"You'll breath fine. And it will be cleaner air than what's out here."
"What about you?"
"I'll manage." He slipped the mask over Bingwen's head and fiddled with the straps until the seal was good.
"How do I look?" Bingwen asked, his voice muffled by the mask.
"As alien as the Formics."
Bingwen smiled. "Perfect. It'll be my disguise. We'll use it to infiltrate. I'll be the Formic, and you'll be my weak human hostage. Works every time."
"Go to sleep, Bingwen."
Bingwen lay down on the bedroll. "You'll be here when I get up, right? You're not going to sneak off while I'm asleep?"
"I won't sneak off. You'd only find me anyway."
"You bet I would. I'd track you down." Bingwen rolled over onto his side and pulled his legs up, getting into a comfortable sleep position.
"How long had you been shouting my name before I found you?" Mazer asked.
"A few hours."
"The Formics could have heard you, you know. You could have called them down right on top of you."
"I know. Especially since 'Mazer' in their language means 'Here I am. Come kill me.'"
"Not funny," said Mazer.
"I tried looking for you. It wasn't working. If I had kept silent, I never would have found you. It knew it was a risk. I got lucky."
"Lucky is an understatement ... But I'm glad you found me. Now close your eyes."
Bingwen did so. "I feel like I have a bucket on my head. This thing is pressing into my ear. I can't sleep this way."
"Then don't sleep on your side."
"I have to sleep on my side. That's how I sleep."
Mazer shushed him. "If you're talking, you're not sleeping."
Bingwen fell silent. Soon, his breathing had slowed and he was asleep. Mazer leaned back against the tree, listening to the wind blow in from the south and rustle the wilted leaves overhead. The wind carried with it faint traces of a putrid smell--a smell Mazer hadn't noticed in a while. He sniffed the air and grimaced. It was the scent of bodies rotting in the sun.
He pulled his old shirt from his pack, ripped up the fabric, and tied a makeshift bandana over his mouth and nose. Then he took the sidearm from his hip and silently removed the clip. He took out the rounds and counted them. Then he reloaded the gun and did the math in his head, adding up the number of rounds from the other clips. About eighty rounds total. Not much at all.
So why was he going to the lander? Why was he being so insanely stubborn? Why did he think he could face an army of Formics?
Because of Kim, he told himself. Because he had left her so that she might have a life she deserved, and he wasn't going to let the Formics ruin that. Because of Patu and Reinhardt and Fatani and Bingwen's parents and Ye Ye Danwen. Because this was Bingwen's China, not theirs.
He settled back against the tree and recited the words of the haka his mother had taught him so long ago. A song of the Maori warrior. The dance of death.
Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!
Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!
Tenei te tangata puhuru huru
Nana nei i tiki mai, whakawhiti te ra