“Everyone’s just a baby sometime, Foss. That’s how it starts.”
Foss gives it up. “Let’s have another toast then,” she says. “To the Rosalind Franklin, and all who sailed in her. Fuck the brass and fuck the Main Table. We’re the ones who make it happen.”
There’s an emphatic “Yes!” from Sixsmith, a rueful snort of laughter from McQueen. He swirls his whiskey in its plastic cup for a long while before he drinks.
“Well, we did it, people,” Foss says. She’s still not sure why she’s going to so much effort, but for some reason she really wants to make them feel this. Feel something, at least, even if she has to hammer together an atmosphere out of wood and shingle. “We came and we saw and we frigging well conquered. Lutes and Phillips and the others didn’t die for nothing. They died to get us here. One more for the five of them, yeah? To the memory of—”
McQueen puts his empty cup down, shoving it away from him across the table. “Stop it, for fuck’s sake,” he says. “We’re no use to anyone if we’re pissed.”
He walks back out to the mid-section.
“To Lutes, Penny, Sealey, Phillips and Akimwe,” the colonel says quietly. He takes the bottle, pours himself a glass and empties it. Foss follows suit, but the mood has gone all to hell. Khan is crying again.
No, not crying. It’s a different sound, a sort of hacking exhalation as though she’s trying to spit something up. The baby is back in her lap but she’s not holding it. Her fists are tightly clenched, the knuckles white.
“Samrina,” the colonel says. “Are you all right?”
Greaves is on his feet. “It’s complications,” he says too quickly, too urgently. “From … complications from …” His hands make shapes in the air. “She needs medicine. Come on, Rina.”
He tugs on her shoulder. That’s a strange sight, Foss realises: the Robot touching someone, instead of backing away in all directions at once into his own rigid little space. And those are some pretty complicated complications. Dr. Khan’s mouth is gaping wide and she is blinking in rapid semaphore. It looks like she’s about to have a fit.
“You’ve got medicine for this?” Foss asks Greaves. “Okay, let’s get her into the lab.”
She moves to help Khan get up. The Robot is in her way. “I’ll do it,” he bleats. “I can do it. Leave her alone.”
“Shit, Greaves, I’m only trying to—”
She doesn’t get to say what she’s only trying to do. The movement sensors go off like a chorus of chirping crickets and drown her words right out.
They’ve got company.
55
Colonel Carlisle makes the worst-case assumption—that the children have caught up with them again—and scrambles them all to battle stations. Foss takes the turret guns (and the infra-red goggles), McQueen the mid-section platform, the colonel and Sixsmith the cockpit. Each grabs a walkie-talkie as they go. With no intracom, they’ll have to squawk each other and hope for the best.
From the cockpit, nothing is visible. Night has dropped over them like a black-out curtain. If the children are out there they’ve got the advantage because they’re hunting by scent. There is nothing to be done but to stay inside and let them come, hoping they haven’t got anything in their arsenal that can inconvenience a tank.
Carlisle is still debating whether or not to turn the headlights on when someone else makes the decision for him. Twin beams light up the night. Then another two, and finally a bank of six ferocious halogen spots, all of them pointed at Rosie from source points about a hundred yards away. Human figures walk back and forth in front of the spotlights with a lack of discipline the colonel finds bizarre and a little shocking.
“Hold your fire,” he says into his walkie-talkie, “but stand ready. I believe this is our escort, but let’s take nothing for granted.”
The broken radio rules out a normal hail. He tells Sixsmith to use the headlights to send a two-word message in Morse code. Rosalind Franklin.
One of the two pairs of headlights facing them blinks in response, sending four words back. Beacon. Manolis. Present selves.
Carlisle stands and clips the walkie-talkie to his belt. Sixsmith gets to her feet too, but he shakes his head. “I’ll go out to them,” he tells her. “Those were the brigadier’s orders.”
“Sir—” Sixsmith begins. She doesn’t look happy.
“At ease, Private. This is Beacon. It’s appropriate that I meet the senior officer and formally hand over command to him. I can also see what provisions they’ve made for us and satisfy myself that you’ll all be looked after. There’s no problem here.”
Sixsmith stays on her feet. “Well, there might be, sir, if those kids have sniffed us out again. I’m just saying. Shouldn’t we fill the escort in on the situation before anyone goes outside? That’s just good sense, right?”
And it is, Carlisle can’t deny it. “Very well, Private,” he says. “Send another message.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Sixsmith is visibly relieved. She sits down again and gets busy with the headlights. But she is only a few dots and dashes in when the lights over the way start flickering too, interrupting her in mid-flow.
Present selves, they spell.
Sixsmith is disgusted. “Fucking jokers,” she mutters. She starts her message string again.
And the same thing happens. The other vehicle’s headlights flash across her, abrupt and intemperate. The same sequence as before: present selves.
Sixsmith shakes her head in disbelief. “Maybe I should try signalling with the fucking turret gun,” she mutters. “Sir, permission to give this one more—”
“Yes,” Carlisle says. “Go ahead, Private. Try again.”
Sixsmith does. And this time, at least, her opposite number allows her to finish her message. Fence compromised. Possible hostiles.
After half a minute the answer comes, with a grim inevitability.
Present selves.
“We’re dealing with a moron,” Sixsmith marvels.
The colonel picks up the walkie-talkie and squawks Foss.
“Sir?”
“What are you seeing on the scope, Lieutenant?”
“Couple of dozen ground troops, sir, with about as much fieldcraft as a fucking high-school picnic. And three vehicles. There’s something a bit odd about the vehicles. One of them is a tank—probably a Challenger, judging from the turret config. The other two … well, they could be staff cars but one of them looks more like a bus. And the other is pulling a limber of some kind. High sides like a caravan. I’m not seeing a chopper.”
A presentiment runs through Carlisle. He shies away from it by main force.
“Any sign of the feral children?” he asks.
“No, sir. Nothing. But there’s a lot of shrubbery out there. Lines of sight don’t extend as far as I’d like.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m coming through to join you.”