Bingwen offered a hand and pulled, but it was Grandfather who did most of the work, getting one foot under him and then another, slowly, painfully getting to his feet.
"Don't let me sit and rest again," he said. "Hurts too much to get back up." He inhaled deep and winced. "Hurts to breathe, too." He gingerly raised his arms above his head, stretching, testing the threshold of his pain. Then he lowered them, out of breath. "I need a length of fabric, Bingwen. To tie around my chest and keep my breaths shallow. And a staff."
Bingwen looked around him. The area outside the library was d
eserted now except for the four of them. Homes lined both sides of the staircase that twisted up the hillside, and the lights inside the homes were mostly on. Bingwen could hear people talking in hushed, hurried voices. Fear, their voices said. Fear and death.
Two houses up, a clothesline stretched between two homes. A sheet flapped on the line, lifting and falling with the updrafts from the valley below. Bingwen ran to the sheet, listened a moment, then yanked it down and threw it over his shoulder. At the same home, by the edge of the roof, a two-meter length of bamboo stretched from the corner of the roof to the rain barrel, directing the runoff. Bingwen turned the bamboo and pulled it free of its lashings, then carried both items to Grandfather.
"That's stealing," said Meilin.
"No," said Grandfather. "That's minding your elders. Rip the sheets into long strips, Bingwen."
Bingwen dug in the dirt for a stone, found one with an edge, then worked it in the sheet enough to tear it. Then he got his fingers in the hole and ripped the sheet easily.
They made long strips, wrapping them tight around Grandfather's chest and putting the knot far from the wound. "Tighter," Grandfather kept telling them, until it was so tight Bingwen was afraid Grandfather might not be able to breathe at all. But it was only then that Grandfather's face finally relaxed.
"Good. Yes, good," he said. He sounded old and tired and leaned on the bamboo. "Now down the stairs with us."
The four of them took to the stairs, moving at Grandfather's pace, taking each step slowly, one at a time. Grandfather's free hand rested on Bingwen's shoulder for support, clutching at the boy's shirt.
"You two run on home," said Grandfather, nodding to Hopper and Meilin. "I'll not keep you. Your families will fear for you."
"We're staying with you," said Meilin. "If you fall down the stairs, Bingwen will never get you home."
Grandfather leaned on his staff and laughed, which instantly brought on a new wave of pain that nearly buckled him. "Don't make me laugh, child. Or I will fall."
Bingwen grabbed Grandfather's belt to steady him more, and Grandfather nodded his thanks. Then Grandfather took a breath and, moving slower than before, continued down the staircase.
We won't get home before sunrise, Bingwen realized. Not at this pace. Not with three kilometers of rice fields to traverse. He watched Grandfather's feet, shuffling forward, carefully maneuvering each step.
Step. Shuffle. Step. Shuffle.
Bingwen looked up. It was a cloudless night. The Milky Way and millions of stars arced across the sky. One of the stars seemed particularly bright. At first Bingwen thought it might be a plane or a high-altitude skimmer. But the light didn't move. It didn't blink. It stayed there, staring down at him, unflinching. Bingwen kept his eyes on it, waiting for it to drop from the sky and spill fire.
CHAPTER 11
HERC
Mazer doubted he would get through to the NZSAS, but he went to his office to try contacting them anyway. It was the middle of the night, and the administration building was dark and deserted when he arrived. The holodesk was on and waiting for him, cycling through images of Chinese soldiers in combat gear. Mazer wiped his hand through the field, and the images disappeared, replaced with a menu of Chinese characters. The base didn't have an English model, but Mazer knew enough characters to operate the thing. He tapped out the appropriate commands and waited.
The star icon spun in the field, indicating the uplink was pinging Auckland. Mazer had tried this hours ago, but the grid had been too congested then. Trying now, moments after the alien ship had fired upon news shuttles and essentially declared war on the human race, would almost certainly prove a waste of time; every secure link in the New Zealand Army would be in use now.
To Mazer's surprise, there was a chime, and a New Zealand comms technician appeared in the holofield. The tech was young, barely eighteen, and looked frazzled.
"NZ comms," said the tech. "You are connected. Identify. Over."
"Captain Mazer Rackham requesting immediate contact with Colonel Napatu at Papakura. NZSAS."
"One moment, sir." The tech busied himself with offscreen controls.
Mazer watched him. He's not frazzled, Mazer realized. He's afraid. He's scared out of his buck-private mind because the world he thought he knew, a world in which nothing questioned our position at the top of the food chain, was just thrown out with the bathwater.
The tech finished whatever he was doing. "I'm sorry, Captain. Colonel Napatu is inaccessible. Shall I patch you through to the SAS switchboard?"
"Yes, please."
"One moment."