Independence Day: Crucible (The Official Prequel) (34 page)

“Stop there,” one of the men said.

Dikembe sized them up.

“You,” he said, pointing. “You are Mayele. You fought with my brother in the Salt Ridge battle. You fought alongside me when we cleared the lowlands.”

“That is true, my prince,” Mayele said.

“Don’t listen to him,” the apparent leader said. He was young, with wide-set eyes. He wore the insignia of a captain. “He is not a prince. The president has declared him a traitor and an outlaw, and that he is possessed by the demons.”

Dikembe ignored him, and instead turned his attention to a big man, who also bore the alien tattoo and hash marks on his arm.

“And you,” he said. “Jelani. I saw your brother and his family safely out of the country. You are aware of this.”

Jelani’s gaze dropped, as if to study the chalky dirt of the road.

Dikembe took a step forward. The captain brought his rifle to bear.

“You,” he said to the captain. “What’s your name? I don’t know you.”

“Faraji,” the man said. “Stop there.”

“Faraji,” Dikembe said. “Put down your gun.”

“I will not,” Faraji said. He motioned with his hand. “Take him prisoner,” he told the others. “Don’t any of you remember? He conspired against our country.”

“I conspired against my father,” Dikembe said, “because he is mad and he is destroying you, all of you. I’ve been across the border. There are no monsters out there, and the only monsters in Umbutu are those we have made of ourselves. Faraji, you were too young to fight, so you never knew their touch. Never learned to hunt them by sensing how they hunted us.

“I have known that. Mayele and Jelani know what I mean, and they remember what it was like to follow their princes into battle—the twins of Umbutu. What it was like to fight to save your people rather than to repress them.” He looked at the two men he knew. “It was a different feeling, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jelani said softly. “It was.” He raised his rifle and pointed it at the captain. “Faraji,” he said. “Lower your weapon.”

Mayele made his decision and covered the fourth man, who hadn’t said anything. That man dropped his weapon, but Faraji’s gun was still pointed at Dikembe’s heart.

“Put it down, son,” Dikembe said. “None of us need die here.”

“I will not betray Umbutu,” the captain said.

“You betray nothing,” Dikembe said. “I have come to see my father. I will not meet him as a prisoner, but as a son come of his own free will. Step aside.”

“Faraji,” Jelani said. “You are fixed to marry my sister. I do not want to kill you, but if you murder my prince, I will put you down like a dog.”

Faraji’s lips tightened across his teeth. Then slowly, slowly he lowered the weapon. Jelani took it from him, and his sidearm as well. They also disarmed the other man, who had yet to speak.

“Do not harm them,” Dikembe said. “We are all one people. We should not be killing each other.”

“What should we do?” Jelani asked.

“Make sure they don’t have any radios,” he said. “Take their jeep and follow me. By the time they can walk to an outpost, it won’t matter anymore.”

* * *

The village of Zuberi’s birth was only a few kilometers from the capital. It was a small place, with less than a hundred houses, most thatched with grass although a few were roofed in tin. The streets were dusty with red dirt, and the children playing in them fled at the approach of the jeeps.

Memory served Dikembe well—he had little trouble locating Zuberi’s house. When he approached, Zuberi’s eldest son, Moke, came to the door. He was fourteen and looked frightened, but also determined.

“Moke,” Dikembe said. “Is your father home?”

Moke’s eyes widened as he recognized him.

“No, my prince,” he said. “He is at the capital, with your father.”

Dikembe noticed someone approaching from behind Moke—a man in the uniform of his father’s Home Guard. Dikembe drew his pistol.

The man looked surprised, and cut his eyes. Following his gaze, Dikembe saw the assault rifle leaning against the wall on the inside of the house.

“Don’t, brother,” Dikembe said.

“I know who you are,” the man said.

“I have no quarrel with you,” Dikembe said. “Come out of the house.” From the corner of his eye he saw Jelani come up on his right. That seemed to do it—the guardsman held up his hands and stepped across the threshold into the harsh sunlight.

“Is your father here?” Dikembe asked Moke again.

“No,” he said. “It is as I said.”

“Then ask your mother to come out,” Dikembe said.

Moke vanished into the house and returned in a few moments with Eshe, a small woman with pleasant, round features.

“Dikembe,” she said. “How can this be?” She took a step back, as if fearing he wasn’t who he said he was.

“Eshe,” he said. “Do you remember who kept watch by the granary the first time you and Zuberi—”

Her eyes went wide.

“Hush,” she said. “My children are here.” But she looked relieved.

“Has this man hurt you?” Dikembe asked, nodding at the guardsman.

“No,” she said, “but I am afraid of him. He says my husband sent him, but I do not believe it.”

“Don’t listen to this woman,” the guardsman said.

“Well?” Dikembe said, moving to confront him. “What were your orders?”

“I won’t tell you that,” the man said.

“No?” Dikembe said. He took three quick steps and clubbed the man in the nose with the butt of his pistol. The guardsman cried out and staggered back. He tried to flee but Jelani was there, and knocked him off his feet.

Dikembe chambered a round.

“What are you doing with my friend’s family?” he asked softly. “You have exactly one chance to answer me. Then I shoot your kneecap.”

“Wait,” the man gasped. He was having trouble breathing for all the blood coming from his nose.

“I’m listening,” Dikembe said.

“Your father fears Zuberi may be disloyal. I was sent here to—make certain of his loyalty.”

Dikembe nodded. That was what he’d thought.

“Handcuff this man,” he told Jelani. “Eshe, get your family together and pack anything essential. Jelani, you are to take them through the checkpoint. Find them lodging across the border. Mayele, you go with him. Take this man, too, and leave him along the roadside. Alive.”

“Yes, my prince,” Jelani said. “But what of you?”

“You’ve already served me very well, my friend,” Dikembe said. “You’ve done your part. Stay with Zuberi’s family and keep them safe until you see him or me again.”

“God keep you, my prince,” Mayele said.

“And you,” Dikembe answered. He began walking toward his father’s compound.

“You’re not taking the jeep?” Jelani called after him.

“No,” Dikembe said. “It’s a nice day to walk.”

“My prince, it’s fifteen kilometers,” he said.

“I’ve been in a hole for months,” he said. “I can use the exercise.” He had drawn quite a crowd now, and many of them came forward to touch him. He shook their hands and patted the boys and girls on the head.

“Where are you going, Prince Dikembe?” one of the boys asked.

Dikembe squatted down in front of him.

“I am not a prince,” he said. “I am just a man, and I am going to see my father, who is also just a man.”

* * *

“Keep it real up there,” Dylan said, as he and Jake fist-bumped.

“Always,” Jake said. He looked confident almost to the point of swaggering, but Dylan knew it was mostly a bluff. Deep down, Jake had to be as nervous as he was.

The trials had been getting more and more difficult. Some pilots had dropped out because they couldn’t handle the stress. Others were eliminated in the hops themselves. Now there were only eight still in the running for the North American slot in Legacy Squadron.

Like the moon run, a lot of the Earthbound tests had pitted squadron against squadron, with points awarded to the members to create rankings. A few had been simpler—like the time they had been challenged to make a series of high-speed maneuvers over open ocean while practically skimming the swells. There, pilots had been eliminated individually.

You just never knew, not until they announced it.

He took a deep, steadying breath and climbed into his cockpit, wondering what was in store this time. He checked his instruments, wondering how different the new H-8s would be that Legacy Squadron would fly. Probably not very in the cockpit, but he’d heard crazy things about their speed and maneuverability.

He glanced over at Jake, who seemed to be studying his instruments as well. But then he saw the other man was holding something, a little rectangle. His picture of Patricia, the one he kept in the cockpit.

Dylan still didn’t quite know what to make of that—partly because he tried his best not to think about it. Jake was a good enough guy, but Patricia deserved something better than good enough, and he figured she would have realized that by now.

His radio suddenly came to life.

“Alright,” the flight officer said. “Final training hop. Grand Canyon Run, winner takes all.”

For an instant, Dylan’s mind went blank. The Grand Canyon Run was a flight simulator program they’d done back in the first year of flight school. It was a sort of homage to his father, who had survived a dogfight with an alien fighter by luring it into the canyon.

What…?
Then Dylan got it.

“Crap,” Jake said. “This is going to be fun.” Obviously Jake got it too. Their H-7s leapt up almost at the same time, quickly followed by the other six.

Getting there will be half the battle
, he thought. It would be the only part of the flight where he could fly full-throttle. He turned his nose in what he thought was the right direction while playing with the nav computer to get his bearings. Some of the others were taking it more cautiously, plotting their courses before coming to speed.

Dylan went full throttle, hoping the vector in his gut lined up pretty closely with the one his flight computer would give him in a few moments.

The Grand Canyon. How many times had he heard his dad tell that story?

“You can simulate it all you want,” he’d told Dylan, when he was in flight school, “but the real thing—that there’s a beast.”

* * *

Winner take all
, Jake mused. No more points for teamwork, no more holding back. It was a race, pure and simple. A race he could win.

In the simulator they had always entered the canyon from the west, just as Steven Hiller had in his legendary flight from the ruins of Los Angeles, so he set his flight path and throttled up. About that time a stream of target data started coming in, and he realized things weren’t as simple as he’d thought.

The Grand Canyon was wide at the top, many kilometers across in some places, a few hundred meters in others. A pilot could drop ten meters below the rim and fly through the whole canyon without any worries.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

New figures appeared on the screen. Depth goals—points in the vast, twisting chasm where they would be required to fly just meters above the Colorado River. Down there, things could get much, much narrower.

“This is gonna be like nothing we’ve ever done,” he said. “Parts of that thing are so tight…”

“Keep your shields up if you’re worried,” Dylan shot back.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Sure will. Thanks for the advice.” But he had no intention of keeping his shields up. Shields used power, and they created drag when deployed in an atmosphere. Shields would make him slower, and today he was going to go
fast
.

He sped over Lake Mead at over Mach 2, and seconds later was in the canyon. By that time one of the pilots—Martin—was lagging so far behind it was hard to see how he could catch up. The others, however, were now tightening in toward each other. Jake was slightly ahead of the pack, followed closely by Moffett and then Dylan.

Jake’s nervousness began to melt away as he took his first dive. It was a straight stretch, but down near the river the walls closed in pretty tightly. He wondered what it had been like to do this with an enemy shooting at you, and his estimation for the late Steve Hiller rose a notch, even though it had always been pretty high.

Flying in space was far easier than this. There was much less to slam into. Once he hit his depth, he decided to stay low and save time for the next descent. Behind him he saw Dylan trying to pull around Moffett, but the likeable southern boy wasn’t having any of that, maneuvering in front of him each time. Jake could imagine his friend’s frustration, and it brought a little grin to his face.

The canyon took a sharp bend, almost too sharp. He saw Tong and Kerry above, at a safer altitude, beginning to pass, and increased his speed slightly. They were going to have to come down in a minute to hit their mark.

“Morrison, Moffett,” Dylan’s voice came over the radio. “Let’s keep those guys up there.”

“Now that sounds like a plan,” Jake said. He took the H-7 right to the top of the next altitude goal, as did the two behind them.

“You’d better clear out,” Tong said. “I’ll go right through you.”

“You can try,” Jake said.

He heard Tong cursing, not quite under his breath.

Jake, Dylan, and Moffett maneuvered wildly through the narrow chasm. As Moffett had been denying Dylan the chance to pass on the right or left, they were now keeping Kerry and Tong from descending to the altitude required by the test.

“Kerry, Tong, you’re both out,” the flight director said.

Jake whooped. “Good call, Dylan,” he said.

“Thanks,” Dylan replied. Then he flipped his fighter so one wing was pointed skyward and another toward the canyon floor, and rushed past Moffett. He then jetted right past Jake, pulling into the lead. Moffett yelped in surprise and broke hard, nearly hitting the wall. He recovered by climbing and climbed too high, putting him out of the contest as well.

Jake swore silently. The canyon opened back out a bit and he pushed the H-7 hard, but Dylan still had the lead when it began to tighten again.

Each step he took along the packed red dirt of the road made Dikembe feel curiously stronger, as if the land itself was lending him strength. He knew the exhilaration was probably some sort of delusion caused by months of sensory deprivation, and intellectually he knew this wasn’t likely to end well for him.