They’re expert Formic killers, Mazer realized.
It was only after their weapons were ready again that the soldiers saw to their own needs, taking a drink from a canteen, ripping open an energy pack.
None of them were Chinese, Mazer noticed. They were as diverse a mix of ethnicities and nationalities as Mazer had ever seen in a small unit. Europeans, Americans, Latinos, Africans. And yet their clothes revealed nothing as to who they were. No uniforms, no insignia, no rank. And yet Mazer knew at once who they were.
Calinga knelt beside him, preparing a syringe. “The paralysis is temporary. Residual effect of the zappers. This will help.” He stuck the syringe into the meat of Mazer’s arm. Almost at once, Mazer felt the knot in his muscles relax and the jittered shake of his hands subside. He hadn’t even realized he had been trembling until he no longer was.
Calinga did the same for Bingwen.
Mazer could feel his fingers and toes again. His wrist responded when he told it to move. “Thank you,” he managed to say.
“Talking already,” Calinga said, as he packed up the syringes and supplies. “Good sign. Means they didn’t cook your brain. Ten more seconds and you were heading for the gray mountain.” He turned to Bingwen, his expression warm and cheery. “And you, little man, are lucky this guy took the brunt of the net. I know he’s heavy and smelly and covered in mud, but it’s better to be flattened by him than a zapper. Believe me.” He patted Bingwen lightly on the arm.
“How long have MOPs been in China?” Mazer asked.
“Since right after the invasion,” said the voice behind him.
Mazer knew that voice. He turned and faced Captain Wit O’Toole on the bench behind him.
“Hello, Mazer,” said Wit. “I’m glad to see you still alive.”
“So am I,” said Mazer. “I have you to thank for that.”
“You two know each other?” said Bingwen. He pushed himself up and removed the gas mask. His face was the only part of him not covered in mud.
“We tested Mazer for our unit,” said Wit. “But instead of incapacitating my men and escaping the test, he endured nearly an hour of torture.”
“You tortured him?” Bingwen was suddenly angry.
“Only a little,” said Wit. “It couldn’t have been worse than the zapper. And you are?”
“Bingwen.”
“Captain Wit O’Toole. Mobile Operations Police. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but that would be a lie considering the circumstances.” He turned to Mazer. “You brought a civilian into a hot zone, Mazer. Not smart. And a child, no less.”
“It’s not his fault,” said Bingwen. “He tried to get rid of me, but I kept coming back.”
“You must have already been at the lander when you saw us,” said Mazer.
“We arrived last night,” said Wit. “Observing. Undetected. We blew our cover to save you.”
“You shouldn’t have,” said Mazer. “Don’t think me ungrateful, but destroying the lander is more important than our lives.”
“I’m glad to hear you haven’t lost all sense,” said Wit. “Because you’re right. Strategically, it would have been smarter to let the Formics kill you.”
“Well I for one am glad you didn’t,” said Bingwen.
“The shield only goes to the surface,” said Mazer.
“We know,” said Wit. “We saw the tunnels. We counted twenty of them around the lander. We’ll have a hard time using them, though. Transports patrol the area, and the holes have a lot of traffic. Plus they’re too narrow for us. They’re Formic sized.”
“I could fit through,” Bingwen offered.
“Those tunnels aren’t the answer,” said Mazer. “But the principle is. What’s the range on this vehicle? Could it get us fifty klicks south of here?”
“Why?” asked Wit. “What’s to the south?”
“Drill sledges. We’re not going to use Formic tunnels. We’re going to dig our own.”
CHAPTER 27
Launch
There was little heat in the shaft and only the standing lights of the construction crews to see by, but Lem was more worried about secrecy than comfort. Father had ears throughout the Juke complex, but he didn’t yet have them here. The shaft had been dug only twelve hours ago. The walls and floor were still barren rock. The dust in the air was still thick and chalky. It seemed the perfect place to meet with Norja Ramdakan, longtime member of the executive board, who now stood opposite Lem, hugging himself in the cold.
“I should have told you to dress warmly,” said Lem.
“You should have told me what this is about,” said Ramdakan.
He was a plump man who cared far too much for fashion and far too little for his own health. Fine fabrics and colorful little boutonnieres didn’t make you any less round in the midsection and thus more attractive to the womenfolk. No doubt Ramdakan’s three ex-wives had told him exactly that as they stormed out of his life with a good chunk of his fortune.