Troy would have to stay with them. Ali tried to think the way Ike would.
'Wait in here,' she said. 'Keep low. Don't make any sounds. We'll come back for you when it's safe.'
The tiny flame lit their drawn faces. Ali wanted to remain here with them, safe with the light. But Ike was out there, and he might need her.
'Take the knife,' Troy said.
'I wouldn't know what to do with it,' Ali said.
She cherished Troy's and Chelsea's looks of hope. 'See you soon,' she said.
Their rafts rocked on the seiche. You couldn't feel or hear the tremors, but deeper designs were stirring the sea with swells. The food and gear were lashed with muleskinner knots. They had the chain gun mounted, the spotlights on. It was going to be heavy going for eleven men, but their cornucopia promised months of sustenance and would lighten as they exited.
Half of the soldiers waited on the rafts while half went back to tidy up. They had drawn straws for the wet work. It was disgusting to them that Shoat asked to watch. You didn't leave witnesses alive, not even the walking dead. Long before they died of starvation, any one of the survivors might pen some damning deposition. Things like that could haunt you. It might be ten years before any colonist found this fortress, but why risk the testimony of ghosts? That was what had confounded them about the colonel. He'd treated this as a calling, when all along it was just a crime.
They worked from front to back and kept it professional. Each of their wounded comrades got a well-placed mercy shot behind the eyes. Walker they left alive, strung to the wall, babbling scripture. Fuck him. In a million years, he wasn't going anywhere.
All that remained were the civilians in the side room. Two entered. 'What's this bull?' one shouted.
Spurrier looked up, shielding Pia. 'They ran away. We could have gone with them,'
he said. 'But look, we stayed.'
'Dumb fuck,' the other soldier said.
They rolled two fragmentation grenades into the room and hugged the outer wall, then hosed what was left with a clip each. They returned to the front room. It was quiet, now that the wounded had finished pleading. Only Walker still moaned.
'That sucked,' said one of the mercenaries.
'You ain't seen nothing yet,' Shoat said. He was just finishing inserting another of his homing capsules into the wall.
'What are you talking about?'
'Visualize whirled peas,' Shoat said.
'Hey, Shoat,' called another. 'Why keep stringing those homers? We ain't ever coming back this way.'
'He who plants a tree, plants posterity,' Shoat pronounced.
'Shut up, mope.'
They watched from just below the water. Others occupied the heights, camouflaged with powdered rock, stone-still. Their composure was reptilian. Or insect. A matter of clans. Isaac had arranged them just so.
Had the mercenaries thought to illuminate the cliffside, they might have detected a faint pulse, the ripple of many lungs respirating. Their lights on the water simply ricocheted off the oscillating surface. The humans thought they were alone.
The party of executioners appeared at the fortress gate, in no hurry. They walked with heavy legs, like peasants at the end of the day. Until you've done it, you have no idea: Killing is a form of gravity.
'Vengeance will be mine,' Walker's mad voice bellowed from the fortress.
'Have a nice day,' someone muttered.
The flicker of fire coruscated through the doorway. Someone had started a bonfire with the last of the scientists' papers.
'We're going home, boys,' the lieutenant called to his men as he welcomed them.
The lance that impaled him bore a beautiful example of Solutrean Ice Age technology. The flint blade was long and leaf-shaped, with exquisite pressure flaking and a smear of toxic poison milked from abyssal rays.
It was a classic impalement, driving straight up from the water and penetrating the lieutenant's anus precisely, pithing him the way, long ago, the lieutenant had readied frogs in junior high school science lab.
No one suspected. The lieutenant stayed erect, or nearly so. His head bowed slightly, but otherwise his eyes stayed open, the smile pinned wide.
'Made in the shade, Lewt,' one of the soldiers replied to him.
Down at the far end of the line of boats, a shooter called Grief sat straddling the rubber pontoon. He heard a sound like oil separating and turned and the sea was sliding open. There was just enough time to see a wall-eyed happy face before he was seized and pulled under. The water sealed shut above his heels.
The mercenaries spread out across the sand, angling for different boats beached along the shore. Two carried their rifles by the handle-sight. One draped his, cruciform, across his shoulders.
'Let's go, pendejos,' called one of the boat men. 'I can feel their ghosts.'
It was said that Roman slingers could hit a man-sized target at 185 meters. For the record, the stone that cored Boom-Boom Jefferson was slung from 235 meters. His neighbor heard the watermelon-like thump through Boom-Boom's chest wall, and looked to see the once-notorious center for the Utah Jazz stiffen and drop like a huge tree deciding it was time.
Ten seconds had passed.
'Haddie!' cried the neighbor.
They'd been through this before, so the surprise was not surprising. They knew to react with no thought, to simply pull the trigger and make noise and light. They had no targets yet, but you didn't wait for targets, not with the hadals. In the first few moments, firepower was your one chance at jumbling their puzzle pieces and turning the picture around.
And so they fired at the cliff walls. They fired at the sand. They fired at the water. They fired at the sky. They tried not to fire on one another, but that was the collateral risk.
Their special loads gave spectacular results. The Lucifer rounds struck rock and shattered into splinters of brilliant light, July Fourth with intent to kill. They plowed the sand, blew up the water in arcing gouts. High overhead, the ceiling sparkled with lethal constellations, and bits of stone rained down.
It worked. Haddie quit. For a minute.
'Hold fire,' yelled a man. 'Count out. I'm one.'
'Two,' yelled another.
'Three.'
There were only seven left.
The mercenaries closest to the boats raced downshore. Three forged back toward the fortress through molasses-thick sand.
'I'm hit.'
'The lieutenant's dead.'
'Grief?'
'Gone.'
'Boom-Boom?'
'Is it over? Did Haddie leave?' This had been the pattern for weeks, hit and run. The hadals owned the night in a place where night was forever.
'Fucking Haddie. How'd they find us?'
Huddled just inside the fortress gate, Shoat took in the scene and converted the odds. He had not
