“Get ready,” a second man says. “We’re not here for Dark Matter. This is a straight forward slash-and-burn op. When we’re done with the Tsuchi—”
Sushi? They named the BFSs Sushi? Because they eat people raw? That’d make us the sushi... In the fraction of a second it takes me to wonder all this, I replay the word in my head, hearing the subtleties of its pronunciation. I’ve been immersed in Japanese culture, trying to keep that part of Maigo’s heritage intact. Granted, it mostly involves us watching anime—Ghost in the Shell, Akira and her favorite, Gaiking, which are beautiful and horrifyingly violent at the same time, but I’ve heard enough of the Japanese language to speak a few phrases and recognize the nearly silent T at the word’s start.
Tsuchi...
“—we need to track down and eliminate anyone that has come into contact with, or is in a position to reveal, them. Understood?”
What I understand is that these men not only know about the BFSs, but like us, they are here to eliminate them, and anyone else who has evidence that the...Tsuchi, are real.
The number of vehement instances of “Yes, sir,” that reply is disconcerting. We have unknowingly led one army toward another, and we’re currently caught in the crossfire.
Hawkins catches my eye. We’re both laying face down, sniffing the wet earth beneath the curling fronds of a fern ceiling, cloaked in shadow, thanks to our garb. While the unknown force of men and the frenzied horde of genetic monstrosities close in from either side, he points in the direction of the voices, then stabs his finger into the soil between our heads. He etches a series of lines in the dirt, but I can’t see it. Then he slowly pulls his hand away, revealing a single word:
DARPA.
7
“Auto-turrets, here and here,” the man in charge says. I can’t see him yet, but the way he gives orders and the way the others follow them reveal his role. I can’t see anyone else, either, but now that they’re almost standing on top of us, their individual movements are clear. I count four, which is far fewer than I previously thought, and not nearly enough to face what’s coming, though the words, ‘auto’ and ‘turrets’ are promising. Granted, these guys might be part of Hawkins’s rogue DARPA group, but four guys with guns is preferable to an army of BFSs.
I breathe slowly, MP5 gripped tight, waiting for someone to trip over me. I keep my eyes locked in the direction of the men’s voices, assuming that Hawkins is doing the same.
“ETA?” the man in charge asks.
“Contact in thirty seconds.”
Hard metal presses against the side of my head. I glance toward it without moving and see the barrel of a gun. I look beyond it, toward Hawkins, and see nothing. Sneaky bastard.
“That’s just enough time for you to tell us who the hell you are and why you’re here.” The voice has a trace of a southern accent, but mostly it’s just intensely grouchy.
I take my hands off the MP5 and raise them above the ferns. No sense in lying, as anything short of the truth will likely result in a bullet punching a hole in my head. “Jon Hudson. DHS.”
“Get him up,” the man in charge says.
I’m lifted by the back of my shirt. Free of the ferns, I see the four-man team, all cloaked in black, head to toe, including armor like mine, but more futuristic looking and not partially missing. Their faces are covered with round, reflective goggles that I suspect are more than stylish.
The man in charge stands beside one of two devices that look like a Porsche had babies with a mini-gun. The barrel of the weapon sweeps back and forth, no doubt guided by an array of motion and heat detecting sensors. I can hear the second one behind me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“You can call me Silhouette,” he says. “Why is the FC-P here?”
He knows who I am. It shouldn’t surprise me. A lot of people know who I am, but I’m sporting the beginning of a beard now and my face is covered in dirt. That means he knows my name, which still isn’t impossible. But he quickly identified my name with the FC-P. We’re on these guys’ radar. Hawkins is right to be afraid of them.
“Reports of spider-turtles is kind of our thing,” I say, “though if I’m honest, I’m pretty far out of my element right now.” I motion at the sophisticated weapons and take the opportunity to glance at the other men. Other than size differences, there’s no telling them apart. “I’m sure as hell happy to see you guys. And I’ll be happy to lend my gun to the fight, which, by the way, will start in three...two...”
Silhouette nods at the man holding me, and I half expect to get a bullet in the head, but I’m freed instead.