There was a large auxiliary pack strapped to the pilot’s legs, and Mazer loosened it and pulled it free. Inside he found a treasure trove: a sidearm with four clips of ammunition, binoculars, flares, several days worth of MREs, a full canteen plus extra bottles of water, a gas mask, a first-aid kit, a Med-Assist computer, toothbrush, and fresh socks. Mazer quickly opened the canteen and guzzled some of the water. It was cold and clean and so good he wanted to cry. He tore open one of the MREs—a pasta that heated instantly when the air hit it. It had ham and cheese and flecks of sun-dried tomatoes. He didn’t find a utensil, so he poured it straight into his mouth. Then he brushed his teeth, which might have been the sweetest relief of all.
He packed everything back into the pack, including the knife and sheath. Then he stood and considered the pilot. The man was tall for a pilot, though not quite as tall as Mazer would have liked. The flight suit was probably two sizes too small for Mazer. Yet even so, a small flight suit was better than the rags Mazer was wearing. If he made a few strategic cuts in the fabric perhaps he could wear it without any problems. He stripped the pilot of the suit then made careful slits in the armpits and crotch. Then he removed his own boots and clothes, down to his undergarments, and dressed in the flight suit, not bothering with any of the biosensors. The sleeves and pant legs were too short, but he could live with that. He was more concerned about mobility. He did a few tentative squats and knee bends and was relieved to see his movement unhindered. He sat back down and put on a new pair of socks and his old boots. Then he loaded the sidearm, stuffed it into the flight suit’s holster, and placed the gas mask over his head.
It seemed wrong to leave the pilot here unburied, but he had neither the time nor the tools for it. He gathered up the white parachute and rolled the pilot into it, wrapping him tight like a mummy. It wasn’t a proper burial, but it was the best Mazer could do given the circumstances.
He hefted the pack onto his shoulders and headed south again. He hadn’t gone far when he heard someone shouting his name. The cries were faint at first, like distant whispers on the wind—so quiet in fact that he initially dismissed them as his imagination. Then a distinct shout of “Mazer!” cut through the quiet, and there was no mistaking it. Mazer turned and ran east toward the source of the sound. He knew that voice. And he sensed the terror and desperation behind it.
His training had taught him stealth and caution and quiet, but Mazer couldn’t help himself. He tore off the gas mask and shouted back. “Bingwen!”
They continued shouting each other’s names until they found one another moments later. Mazer rounded a ridge and there was Bingwen, running toward him, desperate and dirty, his face streaked with tears. He collapsed into Mazer’s arms, exhausted and terrified and too upset to speak.
Mazer carried him to some shade where they’d be hidden from sight and opened the canteen for him. At first Bingwen’s breathing was so heavy he couldn’t drink, but then he forced himself to calm enough to swallow gulps of water.
“Not too fast,” said Mazer. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Bingwen lowered the canteen and began to cry anew. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse from shouting for hours on end. “They’re dead. The family. All of them. A transport dropped right in front of us. It didn’t make a sound. One instant it wasn’t there, the next instant it was. Kwong, the father, he shouted for me to run. He and Genji each tried to carry a child, but…” He closed his eyes and shook his head, unable to go on.
Mazer took him into his arms, and Bingwen began to sob, his little body shaking with grief and terror and perhaps a dozen other pent-up emotions all flooding out of him at once.
Mazer held him, his arms wrapped around Bingwen in a protective embrace. He wasn’t going to lie. He wasn’t going to tell Bingwen that he was safe now and that Mazer wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Bingwen was too smart for that. So Mazer let him have his cry and made no effort to stop the tears.
When Bingwen calmed again, Mazer opened one of the MREs and watched as Bingwen ate it. “We’ll rest here until nightfall,” said Mazer. “Then, when it’s full dark, we’ll move north again.”
“No,” Bingwen said quickly. “We’re not going north. We’re going south.”
“I’m not taking you to the lander, Bingwen.”
“Why not? Because I’m a child?”
“Well, yes. It’s dangerous.”
“It’s dangerous everywhere. It was dangerous at the farmhouse. It was dangerous in my village. It’s dangerous in the north. Nowhere is safe. We might as well push on. We’re here. It can’t be much farther.”
Mazer shook his head. “We’ve been over this, Bingwen.”
“Yes, we have. You’re not my father. I’m not your son. That means you can’t command me where to go.”
“If you come with me, you put me in more danger. I’d be watching out for you and not giving the threats around me the full attention they deserve. Plus you’d slow me down.”
“I’m not as helpless as you think,” said Bingwen. “I can help. I’m slower, yes, but two sets of eyes are better than one. I can watch our rear. I can carry supplies. I’m not useless. I’m an asset not a liability.”
“I don’t doubt your abilities, Bingwen, but we’re not going on a day hike here. This is war. I’m a trained soldier. You’re not.”
“I’m just as capable of killing Formics as you are.”
“Oh really?”