To Burning Sands: Burning Sands, #8

By P R Adams

Everyone has a limit.

 

Reggie Lee believes in peace and cooperation, in working toward the greater good. He prefers compromise to violence.

 

Then they burned down his home and took his child.

 

Now he'll stop at nothing to get his son back. Pity anyone who gets in his way.

 

In a world where death is only a gunshot or sword slash or infection away, survival is never easy. See the dark, thrilling future in To Burning Sands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Promethean Tales
• Release date: Nov 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215994931

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

To Major William Miller’s trained eye, his men’s little tents, spread across the crest of the hilltop, looked too much like a camp. It was only eight tents, and no one would see them until they stumbled upon them, but it still countered every element of training he knew. Even for the short duration they’d set up here, at the base of the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, with the sun not yet risen, he felt exposed.

He slid a dissolvable packet of coffee crystals into his small, chemically heated thermos, poured in water, then shook the thing, admiring its miniaturized mortar-shell shape. Heat quickly leaked through the insulation, forcing him to set the container down until it transformed moisture in the chill morning air into steam.

It was the sort of luxury Lieutenant Colonel Ben Darcangelo would never allow himself, but Miller wasn’t some degenerate, murderous traitor to the greatest nation ever to grace the surface of the Earth.

Nosiree. Major William Stephen Miller could not possibly be more different from someone than he was from the blood-sucking tick he’d only days before been assigned to hunt down.

The major blew into his cupped hands to warm them, then skirted the quiet camp, stopping to acknowledge the first of the young soldiers on perimeter watch.

Once the young corporal put up a delayed salute, Miller dismissed the sneer he’d been holding back while gauging the boy. Corporal…Lassiter?

Lister, sir.

Lister. Miller breathed steam through his nose. The corporal was too young for Miller’s taste. Maybe the kid had seen combat, and maybe he justified appointment to the single most important military unit ever put together through excellence, but Miller felt young people failed to fully appreciate the importance of duty. Quiet night, Corporal?

Quiet, Major.

Enjoy the silence. It never lasts. In no time, we’ll find our prey, and we’ll be engaged in violence.

Yes, sir.

If Miller didn’t know better, he would have thought the young man was being disrespectful, exhibiting sarcasm. That wasn’t possible, though. You’ve been involved in combat, Corporal Lassiter. Wait. Sorry. Lister. You’ve been in combat, Lister?

I saw action in Kazakhstan and the Philippines before the sleep.

Kazakhstan? Good work that. You should be proud of it.

The corporal looked away. I guess so, Major.

He guessed so. Let me gift you with a little wisdom about the ways of war, Corporal. You contribute to the betterment of society through war. The species weeds out the weak through violence, leaving the strong to rise to the top like cream. You understand?

Lassiter—Lister?—met the question with a slow turn. Would that be the society we knew before we went into hibernation or the one we woke to—Major?

It would be the ideal we affix our eyes to. You understand me?

I understand your beliefs, sir.

Good. Whether you hope to serve Director Darcangelo until your dying days or to find a woman among the unwashed heathens and convert her to the core values embraced by our people, the values of the nation are paramount.

I’ll surely keep that in mind, Major.

Heat rose in Miller, as if he was the one being warmed by a chemical thermos. This young man lacked the fundamental respect necessary for snot-nosed punks slowly climbing the ranks—

The corporal nodded downhill. Looks like they’ve arrived, sir.

Miller spun around and squinted into the dark. If this ridiculous corporal hoped to create a distraction to divert a superior’s attention—

Halfway down the hill, a light flashed.

A signal.

Miller unstrapped his own flashlight from the belt where he normally kept it Velcroed , then signaled back.

The figures hidden in the dark downslope responded with a series of quick flashes, and the major responded back, putting his flashlight away and straightening.

This was the next-to-last team, coming in from Wyoming double time so that the force didn’t have to waste time waiting. He didn’t know the lieutenant—Alcala—or his sergeant, but they’d done well enough catching up with the rest.

Sending the right message at this point was key, so Miller pointed down to where the light had flashed. When those two arrive, Corporal, send the lieutenant over to my tent.

Miller didn’t bother waiting for confirmation. The corporal had been given his orders. Back at the tent, the major unscrewed his thermos and bathed in the chocolatey steam of his drink. It was a tragedy that coffee had largely been relegated to more backwards parts of the world. Maybe that would change once this climate hiccup resolved itself.

He turned his head marginally at the sound of approaching boots. Lieutenant Alcala?

A shadowy shape snapped to attention and saluted. Major. We got here as quickly as possible.

The man certainly smelled like he’d been pushing himself hard for the last few days. No reason to hold that against him, of course. None of them smelled like a bundle of roses.

Still, Miller didn’t need to be downwind of the man. He shifted his position. Alcala. Is that Italian?

Spanish, Major. In my case, Filipino.

Oh, God. Miller hadn’t even considered the possibility of some islander being in the ranks. Very good, Lieutenant. Good to have you with us.

More booted steps approached, and two shapes detached from the gloom. One of them came to a stop, uniform rustling as he saluted. Morning, Major.

Good morning, Captain Watt. Miller didn’t bother to keep the disdain from his voice. Watt was his second-in-command by rank, but he was a problematic young man. Captain, meet Lieutenant Alcala.

They were mere shapes, dark forms in the deep gray of early morning. Watt towered over the others. He was broad-shouldered and muscular. Alcala didn’t even reach Miller’s eye level, but the two junior officers’ handshake was loud, their uniforms scraping as their arms moved. That was fine. Esprit de corps could be all the difference in a firefight amongst experienced combatants. Miller might not care for Alcala, but the man was part of the unit now.

Miller sipped some of the heated coffee, bitter and hot in the thermos. We should intercept the last of the detail somewhere close to Las Vegas. They’re racing in from Idaho.

It sounded like Alcala had cleared his throat. This assignment—our target doesn’t have a name?

He has a priority, Lieutenant.

I understand, Major. In addition to the priority you mention, does the target have a name? Do we have intelligence on this person?

His name is Benjamin Darcangelo.

Only the cool breeze made noise for a while.

It was Watt who broke the silence. "Colonel Darcangelo?"

You have a problem with that, Captain?

No problem at all, Major. I think you might call it healthy curiosity.

He’s a traitor. We’ll eliminate him. Does that satisfy your curiosity?

In answer, the captain looked away, shadowy face now in profile.

Good. He’d received the message, then. Watt knew his place, ultimately.

But people like this Alcala, with their cockiness and questions and lack of professionalism—they were a problem. Miller wasn’t sure how a Filipino had managed to clear the rigorous screening of the Dark Angels. There had been no quota, no checklists and pressures from command, no threats to withhold funding without adjustments. Either the screeners had let one slip through or Alcala really was a qualified professional.

Miller had his suspicions about which was more likely. Lieutenant Alcala, I want you and your sergeant on point. We’ll be breaking camp in one hour. You think you can manage that?

Sergeant Jones twisted his ankle a couple miles back, sir. I had hoped to let him elevate it a little—

Have him elevate it tonight.

The Filipino officer nodded slowly. We can be ready in an hour, Major.

After hesitating for just long enough to send another clear signal, Miller returned the other man’s salute. Once the lieutenant was away, Miller turned to Watt. Even in the near-dark, there was visible tension coming off the other man.

Watt’s chin came up. Permission to speak frankly, Major?

We’re all professionals, Captain.

Those two soldiers just hauled ass across the desert to get down here for this assignment. Twisted ankle or not, they’re in no condition to be on point.

You have problems with my command decisions already?

The captain’s chin jutted out more prominently. I would like to volunteer my—

Thank you, Captain. Volunteering shows initiative. Unfortunately, I have already decided to allocate you and your teammate to the rear. Perhaps that initiative you’re feeling will prove helpful in preventing anyone flanking us.

Oh, if only there had been more light, with the sun sneaking up in the east to transform the sky into a glowing revelation, to strip back the deceit and vanity no doubt poisoning this young captain’s little head. What would Miller see in this larger man’s cocky, handsome features? What sort of dangerous chutzpah would betray the man’s big mouth?

Watt must have felt just how much his words had betrayed him, because his uniform whispered as he saluted. Understood, Major.

Now only one other shadowy form remained, the smallest yet. From the familiar smell of unbrushed teeth as well as the compact silhouette he cut, Miller knew the man as the junior officer on the team, Lieutenant Brett Stevens. The young man might not know his dental hygiene, but he did know his professional obligations and decorum.

Stevens sniffled, a sign of some sort of ongoing sinus issue. Perhaps that was why his breath was always so foul. You handled that whole situation admirably, sir.

Warmth shot through Miller’s cheeks. It was good to have someone not only capable but willing to pass along appropriate observations. Miller was an exceptional officer, and he knew it. Sometimes, Lieutenant, people lose sight of our ultimate goal.

Or they misconstrue it, sir.

"Perhaps. It is not something I will ever fail to prioritize. We are chartered—obligated by destiny—to make America in its old image."

It’s why I signed on, sir.

Wasn’t that something to appreciate? Such patriotism! "Me as well, Lieutenant. I remember history well enough to know our failings. We had a clear image when the first settlers declared themselves free of British tyranny—a white image."

I’ve heard Captain Watt talk about that.

You have, have you?

He speaks openly about it, interrupting me when I remind him of our oath. He says that men and women of every color and persuasion gave their lives making this world what it was. Can you imagine that, sir?

Miller snorted. "Our concern is with how America was meant to be. Our Founding Fathers had a vision, and it cannot be questioned."

The captain says that vision was meant to be open-ended.

That’s a dangerous misinterpretation. It was a failure when we didn’t purge such thinking from educational institutions, Lieutenant.

It was, sir. The smaller man moved in close, his breath strong enough to make Miller gag. I said before we went into hibernation that Captain Watt was out of line with some of his views.

Out of line? The man sounded dangerously close to treasonous! Miller wondered if Watt had been one of the colonel’s recruits, and the AI had failed to note that in the man’s files. Not to worry, Lieutenant. You don’t take down someone like Ben Darcangelo without losing people.

Did the smaller man gasp at that, as if excited by the implications? There was almost enough light that…yes…he was smiling almost rapturously. We all accept our roles, sir.

We do. As my Academy instructor once told me, sometimes, trimming away the sick branches can save the tree.

A very sick tree, sir. Very sick.

Not to worry, Lieutenant. Once we eliminate Colonel Darcangelo, the healing will begin immediately.

No signal. No signal. No signal.

Unit 105 trudged across the static haze of the desert, switching on audio input sensors every minute for a five-second burst of scans, then switching them off again. It detected nothing out of the ordinary: the low hiss of a breeze, the skitter of some animal rushing across the sand.

The robot paused, rotating its torso to allow for a more thorough scan of the vast, open surroundings.

Sand. Subtle elevation changes. Rock. Bright sunlight that recharged solar batteries. Its internal sensors updated temperatures—external and internal—and tested for any hint of the low-power guidance network, then switched off.

All systems were go.

A shape matching its own registered on the optical input, and after consulting its cached directives, 105 altered its course.

Priority 5: Connect with other assault units. Establish sufficient combat capacity to engage human targets.

The distant shape matched this directive, even though the shape did not move.

Ninety-three meters separated the robots. This data was stored in 105’s memory once it reached its destination. When it reached the other robot, a quick data burst produced no response. The unit had power and showed no sign of damage, but it did not move.

No signal. No signal. No signal.

Each unit had cached directives and priorities. To shut down in this way, the other unit must have exhausted its instructions prior to any signal updating with further directives and priorities.

To address the priority of establishing sufficient combat capacity would mean finding a signal that would update the inert unit.

Once again, 105 turned to its previous course and began its march in search of a connection with its network.

The mission would be completed. Time was the only unknown.

CHAPTER TWO

One of Nieman Gault’s first memories was of Momma walking him uphill toward Fremont Peak. It had been late autumn, with the worst of the summer brightness nothing now but a faded tan. He remembered the way the air grew harder to breathe, how it took on a completely different taste and smell with the stubborn trees holding on like he did to Momma’s hand.

She’d had strong hands, the sort of hands that worked dough and stacked big bags of flour and unloaded supply trucks. Despite that sturdiness, she’d maintained a femininity about her, a grace and poise that would never leave Nieman.

Climbing that slope, her grace was on full display, thick legs powering on when the dirt turned to sand, keeping her balance on the narrow trails.

Carrying him when his own legs gave out.

He blew into his cupped hands now that he had that same slope to himself, searching for the sun in the muddy sky to the east, hoping the light hadn’t abandoned them after their misguided slaughter of the people of Nellis Complex.

Nieman was absolutely sure now the attack had been a terrible mistake.

Sobs shook him, the tears of regret salty as he remembered putting Pablo in the ground. Death had taken that beautiful man far too soon, and the loss was a raw gash that would never heal in Nieman’s chest. The cold desert dark couldn’t numb him enough to forget what was gone. Another day without food wouldn’t provide enough distraction to allow the first moments of healing to begin.

Far below, lights flickered inside the tight-packed settlement. At the northeastern edge, there was enough light to see the old reservoir. Pablo’s family had put the settlement’s first foundations down on that site, as wise a move as anyone could make, but with his death, the last of that family was gone.

Leading the people of Flagstaff Independence Settlement was too much for Nieman. The weight of it threatened to smother him, to crush him. It was an obligation he had to take on. Who else could do it? Viola?

He snorted and thumbed away tears.

That was one dangerous bitch. Momma would’ve warned him to never take his eyes off such a woman. No way was he going to, either.

There were things needing done, and he intended to see to them.

Cold wind breathed over him, dragging shivers out of him despite the Army surplus field jacket he wore. Along with the pine sweetness, the air had a bite that cut right through his faded jeans. In another hour, he’d be lamenting the loss of that coolness, drenched in sweat and feeling the tingle of too much sun on his flesh.

Now was the time to begin the descent.

Nieman stuck to the trail, occasionally flicking on his flashlight to be sure he didn’t wander off, maybe tumbling down the slope and snapping his fool neck.

"You can be a damned fool, boy."

Momma had an endearing way, she did.

As he approached the four men hunched around the crude wooden gate protecting the western entry to the settlement, the sun colored the sky molten gold and indigo. Like most of the Citizen Watch, they were burly men, some taller than him, all of them heavier. They sported rifles and pistols—most with one on each hip—and one of the gate crew had a sawed-off shotgun on a strap around his neck. For now, Nieman was fine with the single pistol holstered on his own hip.

Even before the barrel of processed shit lit them up enough to pick out details, Nieman caught their odors, mingled in with the burning fuel.

The one with the shotgun turned from the others, raised a chin in greeting, then glanced out toward the hills. Gonna break your neck out there, Nieman.

I stay careful.

Climbing around in the dark… The stout man scratched his wild, bushy beard, a messy red in the early light. Leader’s gotta think about his people is all. Dangerous in the dark.

Good point, Earl. I’ll do that.

As Nieman walked past the shorter man, the anticipated slap on the back landed. The slap of beefy palm on heavy jacket summoned nods and mutterings of morning from the other three.

Then Nieman was through the gate and walking the concrete streets of the settlement. Here, there were no dormitories or barracks like those oddballs up in Nellis had used. People had pilfered building materials from the south to make their homes in this settlement, enough so that every family laid claim to its own miniature fortress—wood frame and adobe exterior. Most followed the same floor plan: an open living space, a bedroom that might be split in half for children, and an armory.

Anyone dumb enough to come up against Flagstaff was going to learn a hard lesson.

Like Nellis had…

He shuddered and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he neared the center of the settlement, a modest building that served as the seat of government and his own home for the last several years. Surrounding adobe walls rose ten feet high, enclosing the square plot. This would be the last line of defense should the settlement’s wall somehow fall to attackers.

That was a fanciful thought, but the sight of Nellis’s defenses had made Nieman reassess the design of Flagstaff. If it hadn’t been for some healthy deception and good luck…well, maybe he’d be interred next to Pablo.

Nieman stopped at the gate, threw a small wave at the two women watching him from the opening, then headed back onto the grid of adobe bricks. His boots thumped against the ochre lane, lined with an intricate network of cracks and divots.

He wasn’t ready to start the day just yet. Something had been eating at him since his return, and he couldn’t put it off any longer.

The next building beyond the leader’s house was a smaller brick structure with its own walls.

A stoop-shouldered man with a baseball cap long drained of color lowered his rifle barrel to point at the ground. Come to see the prisoners, Nieman?

Beyond that entry, lights shone through the building’s shuttered windows. It was just enough light to know the basics of the place: small cells with sand floors, a larger area for the jailers to rest on chairs set behind a sturdy desk recovered from some office building. Sewage reached his nose even this far out, a reflection of the inadequacy of the design.

How could they justify putting women and children in such conditions? These had been noncombatants, some of them jerked from sleep when the attack on Nellis had begun.

Nieman swallowed. How they been doing?

The guard shoved his baseball cap back, revealing a high forehead and thinning yellow hair. Can’t say as I’d expect anything more than they exhibit.

Mm. Nieman could appreciate that.

He strolled through the sandy yard, then knocked on the door, stepping back to allow whoever was on guard to see through the peephole. No one wanted to invest their limited resources into trading for a true secure door, so a hole drilled through and sealed by a coin nailed to the door would have to do.

After a few seconds, the door opened, and a white-haired man a full foot shorter than Nieman stepped back, jerking his bearded chin toward the cells, out of sight from the entry. They ain’t awake yet. Want I should roust ’em?

No need for that, Waylon.

Nieman breezed past the two sleeping guards stretched out on wide, cobbled-together benches of sun-bleached wood, then came to a stop at the entry to the prison proper.

Could there really be a proper prison? This place rarely held people for more than a couple days, shoving them into a cell to sleep off a fight or the rare bout of drunkenness when someone traded for liquor.

Now, the little cells were stuffed full of kids and women.

He might prefer men, but Nieman knew that some of the ladies were pretty enough. Two in particular stood out, healthier and less worn by the sun than their contemporaries. They also stood out in the settlement because they were different, darker and what he’d call exotic. The tall one was black, he thought, although he’d gauge her more of a coffee-and-cream shade, which made her lighter than his own coppery skin. No denying, the woman was pretty, and the tight T-shirt and shorts revealed a fit figure.

The other was…even more different. She had lighter hair, fuller lips, and a larger nose.

Momma would’ve known how to identify the lady.

"This here world, it takes all sorts to make it work, boy. You don’t judge no one by anything but what they do to you and for you, and you’ll be one giant step ahead of most."

What had these people done to him, to Flagstaff?

Nothing.

Nieman was about to pull back, to tell Waylon to be sure everyone got access to a bath, when movement in the farthest back cell to the right caught his attention.

A pained hiss—suppressed, as if through clenched teeth—preceded the scrape of a metal pail.

When Nieman realized the prisoner was relieving herself, he turned away.

Crying froze him in place. It wasn’t just the sound of someone miserable with their inhumane conditions, either. There was the jagged edge of real pain, the sort of gasping and sudden stopping that spoke to injury or sickness.

Once the sounds of peeing ended and the rasp of the pail came again, Niemen strode into the hallway, making sure his boots scraped on the concrete.

At the last cell, he came to a stop, blinking down at a young girl with wavy black hair and a plain, chubby face. Grime smeared the bronze cheeks, and blood caked the split at the center of her thin lips. She blinked small eyes red from crying, but she didn’t show fear.

To get closer to her level on the sandy floor, he knelt on the concrete strip separating the two groups of cells. Good morning.

The dark, bloodshot eyes blinked. Is it good? For you, I guess?

Every morning we wake up, isn’t that good? Momma had said as much.

My grandma said that. The young woman rubbed her belly, revealing an ugly scab for just a second before jerking her hand away and grimacing. Are you in charge of the prison?

I am.

That doesn’t sound like very much fun. She coughed, wincing again.

It isn’t. What’s your name, girl?

Yolonda. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to smile. I was going to be an engineer before…y’know. Rhea said I was going to be really good at it.

An engineer?

Mm-hm. She said I had a great mind for numbers. I like them. Adding, subtracting, multiplying, some of the more complicated equations. She said I would’ve loved going to college. I guess I’ll never know what it’s like to learn it all now. Yolonda suppressed another wince.

Nieman was about to reassure her she’d do fine, when he heard the outer door open. He looked back to see the guard from the outer wall whisper something to Waylon, who waved Nieman over.

He nodded at the young woman, then ambled out to the still-open door.

Waylon made a sour face and stroked his beard. Viola’s come lookin’ for you. Got an envoy, I suppose.

An envoy? Nieman grunted, squared his shoulders, and headed out. The petite woman stood on the concrete path, head held high. She’d spilled something milky on her blouse since they’d last spoke—her own milk, maybe. It could be baby vomit. That was the sour smell coming off of her. And sweat.

She inclined her head toward an older black man, tall and skinny, a small patch of silver whiskers under his full bottom lip. He wore white coveralls stained with the desert and grease.

Viola leaned closer. Name’s Kevin. Says he came down here to speak for Mila Shanina.

The names meant nothing to Nieman. Who?

She runs one of the Alliance complexes up near Nellis.

Ah. That seemed curious. Nieman pulled his pistol and handed it to Viola. He wants to talk to me?

This Mila has some offers to make.

Offers?

Viola examined the pistol, rubbing a thumb along the frame. He says she wants to talk about payments or apologies or whatever it takes to avoid war.

Nieman’s heart raced. Peace offerings? He’d been dreading the inevitable declaration of war. After all the losses they’d suffered, war could be a disaster. They had plenty of guns, sure, but owning ten guns didn’t mean a thing when it took one bullet to kill you.

He held his breath for a second. Sounds like diplomacy, I suppose.

Maybe. Viola squinted at the envoy. He said they’re prepared to defend themselves.

Wouldn’t anyone be—?

In one fluid motion, the younger woman raised the pistol, flicked off the safety, and squeezed off a shot. The thunder of the discharge made Nieman jump, but it was the cough of the envoy and the blood spurting from his throat that really made the Flagstaff leader shudder. What—?

Viola lowered the pistol and returned it to him. No diplomacy.

You shot—

She smirked. We’re going to wipe out The Alliance, Nieman. Kill. Them. All.

We haven’t decided on the next action.

We have now. I just made the decision for you. You’re welcome.

CHAPTER THREE

For some reason, Alonso couldn’t remember the way Nellis had looked before the fire. When she drove the shovel into the sand and leaned against the haft to catch her breath, nothing replaced the burned-out husks of buildings, no smell of faulty sewage rolled out from the living spaces to overwhelm the ash and cooked flesh, neither laughter nor shouting drowned out the sighing wind.

Nellis was dead, and there was no means for her to resurrect it even for a moment of release from the hell of the present.

She choked back a sob, feeling like a thief plundering Reggie’s misery.

To his credit, the former governor of The Alliance took no notice of the ruin. He paid even less notice to his surviving comrades. Instead, he shoveled like a machine, red eyes focused only on the sand, which he dug clear with steady, precise strokes. The blade of his tool bit deep, shushing as it scooped sand into a growing pile that would at some point cover the mass grave they would fill.

What pain he suppressed somehow made its way to Sae-Tan’s face. Mud caked her broad cheeks, paths gouged by tears that came in fits and starts. When the former Air Force officer stopped shoveling, it was to reach out a tentative shaking hand for the manager turned political leader.

There was no connection to be made right then, though, even though something had obviously happened between the two of them while Alonso and Borodin had been away at the Unified Lands capital.

Seeing the devastation, Alonso wasn’t sure connection could ever happen again between anyone who’d loved and lost in this doomed place.

She turned at the hacking cough of Borodin, who struggled to a stop a few feet away to dig twine from where it looped around his thick shoulders. The twine floated down to the tarp covered by the shattered cadavers pulled from the smoking, hollow shells that had once been homes to families and friends.

The former Ranger staggered away, wheezing and shaking, and dropped onto his butt, backhanding streaks of clear mucus from his face, then rubbing tears from his eyes.

Before she could say anything, Ben sensed her concern, looking up from his own shovel to jerk his head toward their recovering comrade.

Go to him. She didn’t need to hear the message.

Alonso cleared her throat. I’ll be right back.

No one looked up from their miserable task as she climbed from the hole, continuing their effort to create a new home for those lost to violence.

She tried not to look at the blackened skin and bloody smears covering every inch of the tarp, tried not to search the blistered and cracked flesh for any indication of who they were about to deliver to the earth.

There was no escaping that particular hell.

Cooked-away eyes looked back at her. Mouths, twisted and burned through, stretched in soundless screams to proclaim their horrific ends. Hideous wounds from shotguns and high-powered ammunition had punched through flesh young and old, taut and wrinkled.

By the time she settled to the ground beside Borodin, she’d seen the horrors gutting him. You need a break?

He spat and scraped soot from his face. That’s what I’m taking.

To the point. She loved that about him sometimes. I could gather the dead for a while.

No. You can’t. And I can’t shovel. Not yet. His body shook.

You worried about her?

Borodin twisted with some effort, looking eastward to where his daughter’s compound lay. We need to know.

She’s alive, YJ.

Not about her. We need to know about the other settlements.

Now it was Alonso’s turn to scan the horizon. She searched first to the east, then to the north and west. I don’t see smoke anywhere else.

Me neither.

You think they reserved some sort of special horror for Nellis? The old buildings outside the fenced-in space still stood, but that didn’t mean much. Whoever had conducted the raid probably had no idea of the potential treasure trove the former research facility buildings offered. Rhea said everything was fine this morning when they left.

The big man ran a hand over his shaved scalp, smearing more soot. We need to know.

He wasn’t going to budge off this, and she had no reason to rationally expect him to. Before their departure to serve their stint at President Verona’s side, things had already been frosty between Borodin and his daughter. Decades ago, her mother had stolen the child from her father’s side, and by raising her exclusively, the woman had passed along the same toxic, stubborn, argumentative streak that had ruined the family in the first place. Being away from Mila ate at Borodin, even after all the poisonous insults she’d hurled at him.

"A father might not like his daughter, but he will always love her."

That was the only explanation the former Ranger could ever provide after each heartbreak.

Alonso took his hand, squeezed it, then twisted it around to check the bite or scratch that had nearly taken him from her. The skin was still puffy and discolored, but the only pus that remained was caked in the gauze of the bandage she’d applied after escaping the Cheyenne Mountain facility.

His gaze was steady, calm. What do you say, Doc?

Fifty-fifty.

He chuckled, but she could see it in his eyes: It had been close, and he knew it. His strength might be returning, but the infection or disease or whatever had kicked his ass worse than anything he’d ever experienced was fading.

At least the pallor of his skin was lessening, the gray fading to his normally pink pastiness.

She pushed up, dusted sand from the oversized camouflage pants she’d stolen from his duffel bag, then returned to the hole. Sand rained down as she descended the slope they would eventually have to clear before climbing out. They weren’t even halfway into the task, and the sun was nearly gone.

Alonso tossed sand over her shoulder for a few minutes before trying to gain Sae-Tan’s attention. The engineer seemed completely absorbed in Reggie’s misery but finally noticed. Her eyes went to the gore-covered tarp, then to Borodin.

After a sigh, Sae-Tan lowered her eyes. He wants to talk to her?

He wants to check on the nearest compounds. It’s not just her. He’s worried about what happened here, whether anyone else was affected.

Reggie stopped shoveling, but he didn’t take his eyes off the bottom of the pit. I can draw him a map.

The way he said it, hollow and robotic…

A smile drew up the corners of Alonso’s mouth. It would mean a lot.

I understand.

She waited until he was out of the pit, then returned to shoveling, the sweat only then cooling in the wind. Shadows darkened the corners of the makeshift grave, and it hit her that this would soon be all that marked the passing of the people of this settlement. Sand would cover them, fill their mouths and eye sockets. They would be hidden from the world, and the light would be lost to them forever.

Hot tears tracked down her cheeks, completely unexpected and unwanted just then. These weren’t even her people, not yet. It felt like an encroachment, an uninvited intrusion into Reggie’s rightful sense of loss.

Ben tossed a shovel of sand out of the pit, then fixed his eye on her. Is he lost?

Sae-Tan wheeled around on the older man. His family was destroyed. He helped turn this place—

Whoa! The one-eyed man plunged the blade of his shovel into the sand. I’ve seen what can happen in these situations. I’m talking about his mental resilience.

He buried his wife less than a year ago, and now we don’t know what’s happened to his kid.

That’s tragic. I get that. Loss affects each person differently. Thing is, we haven’t found any small corpses. Maybe his kid’s all right.

There were other children. The way Reggie attached himself to them, every loss affects him.

Ben shot a look at Alonso, asking for help. She drove her shovel into the sand and leaned her face against her gloved hands. You don’t have any idea who could’ve done this?

Sure we do. Sae-Tan squeezed her eyes shut. The Dark Angels.

This doesn’t look like their sort of work.

Not directly. Why get your hands dirty when you can manipulate someone else into doing it for you?

At that, Ben nearly seemed to lose his grip on his shovel. You think they were involved in this?

The engineer sighed. That facility I told you about?

With the robots?

We got a look into the Arda system. We saw that the AI had been listening in on Dark Angel communications somehow. Actually, Reggie sort of figured that out. There were messages about assassinating leaders in Flagstaff.

Yeah, I’m still not getting the connection between robots and whatever settlement—

They’re kind of a fringe group down there, a bunch of groups committed to wiping out any threats on their borders. Reggie said he’d been working with them off and on for the last couple years, trying to get them to see the value of some sort of alliance rather than risk— The engineer’s chin shook. —this.

That seemed to fill in the gaps for the older man. They weren’t onboard yet.

And they weren’t convinced they ever would be. It was hard to get them to see the threat the people out in Colorado posed. If Reggie’s Alliance fell, well, that was just a sign of weakness.

All right. The one-eyed man dug a few scoops out, then stopped again. The devil you know.

Alonso blinked and realized she’d been paying more attention to the exchange between Borodin and Reggie than the discussion between Ben and Sae-Tan. Somehow, the older man’s words had pierced the distraction.

He narrowed his eye at the former major.