1117, Friday, July 2, 2027
+26 Minutes SMT
Septus Minor
Neverland, Camp Monday
The settlement is something between a woodland refugee camp and a Renaissance festival. No, I don’t attend those. But I dated a girl once who did. Attended a big fair in Tuxedo, New York. I liked the turkey leg, the beer, and the jousting, but I wanted to punch everyone out who tried talking to me in an English accent when we both knew they were just from SoHo.
Like we saw from cover, makeshift shelters stretch into the woods as far as the eye can see. Well-worn footpaths taken up by speeding children playing tag wind their way between structures. And small strips of fabric designate one shelter from the next, most likely to give people reference points. These folks sure have been industrious.
The main path bisects the settlement and continues north. Aside from the smells of wood smoke and cooking meat, I pick up plenty of human waste. Latrines must be close by, but I can’t see them.
The further we get into Camp Monday, the more impressed I become with how much these people have accomplished in such a short amount of time. I’m sure it hasn’t been without its difficulties, but they’ve carved a space for themselves out of the wilderness, and that’s nothing to scoff at. Not a single square meter seems wasted, and every shelter seems in good repair. They’ve harvested the forest for resources, and by the smell, I’d say they’ve been down to the ocean for food as well.
That said, there are still signs of malnutrition, depression, and sickness. Some appear stricken from the procedures they endured, while others are nursing wounds probably inflicted by passing through gates—guessing these folks were bound for some plushy’s snack shack. Most startling of all, however, are those people with augmentations that seem downright impossible. One woman in a half-shirt has an orange-sized hole through her abdomen, open clean through to the other side without a trace of blood or scar tissue. Like she was born that way. Another person—man, I think—has a divide in his skull that creates a V down to the bridge of his nose. How he’s not brain dead, I have no idea. I can’t tell if these people are healthy or on death’s door. But they’re here, and that’s what counts.
Crowds are gathered, not for us, but around a structure some distance ahead. They’re from various walks of life, and I hear several different languages being used. Abdullah raises his rifle and shouts for everyone to move. The people part and allow us to move toward a large shelter built within a cluster of old-growth trees. Adults, many carrying babies, seem like they’re waiting in line for something, while more formal-looking sentries with staves keep order.
A curl of smoke rises from the roof, and I catch flames flickering between gaps in the walls. Our escort disappears through a rawhide door and returns a moment later, holding the flap aside.
“You can go in,” Abdullah says.
“Thank you.” I go first, followed by Hobbs, and find a low-ceilinged room with a central fire pit and a wide hole in the roof. Tables have been erected, made of tree limbs and flat pieces of bark. About twelve people in all glance up from their work—something that looks akin to counting pebbles and moving small stones around makeshift table maps of what we saw from the air. Only there’s no paper involved, just items found in nature.
A dark-haired woman in her late forties or early fifties spots us and makes her way over. She has three subdermal lumps along her forehead. She wipes a dirty hand over dirtier clothes and offers it to Hobbs and then me. “Welcome. I’m Monica Cortes.”
“Delilah Hobbs.”
“Call me Wic.”
“Delilah, Wic. They say you’ve come from the ring. That true?”
Whoever this lady is, she likes getting to the point—something I appreciate.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.
“How long?”
I glance at Hobbs and then back to Cortes. “How long what?”
“Were you trapped in there?”
“Ma’am, we’ve come from Earth. We’re here to rescue you.”
All extraneous chatter stops around the hut.
“Rescue?” comes a gruff voice from the back. An overly tall figure in his late sixties strides up beside Cortes. Guessing he’s been augmented. He gives us a passing glance and then eyes Cortes. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“We have guests, Bob. From Earth.” Cortes turns to Hobbs and me. “This is Bob Winters.”
The man takes another look at us, shoves his long fingers under his armpits, and leans toward us like an ostrich deciding if it wants to peck at something. “Earth, huh? Cute.” Then he spins on his heels and walks back to his table. The side conversations resume as if our grand entry was little more than a fleeting nuisance.
“You’ll have to forgive him,” Cortes says. “We’re all… under a lot of stress these days. Please, can we speak outside?”
I comply, and Hobbs and I exit.
Not exactly how I thought things would go, but so far, no one’s shot at us, so it’s a good day by Marine standards.
Cortez leads us away from the headquarters and crowds and toward two logs carved into benches. She sits on one and indicates we take the other.
“So, what brings you both to Camp Monday?”
I look at Hobbs to make sure I’m not the only one who thinks this is strange. Back to Cortes, I ask, “Are you the person in charge of this settlement, ma’am?”
“Call me Monica, please. And yes, for the time being, Bob and I seem to be in charge , though that’s not exactly how I’d term it. Chief of the south side’s Complaint Department is a little more like it.” She laughs to herself as if we might get the joke too. The moment passes awkwardly, and she rubs her hands together. “You know what? Why don’t you both tell me about yourselves. Then we’ll get you squared away with some fresh water and food, and you can—”
“Ma’am. Monica . I don’t mean to be rude here, but we’re not refugees from another camp.” I motion between Hobbs and me. “We’re here from Earth to help get you home.”
Cortes’s augmentation keeps her eyebrows from going up all the way, but not enough to fully mask her surprise. Or maybe it’s fatigue?
She lets out a breath. “You both seem like good people. You do. But I’ve got a lot of good people counting on me and no time for… Well.” It seems she’s run out of words and energy to entertain us, so she waves a hand in the air, and Abdullah returns. “The sergeant will see you safely out of the camp. It was a pleasure to meet you both.”
Huh. This didn’t go as planned.
Hobbs sniffs at me. “I think it’s time.”
“Yut.” I pull my helmet-linked earpiece from my pocket and insert it. “Phantom Two, this is One. You’re clear for infil. Non-lethal.”
“Roger, Phantom One. Inbound on your position in one mike.”
“See you soon.”
Cortes’s eyes search between Hobbs and me. That got her attention. “Where did you get that? Who were you speaking to?”
“We already told you, Monica. We’re from Earth, and we’re here—”
Cries in the distance cut me off.
Monica stands, but Hobbs grabs her wrist. “Have a seat.”
“Let go of me.” Cortes pulls her hand free and is off, pushing through the crowd beyond the headquarters.
I glance at Hobbs as the shouting gets closer. “Think they’ll shoot?”
“Who? Bumper or Abdullah?”
I smile. “Exactly.”
“I heard that,” Bumper says in my ear.
Whoops.
“It would seem that we’re fairly popular around here,” Chuck says over the general channel. “Be it known, I do charge extra for autographs.”
Hobbs and I stand but don’t leave the seating area. Cortes will be back. We might even get Winters too.
Bumper’s voice breaks over comms. “Hey. Hey! Watch where you’re pointing that, Sergeant.”
I obviously can’t see the look of surprise on Abdullah’s face, but I imagine it’s entertaining—that a human dressed in death angel armor knows his rank.
I spot Vlad’s uncovered head above the crowd first, and the people are beginning to part. As more of the team becomes visible, I can see that, thankfully, Insarka and her unit have chosen to keep their helmets on and visors sealed. She’s a good egg, that one. God knows these people couldn’t handle more.
When the Phantoms stop their advance, the crowd grows silent, and Cortes is by herself, hands on her hips. She looks back and forth between the Phantoms and me. “How did you—? Where—?”
The door flap flies up, and Winters storms out. As soon as his eyes land on the Phantoms, he stumbles back. “What’s the meaning of—? Security!”
“It’s okay,” Cortes says with tentative hands raised. “I think.”
Hobbs and I make our way back to the headquarters hut, and Hobbs gestures toward the door. “Monica. Bob. Can we try this again?”
* * *
There isn’t enough room for all of us inside the hovel, so I order everyone to stay outside, save for Insarka, Hobbs, Hollywood, Bumper, and Aaron. Insarka and I are on the same page: that she keeps her helmet on for now and acts like our security detail. No need to startle our hosts until we have a better rapport established.
We spend the next five minutes bringing Cortes and Winters up to speed on Earth’s status—at least the parts we know of—and we share truncated highlights of our activities in MPF6.
“So that was you,” Cortes says as she looks from me to Winters.
He grunts in acceptance. I assume the man hasn’t shaved in four weeks or slept much. He’s got a patchy white beard and big bags under his eyes.
I raise an eyebrow at Monica in the hopes that she might explain her last comment.
“Sorry.” She rubs a temple and takes a breath. “Some of the last people to come through the ring reported that they’d heard and even seen explosions in the city. They saw the aliens chasing people, and they started to…”
A beat passes, and Hollywood puts a hand on Cortes’s shoulder. “It’s alright. We know.”
I think back to the bodies on the tunnel floors; no need for anyone to revisit that scene. “Tell us about you. This place.”
Cortes and Winters exchange looks. Winters decides to go first, and his voice is surprisingly soft, given the version of the man we met earlier.
“We weren’t sure what to expect. Everyone had been through so much. But when we came out the other side and saw the mountains and no guards, no gates or tunnels, we wondered if there had been a mistake. Everyone fled at first—ran into the woods as fast as they could. And it was probably a good thing as anyone who stopped was… trampled.”
When Winters can’t seem to continue, Cortes picks up. “First we were thousands. Then tens of thousands. All walks of life. Creeds, languages, cultures. And all afraid. Estimates eventually climbed to just under two million. People just kept coming. So we continued to spread through the forest.
“The first few days were the most difficult. Many died of dehydration. Several tried to go back through the ring but were never seen again. The ones who survived eventually started to self-organize into groups. The lucky ones found people from their homelands. As the days went by and we realized no one was coming for us, those groups grew. The healthiest ones adopted the weaker ones, and soon people started naming the camps.”
“Camp Monday?” Bumper asks.
Winters nods. “Because we came through on a Monday, and this was the first stop on our expansion into the wilderness. Camp Tuesday was next.”
“Followed by Miércoles,” Cortes adds. “Mostly Spanish speaking. Zhōu sì attracted a lot of Southeast Asians. And then names just grew from there. We’ve got a lot of English speakers in Monday, and a lot of expertise.”
Winters nods. “In each camp, those with medical experience were asked to ply their trade skills first. Casualties were one in three for a while. We had to fend off starvation, deal with sewage issues, and work through bio-compatibility with the planet once we realized we weren’t back on Earth. Can you imagine asking for volunteers to test what could and couldn’t be eaten?” Winters lowers his head for a moment, apparently reliving some of the tragedy. “But as people spread out, expanded the settlements throughout the lowlands, and shared information, things stabilized. We created infrastructure. We realized… we could build a life here.”
Cortes gives a small laugh. “Which surprised everyone. The process of working together, I mean.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
She smiles. “You saw interesting people start collaborating. Those with hunting, farming, and wilderness survival skills working with assembly line techs and civil engineers. Warehouse managers brainstorming with camp counselors. People in backend food prep collaborating with forward-facing customer service reps. Anyone with practical expertise and people skills stepped up. And since we’re a mix of cultures from all over the world, translators have been at a premium. It’s been…” Cortes lets out a soft chuckle.
I note a mix of joy and sorrow.
“It’s been painful but also amazing,” she continues. “We’ve had our bad moments, yeah. But we’ve also seen beauty. Hospice for those whose augmentations didn’t take, or who became ill from environmental causes. Interfaith chapel services under the stars for the dead.” She laughs again. “To be honest, I didn’t think we’d make it a week out here, let alone three months. But now things have—”
“Three months?” I freeze and then glance at Insarka. “Three months?”
The major’s head turns to Cortes. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Granted, it’s been a little challenging to determine what twenty-four hours is on a planet with two suns. But we figured it best not to mess with a few million years of human evolution, so we recommend everyone stay on a normal sleep cycle.”
“But three months?” I ask.
Cortes narrows her eyes. “Why do I get the feeling this is surprising to you?”
“Because it should have only been four weeks,” Insarka says as she draws near.
“But we’ve kept very detailed records of—”
“We don’t doubt your records,” Hollywood says. She looks at me, and I nod to Insarka.
The major unseals her helmet and pulls it off.
Cortes and Winters rear back. One of their admins falls into a table and knocks it over. More cries go up from the handful of support staff.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Winters says in a panicked tone.
“It’s alright,” I say. “She’s with us.”
“But she’s a… a—”
“An Androchidan?” Insarka replies.
“And she speaks English?” Cortes asks.
“Quite fluently as a matter of fact,” Sir Charles offers.
Winters’s eyes dart around for the speaker, but he finds none—obviously. “Who said that?”
Bumper’s been taking care of Chuck until I get suited back up. I turn back to my rifle that the SEAL has maglocked on his thigh. “One reveal at a time, Chuck.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Winters asks.
I raise both hands to restore a sense of calm. “Listen, there’s a lot to explain, but—”
Winters thrusts a finger toward Insarka. “Then you’d better get going because that thing—”
“Hey,” Hollywood says with an arresting tone that silences the room. “That thing happens to be a woman who’s responsible for saving your asses. We know you don’t know that yet, so you get a free pass. But show some respect.”
In Winter and Cortes’s defense, I’d probably have shot Insarka were the roles reversed. Hollywood’s dress-down is a little over the top, but it gets the job done.
Time for me to explain. “The people we worked with to infiltrate the facility and change your ring’s destination?” I thumb toward Insarka. “Her people. I present Major Insarka Kindesh.”
Cortes is the first to register the implications. “So, you’re some sort of resistance fighter then?”
Insarka nods. “I am.”
“And she’s also the one with the plan to get you outta here,” I add.
“Get us out of here?” Winters repeats. He glances at Cortes and then back to me.
Something about the man’s demeanor reminds me of a shortsighted CO I had when I was a boot in Iraq. Then again, I was young and belligerent then, so we were probably both in the wrong. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that Winters is gonna be a pain in my ass.
I look to Insarka. “Before we get to the plan, thoughts on the time issue?”
She directs her reply to the Phantoms. “If it has been ninety days, then it means the Unity connection is slipping.”
“How so?” Hobbs asks.
“Think of it like Karkin Four’s reality is pulling away from this universe’s space-time reality.”
“Does that mean it’s the same for Earth too?” Aaron asks.
I hadn’t thought about that, but it’s certainly concerning.
“No, not necessarily,” Insarka replies. “The rings are independent despite being fueled from the same source.”
That’s a relief.
“What is all this?” Cortes asks.
“Time dilation,” I reply. “It’s complicated. Suffice to say, we don’t have a lot of time. We need to prep these refugees to move and then organize exfil through the ring.”
Winters straightens to full height. “Now wait just a goddamned minute. No one’s going anywhere, and certainly not back through that ring.”
“Bob,” Cortes pleads. “You haven’t even heard their plan yet.”
“I don’t have to hear the plan .” Winters’s voice is heated, and he points toward one of the hut’s walls. “Those people out there have walked through hell once before, and I won’t make them go back through it again. Because that’s the plan, isn’t it?” He squares with me. “You want to march them back through that hellhole and push them through a ring to Earth, right? Well, I can tell you right now, I won’t be a part of it.”
“Bob, please.”
“Don’t Bob please me, Monica. They’re not up for this, and if more of these things”—he gestures toward Insarka—“are in there to intercept us like before, then it’s not an escape plan. It’s a death sentence.”
“You attempted to go back through?” I ask, purposely sidestepping his jab at the major.
“A failed attempt,” Cortes replies.
Hollywood folds her arms. “Explains where Abdullah got his piece.”
Winters won’t be deterred. “They’re in no shape to move again. And you want to uproot two million people who we’ve just gotten settled? No. No way. Psychologically, physically, there’s no way. For all we know, you’ve attracted the aliens’ attention and have us damned as it is.”
“Bob—”
“No, Monica.” He turns his wrath against her. “I won’t be party to condemning these survivors to certain death. Nor will I hold out hope of some cockamamie plot to get them back to Earth.” Winters looks at me. “Tell me there’s a different plan, and we’ll talk. But if it’s going back through there, I don’t want anything to do with it. So, is that the plan?”
This is pissing me off. I lock eyes with Winters. “That’s the plan.”
“Goddammit .” Winters runs a hand over his face.
“That’s fine,” Hobbs says.
I eye her curiously.
She gives me the hint of a smile and then looks at Winters. “If that’s your decision, that’s fine. But it might not be theirs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Hobbs looks at me for permission to run with her line of thinking. It’s good. In fact, it’s the line of thinking that we need to stick to.
I nod for her to continue.
“You’ve had a significant hand in settling refugees on an alien world,” Hobbs says to Winters and Cortes both. “No one can repay you for that. I certainly can’t. And it’s understandable that you feel a sense of obligation to them—to their well-being. You’ve earned it, and your compassion speaks for itself. But in the end, the call of whether they go or stay doesn’t belong to you. And it doesn’t belong to us either. It belongs to them. We’re just here to give everyone an option.”
A long silence fills the room, interrupted only by the sounds of the crackling fire.
I’m glad Hobbs came along. Truth be told, I was a few seconds away from popping Winters in the throat. Wouldn’t have been one of my finer moments. But Hobbs shines, and I can tell by the looks on the rest of the Phantoms’ faces that they appreciate her wise words.
“How do you intend to let everyone know?” Cortes says. “We don’t exactly have internet service out here.”
“We’ll think of something,” I say. “But that’s secondary. First, we need to know if we have your support.”
“Would you stop if you didn’t?” Winters asks me.
“Nope. We’d just head to the next HQ and propose the same there. But you both have the privilege of being the first to say yes.” I tilt my head toward Hobbs. “We’re just here to give another option.”
Cortes sighs. “Well, I don’t think it’s up to us. It’s up to the people, like Wonder Woman said. So I say yes, we let them know. We let everyone know. But I’m only one of two votes for this section’s leadership.” She looks to Winters. When he still doesn’t reply, Cortes asks, “Well, Bob? What’ll it be?”
“Yeah,” Chuck adds. “What about Bob?”