Muddy clouds of dust boiled at the horizon. And then . . a vast horde of creatures that resembled something begotten upon a crocodile by an axolotl swarmed toward them at impossible speed. Thousands. More.
“Oh, God,” Carlos moaned.
Cadmann glared at him. “Stay frosty. On target. Machine gunner—”
“Ready, sir.”
“We’re going to die!” He couldn’t control himself. Not even close. It was all he could do to keep his bladder in check. The risk of death was mandatory in his profession. Soiling himself (he hoped) was optional.
“In range, sir,” Navarro said.
Cadmann’s eyes narrowed. “Stand ready. Mark a target directly in front of you. Stand ready . . take aim . . In volley, fire! New target. Take aim. In volley, fire! Steady. Fire at will.”
The rifles roared and flashed like a dusty lightning storm. Carlos fired along with the others, until his weapon seared the flesh from his palms.
In the midst of the slaughter Cadmann seemed eight feet tall, perfect and brave amid the carnage, swelling with it as the others were diminished.
The creatures broke through the wall of armorglas (or had it dissolved? It was difficult to see), and Carlos’ ears rang with screams of pain and horror as his comrades were torn to pieces.
And then they were upon Carlos himself. He felt himself floating up and up, witnessing his own disembowelment and devouring at their hands, as if in some obscene holoplay, his screams flooding from all directions until they drowned the thunder of countless grendel feet and snapping jaws.
And then . . Cadmann stood alone amid a growing pile of grendel dead.
“Carlos! Carlos!” Cadmann screamed, his voice odd. Increasingly feminine. And . . .
“Carlos. Carlos.” A soft, female voice, slowly increasing in volume and urgency.
As had happened before, Carlos Martinez, former remittance man, now de facto leader of the colony called Camelot, sat up, sheet and dreams slipping away from him at the same time. Beside him, a very female-shaped lump snored beneath her blanket. Something had awakened him, thank God. He had seen himself die before. He usually managed to shift perspective enough to not feel the blazing hot teeth as they rent and devoured.
Usually. A red light flashed on his dresser, its radiance falling directly onto his blinking eyes. “All right, Cassie,” he said. “What do you have for me?”
“Carlos,” the synthesized voice whispered, more urgently now. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“It’s all right, Cass. What’s so important?”
She told him, and when she did, all drowsiness vanished in an instant.
On the southeast coastal line of the New Zealand-size island of Avalon, crowning the finest stretch of sparkling sand for two hundred klicks perched a ragtag collection of thatched-roof huts christened “Surf’s Up.” Most inhabitants were transients who rotated through the huts as they were constructed, occupied, and then abandoned. The entire island of Avalon was theirs, conquered by their grandparents in service to generations unborn.
Lodgings and warehouses clustered across the island, home to farmers, loggers and fishermen. Surf’s Up was the second largest settlement, housing almost a fifth of the island’s total population of twelve hundred souls. And while it had been a blessedly long time since there had been an emergency, as with Camelot, there was always someone on duty to answer a call.
“I’m looking for Aaron.”
The kid on the other end of the call laughed. “He’s not here. Hasn’t been for months. Try Blackship.”
Carlos rubbed fingers through his thinning, whitestreaked hair. Out his north-facing bedroom window, mistwreathed Mucking Great Mountain rose up like a thunderhead in the pre-dawn. Dammit, this would have all been so much easier if the man would simply wear his tracer. But that bit of petty rebellion was the least of his issues with Aaron Tragon.
“Shall I try the island?” Cassandra asked. There was a time when her empathic programs would have anticipated his needs. The old girl was slipping. Hell, they all were.
Blackship was a rock spur twenty klicks off from Surf’s Up, barely visible from the beach most days, a dark wedge-shape hovering in the ocean mist. It was the heart of the colony’s ocean research and there were always a few people there devoted to aiding the survival of the small outpost.
Carlos didn’t know who would be on rotation, and in fact was glad to know that standing orders . . suggestions . . agreements, perhaps . . were still in effect. The young woman who answered didn’t know where Aaron was. He gave up and asked for Cadzie. Cadzie was at home in the hills. Carlos called him there.
Cadmann Sikes, generally known as “Cadzie,” had only gotten to bed an hour earlier, returning to his cabin in the mountains south of the main colony following a three-day hike in the dense forest further toward the setting sun. The communicators woven into his collars and necklaces were always in the default “on” position, as they were for most colonists. They could be turned off for privacy of course, and then only Cassandra could find you . . unless you disconnected the power or left them at home.
It was hard to get permanently lost on Avalon.
Cadzie was twenty-eight Earth years, an intermediate age, born on Avalon after the Grendel Wars to Joe Sikes, an Earthborn, and his wife Linda, a daughter of the colony’s de facto leader, his own namesake. His parents had been killed by speed-enhanced “bees” on the mainland in his infancy. His revered grandfather had been killed before Cadzie could know him but he was well aware of the original Cadmann’s position, and he knew that many expected him to grow into his image as potential leader. It showed in the training he had received since he was less than ten years old, a broad introduction to almost everything that was going on, encouragement to dig just a little deeper, work just some little harder, gentle reminders that his grandfather had saved the colony and one day it might be his turn to do the same. He was not sure he wanted that responsibility—or rather, he had doubts about his ability, or for that matter the need for anyone to be the leader, or why anyone would want to be.
He was tall, with hair the color of fire glimpsed through smoke. His wiry frame was as lean as the rockclimber he had been since childhood, and this planet was his home. Ninety-five percent of the surface remained a mystery, and while ugly surprises always remained a possibility, humanity had overcome all the most pressing threats. There was more to life than mere survival.
“Unka,” he groaned. “Up early?”
“Yes. And I’m going to be up late, too.” Uncle Carlos looked tired. It was difficult to acknowledge, but Cadzie’s second-favorite member of the colony had gotten old, his coffee-colored scalp barely covered by thinning hair. Old, or well on his way. Oh, well, it happened to everyone lucky enough to survive, he supposed.
“Something big?”
“It doesn’t get bigger,” Carlos said.
That response banished fatigue. “Gramma’s all right?” he asked quickly.
“Both are fine. It’s not that kind of news.”
“So tell me.”
Carlos clucked reluctantly. “I can’t. We have a formal chain of information flow, Cadzie. I have to tell Aaron first. And Aaron zapped his chip. He’s off the grid.”