At that moment, I suddenly remember being nine years old in my grandmother’s country house back on Midgard. It was a sunny spring morning, and I’d caught a spider in my bedroom. I scooped him up in my cupped hands and trapped him, ran down the stairs and out the front door with his sharp little feet scrambling around and around my palms. I crouched down in the front garden, put my hands near the ground, and opened my fingers. As he scuttled away, I felt like a benevolent god.
Through the hole in the wall, I can see the snow-dusted bulge of our main dome, no more than a couple of kilometers away. I’m the spider. I’m the spider, and that thing in the tunnel just set me down in the garden.
* * *
I TRY PINGING Berto, then Nasha, as soon as I’m clear of the tunnel. No response. Not too surprising, I guess. It’s early yet, and they were both out on overnights. Would Berto have reported me as KIA as soon as he got back to the dome, or would he have waited until morning? And how long would it take them to actually re-instantiate me after that? I’ve never been around for that part, so I’m not exactly sure, but I’m guessing it’s not very long. I think about leaving a message for Berto, but something tells me to hold off. If he went straight to his rack last night when he got in, I can tell him in person. If not … I honestly don’t know what happens then, but I’ve got a weird feeling that I might want to keep my current not-dead status to myself for a while.
It’s an hour-long slog through a knee-deep layer of fresh snow back to the perimeter. Despite that, it’s actually a nice morning, for a change. The temperature is a hair over zero, for the first time in almost a week. The wind has died down, the sky is a soft, cloudless pink, and the sun is a fat red ball resting just above the southern horizon. We’ve got a security perimeter established about a hundred meters out from the dome—sensor towers, automated burner turrets, man traps, the works. I’ve never been sure what the point of this is supposed to be, since the creepers are the only big animals we’ve seen so far, and they seem to be able to move around under the snow where our sensors can’t find them, but it’s standard operating procedure, I guess.
Gabe Torricelli is manning the checkpoint leading to the main lock this morning. He’s a Security goon, but as goons go he’s an okay guy. He’s wearing a full kit of powered combat armor, minus the helmet. He looks like an overgrown bodybuilder with a really tiny head.
“Mickey,” he says. “You’re out early.”
I shrug. “You know. Just out for my constitutional. What’s with the gear? Did we declare war on somebody while I was on crevasse duty?”
He grins behind his rebreather. “Not yet. Armor’s voluntary for picket duty. I just like the way it looks.” He gestures back toward the way I came. “Marshall’s still got you scouting the foothills, huh?”
“Yup. No point in risking valuable equipment doing scut work when you’ve got me around, right?”
“Right you are. See anything good out there?”
Yeah, Gabe. I saw a creeper the size of a heavy lift shuttle. It carried me back to the dome and then let me go. Pretty sure it was sentient. Cool, right?
“Nope,” I say. “Just a lot of rocks and snow.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Typical. Marshall’s just wasting our time with this bullshit, am I right?”
Ugh. He’s bored, and looking to chat. I need to short-circuit this.
“Look,” I say. “I’d love to hang, but I’ve got a thing in the dome this morning. Okay if I head on in?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. I guess I don’t need to ask for ID, huh?”
“No,” I say. “Probably not.”
He pulls out a tablet, punches something in, then passes me through and into the dome with a wave. That’s good. It might mean nobody’s registered Mickey8 with Security yet. Berto’s laziness may have saved me an unknowable amount of trouble. On the other hand, it was basically Berto’s laziness that got me into this situation in the first place. It would have been difficult, but I’m pretty sure he could have pulled some gear together and come back and extracted me last night.
I wouldn’t let Nasha risk coming for me, but Berto? If he’d been willing, I think I would have rolled the dice.
Of course, the whole point of having Expendables is that you don’t have to go back for them. Still, no matter how this winds up, I’m going to need to reassess my criteria for picking best friends.
First stop is my rack. I need to get changed, clean up a bit, and put a pressure wrap on my wrist. I don’t think it’s broken at this point, but it’s swollen and purple and I’m guessing it’s probably going to be unpleasant for the next few weeks at least. After that, I can get in touch with Berto and make sure he’s not getting ready to do something stupid. I need to ping Nasha too, just to let her know I made it out.
Also to say thanks for being willing to try, I guess.
I follow the main corridor two-thirds of the way across the dome, then climb four floors of bare metal spiral staircase to the slums. The low-status racks are up here, dozens of three-by-two-meter rooms separated by extruded plastic dividers and thin foam doors, right up near the roof. My room is near the hub. I’ve got a double to myself, with enough vertical space to stand up and raise my hands over my head—one of the benefits of being an Expendable, I guess. It’s kind of like the way the Aztecs were really nice to their ass-ball players, right up until they dragged them up to the altar and ripped their hearts out.
I first realize we may have an issue when I try to key my door. It’s already unlocked. I push it open, heart pounding out a staccato rhythm in my chest. There’s someone in my bed, with my blanket pulled up to his chin. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and his face is streaked with what looks like dried snot. I take two steps forward, and swing the door closed behind me. His eyes pop open at the sound of the latch closing.
“Hey,” I say.
He sits half up and puts a hand to his face. “What the…” He looks at me, and his eyes go wide.
“Crap,” he says. “I’m Mickey8, aren’t I?”
002
AT THIS POINT, you may be wondering what I did to get myself designated as an Expendable. Must have been something awful, right? Murdered a puppy, maybe? Pushed an old lady down a staircase?
Nope, and nope. Believe it or not, I volunteered.
The way they sell you on becoming an Expendable is that they don’t call it becoming an Expendable. They call it becoming an Immortal. That’s got a much nicer ring to it, doesn’t it?