Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,125
you, me, and all of the bad guys following us.”
“Well, let's hope I'm right and you're not,” she says as the car crests another hill and we see the white shape of Tyvek-wrapped scaffolding rising out of stony landscape.
* * *
Moray is a series of concentric rings and while I had thought it would naturally lie in one of the many tiny valleys between the hills, the site is actually out in the middle of a plain. There's a high fence around the site, topped with razor wire. The fence has been lined with opaque weather-guard, keeping prying eyes out, and inside the fence, there are several frames of buildings under construction, and they're the white shapes that rise up like shrink-wrapped dinosaur skeletons. Behind the main structures, there's a landing pad for a helicopter and the Dauphin-class chopper that I was on briefly is sitting on the pad.
“Here we are,” Mere announces, easing up on the accelerator pedal. The car bumps along the road, slowing down as we approach the fence. Mere runs a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. There are stress lines around her eyes and across her forehead, and I can hear the accelerated beat of her heart. She's holding it together amazingly well, considering the situation. “Why did you save me?” she asks quietly. “That night in the warehouse.”
“Because I wanted to,” I reply.
“It wasn't an order that you were following?”
“No,” I say. “I did it under my own volition.”
“That's out of character for you,” she says, her fingers fumbling with the scar at the base of her throat.
“I don't regret doing it.”
She looks at me. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome,” I say, my throat tight.
Her teeth gnaw at her lower lip. “Promise me that you'll kiss me again,” she says. “When this is over.”
“You kissed me,” I remind her.
She throws me a shy smile. “All right, I'm going to kiss you again when this is all over.”
“I'd like that.”
“Good,” she says. She stares intently at me, as if she is memorizing my face. “I'd like to laugh about what we've done.”
“Me too,” I agree.
* * *
We don't bother being clever or coy. Mere drives up as close as possible to the installation, and we walk the rest of the way to the metal door set in the fence. Over the door, there's a security camera mounted atop the fence. Someone knows we're coming, and as we reach the door, we distinctly hear the locks cycle.
I go first, and as the door shuts behind Mere, the locks reengage. We're standing in a temporary tunnel, made from white plastic wrap stretched over a wire frame, and there's only one direction to go. “Kind of like a cattle chute leading to the slaughterhouse,” Mere opines. I don't disagree with her. That is the one drawback about walking in cold to a hostile installation. You get the overwhelming sense that this approach is a bad idea.
Still, it is much easier than any number of assaults I've done over the last three millennia and, considering the way we went to the penthouse in Santiago, I suspect Escobar likes letting his prey wander in without any trouble. I can't decide if this is a terminally stupid way of doing things or an expression of supreme confidence.
When you get right down to it, he's gotten everything he wanted. He certainly seems to be the one in control.
Well, minus a grandson or two.
The tunnel ends, and we step out onto the edge of the first ring of the Moray installation. The original Incan site is a series of concentric circles, terraces upon which these farmers could plant a variety of crops. These rings dominate the area inside the fences. Off to our left are two of the construction frameworks, and one looks like it is a half-finished laboratory. Not dissimilar to the one built on Rapa Nui. As we approach the edge of the first ring, more of the lower rings are revealed, each one about ten meters below the previous one. Each terrace reveals a progressively more bizarre landscape.
The second terrace, just below where we stand, is filled with healthy citrus-bearing trees. Bizzaria, I expect. An enormous grove of the rare chimera.
The next ring is home to several dozen squat wooden structures. Not large enough to be sheds, but not terribly small either. “Hives,” I realize. “They're beehives.”
Below, stands of miro threaten to overreach their ring. Most of them are at least ten meters high. “When did you say