Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

“He’s IPF. Like my dad.”

Wyck stands rigid, beamer ready, like he’d appreciate another opportunity to clock the soldier, so I say, “We need to find his ACV and get away from here. ”

“It can’t be far.” Wyck hunts to the left and I choose the right. The ACV is only a short distance away, an enclosed six-seater with IPF insignia on the armored hull. With its padded seats, it looks like the height of luxury after two days of slogging in the open air on the stand-up scooters. The guns mounted on either side remind me it’s more than comfy transport. “Over here,” I call to Wyck.

Wyck breaks into a smile when he sees it. “Twink.” He leans into the driver’s compartment and runs a hand over the seat. “I wish we could keep this. Ever driven one of these?”

“Nope.”

“Me, neither.” He climbs in, clearly prepared to give it a try. When he ignites it, a head’s up display provides controls and firing mechanisms for the weapons. Wyck’s hand lingers over them and I can tell he’s itching to shoot something.

“Wait.” I check the cooler unit tucked under the dashboard. There are several water bladders, food pods, and tangerines. My mouth waters at the site of the fruit. “I’m going to leave him some water.”

Before Wyck can object, I take a bladder and carry it back to the soldier. He’s conscious, and sitting up.

“Water,” I tell him, placing the bladder on his lap so he can bend to reach the suction tube. “They’ll find you before too long.”

“We’ll find
you
,” he says, meeting my gaze without flinching. “Never doubt it.”

Letting him have the last word—he was the one tied up and helpless in a swamp, after all—I hurry back to the ACV. Wyck barely waits until the door seals before skimming forward. Branches scrape the vehicle’s sides until he gets used to compensating for its wider width. While he steers, I help myself to a tangerine. The fruit’s brightness in my mouth is heaven. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring it, then offer a section to Wyck.

Barely chewing it, he swallows and says, “We should be there in a couple of hours, not long after Halla, assuming she doesn’t run into any trouble.”

Deliberately not thinking about the kinds of trouble Halla might have encountered, I begin to search the ACV for supplies that we can take with us when we abandon it. The back is configured with a storage locker running lengthwise between two rows of seats. I crawl into the rear and unlatch it, finding two beamers and an ESD, flashlights, twelve packets of dehydrated meals, a first aid kit, bio-chem gear, night vision binoculars, a pop-up intelli-textile shelter, and a duffel.

“Lots of good stuff here,” I say, listing it for Wyck.

“Great. We can replace some of the stuff I lost.”

We’re both quiet, remembering the stupidity that led to the loss of most of our supplies.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” Wyck says finally, shooting me a look. “I was an asshole. Irresponsible. Stupid. Selfish. All the things the proctors always called me. But not anymore. Not since yesterday. You risked your life to save me. I probably can’t ever be worthy of that, but I want to be.”

Tears prick my eyelids and I blink them back. The silence feels freighted with meaning, and I feel compelled to break it, to offer up my own faults. “Well, I can be too bossy, too controlling, too single-minded.”

“Yeah you can.”

He grins, and I grin back and the moment passes.

“Let’s go find Halla,” I say, relaxing against the seat.

Chapter Fourteen

We reach the Okefenokee’s northwest corner without incident. Wyck even resists the temptation to put a few rounds into five alligators lazing on a mud bank. I’m very grateful for the ACV since getting through the swamp without it would have meant either long detours to avoid water, or taking our chances with the alligators. We see two lean-to huts camouflaged with moss and branches, not together, but no people, and I wonder if people live in the swamp or if the huts are long abandoned. Wyck wants to stop and check them out, but we’ve got enough supplies and I say it's not worth the risk. For the moment, he’s willing to go along. I don’t expect that to last much longer than it takes him to semi-forget the terror of the quicksand. I don’t suppose he’ll ever totally forget it. I certainly won’t.

Gradually, the gleam of dark water beneath us gives way to firmer ground. Maple and oak trees, crowned with the neon kudzu but no leaves of their own, begin to replace the brooding cypress trees, and I can glimpse open space in the distance: brown and tan, lifeless, empty. Like so much of Amerada.

“Halla wouldn’t be out there,” Wyck says, echoing my thoughts. He slows the ACV. “She’d stay under cover.”

“We need to get out. She’s going to think we’re the IPF in this thing.” I pat my armrest.

“Wait.” Wyck studies an icon on the display. “I think this might be a loudspeaker.” He presses it and says, “Can you hear me?”

His voice booms out, tinny and distorted.

“I think they heard you in Atlanta.”

He ignores me. “Halla. Halla Westin. It’s me—Wyck. Everly’s with me. Everything’s okay. Come on out.”

The way we’re announcing our presence makes me vaguely uneasy. Maybe it’s the memory of those lean-tos. We cruise back and forth on a north-south line with no reaction. I scan to either side, hoping to spot Halla, but see nothing.

“You try,” Wyck says.

I lean toward the microphone. “Halla, please come out.” When there’s no response after another ten minutes, I say, “I’m getting worried. She should be around here somewhere by now, unless something’s happened to her. Maybe the baby . . .” I have visions of her miscarrying in the swamp, of her bleeding to death, alone and helpless. “We need to set this thing down and look for her. It’s time to get rid of it anyway.”

Reluctantly, Wyck cuts the power and the ACV settles on the ground, clear of the trees. We spend twenty minutes sorting through the supplies and fill an IPF rucksack with essentials. It’s heavy, but Wyck insists on stuffing it as full as possible. I get the feeling he’s trying to atone for losing our supplies in the quicksand.

“It’s not going to help if you die of exhaustion,” I point out.

“I’ve got this.”

His tone makes me throw my hands up in a surrender gesture. “Fine.”

Wyck leans into the driver’s compartment, and fiddles with the gauges and controls to override safety protocols so it will continue pilotless on the course he sets. He ignites the ACV and backs out of the cockpit. “There. This puppy’s headed for the beach.”

I jump out of the way as it skims forward. I’m sad watching it go. Even though we only had it for a short time, it made me feel safe, like I was wrapped in an armored cocoon. With any luck, though, it will be a hundred miles away by the time the IPF intercepts it.

“A flare,” Wyck suddenly says, excited. “We can send up a flare. Halla will see it.” He pulls one from the rucksack.

“Other people might see it, too.”

“Do you want to find Halla, or don’t you?” Wyck asks.

“Of course—”

“Any better ideas?” Taking my “no” for granted, he sends the flare up before I even answer.

It whizzes skyward in near silence and bursts into an umbrella of orangey-red high above our heads. The intensity of the color is dazzling against the gray sky and the dun landscape. We tip our heads back and watch it for long seconds.

“C’mon,” I finally say. “We can’t stand here in the open. There’s a tree over there we can climb. The branches are dense enough I don’t think anyone will see us.”

We melt among the trees and I point out the one I think will give us the best view. Stashing our packs under a nearby thicket we scramble up. I go first and work my way higher because I’m lighter. The view is exhilarating, although the branch I settle on shakes under my weight. I straddle it with my back against the trunk, my legs hanging down. Wyck settles below me, straddling a thicker limb, facing me. To the east, I can see into the swamp with the denser growth of trees and the occasional gleam of water. To the west, the ground is barren and almost flat. The featureless landscape offers few hiding places and my stomach clenches at the thought of traversing so much open country to reach Atlanta. Wyck and I talk in a desultory way for the first half-hour, but then he falls silent. I get the feeling he’s thinking about shooting the soldier. To distract him, I ask, “If you could be anything, what would you be?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “An astronaut.”

I raise my brows. “Really? Why?”

“A universe that goes on for infinity . . . isn’t that mind-blowing? In all that space, there’s got to be another planet where we could live. I could discover it, colonize it. We—humanity—could have a do-over, not fuck it up so bad this time around.” His tone lightens. “I’d invite you and Halla, a couple of others from the Kube, to come live on planet Wyckiter. What about you?” He cranes his neck to look up at me.

“I think I’d still want to be a bio-chemist,” I say, semi-apologetically. I should want to be more than I am, shouldn’t I? “Nothing fascinates me like genes and living things.” I take his silence for disappointment in my lack of imagination and wriggle, trying to get comfortable on the narrow limb.

“How do you think we can find the Defiance after we drop Halla off with Loudon?” Wyck asks.

I stare down at him, puzzled, noticing a haze of whiskers on his chin and peeling sunburn on the bridge of his nose. “The Defiance? Why—?” I hadn’t worked out the details in my mind, but I’d assumed we’d head for an outpost together, with or without Halla, depending, after I found a way to meet my parents—

He doesn’t pick up on my confusion. “It’s not like there’ll be a sign pointing to their headquarters or anything. They’ve got to be careful, vet volunteers, make sure they’re not taking in traitors. I overheard an IPF sergeant talking about the Defiance sabotaging manufacturing facilities near Auburn—”

“We’re not joining the Defiance! That’s treason.”

Wyck’s brow furrows. “The Defiance is fighting for individual rights, including yours. They’re fighting to overturn the Prags, to win back our right to live where we want, do whatever kind of work we want to, have access to computers and communicate with anyone we want—maybe even in other countries, for everyone who wants to to have babies, regardless of their genes, for—”

“They’re fighting. Great. Hasn’t this country had enough fighting? The Resource Wars, the Between? We’re just getting back on our feet. The quarantine and immigration laws have almost eliminated the flu. Everyone’s got access to food under the Prags—no one’s starving like before.”

“Sure, if they toe the line and give up—”

“The Prags are going to find a way to eradicate the locusts. We’re so close. Then we’ll have more food, people can grow their own, and maybe the laws will change.”

Wyck sneers. “People in power never willingly give it up. Even our own history tells us that. Look at the Revolutionary War, President Fredricks. If the locusts die off tomorrow, the Prags’ll find other reasons to keep us under their thumb,”

“That’s not true.” I take a deep breath and change tack. “We could go west, to an outpost. It’ll be an adventure of sorts. The government isn’t so influential out there; at least, that’s how it seems on Assembly videos and from Proctor Mannisham’s lectures. They need people—young, strong people like us. I can help with food production, and you can do your gadget thing—there must be dozens of processes you can automate at an outpost, things they do manually that you could invent a machine for, things that need fixing.”

His corrugated brow tells me I’m not getting through. I bite my lip. I can’t join the Defiance because their fighting and sabotage undermine Amerada’s recovery, but I don’t want to lose Wyck. I’m practically pleading with him. “I can’t not use my bio-chem training, not after all the time I’ve put in, the money the government’s invested in me. I have a responsibility—”

I think I see movement. I focus on the area, a couple of hundred yards into the swamp, and stare at it so hard it goes blurry. I blink twice, thinking I imagined the movement, and then a glint catches my eye.

“Wyck,” I whisper. “The scooter.” I point. Halla’s weaving between the trees, obviously looking for something. Us. She’s found a dark green jacket somewhere . . .

“Finally.” He’s about to yell to Halla when I kick his shoulder. “Hey, what the—”

“Ssh. I don’t think it’s Halla.” The scooter is definitely the one we took from the Kube, but the bulky figure riding it doesn’t look like Halla. A chill works its way up from my toes. What has happened to Halla? “Down, climb down,” I say, as the scooter glides closer. “We’ve got to follow it.”

We start down, the need for haste clashing with the need for quiet. Twigs snag my hair and gouge my skin. Perched on the bottom limb, we scan the area before jumping lightly to the ground. We can hear the whoosh of the ACV now and we duck behind the tree trunk as the scooter passes on the far side of the thicket. The driver, a man with a bushy beard scraggling half-way down his chest, is scanning from side to side. I bend forward instinctively to hide the white gleam of my face when the man looks in our direction. The scooter pauses, and I hold my breath, not daring to breathe, but then he continues on, picking up speed. Wyck and I grab our packs from their hiding places and take off after him.
Halla, we’re coming
.

He’s not traveling fast, but even so he’s going faster than we can go on foot. We’re trotting, dodging roots and fallen limbs and boggy spots, trying to keep the scooter in sight. It draws steadily further away, even though we pick up our pace until we’re running as fast as we can. Wyck’s face is red with the exertion of carrying his heavy pack and I’m gasping for breath. Intent on the scooter, I run full-tilt into a spider web strung between two trees.

“Oh!” The sound is involuntary, not loud enough to carry to the man on Halla’s scooter, but Wyck frowns anyway. The web restrains me for a moment; it’s made of the ultra-strong, ultra-sticky spider silk scientists genetically engineered in the ’40s. They thought it would help the spiders to catch more locusts. Like so many of those initiatives, it was ineffective, if not an outright failure. Wyck pulls out his knife and slices through the web. I try to shake the sticky strands off as I run.

We can’t see the scooter anymore, and we can barely hear its hum. “Left,” I gasp, angling that way. I duck beneath some Spanish moss and find myself confronting a twenty foot wide strip of water. I’m about to plunge through it, suspecting it can’t be more than waist deep, when Wyck grabs my arm. He gives me a little shake and points to the middle of the tarn. A snake oils its way across the surface, its thick body and triangular head a black stain on the amber-colored water. Cottonmouth. Poisonous and aggressive. I back away, sobbing with frustration at having to circumnavigate the pond. We reach the other side.

“Listen.” I hold up a hand. I can’t hear anything. I turn to Wyck, who looks as distressed as I feel. “I can’t hear it. He’s gone!”

“We’ll find him. We’ll find Halla. C’mon. We’ll keep on this tack.” He goes ahead of me now, and I follow.

We’re less worried about making noise, and twigs crack under our boots. After half an hour, we take a quick break for water, but resume walking after a bare two minutes. For once, I’m grateful for the morning physical fitness sessions at the Kube. We check the compass frequently to stay on the scooter’s last known path; it’s all we can do. I’m determined to search for a week if we have to, but I’m so tired I can’t squelch the words my mind is tossing out: futile, pointless, too late.

“Need a break.” I drop to my knees and Wyck comes back to me.

He’s bending to offer me a vegeprote bar when suddenly he straightens. He points up. “Look! Smoke.”

The merest wisp of smoke snakes into the air behind me. A smile breaks over my face. “Let’s go get her.”

Hope gives us renewed energy and we make our way toward the smoke, using it like the magi used the Christmas star, in the Bible story Halla insists on reading aloud every December 25th. I wish we had a camel or two. Boy, I’m so tired I feel drunk, like the one time I tried Wexl, sneaking a taste from Dr. Ronan’s stash. One sip was all it took to make me feel fuzzy. We move slowly now, placing our feet carefully to avoid twigs, and taking care not to brush against the crackly undergrowth or tree trunks.

I smell the camp before I see it. There’s the fire, an earthy, slightly bitter aroma I guess is peat. They’ve dried and are burning peat dug from the depths of the swamp. Then there’s a rancid, greasy smell that seems to leave an oily film on the roof of my mouth, and the sour smell of unwashed bodies. This is no overnight camping site; this is someone’s—or multiple someones’—permanent home. I’m looking down to make sure I place my foot quietly when a dark glint warns me. I stop Wyck with a hand across his chest, and bend to get a better look at an early warning system consisting of a wire strung with utensils and cast-off bits of metal. If we’d tripped over it, the clanging would have given us away.