The Sum of Us

Bottleneck-1

bottleneck

A.M. Dellamonica

Ruthless spotted the hunk of turquoise while standing outside her vehicle in a line for gas, thirteen miles outside of Kyle, Texas. A bead, she thought, as she snagged on the transverse corridor bored through its tip.

Picking the stone from the dust-streaked gravel that lined the road, she spat on it, rubbing off grime and admiring the colour. She wondered who it had belonged to, whether they were alive.

A child’s face formed on her visor, interrupting her musings. “We want out, Sergeant.”

“I can’t allow that, Delores,” Ruthless subvocalized, scratching at the collar of her civilian blouse.

“Tonio has to pee.”

“He’ll have to use the squatter.” She’d locked the Burro’s blinds in the closed position when she’d gone outside, so the children, within, could not be seen.

The girl’s nose wrinkled. “It stinks.”

“I’ll have it flushed after we gas up.” Pocketing the stone, Ruthless counted the cars between her and the pumps.

“You can’t keep us in here.”

Instinctively she put her hand on the locked hatch on the back of the Burro. “Delores . . .”

“I’m telling Papa.”

Here’s hoping you get the chance, kid. She felt exposed here, unsafe. Ridiculous: forty-eight hours ago she’d been under live fire, on the front line of the Democratic Army’s doomed effort to keep the Fiends from pushing across the Rio Grande.

She tuned in the distant buzz and boom of the aerial battle that had driven them out of San Antonio. A stratosphere-high curtain of smoke and combat nanotech, sienna in colour, obscured the action. Flashes of reddened light from within revealed the shadows of planes and missiles. These were dwarfed by immense, spidery shapes: anti-aircraft platforms supplied to the Demo Air Force by their offworld allies.

Within the haze, Ruthless knew, the platforms were shooting down waves of Fiend aircraft, raining wreckage onto the city below. Her side had better tech, but the enemy had numbers. If the Fiends got lucky enough times—if they took out enough platforms—they could close in on this slow-moving convoy.

Too close, Ruthless thought and, seemingly in agreement, the gas line nudged forward. The Burro kept pace and Ruthless walked forward a few steps; she had programmed its autodriver to stay bumper to bumper with the SUV in front of them.

A monkey icon waved briefly on her visor—a ping from her younger brother that meant he was still alive. Relieved, she pinged back.

Interstate 35 was jammed with refugees from the recent bombardment, most in cars but some afoot, a flood of displaced Americans inching northeast toward Austin. The only lane moving at anything approaching speed was reserved for military vehicles.

Now and then, low-altitude flitters zoomed over the stalled traffic, raising dust and provoking irritated protests, even the occasional thrown rock, from the crowd.

“Sergeant,” Delores said. “You have to let us out. Tonio’s sick.”

She felt a wave of compassion for the girl. “I’ll come have a look.”

“No! I mean, he says he’s okay for now.”

“You’ll be with your father soon—”

The hair at the base of her neck prickled.

Cutting the link, Ruthless examined the ragged civilians in the gas line: passengers lolling in overloaded cars, weary parents slumping under the weight of dispirited kids. Wild-eyed survivors with photographs, working the crowd: You recognize this man? This is my wife, have you seen her?

My daughter, my lover, my missing baby brother. She had been one of them once, left searching for Matt after the colossal security failure at Kauai. Nothing since had been as bad as that. The uncertainty, wondering if he was out there somewhere, in pain and alone . . .

She’d found him. Once in a lifetime, impossible stroke of luck.

C’mon, Ruthie, stay on task. Someone’s watching you.

She spotted him: a tall fellow with jet hair and ill-fitting jeans. A child’s jacket gaped over his bare, sunburned chest. He was propped against a road sign, and when Ruthless met his gaze, he pushed off, limping closer.

Fuck.

“Lieutenant?” he said, licking cracked lips. One eye was so bloodshot she couldn’t make out his iris.

“Sergeant,” she corrected in a low voice. “If you’re after water, I can spare a little, but—”

“I am thinking we can help each other.” His accent was weird, something from an old spy movie. Eastern European—was that possible?

She pulled her stone face: me-soldier, you-civilian. “Best if you moved along, Sir.”

“Will you hear me out?” False courtesy. He’d pegged her for a captive audience, knew she wouldn’t leave the Burro. “You’re out of uniform and in the civilian gas line. This suggests you don’t have explicit orders to get this car to Austin. But a self-driving, Dust-proof transport, expensive...whoever’s inside is important.”

“I told you to piss off, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Are you AWOL, Sergeant? Perhaps hoping that if you reach your destination with your passenger, you’ll avoid discipline? The only person in Austin with so much pull—”

“Enough!” She didn’t want him saying the general’s name aloud. “Assuming you’re right, what good are you to me?”

Straightening, he bit back a moan. “I can get you into the priority lane.”

The gas line moved; the car followed. Ruthless hoisted the man to the dubious comfort of the Burro’s forward bench and hopped to the vehicle’s running board. She pulled an awning over him and gave him a sip of water. He sagged against the backrest. If she wanted to be rid of him now, she’d have to toss him.

She couldn’t resist the temptation of the priority lane. Getting the kids off this open stretch of road, before the air battle reached its inevitable end, was mission-critical. “What do you want in return?”

He asked, “You will take me with you?”

“Tell me more while I look at your leg.” Her civilian costume included a big purse. She opened it, digging out the medical kit.

“And if you don’t like my offer, I can at least walk away? Very generous.”

“Do I look like a taxi service?” She tore the leg of his jeans, exposing a bloodied shin pierced by shrapnel.

“I’d prefer if you are being a medic.”

“I know the basics, Sir.”

“Basics are not reassuring.”

”The people I work on tend to be beyond reassurance. Now, about you getting us into the fast lane?” Spray-cleaning first her hands and then his leg, she painted anesthetic nanogel in a circle around the skewer of metal.

“You’re delivering this transport to—”

“No names,” she interrupted.

“I’m to report to him, with intelligence.” The man watched without expression as she probed his injury. “He may want your cargo, but he needs me.”

“Yet here you are, thumb out, on the highway.”

“My escort was killed. I tried flagging down someone in the military lane but . . .” He shrugged in the direction of the hurried Northbound traffic. “I have the squad captain’s electronic orders. They should be enough to justify commandeering your vehicle.”

The metal would come out of his leg easily, but something in his gaze kept Ruthless from yanking it. “Why don’t you just commandeer me, then?”

“I prefer to ask.”

Even as you burn to a crisp in the sun? “How many soldiers?”

“Pardon?”

“In your escort. How many grunts died so you could lose yourself among these refugees?”

He blinked, looking away, and Ruthless pulled the hunk of metal. Blood welled from the gash. She checked for remnants, then puttied the wound.

“Eight.” The stranger was staring at her hands again.

“Eight dead?” Someone thought his intelligence mattered, assuming it was true. “Show me these orders.”

He reached into his jacket, nice and slow, and pinged her visor. Text scrolled, and she scanned it unhappily.

A Fiend defector, bumming a ride. Sub-optimal.

“If you don’t want me, I won’t insist.”

“Where you gonna go?” She dusted his burned skin with a powdered screen-and-salve.

“I’ve got further than you’d think on my own.”

“You are asking me to endanger my passengers.” A nine-year-old and a five-year-old, she didn’t add, kids whose mother was killed before their eyes yesterday.

“The risk should be minimal.” He smiled weakly. “One of the soldiers resembled me; I dressed his remains in my clothes. The enemy will think I’m dead until they run tissue samples.”

“Would they need to?” Ruthless bit her lip. “These documents say you have...identifying marks.”

“There’s nothing left to check.” He coaxed the torn leg of his jeans up higher, above his knee, flashing a quick glimpse of a Fiendish flesh mosaic—stained-glass pattern of multicoloured skin grafts.

Appalled, she pulled the denim back over the mosaic.

“I dusted my double’s legs, after he died,” he explained.

“They really aren’t looking for you?”

“They’d have me by now, if they were.” He offered his hand. “Zacha Bahdlof.”

“Ruth Gerrikle,” she replied, clapping a water flask into his outstretched palm.

His eyes widened. “There are stories of a Ruth—Ruthless, a Demo non-commissioned officer—”

“People exaggerate.”

It figured: the guy came all the way from Russia or some other Fiendish nowhere, and he’d still heard the gossip.

Might have been nice to start with a clean slate, just once. He’s hideous, but he has something...brains? Charisma?

It didn’t matter, though, did it? Her duty was, suddenly, as clear as polished glass. ”Well. As long as I’m commandeered,” she said. “I might as well put on my uniform.”

Zacha was right; once Ruthless uploaded her new orders, the military traffic paused, allowing her to merge the Burro into the priority lane.

She filed a quick status report, neglecting to mention that she had the kids. She’d been ordered to get them to their father, but her C.O. had clearly meant she should stick them on a plane.

Sending them, alone, through the Fiend’s turkey shoot of an air blockade...she’d got as far as the airport before deciding she couldn’t do it.

Now she was on the right side of a court-martial again, she allowed herself a quick scan through her messages, and sent Matt a status update:AOK, on the field, glad UR alive.

She and Zacha perched on the Burro’s forward bench, motoring along within the convoy of zappers, mine-clearers, troop transports, old-fashioned tanks, and unmarked trucks. Unlike the civilian vehicles, most bore the silver-grey nanotech glitter of Dustproofing.

Ruthless had scrounged a ball cap for Zacha and—once she was back in uniform—had given him her civilian blouse. He was considerably taller than she, but thin as he was, it fit nicely. Anything to shield his burnt skin from the punishing Texas sun.

In time, he fell into a doze. Ruthless slipped into the Burro’s interior to check the kids.

The vehicle was, essentially, an armoured camper. It had a kitchenette, fold-down ceiling cots, and a squatter in the back. Ruthless was using the AC sparingly, to conserve fuel. Compared to being outside, it was positively chilly.

She took a deep breath: she loved air conditioning.

“How long now?” Delores said.

“A few hours.” Unlocking a cupboard, Ruthless sorted through foil packages. “Do you want spaghetti and meat balls or turkey stir fry?”

“Dog turds or cat vom?” Delores corrected, using infantry terms for the heated rations.

“Esta roadkill?” Tonio spoke around the thumb in his mouth.

“No. Wait, here’s one tomato, beef and noodle. I’ll heat this and the cat vom and you can have half a packet each, okay?”

“Papa’s going to have you shot,” Delores said. “We were supposed to get on a plane. This is kidnapping.”

“Kidnappers would offer you real food.” Ruth regretted the words immediately. When her father died, she and Matt had endured endless stupid comments from adults. Empty air, unhelpful awkward babble. Now she was the one mustering flaccid jokes and faking cheer.

After pulling the tabs on the foil containers, she relocked the rations cupboard. When the packs chimed, she gutted them, sharing the unappetizing contents half-and-half on plastic plates she’d washed this morning.

“It’s boring in here,” she said. “You shouldn’t be alone, Delores, but—”

Delores spat on her, spraying Ruthless’s neck and collar. Baring her teeth, furious as a dunked cat, she braced for a slap.

Ruthless held out the plates. “A few more hours, okay? Keep your brother occupied.”

Tears filled Delores’ fatigue-bruised eyes. “Go f**k yourself,” she whispered. Then, pasting on a smile, she took the food. Tonio was waiting, like a wilted flower, for his roadkill.

Gee, that went great. Ruthless went back out into the heat. They were averaging twenty-five miles an hour. Over the sound of motors, the aerial battle was louder. Closer.

“How is she?” Zacha slitted one eye open.

“Pissed. If their governess had survived . . .”

“Governess?”

Oops. “Or their mother, obviously.”

Zacha’s oversized jaw was working. “You have his children?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I thought you were bringing a woman.”

“Excuse me?”

He coloured. “Where I come from...well, there’s a song about him—”

“Don’t,” Ruthless said. If Zacha started singing ‘Mighty General Fuckstruck,’ it’d be in her head all day.

“No disrespect. I believed you had his mistress, yes? If I’d known . . .”

She shook her head, liking him better. Was that the point? Good guy, or con artist: you never knew until they turned on you.

“Lunch?” She held out a foil-wrapped ration of cat vom.

He fingered it. “I should transfer to another car.”

“Bullshit,” Ruthless said. “I’m tasked with bringing you in.”

“But—”

“My passengers are safer in the fast lane.”

“But—”

“I’ll cuff you to the car.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“You know who I’m carrying. You’re not going anywhere.”

Zacha eyed the ground, seeming to reckon his chances of surviving a jump at this speed. “It seems we’ll have to leave all the eggs in your basket.”

“Nice to have your blessing, Humpty,” Ruthless said, glad she wouldn’t have to break his leg.

Around dusk, the Demos lost the air battle.