Tomorrow I’d have to find the obelisk. Had to find some way off this dying world before it killed me. But tonight, all I could do was huddle in the dark, eating leathery meat and drinking metallic water, wondering if I’d wake up in the morning or if the radiation would take me in my sleep.

  I thought about Mu and the others.

  I had to survive this. Had to find something here—weapons, technology, anything—to justify what had happened with the dart rifles. To make the deaths of my army mean something.

  But first, I had to make it through the night.

  -16-

  Interlude Two

  Finally, after far too long a wait stuck on Mu while they fixed the portal, Philip was on Tellus and heading for the sphere operating deep over Ploor. He’d used the portal and now rode an air car through this horrific world. Despite his goals, Philip hated Tellus for its sheer lethality.

  He always took extreme precautions here, even if the air wasn’t as contaminated as it should have been. It was still bad enough that no sane person would want to breathe it.

  He sat in a cramped air car as it wove between the skeletal remains of Ploor’s outer suburbs. This had once been a megacity, the largest on Tellus. This suburb alone would have made New York City on Earth look small.

  Still—

  “Watch that ridge line over there, you imbecile,” he snapped at the pilot-Philip, a lower-ranked clone who had the temerity to fly too close to an exposed position. “Do you want every Synthetic Mind in Ploor to spot us?”

  “Apologies, Superior,” the pilot muttered, banking the air car sharply to the left.

  Philip gripped his seat harder, wondering if he should reprimand the pilot again, telling him to make those turns more smoothly. He decided against it, well aware that Philip clones often thought too highly of themselves.

  Through the armored viewports, he eyed the horrible landscape: pools that glowed with a sickly green color, buildings melted into abstract sculptures of ruin, and everywhere a fine gray dust that should have been laced with enough isotopes to kill an unprotected human in hours.

  What was the secret to this lack of radiation? The exploded warheads he’d analyzed in the past had certainly spewed the normal amount. Where did it go then? Radiation didn’t simply disappear. The planet had less than it should, and no one he knew, understood why.

  The gunner-Philip swiveled his weapon mount, tracking something below. “There’s movement two klicks south.”

  “Yes, yes,” Philip said. “That’s all very well. You must—”

  “I see them,” the gunner-Philip said, interrupting. “There are three Togs on foot. I deem them to be Scavenger Level B types.”

  Philip eyed the creatures on a screen, each carrying a heavy weapon and dressed in assorted leather and footwear.

  “Ignore them,” he said.

  The Togs—the tusked mutant humans—were irrelevant to his mission today, although they did prove the extra radiation on this world. His concern was Bayard. According to Institute sensors set near the landing zone, a Traveler had materialized in Ploor two days ago.

  Philip shook his head. He’d missed two days of watching and analyzing the famed Traveler. What had Bayard been doing since landing? He needed to record and report every moment of the man’s struggle. The data would be inserted into the Institute’s growing Mercenary Cultivation Program. That was how he’d gained permission for all this, the funding and allowance to hop between the various worlds. When his cover story op was taken care of, he could do with Bayard as he wished—his true goal, in other words, and one that only he knew.

  “Sir,” the pilot said, “we’re approaching the target zone. I recommend we increase altitude.”

  “Negative,” Philip said. “You will maintain the current flight path. I want clear sensor readings before I head to the sphere.”

  The pilot exchanged a glance with the gunner.

  Superior Philip noticed. Did these lower-ranked fools think he couldn’t see that? Philip made a mental note to have them reposted to ground patrol when this mission was complete. That would show them not to think they knew better than he did.

  An explosion rocked the air car, not close enough to damage them but sufficient to rattle the hull. Through the smoke, Philip could see robots: what the Togs called walkers for the Atomic Brains. They were advancing through the ruins.

  “Use an evasive pattern delta,” Philip said.

  The pilot obeyed, throwing the air car into a series of nauseating maneuvers that took them between two collapsed towers.

  Philip’s stomach churned, but he kept his expression neutral. The lesser clones would no doubt enjoy seeing him grimace in fear or dismay. Let them think him filled with iron resolve and purpose. It was true in a sense.

  Finally, mercifully, they reached the area of Ploor where Bayard had been, once a place with endless towering skyscrapers. The combined mass of the towers had limited the effect of the many warheads, and still boasted some truly amazing buildings.

  This was surprisingly far from the ziggurat where Travelers materialized. Bayard had covered more ground and possibly water than he would have thought possible for a newcomer to Tellus. The man had a knack for violence; there was no doubt about that.

  Philip activated his personal screen, confirming the signatures showing the Earthman’s whereabouts. Yes, this was the sector.

  “You will hold our position,” Philip said.

  The pilot already had them hovering behind a partially collapsed skyscraper.

  There was a beep on Philip’s screen. He looked up in concern. It came from an advanced-warning array. “Are you certain the stealth systems are functioning?”

  “Yes, Superior,” the pilot said, with the hint of a sneer in his voice. “We’re invisible to both synthetic and organic detection.”

  “We’d better be,” Philip snarled. He hated that kind of attitude in an inferior. “My person is sacrosanct as far as you two are concerned. If either of you allows me to come to harm, your line will be terminated. Do you understand?”

  Both lesser Philips nodded, though Superior Philip caught something in their eyes.

  He couldn’t believe this. These lesser clones had traces of ambition, even though time had proven them of little talent. The side-glances between the two proved this.

  Philip wondered if this propensity was endemic in all Philip clones because of the qualities of the Original. Should he look into that?

  Philip rose and began to don a bulky EVA suit with helmet, checking each seal twice. Then he belted on an anti-grav unit with thrusters. When all was ready, he stepped to the air car’s tiny airlock in back.

  “Transmit our position to the sphere,” he said. “If I don’t make contact within ten minutes, you will initiate contingency omega.”

  “I understand, Superior,” the pilot said.

  The airlock cycled, and Philip launched himself into the air as he clicked on the anti-grav unit. It carried him upward through the sickly yellow sky. His instruments showed massive electromagnetic interference, but his equipment was hardened against everything this hell world could throw at it except for nearby thermonuclear detonations.

  Still, he felt naked and exposed flying like this. Below, the war continued—factions of machines and mutants locked in their eternal, pointless conflict that neither side seemed able to win. They just kept killing each other, generation after generation. It was fascinating from an academic perspective, but being in the middle of it was decidedly less pleasant.

  At five hundred meters from target, his vision wavered due to the cloaking field around the sphere. He transmitted the recognition code and was rewarded with an opening appearing in what looked like empty air.

  Philip headed up through it into an airlock that materialized around him.

  The decontamination cycle took fifteen minutes. Chemical washes, radiation purges, biological scrubbers—every possible contaminant had to be eliminated. Philip endured it with barely concealed impatience, finally able to take off the bulky suit and helmet.

  In time, the inner hatch opened, and Philip stepped into the sphere proper. Five more Philip clones worked at various stations, monitoring, analyzing, and ensuring the sphere’s invisibility.

  The senior among them, marked by silver hair that indicated advanced age for a clone, looked up from his console. “Superior, welcome aboard.”

  Philip was surprised one so old should be here. That one must be monumentally stupid to have only reached this rank after such a long life.

  “Report,” Philip said.

  The silver-haired Philip gestured to a screen. “The Traveler arrived approximately fifty-four hours ago. We’ve been tracking him for the last three. He’s currently moving through sector seven.”

  Philip looked at the display. There was Jake Bayard, creeping through the ruins with that characteristic Marine caution. The fool likely had no idea where he was going, no understanding of the forces at play on this world.

  “What about those?” Philip pointed to several heat signatures following Bayard.

  “They’re Togs, Superior: a Scavenger B hunting pack. They’ve been tracking him for the last ten minutes.”

  Philip leaned forward, intrigued. “Bayard doesn’t know they’re there?”

  “It appears not, although it’s possible he’s being deceptive with them.”

  Philip settled into the command chair, his fingers dancing over the controls to refine the sensor focus. “Let’s see if the great Jake Bayard is truly the killer everyone claims he is.”

  On the screen, Bayard continued his careful advance through the ruins, checking corners and often looking behind. From farther back, the tusked mutants closed in, using debris and shadows for cover.

  “Should we warn him?” the silver-haired Philip asked.

  Superior Philip turned, fixing his subordinate with a withering stare. “Warn him? Why would we possibly do that? This is exactly the data we need. How does an Earth-normal human fare against radiation-adapted mutants who’ve been fighting for survival for hundreds of years? How does Bayard specifically handle an ambush situation with inferior weapons and no support?”

  “Of course, Superior,” the other said, “my apologies.”

  Philip returned his attention to the screen.

  He knew that the observation sphere hung invisible above the city, cloaked from every form of detection the warring factions possessed. They were here, as Philip liked to think of it, as gods observing ants. The Institute’s overarching mission on Tellus was clear, as far as he knew: to determine if either the Synthetic Minds or the Togs could be cultivated as interstellar mercenaries.

  The Togs were closer to the Earthman, moving to within thirty meters behind Bayard.

  Bayard stopped, his head tilting. Had he heard something? The Marine went still in the way Philip had observed before, from previous Philips’ memories, and one other time.

  There was a beep on his screen. Philip frowned, checking it. A second later, he looked up.

  “Zoom in on sector four. What’s that movement?”

  The view shifted, and after a moment, Philip smiled. This was even more interesting. Robotic walkers from the Synthetic Minds appeared to be responding.

  Bayard was about to be caught between the Togs and the machines. Would the great Traveler find a way out? Or would they have to extract him before he died here, in this cesspool, far from his precious Mu?

  Philip had an emergency plan if Bayard was about to die, but he would wait until the last minute before activating it. His hidden agenda demanded great secrecy and caution on his part. To cover himself—

  “Record everything,” Philip said. “The Institute will want complete documentation of Bayard’s tactical responses.”

  He then settled back in his chair, watching with the supposedly detached interest of a scientist studying specimens. It was an act, but one the others expected from him.

  “Superior,” one of the monitoring clone-Philips said, “we’re detecting… an incoming missile.”

  Philip almost frowned. This could be very bad. But he said, “Well, well. Let’s see how our Traveler handles atomic warfare, shall we?”

  “It is a class M missile,” the clone said.

  “What?” Philip said, now horrified because his own person might be in danger.

  The M-class missile could conceivably compromise the sphere. One of the clones pressed an emergency button. A klaxon wailed inside the sphere as they all scrambled to get into EVA suits and ride out what was about to happen.

  -17-

  Three, maybe four tusked mutants were trailing me through the rubble. I should have known better by now.

  The night’s sleep, water and salted jerky had helped a ton. I’d recovered more than seemed right. Sleep was the great healer, as people said. Still, I was tired of this world and the endless fighting. I needed to find the obelisk and fast.

  Then a skittering sound made me freeze. This wasn’t the light tick-tick of the spider scouts I’d seen after first leaving the ziggurat. No—this was something heavier. Yes, it was metal on concrete, and it was getting closer, and coming from a new direction.

  I climbed a pile of rubble to get elevation, peering through a blown-out window frame. In a second, I saw three machines, but not like anything from Earth’s military. They walked on reverse-jointed legs like metal ostriches, their bodies featuring exposed hydraulics and armor plating. Each stood maybe seven feet tall—not quite Forkbeard’s size, but close enough. One arm ended in a circular saw that spun with a high whine, cutting away an obstacle in their path. The other arm held what looked like an energy weapon, all coils and heat sinks.

  Their heads were the worst part, housing a single red sensor eye that swept back and forth. As I watched, all three eyes swiveled toward my position.

  Cold fear washed through me, and I wondered if this was finally too much. My Colt might as well have been a peashooter against that armor. Maybe I could hit a sensor eye… but that would be a precision shot under pressure, and they had those energy weapons.

  I ducked back and hurried into a building and up the first flight of stairs. The steps were littered with debris and bones, but I took them two at a time, trying to put distance and elevation between those things and me.

  Far too soon, the whine of machinery echoed up the stairwell. It seemed the robots were following, and they were fast.

  I ran harder, taking steps three and four at a time. A boot slipped on something wet—I didn’t want to know what—so I kept climbing.

  Then I burst through a doorway into what had been an office or apartment, something big. My gut tightened. The room was full of mutants.

  They were different from the tusked ones. They were like the kind that had beckoned me when I’d been on the raft. Their skin was covered in scales or boils, and their fingers had too many joints. They all turned at my entrance, their yellow eyes focusing with intensity.

  I started backing up. I’d used far too many bullets these past days. I had to conserve if I could.

  “Look, fellows—”

  One screamed. It sounded like metal tearing. The rest all moved at once. Some grabbed blades from the walls. Others raised what looked like crossbows, surprising me with the higher tech.

  My automatic barked as I shot to kill. I really couldn’t afford to waste any ammo. The closest mutant’s head exploded in a spray of dark blood. I pivoted and double-tapped another rushing at me with a blade. A third fired its crossbow. The bolt hissed past my ear. I put two rounds in its chest, then one in the head when it didn’t go down fast enough. A fourth came from my blind spot. I spun, hearing it, firing one-handed, catching it in the throat. It gurgled and collapsed, green blood pooling on the floor. The last two tried to flank me. I dove behind an overturned desk, popped up, and fired. One went down hard. The other’s crossbow bolt punched through the desk inches from my head, but my return shots dropped it as it tried to reload.

  That took seven seconds, maybe eight, and I had six dead mutants. The trouble was, the robots were still getting closer. I could hear their metal feet on the stairs.

  Panting, my heart hammering, I ran through the room, leaping over corpses, and found another exit. There were more stairs. They led me to the outside of the building. It must have been some kind of emergency fire escape, though half of it was missing. I could see another building maybe fifteen feet away. It was close enough to jump if I had a running start.

  The YouTube parkour videos I’d watched before suddenly seemed like tactical training. I holstered the automatic, backed up to get distance, and sprinted, using what reserves I’d gained from sleeping.

  The edge came up too fast. But stopping meant death, so I planted my foot and launched myself into space.

  For a moment, I was flying between two towers of a dead civilization, seven stories above the rubble. Energy bolts sizzled through the air where I’d been standing. The robots were poking out of windows.

  I hit the opposite building hard, not quite making the window I’d aimed for. My fingers caught the ledge, and I hauled myself up as more energy bolts scorched the wall beside me. One passed so close I felt the heat on my cheek.

  I rolled into the building, got up and was running again, stumbling, but not going down. To do so was to die.

  Right away, I could see that this building was different, more intact, for one thing. I found what looked like an elevator shaft, but the car was long gone. Next to it was something else—a tube, maybe three feet in diameter, with a platform inside. It struck me as an old pneumatic tube system like they used for mail in the 1940s, but scaled up for people.

  The robots burst through the wall behind me, literally through it, sending chunks of concrete flying. I had no time to think about whether the tube system still worked.

  I dove onto the platform and slammed the only button I could see. For a terrifying second, nothing happened. Then acceleration hit like a punch to the gut, and I was rocketing upward through the tube. The G-force pressed me down as floors flashed by in a blur.