Earth Afire (The First Formic War 2)

A loud crack sounded, and the side of the Formic's head exploded. Tissue and blood and maybe brain matter blew out in a spray. The Formic crumpled, dropping from Mazer's view.

A cacophony of sounds erupted all around Mazer: the roar of an engine, automatic gunfire, shouting, an explosion. All of it happening in rapid succession.

"Hold on!" someone shouted. "Don't move."

Mazer felt weight placed on the net to his left, pressing the net slightly tighter to his face. Then there was a pop, and the energy surging through him stopped in an instant. He had never felt a sweeter feeling or a greater relief. It was as if his mind had been squeezed in a fist and now the fist had released him. Only ... he still couldn't move his body. He was limp, his fingers and toes tingling. He told his feet to move, but they didn't listen.

Gloved hands ripped back the netting, pulling it off him. A man in a mottled black-and-gray body suit and mask--not an inch of his skin exposed--was above him. "Bax, help me get him inside. Calinga, grab the boy."

The man in the mask rolled Mazer off of Bingwen and onto his back, then he got his arms under Mazer's armpits. Another man in a matching suit and mask grabbed Mazer's ankles. They lifted him. He was dead weight. Mazer's head lolled to the side, showing him Formics on the ground, bleeding out, dead. Smoke billowed out of their transport. It lay flat on the ground, no longer hovering, burned out. The netting was on the ground too, discarded in a heap. A crude-looking device lay on top of it, something to short-circuit the net, perhaps. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of dead Formics.

The men carried him into a large vehicle and laid him on the floor, the metal surface cold and hard and unforgiving. A third man in a black suit rushed inside behind them, carrying Bingwen. The instant he was in, another man slammed the door shut and yelled to the driver. "Go go go!"

Tires spun. The vehicle shot forward, bouncing, rattling, accelerating. The man holding Bingwen--Calinga they had called him--lay Bingwen down on the floor beside Mazer, bunching up a piece of fabric under Bingwen's head as a pillow. Bingwen appeared limp and frightened, but when he made eye contact with Mazer, a look of relief washed over him. We're safe, it seemed to say. We're alive.

There was a long bench in front of Mazer, where several men sat in mottled gray-and-black containment suits, feverishly working with their holopads. "No movement from the lander," one of them said. "Sky's clear."

Someone behind Mazer responded. "Keep watching. And keep tracking that transport we saw heading north. If it so much as decelerates to head back this way, I want to know."

"Yes, sir."

"Air is clear," said another man. "Ninety-seven percent. We're good."

"Masks off," said the man behind Mazer.

The men removed their masks. Mazer didn't recognize any of them, but he could tell by the way they handled themselves that they were all soldiers, expertly trained. They instantly began caring for their gear, checking their weapons, reloading, readjusting sights, cleaning their masks, getting ready for the next fight as soon as the last one was over. Their movements were quick, disciplined, and automatic. They had done this a hundred times. The dead Formics behind them were already forgotten. They weren't congratulating themselves or celebrating their victory like amateurs; they were calm and procedural, going about business as usual.

They're expert Formic killers, Mazer realized.

It was only after their weapons were ready again that the soldiers saw to their own needs, taking a drink from a canteen, ripping open an energy pack.

None of them were Chinese, Mazer noticed. They were as diverse a mix of ethnicities and nationalities as Mazer had ever seen in a small unit. Europeans, Americans, Latinos, Africans. And yet their clothes revealed nothing as to who they were. No uniforms, no insignia, no rank. And yet Mazer knew at once who they were.

Calinga knelt beside him, preparing a syringe. "The paralysis is temporary. Residual effect of the zappers. This will help." He stuck the syringe into the meat of Mazer's arm. Almost at once, Mazer felt the knot in his muscles relax and the jittered shake of his hands subside. He hadn't even realized he had been trembling until he no longer was.

Calinga did the same for Bingwen.

Mazer could feel his fingers and toes again. His wrist responded when he told it to move. "Thank you," he managed to say.

"Talking already," Calinga said, as he packed up the syringes and supplies. "Good sign. Means they didn't cook your brain. Ten more seconds and you were heading for the gray mountain." He turned to Bingwen, his expression warm and cheery. "And you, little man, are lucky this guy took the brunt of the net. I know he's heavy and smelly and covered in mud, but it's better to be flattened by him than a zapper. Believe me." He patted Bingwen lightly on the arm.

"How long have MOPs been in China?" Mazer asked.

"Since right after the invasion," said the voice behind him.

Mazer knew that voice. He turned and faced Captain Wit O'Toole on the bench behind him.

"Hello, Mazer," said Wit. "I'm glad to see you still alive."

"So am I," said Mazer. "I have you to thank for that."

"You two know each other?" said Bingwen. He pushed himself up and removed the gas mask. His face was the only part of him not covered in mud.

"We tested Mazer for our unit," said Wit. "But instead of incapacitating my men and escaping the test, he endured nearly an hour of torture."

"You tortured him?" Bingwen was suddenly angry.

"Only a little," said Wit. "It couldn't have been worse than the zapper. And you are?"