supposed to be Talus, but Phoebe went and splattered his brains all over your penthouse floor. Which leaves me as the only Arcadian who knows enough about what is going on to help you. I'm Mother's
favorite
, remember. You need me to convince the Grove.” I nod at Mere. “And you need her to keep me in line.”

“Excuse me?” Mere sputters.

Escobar composes himself and offers Mere a pleasant smile. “I will need assurances that he will do his job properly,” he says. “Otherwise, he could simply sell me out to the Grove. They would be taking a risk, but Silas has been a member of Arcadia for a very long time. Many will feel his words resonate within them.”

“So you're just going to leave me with him?” Mere's hand drifts, moving the pistol in my direction. “What's to stop him from killing me the moment you walk out of here?”

“Not much,” I admit.

“Oh, that's
fantastic
to hear,” Mere snorts.

“Think of it as
detente
,” Escobar says.

“Which is just a fancy French way of saying, ‘Relax, this won't hurt a bit when I slip this knife in your back,'” Mere says.

“It does always hurt more than you think it will,” I say gravely.

“Silas!” Mere stares at me, her eyes big and round.

We're interrupted by a shout from the lab building behind us. Escobar looks; I don't. I grab Mere's hand, reestablishing where her gun should be pointed, and mash my finger against hers and the trigger. The gun goes off, but Escobar has already moved, ducking and slamming his palm against the base of her fist. The gun barrel goes up, the round misses, and as he tries to strip the weapon from her hand, I backhand him in the face.

In the tunnel, the metal door explodes inward in a gout of flame and smoke.

Belfast and his cavalry.

It took him long enough.

FORTY-FIVE

T
he smoke from the RPG hit on the front door of the facility rolls out of the tunnel, obscuring Mere, Escobar, and me with the familiar stench of rocket propellant, explosives, and burnt plastic. Escobar breaks away from us, dropping off the edge of the top terrace. I don't chase him. Instead, I grab Mere's arm, and haul her toward the unfinished building on our left. If this is the lab, it's probably safe to guess that it isn't the building that serves as a barracks for any contingent of mercenaries that Escobar keeps on site. If he keeps many at all.

I suspect the cultural restoration card is quite enough to keep the locals away from Moray, especially with all the money Hyacinth Worldwide is putting into Cusco. Escobar's Arcadians are probably enough to keep the place secure, and I think he sent most of them out on the raid.

Assault rifles chatter in the tunnel, the channel magnifying the noise and making it seem like there are more guns than there are. I'm not sure what Belfast's men are shooting at as no one is near the entrance. Announcing themselves, perhaps. Making sure any Arcadians in the tunnel know they're coming.

The man who had been trying to alert Escobar is running toward us, closing at a preternatural speed. He's still wearing a flight suit from the helicopter, and I get in front of Mere to intercept him. He barrels in, and I drop and do a leg sweep. Before he can recover, I'm on him, driving his face into the dirt and putting my knee in his back.

Mere reaches us, breathing heavily, and I grab the pistol from her. I put a round in the back of the Arcadian's head and he goes limp beneath me.

I thrust the pistol back at her. “You keep it,” she says.

“Take it,” I reply. “I can't be two places at once.”

“Where are you going?”

“Down there,” I nod toward the terraces. “You're in charge of data collection. See what you can find that we can take with us.”

She hesitates, and I stand up, grabbing her arm and physically putting the gun in her hand. She recoils, but I won't let her go. “There's no time, Mere. If we don't get the data, Secutores will. At the very least, we have to make sure no one gets it.”

“You're going after Phoebe?”

“I'm not leaving her, and Escobar is down there. He has to be dealt with.”

Her hand closes around the grip of the pistol. “Okay,” she says in a quiet voice as if she is trying to convince herself.

“We're getting out of here on that helicopter. That's where you're heading.”

“You know how to fly a helicopter?” she asks. “I thought you hated flying.”

“It's the
falling
part that I don't like, which is why I learned how to fly those things that can keep me up in the air.”

More gunfire sounds, and not all of it is coming from the entrance. Bullets kick up the dirt around us.

Men are coming out of the building shell on the other side of the terraces. I guess Escobar had more men on site than I thought, though these guys are moving slowly enough they've got to be human mercenaries.

She still hesitates and I feel like I'm missing something, but there's no time to suss it out. “Go,” I insist, pushing her toward the lab. As soon as she starts running, I turn and dash to the edge of the terrace. As pairs of Secutores mercenaries come out of the tunnel, firing wildly at both me and Escobar's approaching security forces, I jump off the edge of the first ring.

* * *

The fronds on the fifth level are agitated. Ripples move back and forth among the sea of purple strands, and the pods are nearly hidden beneath the layers of plant life that are holding them. The motion of the fronds is synchronized enough to appear driven by some sort of awareness, and I don't like the idea that the process that Escobar has built is somehow accelerating in reaction to the assault on the facility. As if the plants know they are in danger.

Would Mother react in the same way? Or are we, her children, that reactive system?

I hit the ground on the level with the citrus trees, take three steps, and jump again. As I reach the second terrace, the bees start to swarm. I see Escobar running the circuit of the third terrace, a heavy stick in his hand. He's beating on each hive as he runs past, rapping the same staccato pattern on the wood. In his wake, the bees pour out of their hives, forming sizzling clouds over each hut. They're drifting up, and I slide to a halt near the edge of the second terrace. Bee stings individually aren't fatal, but in sufficient number, they can be debilitating.

A swarm floats past the edge of the second terrace, and I remain still, trying to control my breathing. The swarm extends tendrils of bees, scouts to test whether I am a friend or foe. I close my eyes and lay a hand over my mouth and nose, just to keep the inquisitive ones from getting too curious. They buzz in my ears and land on my face, exploring me.

But they don't sting me. I must taste right. They buzz over me, moving through my hair and across my skin, and then the swarm is gone, rising more quickly now toward the surface level. The other clouds follow. Escobar's defense system is keyed to non-Arcadian flesh, which is fine with me. Anything that will help keep Secutores busy is fine with me.

Having finished rousing his bees, Escobar leaps down to the fifth level, wading through the fronds. He's trying to reach the pods. I launch myself off the second terrace. As soon as I hit the ground on the third, I run along the circuit, flashing past the empty hives, until I'm directly overhead. Escobar is trying to free the pod from the grip of the fronds, and he's tearing chunks out of the white shell in his haste. I take a running long jump, windmilling my arms as I fly through the air.

He senses me coming, and gets out of the way. I hit the pod instead, my right hand breaking through the damaged shell. Both the pod and I sink into the sea of fronds, and for a moment, the sky disappears as a dome of purple leaves closes overhead. I try to extricate myself from the pod and fronds—it's like trying to get off an inflatable toy in the middle of the pool—as something grabs my right wrist. Nails rake my forearm as I yank my arm back, and the combination of my hand and whatever is grabbing me is too big for the hole in the pod's shell. The shell, which is both slippery and hard, cracks. Fracture lines radiate from the central seam of the pod.

Whatever is inside wants out.

It also wants to eat my hand, and I make a fist with my trapped hand, protecting my fingers from the toothed mouth that is trying to take a bite out of a finger. I yank my arm back again, and the edges of the hole splinter as both my hand and the hand grabbing mine come out of the pod. The hole is large enough that I can get a better look inside, and the sight only makes me pull harder.

The thing that is inside is neither human nor Arcadian. It's
feral
, for lack of a better word.

The chimera.

It's pale and hairless, skeletally thin. Its eyes are still fused shut, and it hasn't grown lips or ears yet. But it's aware enough to know that it is hungry.

The chimera breaks through the pod with its other hand, straining to grab me. The shell crumbles beneath my legs, the monster kicking its way out down below too. It's incredibly strong; I don't want to get into a tug of war with it.

I grab the wrist that is holding mine and pull down with both arms, pressing the chimera's arm against the ragged edge of the shell. I saw back and forth, and the shell is hard enough that it doesn't splinter. It cuts, a jagged line across the albino flesh of the monster. White blood, like milk, spurts out of the wound, and the chimera shrieks.

Its tongue is deformed too, and I shudder as I look at it. Optimized for lapping up liquids.

I keep sawing as the shell starts to crumble. Only a few more slices before it breaks.

The chimera shrieks again, spitting at me like an enraged cat, and lets go. I throw myself off the pod as the monster explodes out of the shell. I'm tangled in the fronds—they stick to my exposed flesh—and I try to stumble and extricate myself at the same time, without much luck.

Fortunately, the chimera has the same problem, exacerbated by the fact that it is naked. And sexless. It is confused by the touch of the fronds—they're keeping it from moving freely, but at the same time, they're offering a rush of happy endorphins. I'm feeling the same thing where the fronds have gripped my arms. Their touch is warm and euphoric. In their embrace, I am loved. They'll take care of me. They'll feed me. Keep me warm and safe. All I have to do is lie down. Strip myself naked and let them cover me. Everything will be fine.

They're a nutrient source. Their sole purpose is to feed me through the connection between their leaves and my skin. It's a sensation not unlike the one offered by the humus when you are under ground. Held tight. Protected. Safe. Blind children suckling at Mother's tit while wrapped in her embrace. I know the feeling. I've missed it.

We all do; that's why we return. That's what she wants. That's what she tells us.

While the chimera is momentarily confused, I rip myself out of the embrace of the fronds and stumble off the edge of the terrace. I land on one of the desks in the pit, racking my body across one of the computer monitors. I roll over, groaning from having my spine stretched and my kidneys hammered. Looking at the world upside down, I spot a bloody-faced Escobar coming at me, a piece of metal in his hands.

I jerk out of the way as he slams the post into the desk, puncturing the surface. He yanks it out, slashing with it as I slide off the other side of the desk. The end of the post—a shaft torn off a piece of equipment—is sharp enough that it cuts through my shirt and draws blood. We face off on either side of the desk. He's grinning, as if he is enjoying a long awaited opportunity, and in his smile, I see the youthful glee of Alberto when he was sitting on my chest and pummeling my face.