“Salah, will you help me with the leelees? I want to administer the next trial now.”
“Yes.” He rose and held out a hand to help her up, but Marianne noted how his eyes never left Isabelle, whirling and stamping in the closest circle. Oh—so that’s how it was. Marianne waved at Claire, who followed them.
In the deserted clinic, Branch slept in the locked room with the leelees and the live spores in their secure cabinet. An excellent guard, he woke the instant that Claire’s key turned in the lock. Rising from his pallet, his hair falling into his eyes, he looked even younger than he was. “Marianne?”
“We’re going to do the next vaccine trial. No reason not to—we four aren’t illathil-ing.”
“I’ll take notes,” Salah said.
“Okay,” Marianne said. “Branch, is the next neg-pressure cage ready? Then get three more leelees.”
On roof duty, Leo radioed Zoe on patrol. “What’s all that going on in the camp? Here the whole damn building is shaking.”
“The fuck if I know,” Zoe said. “They’ve all gone crazy. But it don’t look like dangerous crazy.”
He spotted her, green in his night-vision goggles, at five o’clock and coming toward him from the east edge of the camp. She maintained an easy jog, weapon at the ready but, as far as he could tell, the Kindred paid her no attention at all. They had bonfires going high and they were dancing around in circles.
“Who’s playing the music?” Leo asked. He couldn’t see any musicians.
“It’s not live. It’s on, like, some weird old-time machines. Not even electronic.”
“Like a gramophone?”
“How should I know? Leo—all their feet are red.”
Adrenaline surged. “Blood?”
“No, some kind of dye. Do you think it’s, like, a preattack thing? I heard that some enemy in Brazil did that.”
“They did, yeah.” He’d seen it, and afterward looked it up on the Internet. The article had explained about Japanese kamikaze preattack rituals, too—surprisingly interesting. Sharing sake, wearing their swords and elaborate belts embroidered by their mothers, composing death poems or songs. The rituals in Brazil had been starker but, like the Kindred now, had involved body paint.
But in Brazil, Leo’s unit had received briefings whenever there was any kind of local festival, so they’d know what to expect. Had Owen received a briefing on this? Although—who would Owen receive a briefing from? It wasn’t like they had a PR liaison attached to the squad. And given Owen’s feelings about World, plus how busy all the native scientists were, maybe nobody had thought to tell Owen anything about this festival. If it was a festival.
Leo considered. Owen was inside the compound, doing the hourly check of every room. He’d be outside in a few minutes and would see the dancing for himself. But if the same thing was going on inside, it probably wasn’t a preattack ritual, not unless all the scientists were in on an assault, which didn’t seem likely. Let Owen make the call.
Evidently Owen decided that dancing didn’t lead to attacking, because the squad’s orders didn’t change. Yet.
One of the World scientists should be in the leelee lab, Marianne thought, in case the synthesized vaccine actually worked this time. Or else she should wait until illathil was over. Isabelle had said it would only last a few hours and, contrary to custom, that nobody inside the compound would drink anything alcoholic. But Marianne didn’t want to wait. They had only a little over a month until the spore cloud hit. Pretty soon Salah would need to administer the fifty-two doses of original vaccine to whoever was going to get them.
Branch carried three of the foul-smelling leelees by their three-inch tails. Two days ago they had been vaccinated with the latest attempt at synth-vac. The animals chittered and squirmed, looking like animated purple ping-pong balls. He dropped them into the cage. He released the spores. The negative-pressure machine hummed softly.
Ten minutes until the spores released. Then a few hours until the leelees died. She wasn’t holding out much hope—they’d had so many trials already.
“Branch, do you want to go watch the dancing?” He’d been in this room day and night for a week.
“No, thanks.” His eyes never left the cage. Well, if he’d preferred dances to science, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. Not for the first time, Marianne wondered what would become of Branch after much of Kindred was dead. He was only twenty-four. Would he marry a Kindred woman (if any survived) as Noah had, help rebuild Kindred society, try to preserve as much Terran science as he could? What would the next generation on Kindred look like, born of sixteen Terrans and whoever among the Kindred either received those fifty-two vaccinations or else happened to have natural immunity?
One hundred twenty-six minutes to go.
At 2100 hours, Zoe went off patrol to sleep and Kandiss came on. “What is all that?” Kandiss said, and Leo explained the whole thing over again. If he listened hard, he could hear strains of the strange music coming through the roof. So it was going on inside, too.
Was Isabelle Rhinehart dancing? She was Terran, not Kindred, but she dressed like them, felt like them.
From the far side of the camp, Kandiss radioed the squad. “Sir, Kandiss reporting. The Kinnies are drinking. I think alcoholic. Some staggering, one young male vomiting in the bushes.”
Leo hadn’t seen that; for the first time, he wished he’d had a spotter with him, the way snipers always did on Earth. He swept his gaze over the camp. Owen said, “Brodie?”
“Confirmed, sir. Signs of drunkenness.”
“Okay. I’m getting Berman back on duty, opposite side of building to me. Don’t let anyone cross the open zone from the camp. One warning, and if it’s not obeyed, fire. Roger?”
“Roger that.”
“Roger that.”
Leo knew just how dumb drunken men could be—occasionally, he’d been one of those drunken men, although never on duty. But these Kindred had no tradition of military discipline. That made the Rangers despise them, but Leo felt differently. They just hadn’t had the training, was all. He still thought the squad should identify trustworthy Kindred—Isabelle and Noah would know who—and train them to help with surveillance and infiltration. Arm them lightly, maybe. Even unarmed, assets in the camp would help with intel.
The dancing got wilder. Then it stopped and people disappeared into tents. Leo crouched, ready for action, hoping there wouldn’t be any—another way, he knew, that he differed from the three Rangers. How many people have you killed? Austin had asked Leo, half fascinated the way boys always were by snipers, half repelled. “Eleven,” Leo had said. And if he had the choice, he would make each of those kills again; he’d been protecting Marines on the ground. But that didn’t mean he enjoyed it.
Especially not here, against men armed with homemade pipe guns.
A group moved inside the perimeter on the south side of the compound, facing the hill leading to Jenner’s lahk.
Zoe yelled something in bad Kindese: Go back now! All of them had learned that sentence, practicing until Owen was sure they had it right. On the roof, Leo tensed.
The group staggered back into the camp.
Okay, not that time.
He scanned ceaselessly, the tip of his rifle moving back and forth: a full slow 180-degree scan of the camp, quicker on the 180 to the north and west, then another slow scan. His SCAR was fitted with its telescopic sight, infrared laser, and tactical light. Mounted under the barrel was the grenade launcher, the 40mm grenades to act as force multipliers during a firefight. His ammo belt bore the maximum number of cartridges. He didn’t want to use any of it.