“What the hell are you doing, Colonel?” she demanded.
“We’re conducting a search for Hawkmother and Galatica, an EB-52 that tracked her south after the raid on Skull Valley. I sent word of that quite some time ago,” said Dog. “I’ve been in communication with Jed—”
“Colonel, the Secretary wants you to return to your base immediately. Immediately.”
“Is that an order?”
“You know damn well I can’t give you a direct order,” she snapped. “General Magnus will contact you shortly.” The line went dead.
“What’s up?” Cheshire asked.
“I’m in a whole heap of trouble,” said Dog.
“Been there before,” said Cheshire.
Not like this, thought Bastian. He couldn’t leave his daughter and he couldn’t disobey a direct order, which would undoubtedly soon be forthcoming.
His career would tank now anyway, with the loss of Galatica and its two Flighthawks on top of Hawkmother. Excuses wouldn’t matter—look at what had happened to Brad Elliott.
Screwed every which way.
He needed to help Breanna.
More than likely it was too late. He had other responsibilities.
“We’ll stay on course until we receive further orders,” he told Nancy.
Pej, Brazil
7 March, 2330 (1930 Dreamland)
ZEN EYED THE BRAZILIAN SOLDIERS AT THE DOOR, wondering whether their polite and even deferential air was a good sign or not. While they didn’t appear to speak English, the soldiers who had taken him off the plane were well disciplined and well briefed, inspecting not just him but the ejection seat for weapons. They had even produced a receipt for his old Colt .45, which had been holstered in his gear. And they had allowed him to wheel himself to his “guest room”—a rather large storage room in one of the hangars.
Two soldiers stood silently next to the door, rifles in hand. Others were apparently outside, since he could hear voices and occasional laughs. They had offered food and water and even some Brazilian beer, though Zen had declined it all.
An odd sound from outside startled him, and he looked toward the doorway. Something big was being wheeled down the hallway.
It sounded like one of the equipment carts in the hospital where he’d spent so much time after his accident. His stomach pinched and his side ached with the memory of his helplessness and despair.
Two soldiers wheeled in a television set with a video player on top of it. Zen expected a message of some sort; remembering Jed’s reference to the Brazilian leadership scramble, he thought he might even be treated to some sort of diatribe about local politics. But the Brazilians had loaded in a tape with old Gunsmoke reruns.
One of the guards handed his M-16 to his companion and came over to watch.
If he had his legs, Jeff thought, he could overpower the bastards.
And then what? Single-handedly take over the base? Might just as well hope for Matt Dillon to walk out of the screen, six-guns blazing.
The set of boots scraping in the hall were nearly muffled by the volume of the television. Even so, Zen recognized the scrape long before Madrone entered the room. He prepared himself, gripping the chair rests tightly to check the anger welling up. But rage deserted him when he saw the blanched and hollow-eyed face of his friend.
“What’s going on, Kevin?” said Zen.
Madrone laughed. “You know what’s going on. You tried to destroy me. You’re still trying.”
Madrone’s body moved with jerks, his hands nearly flying off his arms. He seemed about ready to fly apart.
“Kevin, it’s Zen,” he said. “Do you realize that?”
“What do you think, I’m stupid?”
“Are you all right?”
Madrone laughed.
“Why are you working with the Brazilians?” Jeff said. “What’s going on? You look like you’re a ghost.”
“You know what’s going on. I’m not working with the Brazilians. They’re working for me.”
“ANTARES has messed you up. I took the drugs too. I know what they can do. You have to come home with me.” Madrone snorted with contempt.
“Going off the drugs messes you up,” Zen explained. “You become paranoid. Geraldo says—”
“I don’t care what she says. I’ll get her. I got Glavin. I’ll get them all. I know you’re going to get me. I understand that. But I’ll take as many of you down with me as I can. I will.”
“I’m sorry about your daughter.”
“Bullshit! Bullshit! You were part of it. You are part of it.”
Madrone’s fingers slashed the air. His skin went from white to red in an instant. It stretched taut over the bones of his face, which seemed animated by a sirocco.
“You have to let us help you, Kevin,” said Jeff softly. Madrone blinked at him, then bent closer. For a moment, Jeff thought he had gotten through.
“I’ll kill you all,” said Madrone, his voice even softer than Jeff s. “All of you.”
There was a burst of gunfire on the TV, so loud that Jeff jerked back apprehensively, turning toward the TV. When he looked up again, Kevin was gone.
MADRONE’S HEAD POUNDED AS HE WALKED FROM THE building. His mind had shorn itself into splinters, each wedge manipulated by the spider in his skull. New voices yapped at him, emerging from the maelstrom between the segments of his brain.
Zen is your friend. What was he trying to say?
Jeff was a victim just as Kevin was. They’d made him a robot.
Breanna too. And the copilot.
Kill them!
Zen seemed to think he could escape. Had he said that? Or had Kevin wanted him to say that?
The shadows closed around Madrone as he walked out into the night. The jungle—he was back in the jungle.
He was in Theta, connected to ANTARES. But he wasn’t wearing the helmet, wasn’t in the airplane or his special suit. There was no computer in sight.
Where was Minerva? He needed her.
MINERVA ALLOWED HERSELF A LONG MOMENT OF indulgence, staring at the mountains from her balcony. The stars seemed to have a light purple glow tonight—destiny stars, an omen.
Good or bad?
Good. Only good.
The door opened in the room behind her. Minerva took one long breath, then slipped inside.
Kevin stood in the middle of the room. “Why did you bring them here?” he demanded.
“Kevin, I didn’t bring them here.”
“Zen and Breanna—you wanted them to come.”
Minerva suppressed a shudder. “They followed you. love.” She glided toward him, striving to keep calm. “You’ve forgotten? I know you’re tired.”
She wrapped her hands around his shoulders. His muscles were hard metal; his heart pounded crazily.
His madness had grown nearly uncontrollable in the past twenty-four hours; he was no longer simply dangerous, but crazy as well.
That ought to have made it easier for her to let him go. But it didn’t.
“I always knew they were against me,” Kevin said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“They’re all bastards.”
“You will carry out your attack in the morning using their plane. The repairs will be finished in time. I’m positive of it,” she added, more to convince herself than him. “They will help.” Minerva ran her hands across his shoulder, then slipped her fingers beneath the collar of his jumpsuit, sliding them to his flesh.
“They won’t help me,” he said fiercely.
Fear froze her hand. He might resist—he might even turn against her.
“The Lawrence Livermore Laboratories in San Francisco,” she said. “Isn’t that where they poisoned your daughter for the final time? Perhaps she was only sick until then—and that was where they killed her.”
He’d told her several times about the treatment, performed near but not actually in the lab. Always he had spoken with anger, clearly wanting to destroy the place. It should have been his deepest desire now, the simplest way to hold him in her fingers.