The Interceptor slowed less than a minute later, came down off its foils, and began to wallow gracelessly as a boom swung out over the side, and two wet-suit-clad crew people dropped into the water. Connections were made, a winch whined, and it was only a matter of minutes before the thick, fifty-foot-long cylinder was hoisted up out of the oily-looking water. The divers rode it up and jumped to the deck as the glistening tube settled into its cradle.
Some of the crew strapped the drone down as others brought the boom back in. Once it was secured, Prosser advanced the throttles, and the Interceptor ’s hull came up out of the water. Moments later, the hydrofoil was flying toward the southwest. “The Ramanthians will expect us to head for the mainland,” Prosser said over the intercom. “So we’ll go to sea instead. We can shelter behind San Nicolas Island for a while. With any luck at all, the bugs will spend most of their time shooting at the pirate boats. Especially the one that’s on fire. Then we’ll sneak in, off-load our cargo, and return to sea. We lost some good people tonight. Don’t forget them.”
I won’t, Foley thought to himself. They will be avenged.
DEATH VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
For hundreds of years, the entrances to the Lucky Fool mine had been sealed off to prevent hikers from falling down a vertical shaft, losing themselves in a maze of passageways, or being crushed by a sudden cave-in. But after months of war, the old digs were the top secret location from which Operation Cockroach would be launched. Margaret Vanderveen knew that much but nothing more. Partly because those in charge of the Earth Liberation Brigade were doing everything in their power to keep “the roach,” as they referred to it, a secret-and partly because she was too busy working on her own project to pay much attention.
To call the gallery that Margaret and her team of doctors, microbiologists, and entomologists had taken over a “lab” was generous to say the least. Especially since the long, rectangular room had once been used to store timbers and other mining equipment. Harsh lights had been attached to the uncomfortably low ceiling, ancient pick marks were still visible on rock walls, and a pair of narrow-gauge tracks led from one end of the space to the other.
A workbench made out of raw lumber ran along one wall. It was divided into workstations, each having its own equipment according to the requirements of the person assigned to it. Power cables snaked this way and that, cots lined the other wall, and a crudely made conference table/lunch table/autopsy table occupied the center of the room. At the moment, it was occupied by a Ramanthian trooper. He lay belly-up on a blue tarp, eyes staring sightlessly at the lights above, while a couple of scientists argued over him.
One of them was a microbiologist named Dr. Howard Lothar. The other was a fiery entomologist named Dr. Catherine Woo. The subject of the heated discussion was whether the dead soldier was a victim of an Earth parasite called Ophiocordyceps unilateris or a microorganism that the invaders had brought along with them.
Though not a scientist herself, Margaret had been the first person to recognize the fact that some of the Ramanthians had the human equivalent of a skin disease. It was a malady she noticed while examining the body of a dead pilot. His chitin and, therefore, his exoskeleton had been very thin. And that was potentially important because, unlike humans, the insectoid Ramanthians had no internal skeletons. So if their outer shells were sufficiently weakened, they would literally fall apart. Which was exactly what the ex-society matron had in mind.
“Look,” Margaret said, as the two antagonists took deep breaths and prepared to attack each other all over again. “Fascinating though the question of causation is, let’s focus on the task at hand. Regardless of whether the Ramanthians unintentionally brought a parasite with them or were infected by an indigenous bug, our job is to use whatever it is against them. So please return to work. We have a war to win.”
Lothar had a head of thinning hair, a gaunt face, and a bad case of BO. He started to say something, evidently thought better of it, and turned away.
Woo was a tiny thing who had a tendency to wear too much makeup and cry when she thought the others were asleep. She looked at Margaret, and their eyes locked. There was not even a hint of compromise to be seen in Woo’s unflinching expression. “I’m right,” she said. And stalked away.
Margaret sighed and was about to return to the card table that served as her desk, when John appeared. He was a domestic android and had been part of the Vanderveen’s household staff for more than twenty years. So when Margaret decided to torch the three-story Tudor rather than leave it for looters, the robot and a couple of employees had accompanied her on a cross-country trek to the family’s ranch. There, after discovering the Ramanthian pilot, she had been able to hook up with the resistance. The android’s chiseled countenance was forever expressionless. “Yes, John?”
“Commander Foley has returned, madam. People are lined up outside his office.”
“Thank you, John. I’ll head over right away.”
So saying, Margaret stopped by her desk to grab her hand comp before following the rails back into the large cavern jokingly referred to as the grand ballroom. Banks of floodlights were angled to illuminate the chamber, welding torches flashed as slabs of steel were attached to ranks of waiting trucks, and, farther back, a scaffolding and curtain concealed still other preparations. “The roach?” Yes, probably.
Meanwhile, all manner of people came and went, the occasional robot sauntered past, and a steady stream of announcements were heard. The irony, in Margaret’s opinion at least, was that thousands of bugs were living in an underground complex located fifteen miles away. Because unlike most humans, they liked to live under the surface.
Foley’s office was located inside a steel shipping container that was supposed to protect the resistance leader in the case of a rock fall. No one knew if it would work, but the fact that they had gone to the trouble was indicative of how important the onetime thief and deserter had become. Everybody knew the story. Foley had been in Battle Station III’s brig, awaiting a court-martial, when the bugs arrived.
The stories about how Foley and his followers escaped from the platform before it blew up varied. But even he agreed with the basic narrative. It had never been his intention to take part in the resistance, much less lead it. And Sergi Chien-Chu, who was a shrewd judge of character, had given Foley a choice. He could either participate in the resistance or pay the price for past crimes.
But as Margaret tagged on to the end of a long line of the people waiting to see Foley, she had to admit that he’d done a good job of pulling a number of disparate groups into a single organization focused on fighting the Ramanthians. Even if it had been difficult to capture his attention where the so-called Dead Bug project was concerned.
The line moved forward in a series of fits and starts as people were admitted to the resistance leader’s office, stayed for a while, and left. There had been talk of having Foley delegate more authority to his subordinates. In spite of repeated promises, things were the same. So an hour and fifteen minutes had elapsed by the time Margaret stepped into the dusty shipping container and Foley rose to give her a hug. “Margaret! Here we are, living in what amounts to a cave, and you look wonderful. How do you do it?”
“I don’t,” Margaret replied. “But I like liars, especially charming ones, so keep it up.”
Foley laughed and returned to his seat. The officer had changed a great deal over the last few months. His formerly full face was gaunt, his clothes hung loosely on his body, and he had the demeanor of a much older man. The changes were understandable but unfortunate. Margaret wondered what her husband Charles would think of her appearance when they met again. If they met again. “So, what can I do for you?” Foley wanted to know.