We see Rosita kneeling in front of a fence. An enormously fat pig sits on the other side of the wire, snorting and wagging its tail as Rosita feeds it something. (Note: This is Cindy the pig from the viral, now removed A Pig Plus Some Chickens account. See the folder “Day Four of Five” for a link to all associated photographs and videos. Note the RSN alert on photographs seven and nine in the folder.)
In the distance is a home and farm. Multiple banners hang from the barn, but they are unreadable. As the camera examines the pig (honestly, it can’t be understated how enormous this pig is), a quad approaches. On the quad is Clyde Yanez, eighty-two, the owner of the farm. He pulls up next to the pig and begins to shout at Rosita.
(Note: Please see folder “Day One of Five” under the “Incidents” tab for more details on the Yanez case.)
Clyde:What’re you doing? Get away from my fence!
Rosita:Hi, Mr.Yanez. I was hoping to talk to you about your circus. I’m making a documentary for—
Clyde (interrupting):No. Go away.
Rosita:Come on. Don’t be such a grumpy goosey. This is for the kids, right? We all know you’re training your animals. I was just hoping to get some behind-the-scenes footage. It’s for a documentary.
Clyde (quieter):Please, just go away. I’m not done training them yet. I’m not ready.
Rosita:Can you just tell us why you’d want to train the animals?
Clyde(mumbling unintelligibly on the video, but after some enhancement, here is what he said with a ninety-eight percent chance of accuracy):It’s my only chance to leave a legacy, and you’re ruining it. Cindy, come on.
The man returns to his quad and drives away. Cindy the pig snorts, stands, and starts walking back toward the farm.
Rosita:Okay. I guess not.
Chapter 25
“Drop ships incoming,” Roger said. The small bot hovered next to me and Sam as we stood on the wall, looking north. The streaks of light were painted against the red sky of the setting sun. “The large drop ship is aiming for the Gonzales farm. Another two south of us.”
“In the hills?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. “If they’re not Cheetahs, they’ll get stuck, won’t they?”
“Possibly,” Roger said. “The Heavies have strong enough legs to move through the swamp but not quickly. No Sniper configuration can navigate the area easily, but a few of the Regular configurations can possibly navigate the swampy environment. I am collecting the current live streams and should have more data soon. If they are units that can’t navigate well, I will send a few units to hinder their progress. It is possible that the ones behind us are more RMI units as well.”
“Just two?” Sam asked. “They said it would be five.”
“That’s all I detect unless the drop ships landed earlier, hidden with the RMI drops.”
Several hours earlier, five RMI groups had landed in the area. A group of them was currently set up in Rosita’s house two kilometers northwest of the Gonzales ranch, much to her dismay. So far, none of the RMI groups had moved in our direction.
“They haven’t messed with our net connection at all?” Sam asked, looking up. He was gnawing on a cheese sandwich. Mrs.Ramos had made them by the dozens. The sight of the sandwich reminded me that I’d forgotten to eat. My stomach rumbled.
Roger beeped. “Not yet. It seems they believe our connection is via the Earth ambassador’s private link, which appears to have been given to municipal leaders in case of an emergency. I suspect they have been forbidden from damaging said satellite. Otherwise they would have done it already.”
I turned my attention back to what used to be my home. Under the shadow of the camo netting, everything was dark. The only lights were the glowing heat sources designed to confuse the spy satellites. I still couldn’t believe we’d built all of this in just a few days. We now had six mounted guns on rotating elevated platforms, each as powerful as a Heavy’s Battering Ram gun. They moved on a swivel but slowly. All six of the guns rose so their tops almost brushed the netting above the entire inner area. Four of the guns were controlled by Roger, but two had just been built and were manually targeted and fired by a team of five people each.
The camo netting flapped over our heads. It felt oppressive, making everything darker than it should have been. The hive, which was our farm’s big landmark, seemed so much smaller. The netting covered that, too, and I could only see a shadow of the platform on the roof with the telescope where my grandfather, Lulu, and I had spent so many hours. Sitting up there had always made the universe seem so big, so vast. Now, when I looked at the dark spot, it reminded me more of the attic below. The attic that was my hiding place.
That seemed important, but I didn’t understand why. In a universe that felt so big, it was natural for one to feel so small. But right now I felt more than small. I felt claustrophobic, which was unusual for me.
At least I had Sam on one side and Roger on the other. Up and down the wall, others stood as well, talking, walking back and forth,preparing. The Serrano brothers were down the line on the other side of the giant flamethrower. They both were working the line-of-sight missile launchers. I could see Miguel 1 was with them, too.
I thought again of my grandmother’s buñuelos. I could taste the cinnamon, despite not having eaten one in a very long time. It reminded me of community, and the sight of so many people working together helped ease that strange, sudden feeling of being crushed.
The wall we stood upon felt solid under my feet. It clanked as I walked. It now rose about six meters into the air, much taller than the two or so meters it had been just over a day before. Dozens of guns dotted the exterior. Most of them were dummy guns designed to draw fire. This polymer material was supposedly designed to withstand a lot of punishment, though extreme heat could melt it. It wasn’t until we were almost done building this interior wall that Roger had told me that the whole thing was made of stuff that was slightly toxic to the environment—and not just to the environment but to people, too—which was why it wasn’t used often. This was a different material from the toxic stuff used to make the camo netting over our heads. When I inquired about replanting my wheat when this was all done, Roger said we’d have to do a “soil assessment.”
In addition to the massive flamethrower, we had ten antimissile batteries and six more missile batteries for offense mounted on the wall. Only some of the missiles—all “gifts” from Apex—were heat-seeking. Our own missiles were line of sight.
In terms of defenders, we had six hundred honeybee units, ten scouts, and dozens of UAVs directly inside the wall. We had four of the large rhino units outside base and four in base. Three of the ones defending the farm held heavy guns on their backs. The fourth remained in the confines of the interior wall and held four separate mortar units on its back.
Of the three hundred thirty people now on my farm, only fifty of them were under the age of seventy-five. All fifty of us were armed with either pulse rifles or canister guns. In addition, several of theolder generation manned the slingshots. These were elastic canister shooters dotted along the walls. They had amazing range but were terribly inaccurate.
