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Authors: Steven Savile

BOOK: Elemental
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Lahti'd been fighting to hold
Herod
on a curving course. Now she deliberately straightened the rearmost pair of fan nacelles, knowing that without their counteracting side-thrust momentum would swing the
stern out. The gunner in the surviving APC slammed three bolts into
Herod
's turret at point-blank range; then the mass of the tank's starboard quarter swatted the light vehicle, crushing it and flinging the remains sideways like a can kicked by an armored boot.
Herod
grounded hard, air screaming through the holes in her plenum chamber. “Get us outa here, Lahti!” Buntz ordered. “Go! Go! Go!”
Lahti was already tilting her fan nacelles to compensate for the damage. She poured on the coal again. Because they were still several meters above the floor of the swale, she was able to use gravity briefly to accelerate by sliding
Herod
toward the smoother terrain.
Buntz spun his cupola at maximum rate, knowing that scores of Brotherhood infantry remained somewhere in the grass behind them. A shower of buzzbombs could easily disable a tank. If
Herod
's luck was really bad, well … the only thing good about a fusion bottle rupturing was that the crew wouldn't know what hit them.
The driver of an APC was climbing out of his cab, about all that remained of the vehicle. Buntz didn't fire; he didn't even think of firing.
It couldve been me. It could be me tomorrow.
Lahti maneuvered left, then right, following contours that'd go unremarked on a map but which were the difference between concealed and visible—between life and death—on this rolling terrain. When
Herod
was clear of the immediate knot of enemy soldiers, she slowed to give herself her time to diagnose the damage to the plenum chamber.
Buntz checked his own readouts. Half the upper bank of sensors on the starboard side were out, not critical now but definitely a matter for replacement before the next operation.
The point-blank burst into the side of the turret was more serious. The bolts hadn't penetrated, but another hit in any of the cavities just might. Base maintenance would probably patch the damage for now, but Buntz wouldn't be a bit surprised if the turret was swapped out while the Regiment was in transit to the next contract deployment.
But not critical, not right at the moment … .
As Buntz took stock, a shell screamed up from the south. He hadn't
heard Lieutenant Rennie call for another round, but it wasn't likely that a tank commander in the middle of a firefight would've.
Six or eight Brotherhood APCs remained undamaged, but this time their tribarrels didn't engage the incoming shell. It burst a hundred meters up, throwing out a flag of blue smoke. It was simply a reminder of the sleet of antipersonnel bomblets that
could
follow.
A mortar fired, its
choonk!
a startling sound to a veteran at this point in a battle.
Have they gone off their nuts?
Buntz thought. He set his tribarrel to air defense mode just in case.
Lahti twitched
Herod'
s course so that
Herod
didn't smash a stand of bushes with brilliant pink blooms. She liked flowers, Buntz recalled. Sparing the bushes didn't mean much in the long run, of course.
Buntz grinned. His mouth was dry and his lips were so dry they were cracking.
In the long run, everybody's dead. Screw the long run
.
The mortar bomb burst high above the tube that'd launched it. It was a white flare cluster.
“All personnel of the Flaming Sword Commando, cease fire!”
an unfamiliar voice ordered on what was formally the Interunit Channel. Familiarly it was the Surrender Push. When a signal came in over that frequency, a red light pulsed on the receiving set of every mercenary in range.
“This is Captain el-Khalid, ranking officer. Slammers personnel, the Flaming Sword Commando of the Holy Brotherhood surrenders on the usual terms. We request exchange and repatriation at the end of the conflict. Over.”
“
All Myrtle and Lamplight units!
” Lieutenant Rennie called, also using the Interunit Channel. “
This is Myrtle Six. Cease fire, I repeat, cease fire. Captain el-Khalid, please direct your troops to proceed to high ground to await registration. Myrtle Six out
.”
“Top, can we pull into that firebase while they get things sorted out?”
Lahti asked over the intercom. “
I'll bet we got enough time to patch those holes. I don't want to crawl all the way back leaking air and scraping our skirts
.”
“Right, good thinking,” Buntz said. “And if there's not time, we'll
make time. Nothing's going to happen that can't wait another half hour.”
Herod
carried a roll of structural plastic sheeting. Cut and glued to the inside of the plenum chamber, it'd seal the holes till base maintenance welded permanent patches in place. Unless the Brotherhood had shot away all the duffle on the back deck, of course, in which case they'd borrow sheeting from another of the vehicles. It wouldn't be the first time Buntz'd had to replace his personal kit, either.
They were within two klicks of the Government firebase. Even if they'd been farther, a bulldozed surface was a lot better to work on. Out here you were likely to find you'd set down on brambles or a nest of stinging insects when you crawled into the plenum chamber.
As Lahti drove sedately toward the firebase, Buntz opened his hatch and stuck his head out. He felt dizzy for a moment. That was reaction, he supposed, not the change from chemical residues to open air.
Sometimes the breeze drifted a hot reminder of the battle past Buntz's face. The main gun had cooled to rainbow-patterned gray, but heat waves still shimmered above the barrel.
Lahti was idling up the resupply route into the firebase, an unsurfaced track that meandered along the low ground. It'd have become a morass when it rained, but that didn't matter any longer.
There was no wire or berm, just the circle of bunkers. Half of them were now collapsed. The Government troops had been playing at war; to the Brotherhood as to the Slammers, killing was a business.
Lahti halted them between two undamaged bunkers at the south entrance. Truck wheels had rutted the soil here. There was flatter ground within the encampment, but she didn't want to crush the bodies in the way.
Buntz'd probably have ordered his driver to stop even if she'd had different ideas. Sure, they were just bodies; he'd seen his share and more of them since he'd enlisted. But they could patch
Herod
where they were, so that's what they'd do.
Lahti was clambering out her hatch. Buntz made sure that the Automatic
Defense Array was shut off, then climbed onto the back deck. He was carrying the first aid kit, not that he expected to accomplish much with it.
It bothered him that he and Lahti both were out of
Herod
in case something happened, but nothing was going to happen. Anyway, the tribarrel was still in air defense mode. He bent to cut the ties holding the roll of sheeting.
“Hey, Top?” Lahti called. Buntz looked at her over his shoulder. She was pointing to the nearest bodies. The Government troops must've been running from the bunkers when the first mortar shells scythed them down.
“Yeah, what you got?” Buntz said.
“These guys,” Lahti said. “Remember the recruiting rally? This is them, right?”
Buntz looked more carefully. “Yeah, you're right,” he said.
That pair must be the DeCastro brothers, one face-up and the other face-down. They'd both lost their legs at mid-thigh. Buntz couldn't recall the name of the guy just behind them, but he was the henpecked little fellow who'd been dodging his wife. Well, he'd dodged her for good. And the woman with all her clothes blown off; not a mark on her except she was dead. The whole Quinta County draft must've been assigned here.
He grimaced. They'd been responsible for a major victory over the rebels, according to one way of thinking.
Buntz shoved the roll of sheeting to the ground. “Can you handle this yourself, Lahti?” he said. He gestured with the first aid kit. “I can't do a lot, but I'd like to try.”
The driver shrugged. “Sure, Top,” she said. “If you want to.”
Recorded music was playing from one of the bunkers. Buntz's memory supplied the words:
“Arise, children of the fatherland! The day of glory has arrived … .”
BY NINA KIRIKI HOFFMAN
 
Nina Kiriki Hoffman's first solo novel,
The Thread That Binds the Bones
(1993), won the Bram Stoker Award for first novel; her second novel,
The Silent Strength of Stones
(1995), was a finalist for the Nebula and World Fantasy Awards.
A Red Heart of Memories
(1999), part of her Matt Black series, nominated for a World Fantasy Award, was followed by sequel
Past the Size of Dreaming
in 2001. Much of her work to date is short fiction, including the Matt Black novella “Unmasking” (1992), nominated for a World Fantasy Award, and the Matt Black novelette “Home for Christmas” (1995), nominated for the Nebula, World Fantasy, and Sturgeon Awards. In addition to writing, Hoffman teaches a short story class at a community college, works part-time at a B. Dalton bookstore, and does production work on
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.
Nina's next YA novel,
Spirits That Walk in Shadow
, will be published by Viking in 2006, and her next adult novel,
Fall of Light,
will be published by Ace in 2007.
Hoffman wrote the first draft of “Sea Air” many years ago. “I visited my friends Kim Antieau and Mario Milosevic,” she said, “who at that time lived in a tiny Oregon coast town called Bandon. We walked to the beach one night, between huge hedges of gorse—an imported plant from Scotland that people said grew so rapidly and oilily it had twice caused the town to burn down; in fact, there used to be a Phoenix Festival in Bandon every year to celebrate the town rising from its ashes. I found the night quite spooky. We had to carry big sticks to fend off roaming Doberman pinschers. The atmosphere started the story working in my brain.”
Hoffman lives in Eugene, Oregon.
 
 
“It's like Michael's
allergic to seawater,” Mom said. She offered Lizzie a plate of chocolate chip cookies, and Lizzie grabbed two.
“Shut up,” Michael muttered.
For the eighth time in thirteen years, he and his adopted parents had moved into a new house in a new town. For the eighth time in thirteen years, Michael had to start life over, find new friends.
Mom didn't make it easy.
Lizzie lived in the house next door, but right now she was sitting on the couch in the new living room between Mom and Michael. Lizzie looked about sixteen, Michael's age. She had frizzy brown hair, yellow-brown eyes, and a wide, friendly smile; she wore a baggy brown sweatshirt, tight jeans, and duck shoes. The hem of one of her pantlegs had crept up. Michael saw she wore socks with animal tracks on them.
The moving van had unloaded everything the night before and left. Michael and his parents had been so tired after driving to Random, on the Oregon coast, from central Idaho that they had only unpacked enough things to sleep on last night. This morning they'd walked to the beach, then come home and worked all morning to set up the house the way Mom had planned it back in Idaho with a graph paper layout and little paper cutouts of the furniture.
After Dad and Mom and Michael had unrolled the carpets, set up the furniture, and put things away, Lizzie had appeared on the front stoop, hands buried in her pockets, questions in her mouth. Dad had met Lizzie before he raced off to meet his local boss for a sales lunch.
Lizzie balanced a teacup and saucer on her knee. She smelled like vanilla. She snitched a third chocolate chip cookie from the plate Mom had set on the coffee table.
“It's funny, because Michael came from a coast town, which is about all we know about his life before we adopted him. We've never lived in a seaside town before,” Mom continued. “I love the beach. But I took Michael there this morning, and he wouldn't go near the water.”
Lizzie turned her gaze to him. “Why not?”
“I don't know. It just bothers me.” Michael didn't mention the way his flesh crept, the strange shuddery feeling of not wanting even the wet breeze on his skin. The rolling rush of waves had terrified him. He had felt as though fingers of sea were seeking him.
“When he was little, he was like that about
all
water. When we first adopted him, it took both his father and me to get him into the bathtub, and he was only three years old.”
“Shut up,” Michael whispered under his breath. He loved Mom, but
why did she have to tell everybody weird stuff about him before he'd had a chance to make his own first impressions?
“Don't worry,” Mom said. “He bathes regularly now.”
“I can tell,” said Lizzie. She smiled at him.
“Mo-om,” said Michael.
Mom smiled—the tender look that frustrated him because it made him feel like he couldn't get mad at her. She had done so much for him, how could he even think about being angry with her?
“Right,” she said. “I'm talking too much. Lizzie, what's your favorite subject in school?”
“Mo-om,” Michael muttered again.
“My favorite subject isn't at school,” said Lizzie. “My uncle's a marine biologist, and sometimes I get to go out to sea with him. I want to be a marine biologist when I grow up. Hey, Mike, what do
you
like?”
Of all the dorky conversations to have with his mother in the room. But if his mother wasn't in the room, what would they end up talking about? Probably nothing. Michael was a master of the uncomfortable silence, even though he didn't want to be. “Music,” he said.
“Oh? That's cool. I've been taking flute lessons, but I never practice. Do you listen to music, play it, or both?”
“Both.” He hoped she wouldn't ask him about his favorite bands. He had a very small CD collection, all of them by people most kids his age had never heard of. He was picky about music. He earned the money to buy CDs by babysitting, mowing lawns, whatever work he could drum up from neighbors. He spent hours at the CD store listening to whatever was open, and only bought CDs when he liked all the tracks. He couldn't pinpoint why he liked the things he liked, which ranged from thirties blues albums to compilations of Celtic music in languages he didn't speak.
“What instrument do you play?” Lizzie asked.
“Just piano. Not very well.”
Mom sighed. “We had a piano a couple years ago, but when we
moved, we couldn't bring it with us. Michael's had to make do with singing and pennywhistles. Does the high school have piano practice rooms, Lizzie?”
“No, all the funds for the arts got cut.” Lizzie sipped tea. “Hey. How about this, though? Mrs. Plank, two houses past mine, has a piano. She never plays, but she might let you practice on it. She's pretty nice unless you step on her flowers.”
Michael looked at Mom. It had been so long since he'd played a piano he was afraid his hands had forgotten everything he knew.
“Okay,” said Mom, “we'll bake some cookies and go visit. Do you know if she likes cookies, Liz?”
“It's never come up in conversation,” said Lizzie. “She's not the type to invite people over. Mostly she just says, ‘Lizzie, you have a well-behaved dog, not like some people I could name,' and ‘Has the mailman come by yet?'”
“We can but try,” Mom said. It was one of the ways they met new neighbors, at least in towns where they planned to stay for a while. Mom baked a big batch of cookies. They made up gift plates and dropped them off at nearby houses in the evening when people were home from work and school. It was a quick way to take the emotional temperature of a neighborhood.
Dad never came with them on these expeditions. Michael used to think this was because he wasn't interested, but lately, now that Michael was six feet tall, he noticed that doors didn't open as easily to him and Mom. Dad was a big man. Maybe Dad thought he would scare the neighbors. When Dad was home, he did all right with the neighbors, once Mom and Michael had made first contact and invited them over for backyard barbecues or card games or shared video rentals.
Michael had taught himself to slouch.
“How'd you find out about Mrs. Plank's piano?” Michael asked Lizzie. His fingers were already twitching.
“I saw it when I trick-or-treated at her house.”
“We can but try,” Mom said again. She watched Michael's fingers play inaudible scales on the couch cushions. “I didn't realize how much you missed it, hon. If this doesn't work, we'll find another way.”
“Well,” said Lizzie, “aside from not playing the piano, what do you do for fun?”
“Read,” Michael said. Oh no. Way to brand himself as an utmost geek. He needed a save. “Walk around and look at things.” Jeez, almost as dorky.
“Do you walk at night?”
“Sure.”
“Don't do that here. Lots of people have big dogs here, and they let them loose at night.”
“Aren't there any leash laws?” Mom asked.
Lizzie frowned. “Well, that's the thing. People are encouraged to let the dogs loose at night, because there's other things that come out at night.” She sucked on her lower lip, then said, “Okay, we don't usually mention this so soon after you get here, but I like you guys, so I'm going to tell you right up front. Things come up through the gorse at night. They make noises. They do nasty things. Stay inside, okay? People disappear at night. If anybody asks, we say the riptides carried them away, but that's not what happens. We lose people here every year.”
“Heavens,” said Mom. “You're not pulling our leg, are you, Liz?”
“I'm not serious about much, but I'm serious about this. Michael, Mrs. Welty, don't leave the house after dark, unless it's to go to your car and drive someplace with lights around it, like the supermarket or a restaurant. Don't let Mr. Welty wander around after dark either, okay?”
“You went trick-or-treating,” Michael said.
“Halloween's different. All the kids go out in big groups, and we make a lot of noise, and take dogs and grownups with weapons with us. We scare the Strangers off that night.”
Michael and Mom exchanged glances.
Lizzie set her teacup on the coffee table and stood, dusting off her pants. “Ignore me if you want,” she said in a flattened tone.
“No, wait, Lizzie,” Michael said. He followed her to the front door. “Give us another chance. We're new. We don't know what's going on around here. Thanks for warning us.”
Lizzie turned the front doorknob, paused with the door open. She stared at him without expression for what felt like ten minutes, then, finally, smiled. “Hey. I'll take you to the library. How about that?”
“That would be great.”
Lizzie darted back and grabbed another handful of cookies. “Thanks, Mrs. Welty.”
“You're welcome. Thank you for the introduction to the neighborhood. I'm going to bake now, kids. Michael, be home before five, okay?”
“Sure, Mom.”
 
 
Michael left his bedroom window open a crack that night. He lay in the dark and listened to the pulse of the waves beating against the sand. It took him a long time to fall asleep. The waves' murmur terrified and thrilled him, the same way the smell of the salty air here had affected him when Dad had turned the station wagon off the highway and into town. He had smelled and tasted the sea, and his heart speeded; his skin tingled, hairs rising, bumps goosing. Even now, two blocks from the ocean, sea sound, sea scent kept him awake.
Was there a voice under the surface of sound, whispering his name?
Dogs barked in the street outside. He turned over and put the pillow over his head. More barking in the distance, and then the sound of a chase.
A town where he and Mom couldn't go out after dark? One of the things they did to learn about new communities was to wander the streets in the dark and study uncurtained windows, talking over the lives they glimpsed. Living rooms with lots of pictures of family on the walls always gave Michael a strange lost feeling; he hadn't told Mom about that. They had a few pictures of the three of them on the wall at home, mostly taken when Michael was six, seven, eight. Nothing recent. Dad
was gone so much, traveling his sales territory, signing up new accounts, servicing the old ones. He was so successful the company kept moving him into territories where other people had failed. In fact, he had already gone on another trip, leaving Michael and Mom to unpack. They were used to that.
Once while she was talking to Dad on the phone, Mom had said it didn't matter if they moved with him, since he was never home anyway. Then she had gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, glanced at Michael to see if he had heard. He pretended he was so engrossed in his comic book he hadn't, but it had haunted his mind ever since.
Only the three of them, together, more or less, everywhere they went. No pictures of Mom's or Dad's parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles. Were Mom and Dad orphans too?

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