Khan doesn’t answer. She feels bile rise in her mouth, and it’s not because of the blood and exposed brain. “Stephen,” she says, trying to keep her voice level and uninflected, “was Lutes …? What was Lutes doing while you were finding this sample and bagging it? Did you just leave him there?”
Greaves is horrified at this suggestion. “I never even saw him! I heard some of his shots. He was using a suppressor so I must have been close, but when I got there, all I saw was …” His voice trails off and he just points. Khan looks up from the freezer cabinet to see his eyes tight shut, tears welling out from under the lids.
“It’s all right,” she says automatically. She tries to find words that will talk him down from his crisis. Dr. Fournier is going to ascend the walls and scream at him from the ceiling, but there’s no point in worrying about that now. There are so many other things to worry about. “This is an important find, and you did right to retrieve it.”
“I tried to tell you last night.”
“I know you did. We all saw Dr. Fournier shut you down. But before that …”
No point. She needs to tell the hunting party they’re on a fool’s errand. They’ve already got an intact specimen.
She heads for the engine room, then changes her mind and climbs the turret steps instead. Her head pokes up between the colonel’s feet. He looks down, surprised to see her there.
“Rina. What can I do for you?”
“You can call the team in from the field, Colonel. We’ve got the goods.” She doesn’t elaborate; she just retreats. She needs time to think of an explanation that doesn’t leave Stephen hanging off the wrong end of a court-martial. But of course the colonel can’t leave it at that. What she has just told him sounds like gibberish.
He comes down and follows her into the lab. Stephen has closed the freezer cabinet, but Khan opens it up again and shows Carlisle what’s inside. “Stephen found him in Invercrae. This is what’s following us. There’s no need to hunt them down.”
Carlisle nods but says nothing. He is probably wondering why Khan has waited until now to explode this bombshell. “I didn’t know,” she says inadequately. “I’m sorry.”
The colonel heads aft. Sixsmith needs to deliver the news to the hunting party and get them back inside as quickly as possible. This is a big mess already but it could easily get much bigger.
Khan follows, and Stephen follows her. They watch, tense and silent, as Sixsmith tries three times to raise the field team on one of the hand-helds. It doesn’t take.
“Foss said she’d check in every time they get a clear line,” she points out at last. “We can tell her the next time she pings us.”
Carlisle shakes his head. “I’ll tell her myself. Now.”
He kits up. So does Khan. “Standard procedure,” she reminds him when he questions her with a look. “You going out there by yourself makes no sense at all, Isaac. Sorry.”
Penny walks in on them while they’re checking their magazines. She volunteers too, and the colonel tells her to man the airlock. When they come back, it’s possible they might be in a hurry. Having someone on hand to let them in could make a difference.
Dr. Fournier is next. He ventures out of his engine-room lair to demand an explanation for why they are all going outside. They leave Sixsmith to give it.
It’s only when they’re through the airlock and a hundred yards from Rosie that Khan realises Stephen has followed them. It’s too late by then to send him back.
They walk together up a steep incline that is parti-coloured and precarious with old leaf mulch and this season’s fall. At the top, the colonel tries the radio.
Nothing.
He tries again.
34
McQueen is a tracker of considerable skill and experience. It pisses him off, therefore, to find that there is nothing to track.
Actually that’s not quite true. There is the occasional footprint, wherever the trail is softest. Small and shallow, they confirm Foss’s visual description of their quarry. They look like the prints of barefooted children.
But there is no consistent direction. If one print leads west, the next will almost certainly point them east, or south. If the trail leads upslope, they’ll just find another print at the crest of a hill that’s heading downward again. Either the goblins are dancing in a big fucking ring or they are deliberately smoking their tracks. McQueen is unwilling to accept either of these two hypotheses.
But he is starting to lean towards the second one. Foss saw a whole pack chasing Rosie, and these prints only ever come solo. If they’re not following the herd then they’re following a decoy.
A decoy would do just fine, of course, if they could catch him. Maybe that’s what keeps McQueen from suggesting that they give up and turn back. Foss doesn’t suggest it either, but then this is her first field op since Carlisle bumped her up to lieutenant. Obviously she’s not going to want to come across as a coward or a screw-up. Phillips is a buck private. He’ll do exactly as he’s told.
And the whitecoats are actually enjoying themselves. Akimwe has been taking photos of the footprints. Sealey has been measuring them. Both men have gone down on their knees, for Christ’s ineffable sake, and had a good sniff. They have been talking the whole time about stride lengths, interdigital gaps, whatever else. Foss has told them three times to shut up but they’re like schoolkids on an outing. Only a smack in the mouth will do the job, and he is seriously tempted. There’s no way they’re catching this little barefoot bastard if they’re clashing their cymbals and singing “Hare Krishna” as they come.
Although McQueen is honest enough to admit that keeping quiet might not help much. It’s possible that the goblins have their number in any case.
He is just about to broach the delicate subject of throwing in the towel when the radio on his belt vibrates. Foss must have got the call too and she beats him to the draw because the assault rifle is lighter and less unwieldy than his M407.
“This is Carlisle, field team,” the colonel’s voice tells them, as if they didn’t know. “Time to come home. Wherever you are, return to Rosie by the nearest route.”
“Affirmative,” Foss confirms. She looks relieved. She must have known as well as McQueen did that they were getting nowhere slowly. “Anything we should know, sir?”
A few moments of crackle on the line make it seem like she has lost the signal, but then Carlisle’s voice comes through clear again. “We already have a sample specimen. Repeat, we have a specimen on ice that’s fit for purpose.”
“What the fuck?” The words are forced out of Foss. It’s not in mission-speak, but it has to be said. “Sorry, sir. Did you say you already caught one of these things?”
“I said there’s one on board, Lieutenant. In fact it was Mr. Greaves who obtained it—back in Invercrae, apparently. I’ll be debriefing him in due course, as I imagine will Dr. Fournier. In the meantime, you should abandon your mission and come in. There’s nothing to stop us going on our way.”