Scott Mackay - Phytosphere

“Yes, but…there’s going to come a time…we’ve only got twelve crates of ammunition left.”

“Dad’s had Yuri wire the whole house with explosives. If we have to fall back to the cave, the house goes up.”

“You’re kidding.”

“If they get the house, there are all kinds of things they can use. We can’t let it fall into their hands.”

Glenda motioned at the sky. “Yes, but they keep coming.”

And, in fact, over the next half hour Rostov radioed and told them he had another five confirmed landings in the general vicinity, that listening posts and tree-mounted cameras had picked up increased activity, and that they should be prepared for a renewed and stronger offensive at any time.

The offensive came fifteen minutes later, with an unexpected burst of VMs floating up from behind the wall like a Fourth of July fireworks display. The modules drifted toward them with their customary whine, flickering like pulsars. All Glenda could think of was that if she got touched by one of those things the intense vibrations would turn her internal organs to mush. She grabbed Melissa and dragged her away from the sandbags.

In the few seconds it took them to take cover behind the portico’s granite pillars, two VMs drifted in under the vaulted ceiling and lit the dark space within—a space where luxury automobiles had once dropped off illustrious guests to Neil’s various hoity-toity gatherings. Her pupils contracted painfully in the sudden sharpness of the light. The two VMs swirled around as if looking for them. But then they targeted the house, driving into double oaken doors that had been shipped all the way from Scotland. In moments, the doors burst into splinters and their stone casing disintegrated into rubble.

Melissa shrieked the way all young girls shrieked—it didn’t matter if it was a VM or a spider, the shriek was the same.

Several other VMs exploded throughout the Marblehill complex. Then the Tarsalans commenced a fusillade of regular gunfire from scrounged Earth-made weapons, and bullets ricocheted off the portico’s granite pillars, creating sparks in the darkness. The few windows that hadn’t yet been shattered burst into fragments. The hail of gunfire was so intense and nonstop that Glenda was too afraid to move. She also feared that under the cover of such heavy gunfire the Tarsalans might make a significant advance across the lawn.

Just as she was thinking that she had to get back to the sandbags and return fire, no matter what, Jake ran from the west side of the house dragging Morgan behind him. Glenda’s first thought was to send him back immediately, because how could Rostov cover the west side all by himself? But a moment later she understood, and a moment after that, Jake confirmed it.

“They got Yuri, Mom! One of those VM things shook him to pieces!”

She told him to get down because he was just standing there looking too shocked to think straight. Then she glanced beyond his shoulder to the west side of the house, where she saw shadows moving among the dead ornamental cypresses. She flipped her night goggles down and counted five Tarsalans, their shaggy bison heads and misshapen bodies now making her think of Quasimodo—five hunchbacks coming toward them. She immediately switched her Montclair to repeater mode and fired in their direction. She got three of them, but the other two found cover behind the balustrade.

“Move!” she shouted, and pointed east.

Glenda, Jake, Melissa, and Morgan ran toward the east wing. As they ran, she glanced out at the front, and saw so many Tarsalans swarming across the broad front lawn that she didn’t have time to count them.

She and the kids ran past the garden shed and around the corner, where they found Neil on his stomach by the lily pond, shooting with focused deliberation into the woods at the side of the house. Fernandes lay next to him, scattering gunfire into the trees as well. Ashley lay motionless, her brown hair matted with blood, her dress twisted around her waist, half on her side, half on her back, her legs scissored as if she were stepping into nothingness. Glenda felt suddenly woozy, and her grief was immediate, because here was just a child, fifteen years old, a year younger than her own Hanna, and she was dead. Her eyes clouded with tears. She glanced at Jake. Jake was staring at his dead cousin, a look of profound solemnity on his face, his eyes wide in the dark. Morgan wept as Glenda, getting a grip on herself, pulled both children to the ground. Melissa ran to Ashley and tried to shake her, but then, as more gunfire came at them from the woods, sank instinctively to the ground, pulled her own Montclair up in a petulant and angry gesture, and fired sporadic short bursts as she swore under her breath.

“Neil!” Glenda cried over the gunfire.

He glanced back. He looked like a phantom through her night-vision goggles, like something that had crawled out of a grave and now glowed radioactive green. And, in fact, with his daughter dead next to him, he looked as if he didn’t belong here at all, and wasn’t really part of this battle anymore, but was in a quiet place where none of it could hurt him. Fernandes, meanwhile, went about combat in his usual businesslike way, as if it were just a chore that he had to get done. Ashley’s awful stillness, lying there half twisted on her side, gave the whole scene a surreal aspect. Morgan wept more persistently, but her weeping sounded different this time: resigned, accepting, just something her body had to do.

Glenda pointed out front. “There’s a bunch of them coming this way!”

Neil nodded and got to his knees, then to his feet. “Help me with Ashley.”

She stared at her brother-in-law through her light-gathering goggles. Didn’t he understand that Ashley was dead, and that to carry a corpse would hamper their efforts; that they might be sacrificing themselves for the sake of a gesture? But in their mutual moment of indecision, Fernandes was already up on his feet, hunching over, taking a few steps toward the dead girl, lifting her, and tossing her over his shoulder, his small frame showing immense strength. And the decision was made; they were taking Ashley with them, whether she was dead or not.

The group ran crouching along the east side of Marblehill, the venerable old manse rising darkly beside them, Fernandes leading, then Neil, then the three kids, and herself at the rear. Tarsalan gunfire continued from the front of the house, but it was wasted because all the humans were back here now. Neil swung round the rear of the house and headed west, toward the metal fire escape that led to the third floor.

“Where are you going?” she cried.

“Up to get Lenny and Hanna. Go to the cave.”

Another burst of VM fire came. It rose from the front of the house until it was high overhead, a total of nine modules altogether. They lit the tennis courts, the swimming pool, and the back of the house with a shifting green and blue light; and in this shifting light, Glenda saw Hanna, running as fast as she could down the metal fire escape, a look of unmitigated panic on her face.

“Where’s Lenny?” Neil called to her.

“They got him, Uncle Neil! They’re in the house! They came through the dining room window!”

“But Lenny has the detonator. Did you get it from him?”

“I couldn’t, Uncle Neil. He’s dead. I saw it.”

Neil turned to Glenda. “I’ve got to get that detonator. Take the kids to the cave.”

“Neil, if they’re in the house—”

“I’ve got to get it. If they get their hands on all our supplies…”

He ran up the stairs, passing Hanna on the way.

Hanna joined Glenda and the other kids behind the tennis courts. She glanced at Ashley. “She’s dead?”

Her voice was without inflection, as if she were too shocked to react.