Recombinant Bridgehead

Day Out

The tumultuous uproar of Bridgehead's residential sector was not unlike the cities of Earth during rush hour; the unpaved roads were abuzz with activity, ranging from haggard construction workers to impatient men in suits, each one on their way to do more work.

For the recoms, school was out; but, contrasted to the tired workers, these soldiers were heading back to camp for some leisure. The obnoxious bunch clambered onto their transport, pushing and shoving limbs to make room; Quaritch didn't bother climbing in. "You head on without me. I got business here." He waved on.

Lyle leaned over the truck's edge. "Is it private, sir?"

"Why, you wanna join?"

Lyle nodded eagerly, and with a gesture from his colonel, he hopped out of the truck with a loud "whump." Quaritch rolled his eyes at Lyle's grunt of satisfaction upon hearing the sound.

"What are you staying in the city for?" Fike asked aloud.

"I'm going to discuss our pay with the boss."

The recoms looked at each other stupefied; they had completely forgotten about wages. Before they could ask further questions, they were jerked rearward by the truck's propulsion and sent away.

Left in the wake of the curling dust, Wainfleet turned to Quaritch. "We get paid?"

"That's what I want to find out."

With tails bobbing behind them, they set out to find Parker's office, a location the overseer had conveniently forgot to mention. Wainfleet followed suit but was distracted by all the sights of the unfinished city. An ugly cloud of dust and dingy smoke perpetually hung overhead, yet Lyle still spun on his heels to take in every angle with boyish curiosity. Every so often, he had to jog to catch up. The colonel's eyes widened when he spotted an oncoming vehicle headed for his distracted companion. Quickly, he grabbed Lyle's queue and whipped him out of the way. Wainfleet was thrown against a wall as the machine sped past. He could only blink at Quaritch.

"Eyes up front, Lyle!" he snarled.

"Sorry, sir."

Quaritch arched his lip as he surveyed the area. "Now then... Where the hell is Parker?" They looked about the intersection when Lyle caught sight of something above.

"Hey, sir. Look!"

He directed him to a twenty-metre-wide digital screen bolted to a communications tower. It displayed an artistic rendition of the recombinants; they were depicted suited up in tactical gear and brandishing rifles. The artist's cubic style blacked out their faces, favouring, instead, to emphasize their alien strength. A bold white caption read "Humanity's Last Hope."

"Guess we're celebrities."

"Yeah..." Quaritch bobbed, a little less certain about the propaganda. "I wonder if the folks around here realize we're reanimated." He took several pauses to look around. Quaritch knew very little about the layout of the settlement, and with construction going on everywhere, it was difficult to discern one street from the next; in the distance, the most he could see were unfinished buildings peeking over the horizon, with their skeletal structures yet to be coated by silver plating. The men were forced to step aside for a march of spider bots: automated construction robots on their way to crawl up towers and weave steel bars together. Dump trucks filled with gravel lumbered down the dirt road, followed by a concrete mixer and then a bobcat and then a backhoe. Wainfleet and Quaritch had no choice but to cover their ears to block out all the beeping shrills. They trekked down another turgid road, passing by plots where grass was desperately trying to grow, but the climate made it dry and yellow. The day was getting on, and being nowhere close to finding Parker, Quaritch stopped to ask a worker for directions; when shouting didn't work, he had to lean over just so the portly man could hear him. The worker then pointed north and went on his way. They eventually found themselves in a rural area populated with grey warehouses and parked construction equipment.