“Oh, yes, there certainly were more like him,” Voorhees could tell his American adversaries. Enough of them happened to be right here, at Nostromo Base. And if asked, Voorhees could not honestly say that he was not one of them himself. He liked to think that he was basically a good man, standing above the gutter in which Kimura and Wolff were planning their bioweapons research. But while growing up, and while wondering what he might become—while asking his parents whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that he should join the Nazi Party, whether it would make them proud—he could not avoid looking back now to what his mother had always warned: “Show me the company you keep, and I’ll tell you what you are.”
Presently Voorhees tried to ignore the giant’s stare and to put away the thoughts and memories that refused to stop haunting him, until Wolff placed his logbook back into a desk drawer and locked it. The meeting or interrogation, or whatever it was, was definitely over. But instead of leaving, Colonel Wolff removed a carefully oiled and cared-for case from another compartment and from that case he withdrew a violin.
Dr. S?nger, who seemed to be working on a new record for keeping his mouth shut, chose that moment to make his escape from the hangar.
“Please close the door,” Wolff said, his voice having returned to its typical level of calm.
“Yes, of course,” S?nger called back, pulling the door quickly closed again. His escape aborted, he turned toward the towering SS sergeant. “The humidity. Of course the humidity is bad for his—”
Schr?dinger began to growl, and for the second time in as many minutes, Eugen S?nger was at a loss for words.
As the rocketeers watched, Wolff began playing. In fewer than three minutes, Voorhees and all of the rocket men had stopped what they were doing and started listening instead. The music grew louder and swooped steadily higher and faster, then swooped down again, mournfully beautiful. Voorhees looked around the room. Everyone appeared to have tears in his eyes, except for the SS giant.
The music seemed to intensify Voorhees’s ability to look beyond the Silverbirds, to the moon and the worlds that waited somewhere on the other side of this madness. “Better days are coming,” he had once told his life’s one true love. “We are, after all, the country of Brahms, Bach, and Beethoven.”
Unfortunately, his subconscious cried out to him, Brahms, Bach, and Beethoven are not running the Third Reich.
The music never did reach MacCready—at least, not the violin music.
When he opened his eyes again, Mac was unsure whether he was actually awake, or merely drifting through a concussion-induced nightmare. In either case, he was locked up in a dark cell that smelled like the receiving end of an outhouse. His arms were still bound behind his back, and he had the Headache from Hell. Then there was the man in the other cell. The annoying Boston accent had immediately pegged him as an American but the fact was, this fellow was definitely in rough shape.
“All gone, now,” the man moaned, sounding like someone who had just lost his entire family. “All except me . . . and the new guy.”
“Hey, buddy,” MacCready called out, keeping his voice as low as possible. His right temple felt as if it had been slammed by a bowling ball.
There was no reply so he tried again. “Name’s MacCready, R. J. MacCready. What’s your name?”
More silence . . . then a sniffle.
“I asked you, buddy, what’s your name?”
“Scott,” came a reply, barely a whisper. “Ned.” Then the man mumbled his rank and serial number.
Silence, then more sobs. Soft. Heart-wrenching.
MacCready recognized the name. Lieutenant Scott was one of the Rangers Hendry had sent in.
MacCready tried to sit up and just before he fell back onto his side he was able to see in the dim light that except for Scott’s cell, the other enclosures appeared to be empty.
What happened to the rest of the Rangers? Dead?
The scientist exhaled a long breath, collecting his thoughts. “It’s gonna be all right, Scott. We’re gettin’ you out of this place.”
Nothing.
“Did you hear me? I said we’re gonna get out of here.”
“Na-ah,” came the singsong response. “You’re just one of the new shipment of Maruta.”
Where have I heard that word before? MacCready thought. “Maruta. And what’s that mean, Lieutenant?”
The man ignored him, seeming to take a sudden interest in something outside his cell. “Uh-oh, no more doggie on the ceiling.”
MacCready struggled into a sitting position. “Lieutenant, that word—maruta—what’s it mean?”
The Ranger responded with a mirthless laugh. “Pally, it means you are fucked.”
MacCready winced. Yes, and that’s really helpful.
Then, as if to assure MacCready that, indeed, things could get worse, Lieutenant Ned Scott began to sing loudly:
“I’m maruta, you’re maruta, he’s maruta, too! We’re logs, we’re logs, we’re laboratory frogs!”
“Come on, MacFeelie, you know the words,” Scott called, cheerfully. Then he followed up with a high-pitched giggle. “If not . . . you’ll know them soo-oon.”
MacCready rolled back onto his side and closed his eyes—hoping for an unconsciousness that refused to come—the madman’s song repeating over and over again.
CHAPTER 14
Children of Blood