1120, Friday, July 2, 2027
+1 Hour 28 Minutes SMT
Septus Minor
Neverland, Camp Monday, Southside HQ
Bob hasn’t conceded yet. Truthfully, I don’t expect him to. Minds like his don’t get changed very often. But he’s at least resigned himself to the fact that Cortes is gonna help us figure out a way to let the rest of Camp Monday know what’s happening, and then maybe we can replicate whatever we come up with to reach the remaining settlements. That will determine our timeline.
For now, our hosts insist we rest. I’m not exactly in the mood to sleep, but Cortes and Winters seem exhausted. Granted, I think that’s probably a perpetual condition in this scenario. However, I’m not gonna push too hard just yet. They’ve had enough excitement for one day.
Cortes says we all have a place to sleep elsewhere in the camp and will be given water and small rations according to our numbers. I don’t particularly like the idea of taking these peoples’ supplies, but I also know better than to refuse provisions when they’re offered—both for the sake of not offending our hosts and for not knowing when our next meal will be. You learn those lessons early on when you’re outside the wire a lot.
The twin suns have started to descend at the same time, which, according to Cortes, only happens once a month and runs for three nights in a row. We’ll have a dark night, and that means everyone in the lowlands will get the chance for a good night’s sleep. But Cortes stresses the word chance because some of the most aggressive creatures in the wilderness like to come out on said dark nights.
Since some of those beasts are considered predators, the camps have organized border patrols as well as mechanical alarm systems fashioned from nature. Dry bamboo-like sticks hang from thin cords of twisted grass strands that run between tree trunks and act as trip lines. Spring-loaded pop-up spear beds defend common pathways, and pits covered in leaves take care of the most hapless predators. Simple but effective.
Cortes leads us to a thatched building nestled between some old-growth trees. The structure resembles the main headquarters, only smaller.
“I apologize for the tight fit,” she says, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to stay warm. Those suns apparently don’t put out a lot of heat. “But you’ll be warm, if not cozy.”
“We’ll help keep watch,” I say.
But Cortes shakes her head. “We’re in the middle of the camp’s southern district here. There’s no need. Our people have it covered. You rest.”
“We can send—”
“Rest. Please,” she insists. “If you plan on doing what you’ve come here to do, you’ll need every ounce of strength and stamina you can find. This place, it… sucks the life out of you.”
That much is evident on her face.
“There is a small meal inside and enough firewood to keep you warm for the night. If you need anything else, you’re on your own.”
“Seems like you could use the food and shelter for others,” I say.
Cortes shakes her head. “We’ve learned to hunt and trap where we can, forage where we cannot. But the ocean to the west has become our greatest resource. Please. You’ll need your strength.”
“Thanks for your help.”
But Cortes narrows her eyes. “I’m not helping you. No disrespect. I’m helping them. Everything, all of this, you, me—it’s for them. And if anyone forgets that? Then we’re all lost.”
I push my lips up into a frown of solidarity. “Well said.”
“We’ll see you in the morning. Suns are up in six hours. We’ll start planning then.”
“Where are you headed?” Hobbs asks.
“To finish the tasks you interrupted me from.”
“No sleep then?”
Cortes laughs and then waves as she walks away. “Good night.”
* * *
I volunteer to take the first watch. I’m doing myself more of a favor than anyone else. Again, not tired yet.
I take advantage of my armor’s liquid reclamation system and take a piss in my suit before settling on a boulder topped with a handwoven mat. I thought of peeing against one of the trees, but some kids are running around. Their parents call them to bed, and for a minute, I feel like I could be at a state park somewhere.
The feeling is amplified by the wood smoke weaving through the trees, as well as the sudden appearance of lightning bugs. Well, this planet’s version of them anyway. They’re about twice the size, and their ass lights are fluorescent purple instead of green.
Then comes the coyote howls. Sure, they’re not coyotes, but that’s the closest thing I can compare them to. And the hair on the back of my neck stands up just the same. Cortes wasn’t kidding about critters coming out to play.
I’m thirty minutes into my shift when the hut’s flap opens, and Hobbs comes out. Not gonna lie, I’m happy it’s her. I mean, professionally speaking. She’s a competent operator and intuitive. And I find her to be… well, I find she’s… a professional.
“Hey,” Hobbs says. “Room for two?”
I slide over, and she joins me on my rock. “Can’t sleep? Or you just draw unlucky?”
“I wouldn’t call having to sit with you unlucky. Winters might, though.”
“Guy’s wound tight.”
“Yup.” She looks up through the trees. “It’s weird.”
“What is?”
“Stars look the same.”
I follow her gaze past the canopy. “Were you expecting something different?”
“Maybe. Then again, maybe not.”
I look at her. I wanna ask if she’s feeling okay, but I don’t wanna get in her business either. So I just sit there, staring at her until I realize it’s too late.
“You alright there, tiger?” she asks.
“Stars.”
She lets out a small laugh. “Sure.”
“What did you mean? About the stars.” Dammit, Wic. Talk normal, would you?
“Just that it’s not so different here. And that maybe Winters has a good point.”
“Come again?”
She leans back on her elbows. “There have to be worse places to get stuck in the universe, right? Hell, this place is damn near perfect for a cabin in the woods.”
“You… thinking of staying?”
“Hell no. But if I had to? If I was too old or tired or beat up to move? If my family couldn’t leave, or I felt trying was too dangerous? Yeah. I could see myself staying.”
“Huh.” I look back at the stars.
“So, yeah. I don’t think Winters is off his rocker if that’s what you mean. He’s protective, sure. And he might not be thinking straight about all the infrastructure that’s available back on Earth for these people, especially the wounded. But we homo sapiens have been living in the wilderness a lot longer than we’ve been living in modernity.”
“So you’re saying we’ll be okay out here. I mean, our people.”
“I’d like to think so. And wouldn’t it be the ultimate middle finger to the universe? Try and wipe us out on one planet; we just reach out and populate to the next. There’s some poetic justice to it all, don’t you think?”
Now it’s my turn to chuckle. “That’s one way to look at it.”
“How about you, Mr. Mountain Man?”
“Me?”
She hits me with an elbow. “Don’t tell me this wouldn’t be your ideal spot. Minus all the people, of course.”
I scratch my beard in consideration of her proposition. “No one for a hundred klicks? Just me and you in the woods with—?”
“Wait. I’m in this fantasy?”
“Uh. No. I just meant… that… if you—”
“Relax. I’m just kidding.”
“Sure. Right.”
A long pause fills the space between us, and I suddenly feel like I’m twelve years old again and trying to talk to Stacey O’Hara during our middle school dance. Who knew that fateful encounter would set a precedent for almost every relationship that followed—me coming up short, and her moving on to someone else with more “personality.”
After what feels like ten minutes of listening to families wind down for sleep, she asks, “What if no one wants to go?”
“Then I guess we say we did our best and move on.”
“To another planet?”
“If there’s time.”
“And if there’s not?”
“Then we head home.”
She nods absently. “Home.”
After a few seconds, I very eloquently ask, “What?”
“Eh, I was just thinking. No matter how much we do, no matter how many worlds we get to after this one, if we get to other worlds, there are gonna be tens of millions of people who never get back—who have to make new homes among foreign stars. And then you start wondering, does any of this matter?”
I raise an eyebrow. Been there. Hell, still there. “You know, Hollywood told us this story about a bunch of starfish washed up on a—”
“On a beach?”
“You heard it.”
“Sure. I thought everyone had. ‘Mattered to that one.’ Right?”
“Something like that.” Nice, Wic.
“Nah. You’re right,” she says. “It matters for the ones who want to go. And, I suppose, our work matters for the ones who want to stay too. It’ll be a reminder that someone tried. And that’s how they should live their lives too. Trying to save others.”
I’m not really sure how to respond to her right now. Honestly, I’m not even sure what this conversation has accomplished other than making me feel embarrassed and even more awkward around her. Who’s been giving advice to whom here anyway? And yet, somehow, I feel more at peace with whatever happens next. With her.
“Well, good talk, Wic.” She slaps my arm. “I’ll take the next shift. You go get some shut-eye.”
I slide off the boulder. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Okay.”
* * *
The sun—suns —warm the sky enough to wake me up. Everyone’s sprawled out on each other like the aftermath of a frat party. Even a few Androchidans in Insarka’s squad are leaning up against some of the Phantoms—Vlad most notably. The big Russian rolls over, holds an alien’s arm, and rubs his cheek against it. Nice to see the children getting along.
Outside, Ghost is sitting by himself, watching the double sunrise.
“Morning,” I say.
He nods.
“Get any sleep?”
“A little. You?”
“Same.”
Ghost inclines his head down the path. “Incoming.”
It’s Cortes. And she’s carrying some sort of clay jar and a stack of… are those leaves?
“Good morning, Mr. Finnegan,” she says with a smile. “You look rested.”
“Morning. And Wic is just fine.”
She approaches, hands me the stack of leaves, and then sets the jar down on the boulder. Ghost and I watch with interest as she takes a leaf from me and opens it up to form a folded cup of sorts.
As if to affirm this conclusion, Cortes says, “Nature’s cups,” and hands it to Ghost. Then she takes the pitcher and pours a dark steaming liquid into the leaf.
The sniper sniffs it warily but then looks pleased. “Smells like coffee.” He sips it. “It is coffee.”
“Not even close,” Cortes says with a wink. “But if it fools you, that’s a win, right?”
I can practically read Ghost’s thoughts right now. But both of us know better than to ask. In some cases, ignorance really is bliss, ’cause now I’m picturing some alien version of kopi luwak. I set the stack of leaf-cups down on the boulder, pop one open for myself, and eagerly accept the brew pour from Cortes. Sure enough, the rich liquid does taste like coffee with other notes I can’t place.
Lada emerges, followed by Hollywood, Bumper, and then a few of Insarka’s troops. Soon, everyone is up and enjoying a cup of fake coffee—all but Vlad.
“Hey,” Bumper yells into the hovel. “Celine Dion’s out here looking for you.”
Vlad grumbles like a seasoned private.
“Seriously, man. She’s got a bikini on too. Better come out here quick.”
“Stop taunting Vlad. Is no fairs.”
Bumper turns around and smells his cup. “I tried.”
* * *
Once everyone’s revived, including our beloved Russian teenager, Cortes leads us back to the HQ. Winters isn’t around, just a few of the admins we saw the night before. I ask if it’s okay that everyone is allowed in this time, and Cortes agrees.
“The more brains on this one, the better,” she replies.
We all file into the cramped hut while one of the admins stokes the central fire. In the room’s widest area stands two tables put together, and on them is a depiction of the topography as I remember it from Yrag’s drone feed. I feel like I’m in Game of Thrones with Khaleesi about to ask me to plot a war.
A line of large rocks represents the mountains to the east. Someone’s even taken the time to paint the peaks white. The ocean to the west is a broad blue leaf complete with ink drawings of sea creatures, small sail and fishing boats, and arrows for currents. The lowlands are mounds of moss that appear to resemble the actual rise and fall of the north-south run. The paths have been cut in to show curves and bends. Clusters of painted pebbles are grouped in what I take to be the various camps and their estimated sizes. Each pebble is marked with a denomination relative to its size, and everything feels to scale. To finish the map off, a small wooden ring sits atop a moss mound. Nice touch.
“Someone’s been busy,” Bumper says with an impressed look on his face.
“We could save them much time,” Yrag adds in English. He taps on his forearm’s computer but doesn’t project anything—at least not yet. Regarding the table, he says, “This is very good map, though.”
I won’t disagree there. The fact that they’ve come up with paints and inks for this project means the settlements’ collective self-organization is advanced. Then again, three months is a long time to get a lot done when you’re in the middle of nowhere. After the basics of water, food, shelter, and sewage are taken care of—things they’ve tackled with incredible efficiency—the industrious human brain starts looking for other creative outlets.
I gesture toward the map. “Care to give us a tour?”
Over the next five minutes, she outlines the camp names, locations, and estimated sizes. We don’t have any way to corroborate the data, but if confidence is an indication of precision, she’s more on target than I would be.
“So what’s that total then?” Hobbs asks no one in particular.
“One million, nine hundred thirty-six thousand, five hundred,” Chuck announces. “If her estimates are rounded accurately to the nearest hundred.”
Cortes looks at me like she’s trying to connect the dots. I forgot we still haven’t introduced our most animated team member. “Your rifle… talks?”
I pull the weapon off my back and hold him across my palms. “Monica Cortes, meet Sir Charles, an SR-CHK or, uh, standard-issue service rifle with a combative hierarchy popcorn—”
“Combat hierarchical kernel. You’d think he’d get it right by now, after all we’ve been through. Really. It’s not like I have a hard time memorizing Patrick , for Pete’s sake. But far more precisely, I am an ASIK, or apexial synthetic intelligence kernel.”
Cortes looks wary but manages to say, “Nice to meet you?”
“And you, Lady Monica Cortes. I’ve enjoyed watching you work the past eight point twenty-one hours. I find your grace under pressure fascinating and a testament to how noble the human species can be.”
She gives me a suspicious look. “Is he always this complimentary?”
“Only when he’s trying to get something he wants,” I reply.
“That’s not true!”
“Eh, kinda is,” Hollywood says.
“Et tu, Brute?”
Cortes smiles. “Considering I don’t have anything to give, thank you, Sir Charles.”
“My pleasure, madam. And please don’t take my counterparts too seriously. They’re oftentimes overly dramatic.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
I study the sand table—as we old timers call these sorts of tactile strategy maps—and order my thoughts. Moving this many people efficiently and safely is a feat in and of itself. But then take modern comms, medical, and transportation tech out of the equation and you have yourself a true Moses Impossible.
I put my hands on the table’s edge and lean in. “Alright, people. The goal is moving one point nine million souls, or as many as want out, from Neverland to the ring, through MPF6, and then on to one of the operational Earth gates.
“First, we need to know the total number of refugees who want to be moved, along with their respective inbound vectors. Timing and organization will be critical. Next, we’ll need hot staging areas leading up to the ring as well as security on both sides. And lastly, we need redundant thoroughfares through the facility on Karkin Four.”
“Damn. He’s smart,” Sugar whispers to Z-Lo.
“That’s why he’s the boss,” the bigger kid whispers back.
I stare Sugar down, and he looks surprised that I heard him. “No one’s smart until everyone gets out alive. Copy?”
“Copy, Wic-Pops. Sorry.”
“Stage one of Operation Neverland Exodus is dissemination.” I tap the nature map and look at Cortes. “If we want to get the word out about the option to leave, what do you recommend?”
“Runners.” Cortes selects two pairs of red pebbles and puts one on a northern track from our position and the other on the southern track. “The pairs head north and south of us. One person in each pair stops to convey the information and answer any inquiries. We’ll have to think through the most likely questions and have the runners memorize the answers. Meanwhile, the second person continues on. The couriers leapfrog one another until every settlement is reached, and then they return with answers.”
“Why not just send one runner for each camp?” Hollywood asks. “Wouldn’t that be faster?”
“Yes. But less accurate,” Aaron interjects.
All heads face him, and I can already see Cortes nodding her agreement.
“Better ’splain, buddy,” I say.
“Well, it’s kinda like our game of telephone—only things have the opportunity to fall apart before the message even gets going.” When he sees that no one’s following him, Aaron taps his lips and looks for the right words. “If I tell a short story to a group of people in this room, the chances of everyone recounting the exact same tale are meager. Likewise, if I ask all of you to tell the story to other groups of people, we’ve effectively generated hundreds if not thousands of variations in only two tellings. It’s pretty much how social media works: lots of people who all claim to be right but few with the goods to prove it. The only truly accurate person is the source. In this case, me. So, if I can’t personally get to do every telling, I minimize degradation by ensuring quality.”
“Which means sending fewer runners, each of whom you train personally,” Bumper says. “Got it. We’re sacrificing time for precision.”
“But don’t we want speed?” Z-Lo asks.
“Not when it comes to this large of an undertaking,” I say. “It might be slow at first, but having the right intel up front means fewer mistakes later on.” I look to Cortes. “You already have runners, I take it?”
“Yes. And they’re well-known and trusted among the leaders. They also know the land. I would send all of you with your fancy armor and computers, but in this case, believe it or not, the old way works better.”
“Usually does,” I say under my breath. “Alright, we need to draft a concise statement and then determine the most plausible follow-up questions. Aaron, you’re the educator here. Mind spearheading this?”
“Of course. Interestingly, this process of preparing a letter and sending respected couriers to teach and reply to inquiries is precisely how messages in antiquity were transmitted. The entire New Testament, for example, was progenerated by—”
“Pal? Can we save the history lesson for later?” I ask.
“Oh. Sure. My bad.”
“Any idea how long it will take to get the message out?” I ask Cortes.
“If we can keep it simple and minimize questions, I’d say two days round trip.”
“I was thinking more like a week,” Hobbs says. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“Our runners are fast,” Cortes replies. “Some of their mods help.”
“Mods?” Lada asks. “Are you meanings augmentations?”
“The same. We chose those who have good communication skills, eidetic auditory memories, and the addition of greater than normal speed, thanks to the machinations of those alien bastards.” She seems to catch herself and then look at Insarka. “My apologies.”
Insarka lifts a hand—ever the patient Androchidan rebel. “Not to worry. I call them worse.”
Cortes smiles and her shoulders relax.
I look at Hobbs. “Next is facilitating the arrivals and departures. We’re gonna need hot staging areas leading up to the gate. Hobbs, this seems like your department. Fast in, fast out. Directors need to respond to Insarka’s changes of direction. Last thing we need is someone making a wrong turn that leads to a hundred-thousand-person mistake.”
“Roger that,” she replies.
“Phantoms, I need you organizing a security detail that helps keep everyone moving, safe, and calm. Hollywood, you’re lead.”
“Roger.”
I turn to Insarka. “Lastly, you know the routes back through MPF6 better than anyone. Gonna need you to come up with flow plans for however many takers we get. Work up contingencies, and prep alternatives for blocked routes.”
“Understood, Patrick-Wic. I’ll take the Blood Guard across and start mapping. We’ll also scout possible Earth gates with Yrag’s drone. We can confirm what lies beyond them too. If they’re heavily guarded, we’ll want to know.”
“Good.” I look the rest of the team over. “Alright. Summary. Aaron works through the message and questions with Cortes and me. Hobbs, you’re taking the Phantoms to start clearing the staging areas. Insarka, you’re planning our routes across the facility.”
“And Yrag blows up more things,” the armorer adds.
“As long as you take orders from her”—I point at Hobbs—“fine by me.”
“Good. I enjoy orders to blow splick up.”
“Ha,” Vlad cries. “I really like wild and crazy guy. Is also good English student.”
“You’re teaching him English?” Hollywood asks. “God, help us.”
I smile and tap the table one more time. “Send one person to meet back here in three hours with an update,” I add. “We stay informed and coordinate. T-minus forty-eight hours to Operation Neverland Exodus begins…” I look at the computer in my forearm. “…now.”