Zero World (34 page)

Melni stood. Tried to. Her legs folded under her. She collapsed into a kneeling position in the dirt, laid the pistol across her legs, and let it dangle from shaking fingers. “So much death,” she whispered to the soil. To Gartien. These people were supposed to be on her side. With each dead body left along her trail the world felt a little darker, joy and hope and everything in between slowly bleeding out.

Only now, instead of one final death at the end, Melni found a spark. A tiny glimmer of something good to come of all this. She would save Alia Valix, not assassinate her. She would save her and, in doing so, save the world. Not North from South or South from North, but Gartien from Prime. She would do this. The
desoa
journalist and failed spy. A deep chuckle rolled out of her at the absurdity of it all.

“What’s so funny?” someone asked.

Caswell.

She glanced up, startled. He stood over her, his face filthy and dotted with mud or maybe blood. Probably both. He held out one hand for her.

Too numb to react otherwise, Melni took it and let him pull her to her feet. The world tilted beneath her like a boat on the ocean. She let the sensation pass. “I was laughing because,” she said, and stopped until the mirth in her faded. “I was laughing because now we have to save Alice.”

His brow furrowed, the humor lost on him.

Melni frowned. “It is one thing to fire the gun and let the consequences be,” she said. “Now we have to save her from everyone else.” She gestured at the two dead bodies in the grass. “From these people. They want her; the North will go to war to stop them from getting her. Two great foes, intent to either have her on their side or none at all. And the two of us are supposed to walk in there and…do what, exactly? Steal her away? Hide her? And all the while some alien civilization spanning hundreds of planets is on their way to annihilate Gartien? And Earth, too? What do we do? Where do we even start?”

A breath exploded from Caswell’s lips. “I was hoping you’d have a plan.”

Now Melni really did laugh, softly at first, but she couldn’t control it no matter how hard she tried. It grew and grew until tears came. Caswell just stood and waited, and that sobered her. She took a deep breath. “What does your instinct tell you?”

“Get to her.”

Melni waited. He said nothing else. “Get to her? That is it?”

“Get to her. Find out what she intends to do. Find out if she still believes in the Warden’s mission.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

He gestured to the plume of smoke still rising from the valley. “She just bombed the only real evidence for what he told us.”

“It might not have been her that ordered the bombing.”

“Right, yes. But if anyone had the power to stop that from happening, Alice did. So why didn’t she?”

Melni looked away. He was right and she knew it. Alia…Alice, had deliberately destroyed the place rather than let it be discovered. Or perhaps because it had been discovered. Some silent alarm alerting her, perhaps.

Caswell went on. “We have to face the possibility that she’s gone mad with power here. You saw the condition he was in down there. That was a tomb, not a hiding place. I doubt they’ve spoken, at least on friendly terms, in years.”

“And if that is true? If she no longer works toward preventing Prime’s discovery of Gartien?”

He grimaced. “I don’t know. It’ll be up to us, I guess.”

“We need a better plan than that.”

It was his turn to laugh. “You know I’m not much of a planner.”

“Well, then,” Melni said, “you are lucky I am around.”

It should have revolted her. Blood and bits of intestine, partially digested food, a gruesome fluid that surely was on its way out the other end of the body. All of it spilled from the communication officer’s belly as she pulled his outfit off. It
should
have revolted her, but for the absurdity of the whole situation.

Instead of revulsion, she fought to keep the laughter in. She imagined herself of two years prior, sitting at the conference table above the Loweast in the
Weekly
’s modest office tower, surrounded by other reporters and editors, interviewing for her new role. Someone had asked, “Where do you see yourself in two years?” She pictured herself, leaning
back, casting a confident glance at the faces around the table, and deadpanning the response. “I will be crouched in a snowy Desolation crater in Southern Cirdia, tearing the clothes from a dead Hollow Man that I shot in the gut, trying not to vomit onto his large intestine. And beside me, an assassin from another world, one of many worlds, will be singing a song of his world called ‘Dead Man’s Party’ while he tries on a pair of boots taken from corpse number two, another Hollow that we, together, murdered. That is where I see myself.”

And the chief editor, a half smile on her face, saying, “Lovely. When can you start?”

This imagined conversation went on and on in her head as they searched all of the vehicles in the crater.

Unfortunately Caswell could not wear the giant’s clothes. The smaller man’s outfit might have worked for him, but she already had it on. A bit loose, but good enough to pass a cursory inspection, except for all the blood.

Caswell found a tactical vest in one of the cruiser’s sidebags and handed it to her. That covered the gore, mostly.

“What about you?” she asked him. No other garments had turned up in the storage compartments.

“I’m your prisoner. I look the part.”

“They are looking for a female agent and an escaped prisoner.”

Caswell snorted a laugh. “Then let us hope they think we are smarter than this,” he shot back, exaggerating the individual words like natives of Gartien did. He even mimicked her accent, or tried to.

“
Yur gunna wanna
let me do the talking,” she replied, in his accent and smashed-together cadence. She thought she sounded pretty convincing, but Caswell reacted with laughter and by clapping his hands together.

“Don’t quit your day job, Mel.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Come on,” she said, annoyed and a bit embarrassed. “We should get moving if we are going to reach Fineva in time.”

“Agreed.”

She took the tiller. The military-spec cruiser was choice-of-the-flock, configured with a powerful air-ram motor and everything needed for the rough terrain of the Desolation. It climbed out of the shallow crater with ease and ate up miles of scrubland forest beneath its tires with a voracious appetite. It being a rare quadcruiser, they were able to sit side by side in the cabin.

“Look here,” Caswell said, yanking Melni from the lull of a smooth section of trail across a wide, flat plain dappled with colorful wildflowers. In a pocket affixed to the front of his seat a booklet had been stowed. Inside were maps and aerial photoprints. “They tracked us all the way from the shore,” he said, pointing at a waxpen circle marking where they’d landed.

“They must have been behind us the whole time.”

He nodded. “Damned impressive. I had no idea.” He showed her another page. “Looks like they charted a path from here to the summit meeting. I guess they were supposed to take us there. Or our bodies, anyway.”

“It makes sense,” Melni replied. “That is where everyone else will be. Including Rasa Clune, broken jaw and all.” She flashed Caswell a smile but he missed it, too engrossed in the papers on his lap. For the next twenty minutes, as mile after mile of cratered prairie vanished under the nose of the cruiser, he studied the map and compared it to the landscape around them. Eventually he pinpointed their location and guided Melni onto the course the Hollow had laid out. The path led mostly east into the mountains.

“Where does this lead us?” she asked.

“Something called the Vongar. Those Grim Runners mentioned that as well. What is it?”

“A path between North and South. One of the few undamaged land routes. For a while after the Desolation it was one of the only safe ways to travel across. A roller track was even built, and that is how diplomats reach the city of Fineva even now.”

“You sound…I don’t know, concerned.”

“The Vongar,” she paused, choosing her words. “It’s the one safe path to Fineva, from either side. It’s guarded, patrolled. And, with the summit so close, it will be crowded.”

“I see.” He grew silent for some time. “And Fineva itself? Tell me more about it.”

Navigating around fallen trees and over countless erosion holes and miniature canyons carved by years of neglect, Melni recounted the same summary all recruits at Riverswidth received, which in truth was hardly more than what any child learned in school. Fineva had once been the cultural heart of the Cirdian nation, neither its capital nor possessing any real political significance. It was regarded as one of Gartien’s most beautiful cities even then, and the fact that it had been somehow spared by the bombardment of the shattered comet made the place perhaps the only beautiful city left in the world. Coupled with the winding path through the craters that surrounded it, after the Desolation occurred Fineva became a meeting place for refugees, disaster relief coordinators, and smugglers. As tensions rose between the planet’s two halves, and the two major alliances—North and South—began to solidify, Fineva evolved into the de facto meeting place. The city was made a military-free zone along with the rest of the Desolation, and so the city also became Gartien’s epicenter for the activities of spies.

“How many people live there?”

“I do not know. Perhaps five thousand?
Desoa,
mostly. They maintain the place, handling all the menial tasks in trade for imported goods. And they act as chaperones to any meetings between the two sides.”

“Why?”

“It adds a risk of collateral damage to any hostility that might break out. In fact we have a saying: If someone uninvolved is blocking your line of fire we call them a ‘Finevite Escort.’ ”

Outside, the lush overgrown plains began to give way to hills. Ahead steep mountains waited, the color of rust in Garta’s fading light. Somewhere, on the other side, waited the roller track
that wound its way to Fineva and on all the way to the Northern frontier.

“And they remain strictly neutral? Really?”

“Theoretically they are unaffiliated with either faction, but as you can imagine one of the chief industries in such a place is influence. Often they are suspected of trading information, or not stepping in to prevent hostilities. There is mistrust everywhere there.”

“A nest of spies,” Caswell said under his breath.

She turned to him, and nodded.

“Who settles disputes? Maintains law?” Caswell asked.

“That is a bit vague,” Melni said. At his confused expression she added, “There is no real government. Behavior is regulated by treaty and all sides are supposed to punish their own transgressors.”

“I can’t imagine that works well at all.” His expression hardened. “Sounds like a horrible place.”

“I have never visited,” Melni said, “but I suspect you are right, considering how nothing useful has ever resulted from the meetings that go on there.”

“Gah. I must say, Melni, I’m a bit disappointed that shit politicians seem to be a universal truth.”

She laughed at that, and he with her. The violence and death behind them was fading, if only slightly.

Caswell grew silent for a long time. He became so quiet, in fact, that Melni thought he must have entered his quasi-sleep state. How much of his nutrient reserves had he consumed in their battle with the Hollow? How much remained?

Garta, obscured by the western horizon, painted that narrow band of sky in rust and blood. The two moons rose in the east almost as one, mischievous Gisla peeking out over stoic Gilan’s shoulder.

She drove on in the dark without the aid of the forward lamps. With the summit due to start tomorrow evening, and hundreds of miles yet to cover, Caswell had insisted they drive through the night. Melni feared the lamps would beacon their approach from miles off. In the end the two moons had settled the argument.

Caswell lurched out of his near-sleep state just past zero hour. She’d patted the back of his knee with one hand, expecting to need much more persuasion than that to rouse him, but he sat right up, alert as ever, eyes already scanning the dark road ahead of them.

“Where are we?” he asked.

She opened her door and stepped out onto the cracked ancient cobbled road. He joined her.

Melni had parked at a bend in the ancient mountain path where half the cobbled surface had long ago crumbled away and slid down. Far below a single light moved briskly up a long, shallow valley, a stretch of land completely unmarred by cratering. The light came from the front of a roller that clattered along on Southern-style tracks, heading south toward the sea.

“The Vongar,” Melni said to him. “A few hundred feet wide at its narrowest, nearly fifty miles wide in some places. From the shore south of us all the way to the Combran frontier, with Fineva almost exactly in the middle.”

He took all this in. “Where’s the train…er, roller, going?”

“To pick up diplomats and staff coming up for the summit, I expect.”

“Your people keep the tracks operating?”

Melni shook her head. “The NFP handle that. Um, Neutral Fineva Protectorate. We just provide the equipment.”

“So what now?” he asked after a time. “What’s our plan, Melni?”

“As I see it,” Melni replied, “we have two choices. Cling to the hills, parallel the Vongar without getting too close, and hope we can find our way all the way up to Fineva without being seen.”

“Or bombed.”

“That, too.”

“Hmm…so far Alice seems pretty trigger-happy. What’s the other option?”

“We board the roller and take it all the way to Fineva.”

“And how do we do that, exactly, without being captured?”

She turned to him, and grinned a grin worthy of Gisla herself.

MELNI REMAINED
at the wheel. Not a wheel, actually, but more of a V-shaped handle she called a tiller.

In the light of the two moons she picked a path over game trails and crumbling old roads, plus the occasional jaunt over rough terrain strewn with jarring rocks and slick, snow-dappled soil. Her path wound farther and farther up into the mountains above the coast. Caswell took on the task of tracking the train, glimpsed occasionally between trees or through gaps in the foothills as it sped along the track below, a bit closer each time he saw it. A collision course, in truth, and as they drove he became aware of a strange excitement growing within him.

Laz had shattered Caswell’s world. If the alien could be believed—
and Caswell saw no reason to doubt the story—then Monique had been lying to him from the very start. He knew now what all those bottles of Sapporo represented. People who, in some way or another, must have flirted with discovery of the wormhole. The Conduit. And he’d killed them for that crime. Monique had sent her hammer to drive those nails back into place. To keep the Earth bottled up right where this group called Prime liked it: isolated, ignorant, and happily churning out interesting ideas. Human ingenuity, just another beast on the idea farm.
Those motherfuckers
. He bit another wave of rage back and nourished that growing excitement that waited just beyond. Excitement because here, finally, he could break the chain. Instead of killing Alice Vale he could save her, and help her in whatever plan she’d cooked up to keep Gartien from falling into Prime’s hands. He could do something to wash away all the shit he’d done for Monique Pendleton.

Melni kept the cruiser more or less aimed at a wide gap between two mountain peaks, a high pass, perhaps two kilometers above sea level. Caswell shook off his distracted thoughts and studied the map. He found the two peaks, and saw a town marked in the plateau valley between. Before long he began to see its silhouette against the night sky. Steepled roofs, sort of a cross between Chinese and Russian architecture. That was where Melni wanted to lay the trap. She just had to beat the train there.

With altitude the grass fields dissipated, giving way to clumps of trees surrounded by wide, empty areas of snow and dirt. With no cover and the train so close, Melni drove hard across these patches of open ground. The tip-tap rattle of the air-ram engine transformed into a constant, heavy hiss that filled the cabin, sounding like a punctured gas line.

She barreled over one final rise and the town came into full view. Caswell glanced behind them and down, searching the valley through which the Vongar snaked. “The train’s reached a steep stretch, slow going. Perhaps five minutes”—he paused and converted to their timescale—“make that three minutes out.”

“We must hurry then,” Melni said.

At the edge of the ravaged old town she turned and skirted along the perimeter. The utterly dark buildings loomed like monuments to the events that had destroyed this part of the world two centuries earlier. And perhaps, Caswell mused, also a monument to the political stalemate that had prevented anyone from resettling this land.

Ahead, the track appeared. Melni turned the cruiser and drove south, toward the oncoming engine. Within a minute she found the right building, a tall structure, but narrow. The beams that formed the corners were rotten and starting to buckle under the weight of the floors above. Melni backed up thirty meters.

“Out,” she said suddenly, popping the canopy open.

“No way. I’m staying with you.”

“This is too risky. If it fails one of us still needs to get to Fineva. Quickly now, the dust needs time to settle or this will not work.”

Caswell reluctantly obeyed. He took a few steps away and then turned to watch, feeling helpless.

She flashed him a smile, and wound the accelerator to maximum.

The cruiser lurched forward, engine hammering. Twenty meters. Melni hauled the tiller hard to the left. The cruiser bounced as it left the track, then shuddered down the tiny slope of gravel that supported the rails. Ten meters to impact. She aimed for the corner beam, one black with age and already half-rotted away.

The cruiser slammed into the corner in an explosion of loosened snow and ice. The sound of wrenching metal and splintering wood filled the air. The impact sent the cruiser careening off in a wild spin until it smacked sideways into a wall across an alley from her target. Even in the darkness Caswell saw her forehead slam into the canopy with a thud. He started to run for her, then stopped as a gigantic cracking sound filled the air. A terrible second of silence followed, then a rumbling he felt more than heard.

The building collapsed. A cloud of dust hid the carnage, but even so he could tell her plan had worked flawlessly. A pile of debris three meters high now lay across the track.

Elation gave way to concern. He ran again, skidding to a stop in the snow where the cruiser had come to rest. He wiped dust and ice from the window and peered inside. She sat there, looking dazed and in pain, but then seemed to see him. Her grimace turned into a brilliant smile when she saw him looking back. Caswell hauled the canopy open.

“Did it work?” she asked, sounding shaken.

“Perfectly. Come see.”

“Not yet,” she said. “We must hide this cruiser. Get in.”

He glanced up and down the length of it. “Looks wedged. I’ll push.”

Together they managed to coax the vehicle out into the alley. Once free of the wall, Caswell hopped in and closed the window. He gave her hand a congratulatory squeeze as she set off down the darkened lane. The cruiser thumped rhythmically, a front wheel bent beyond repair.

“The whole building fell right on the track,” he told her. “An engineer couldn’t have planned it better. Brilliant bit of driving!”

“Gratitude,” she replied, taking a sharp turn, ignoring the protests from the vehicle. She drove to the edge of town and out into the snow-dappled field just beyond, taking care to avoid leaving tracks that would be visible from the train.

She found a suitable drop-off. “Out,” she said.

He popped the canopy open and exited, snow crunching beneath his treadmellows. He ran around to her side and helped her. “You okay?”

“Hmm?”

“Injured. Are you hurt?”

“Just confused. Knocked my head against the glass when I hit that wall.”

Together they pushed the cruiser down the slope and watched as it rolled down the mountain on the north side of town. It started to veer toward the track, a hundred meters to the right. Caswell held his breath, exhaling only when the vehicle swerved back and, finally, disappeared
over a steep drop-off. Seconds later he heard the faint sound of metal smashing against rock somewhere far below.

“So far so good,” Caswell said. He glanced at the north side of town and the abandoned buildings there. Any minute now the train would arrive on the other side of town. “What’s next?”

“We hide, but not here.”

“Where then?”

“The town center, where the tail of the roller will be.”

He nodded and fell in behind her as she jogged parallel to the tracks. At the edge of town she crept into a dark gap between two buildings. He dropped to a crouch and followed her in.

Melni weaved a path through half-collapsed shops and houses, jogged along a cobbled alley, and climbed over a stone wall that had fared much better than the wooden frames of the old buildings all around. Two centuries of decay had not been kind, but despite that he could sense the charm this place must have once held. A quaint stop for the night on the way north or south. He made a mental note to quiz Melni later on the political stratification of her world, suddenly curious how it compared to the dizzying maze of shifting alliances and adversaries back home. What could be learned by comparing their ideologies? Though far from an expert on the topic, he sensed a strong possibility both worlds could benefit from the wisdom gained by the other.

A chill coursed through him. These must be the same sorts of questions that led these so-called Wardens of Prime to observe the worlds they found. Even for such an advanced society there must be plenty to learn from populations that arose independently, even if the populations were physically the same.
We must all be like precocious children to them,
he thought.
Often dazzling with imaginative solutions to old problems, but deserving of being struck when we ask sensitive questions or dare to explore beyond the immediate surroundings.

A thunderous cacophony banished the thought. The ground trembled. Brakes squealed. The train had arrived.

He caught the hint of its brilliant headlight just as Melni did, and they both dove to the ground just to be safe. The shrill scream of brakes from a hundred wheels went on and on. Melni glanced at him and grinned, standing. He smiled back and vaulted to his feet.

Twenty meters on Melni found a collapsed multistory building with a shadowed cavity on the ground floor that looked out onto the tracks. Thirty meters beyond, the rear car of the segmented vehicle waited. The long train, twenty cars at least, had come to a complete stop before crashing into the pile of rubble across the tracks, just as Melni’s plan assumed.

She gasped upon seeing all the debris her crash had created. “Maybe we did too good of a job,” she said. “It may take all night to clear.”

“They’re in a hurry. They’ll figure something out.” He glanced up at the sky, happy to see that the dust kicked up from the building collapse had already dissipated in the mountain breeze. This needed to look like a natural occurrence, not an ambush. With any luck they wouldn’t notice the tracks on the ground, or the footprints. At least the sky betrayed nothing. Just the two moons as witness, and they weren’t talking.

Melni gripped Caswell’s arm. He glanced at her and then at the train.

Four soldiers leapt from open doors at the rear. They split off in pairs, fanning out to either side of the vehicle, weapons at the ready. At the head of the long vehicle an even larger detail emerged. Not just soldiers, Caswell thought. A mixed group—engineers and porters—spilled out and rushed toward the debris. They shouted back and forth to one another, and a few darted back inside, presumably to fetch more labor, or tools, or both.

“Be ready,” Melni said.

Her plan had worked perfectly. Within two minutes the initial confusion and investigation transformed into a concerted effort by virtually everyone aboard to clear the tracks. Caswell guessed at least seventy-five people had disembarked and were now crowded around
the demolished building, tossing chunks of wood and rubble away from the front of the train. Even the guards eventually shouldered their weapons and joined in the work.

“There are so many,” Melni whispered.

“That’s a good thing,” he replied. “Disguises our tracks. And, easier to hide among them. C’mon, now’s our chance.”

She nodded, gathered her courage. Per the plan he went first, walking casually toward the vehicle with his hands held in front of him as if bound, his gaze on the ground. Melni followed a few paces behind. “Business of the Presidium, not your concern,” she’d say to anyone who challenged them.

But no one said anything. In fact, the rear carriage was empty. Just rows of forward-facing seats in plush red fabric. A few supported bags and other detritus, but most were entirely vacant. Melni urged him forward, deeper into the train. The patrol guards had exited from this rear car and would certainly notice the sudden presence of a Hollow and her prisoner upon their return.

In the next carriage the hallway turned and followed the right side of the train, allowing room for seven sleeper cabins on the left. Caswell tried the first door, then the second, both locked. The third opened. He went in.

“This is perfect,” Melni said, coming in behind him. The cabin was empty, lit only by a small magenta bulb above the door. He clicked the door closed once she was inside, then went to the single round window on the far wall, expecting curious guards approaching their car, guns drawn. There was nothing, however. Just the dark buildings of the tiny mountain village.

He puffed out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He needed to relax, so he sat on one of the two couches, unsure what else to do.