Genellan: Planetfall Part 13

"Almost there, Mac. Almost...there. The path is...flattening...out," Chastain wheezed dizzily. The big Marine fainted.

Braan and Craag glided above the fallen long-legs. The creatures, lying like death in the dust, stank, a bitter smell, the malodor of putrescence mingled with animal scent. The cliff dwellers landed above the path and a.n.a.lyzed the still forms. Nothing moved. Braan whistled and a dozen hunters appeared over the edge, cautiously approaching the still forms. They carried bowls, vials, and an animal skin litter. They obeyed Braan's instructions. Craag hopped down to a.s.sist, using his wings as a parachute.

The smaller long-legs was rolled onto the litter and carried away. Its body was deteriorating rapidly, maybe too rapidly. Its life was now in the hands of the gardeners. The other creature was immense. Braan marveled at its physique-a rival to the mythical bear people. It was dehydrated, but that could be remedied. Other frightened sentries deposited bowls of water and vials of honey next to the fallen giant and departed quickly. Braan and Craag moved beside the stricken alien, each dumping a bowl of water on its head. The giant stirred and the hunters silently pushed from the cliff, swooping out of sight.

Chastain' s ragged, thirsty dreams splashed wetly to an end. He awoke blurry-eyed, with a terrific headache. Water! He licked at the liquid running from his hat. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the hat from his head and squeezed salty moisture into his mouth.

Where had it come from? MacArthur? No, Mac was hurt! Where was Mac? Chastain panicked, thinking MacArthur had gone over the edge. His brain clearing, he noticed the thistles were not trampled. He also noticed the bowls, two empty and two br.i.m.m.i.n.g with clear liquid. And vials. He sat in the dust, perplexed, shading his eyes. He yelled MacArthur' s name, his voice croaking as it escaped his dry throat. He looked at the small bowls of tempting liquid and touched one. His thirst took charge and he unsteadily and greedily brought the laden bowl to his lips and drank deeply- too deeply-choking on the life-giving fluid. Coughing and hacking, he stopped to clear his lungs and then drained the bowl. He looked at the plain crockery, no more than a cup in his huge hands, curiously turning it over and around, looking for a clue. Nothing.

He picked up the other vessel and drank more cautiously. He sniffed the water as he drained the dregs. Once done, he was embarra.s.sed and guilty for having drank both bowls. Confused, he looked down at the vials and picked one up. It had a stopper made of soft, pulpy wood. He pulled the cork from the vial and sniffed its contents. He could not figure the smell. He tipped the vial, and a clear amber fluid oozed thickly onto his finger. He touched the dollop to his tongue. Sweetness! Liquid energy! Chastain held the vial over his throat and let the wonderful, viscous substance run into his mouth, licking and sucking at the container. He looked at the second vial, sorely tempted, but placed it the zippered pocket of his jumpsuit. Evidence.

Recharged, he stood and yelled MacArthur' s name, a full-throated bellow echoing across the face of the cliff. And again he yelled, less loudly, and a third time, but to himself, softly. He looked up the trail; he looked down the trail, taking indecisive steps. Silence. He sat heavily and looked around, wringing his hands. The sun cooking his sweaty head stirred him to action. Chastain put on his hat and rose to his feet, stooping to pick up an empty bowl. He hiked to the top of the cliffs and found, prominently positioned atop a flat rock, another vial of honey. Chastain consumed it without guilt; he did not require two vials of proof.

He was on the plateau. Wracking his sun-dulled and food-starved memory, he recalled his injection briefing. Still uncertain, he headed over the rolling terrain of the plateau, sadly glancing over his shoulder, hoping to see his friend.

The unconscious one was carried under the misty waterfall and down the bore. At the tunnel's end the rough-hewn chamber turned sharply and opened abruptly on a terrace lodged in a deep vertical fissure. A pentagonal platform, supported by a network of pulleys and blocks, filled the lateral s.p.a.ce within the fissure-an elevator.

The hunters bundled the limp creature onto the platform, and the elevator dropped smoothly to the next level where a soft-wheeled cart was waiting to receive the burden. An elder wearing the emeralds and garnets of the gardener guild supervised the loading. Guilder apprentices relieved the hunters and wheeled the cart away. The curious sentries chirped excitedly and jumped from the terrace into the void, their wings unfurling and grabbing the strong updrafts.

The cart trundled down a smooth-surfaced, slanting corridor lit by flickering spirit lamps. A runnel of water gurgled down a bermed gutter against one polished wall. The corridor ended in a high-ceilinged cavern partially open to the sky. Two other caves converged on the opening, revealing a panorama of blue sky and river valley, as well as another lift platform cantilevered out over the abyss. Support cables for the lift, made from chains, angled back sharply, running through a hole cut high in the rock wall. Mechanical noises and the hissing of steam emanated from a chiseled window halfway up the stone wall. Guilders were visible; one commanded the mouth of the opening, monitoring the movements below. The cart rolled out into sunlight, and the gardener waved his hand at the lift supervisor. The platform dropped smoothly.

The elevator pa.s.sed intermediate landing points before it stopped at a cabling terminus, the river still far below. The cart was pushed from the platform and navigated through a level, if sinuous, corridor, a tunnel in which curious cliff dwellers stood to watch the procession. Another lift station received them, and the process was repeated, continuing the ride down the face of the cliff. When they debarked, the steam was thick and warm, and the unseen river rumbled nearby.

Chapter 16.

Reunited.

Buccari awoke in the dark hours and could not go back to sleep. She slipped from her sleeping bag, grabbed boots and clothes, and crawled from the tent she shared with Lee. The wet chill of early morning seeped through her thermal underwear and made her shiver. She squatted next to the campfire embers and kindled a handful of tinder. Wood chips sputtered and ignited, flowering into warm tongues of flame. She added two logs. The banked ashes provided a foundation of heat, and larger flames soon curled about the logs. Buccari stood over the flourishing pyre and pivoted, warming herself in stages. With her back to the fire she looked into moonless skies, at the glory of the morning constellations, stars sparkling and dancing, great slashes of crystalline points of light, so dense as to make the black velvet skies appear textured with sharp shards of broken diamonds. Young stars, they seemed newly minted.

Adequately warmed, she sat down on a log, back to the fire. As she laced her boots something caught her attention-the flap on Shannon's tent was slowly folding back. An arm protruded and then a back; an entire person cleared the tent entrance and stood erect, looking about surrept.i.tiously-Dawson. The tall petty officer pulled her hood over her head and cinched it tight as she walked. Her path took her by the campfire. Buccari turned to the fire, but Dawson had noticed her. The communications technician walked up without hesitation.

"Morning, Lieutenant," she whispered and sat down, leaning close to the flames, her countenance tired but peculiarly fulfilled.

"Good morning, Dawson," Buccari replied, uncertain whether to be angry or indifferent-or envious.

Morning broke cold and still; a thin crust of frost covered the patrol's exposed camp. Tatum rolled out of his bag expecting to see the plateau's edge and the eastern horizon beyond. Instead, a thin wall of foggy vapors, slow streamers of misty steam, rose delicately into the sky-a curtain of steam, held together in the cool, stable air, curling in laminar wisps high over their heads, there to magically dissipate. Pet.i.t was posting the morning watch, his burly form silhouetted against the steamy white veil. Through the curtain an eerie orange sun broke from the horizon, its cold rays attacking the curtain of mist. Tatum turned to see Jones straggle from his sleeping bag.

"Gawd!" Jones said, ogling the veiled sunrise. "Like a fairy tale."

"Fairy tale!" Pet.i.t said, turning to face the other two. "Too d.a.m.n cold for a fairy tale. Get that fire going and cook some breakfast."

"Make it quick," Tatum said. "Shannon wants us back by sunset tomorrow, and I want to cover as much of the rim as we can. There's got to be a way down."

As they ate, the sun's warmth forced the steam from the cliffs and down the vertical walls. By the time the s.p.a.cers started hiking, only an occasional wisp crept over the edge. Tatum was relieved to be moving; standing next to the cliff edge induced vertigo, a dizziness of alt.i.tude and insecurity.

Late in the morning Tatum noticed the soaring creatures, minute specks of black against an infinitely deep blue. By then the Marines were tending to the west of south, the curve of the plateau rounding away from their intended track. Higher ground lay ahead.

"Not going to see much on this patrol," Tatum said, checking the sun.

"Beats sitting around the camp twiddling our thumbs," Jones said. "I'm going to volunteer for more of these scouting trips."

Tatum laughed. "Wait until it rains, or you can't find food or water."

"I can take it," Jones said. "I should've been a Marine. I'm tough."

"You'd never pa.s.s the physical, Boats," Tatum kidded. "What the.. .What' s that supposed to mean?" Jones replied.

"You can tie your shoelaces, and technical stuff like that. Too many brains," Tatum said as he scanned the distant plains with binoculars.

"Didn't notice you have any problem with your laces," Jones said.

"Never untie 'em. Sarge ties 'em for me. That's why he's a sarge. Took him near twenty years to learn." Pet.i.t heehawed like a jacka.s.s.

They hiked on, rarely silent, frequently raucous.

"A river!" Pet.i.t shouted, pointing ahead. "It runs over the edge!" The men advanced on the small stream, climbing a modest elevation. The terrain had changed; the land bordering the cliffs was broken with abrupt rises and outcroppings jutting from the flat rock. The plateau rim descended and tundra gra.s.ses resumed in desultory patches. The stream, swollen with recent rains, gurgled over the cliff and launched into wind-whipped spray.

The bank was steep, the waters deep and fast. Tatum swung his vision upstream, searching for a convenient ford. He followed the river into the distance and saw movement. He put the field gla.s.ses to his eyes.

"Something-someone's foraging out there. Along the river! Way out!" Tatum said, alerting his comrades. He handed the gla.s.ses to Pet.i.t. After only a brief moment Pet.i.t lowered the gla.s.ses. Tatum asked, "Is that who I think it is?"

"Chastain," Pet.i.t answered. "He's limping, but I recognize his walk."

They took off at double time, but it took an hour to get within shouting range of the wandering Marine. Tatum debated firing off a round, but Chastain was already heading toward the main camp. It would have been a waste of a bullet. Eventually Chastain responded to their hails, turning and crouching in alarm. Chastain' s fear turned to recognition, and he ran toward them, stumbling and falling.

"Where's MacArthur?" Tatum shouted.

Chastain, displaying a painfully radiant sunburn, staggered to his feet, mouth and hands stained purple from berry juice. "Don't know," he mumbled, shoulders slumped. "I lost him."

"What d'ya mean, you lost him?" Pet.i.t snapped. "You big-" "Shut up, Pet.i.t!" Tatum shouted. "Jocko, you're back with us. You're okay. But where's Mac? Where did you see him last?"

Chastain, tears streaming down his cheeks, babbled apologetically, with confused references to big rivers and bears and beautiful valleys. They listened; Tatum asked questions whenever Chastain's explanation became too cryptic, but the day was fading into afternoon. If they searched for MacArthur, they would be overdue, and that would get Shannon highly exercised. Chastain needed food and medical attention. Frustrated, Tatum scanned the skies and saw more of the winging creatures. The large birds were soaring westward.

MacArthur awoke, blindfolded. His head and his extremities were immobile. He felt naked, yet warm and comfortable. His last memories were of a profound and desperate need for water and of excruciating pain in his infected shoulder. He was no longer thirsty and his shoulder no longer pained him. Panic lurked, but he felt too relaxed. A mild odor permeated the air-sulfurous. His stomach growled.

"h.e.l.lo," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Anyone there?"

He heard movement, quiet and un.o.btrusive, a presence.

"I know you're there," he croaked. He listened. Hours went by. He slept. He awoke and listened and fell asleep again, certain that he was being drugged.

He awoke again. There was movement in the room. MacArthur waited and listened, his hearing grown acute in the stillness. A noise impinged on his awareness, a whistling fading in and out of frequencies higher than he was capable of following. Out of boredom MacArthur whistled a few notes. The high-pitched noises stopped with alarming abruptness. He tried whistling more notes. Nothing. He whistled, "a shave and a haircut-two bits," the familiar "long-short-short-long-long" pause "short-short" sing-song. He whistled the ditty several times. At least he had precipitated a reaction. Even if it was silence.

Suddenly high-pitched noises answered-a soft trilling, almost too highly pitched to perceive rhythm: "a shave and a haircut-two bits." Someone was there! They had answered. He whistled again. They reciprocated, this time in lower pitch. He heard them communicating. They sounded excited. They whistled the ditty; he returned it. More noises with arrhythmic gaps. Much of the communication was beyond his hearing range, few of their sounds below a soprano's highest notes. He whistled only the first part, the first five notes, and stopped. Nothing. He repeated the first five notes, and waited. And again. And then the two short notes came back from his unknown hosts. He did it again, and they quickly answered. He waited. Something whistled the first five notes and stopped. He supplied the ending. They did it again. He whistled his part and then started to laugh. It was ludicrous. He lay on his back, buck-naked, whistling a mindless ditty. And someone or something was answering him. His laughter was hearty, uncontrolled; tears rolled from his eyes. Something touched his face. He tried to flinch away, but his head was tightly bound. His tears were gently wiped away.

"Elder, may I ask the status of the injured long-legs?" Muube asked.

"A most resilient creature," Koop-the-facilitator replied. "A serious infection and malnourishment, but it responds well."

"Very good. What happens now?" the herb master asked.

"The council is considering options, master Muube," Koop said. "Though I am told the leader-of-the-hunters wishes to release it."

The ancients waddled past mist-drenched planters. The orchids were of all shapes, sizes, and colors, rigorously organized.

"Impressive, herb master," said Koop, moving from blossom to blossom, much like the honeybees buzzing about their heads.

"I am grateful, elder," Muube replied. "A bountiful year for our medicines."

"Were it so for all our resources," Koop bemoaned, stopping before a colossal yellow and black orchid, staring reverently at the variegated blossom.

"Beautiful!" the elder whispered reverently.

The guilders ambled down the endless line of planters, steam welling up the cliff face, sunshine sparkling through spectral mists, the buzzing of honeybees melding with the muted roar of the river far below.

Braan, accompanied by the relief sentries, returned to the lake, landing on the second island. The watch captain briefed the hunter leader. The long-legs' watercraft had been repaired. Twice daily, just before sunrise and just after sunset, the ungainly craft made the round trip, escorting splashing long-legs as they swam to the hot springs. The green-clothed ones spent large amounts of time exploring; the raft had approached their new position on two occasions.

"The long-legs will soon explore this island," the watch captain said. "Perhaps it is time to move to a safer location."

"Safer? We can only move so many times," Braan responded, "before we are forced to move from even our homes."

"What now, leader-of-hunters?" the off-going watch captain asked.

"Return to clan and cliff. Await thy next duty, warrior. But caution, a patrol of long-legs comes," Braan warned. "Avoid them. Thou art relieved."

The weary off-going watch departed on favorable winds. Braan, satisfied the watch was in place, soared over the lake on a fresh updraft. Rising through a caravan of puffy clouds, Braan glided along the ridges. Wary of rockdogs and mindful of the long-leg sentries, Braan landed and established an austere camp. And waited.

The sun set, evening dusk grew thick, and the campfire cast a flickering glow among the tents. The returning long-legs patrol walked up the hill. A sentry shouted and the camp emptied into the tent area, surrounding the returned Giant-one. Sentries moved from their posts, closer to the welcoming din. Taking advantage of the distraction, Braan pushed from the high rock and silently glided to the cave terrace. His luck held-the cave was empty of tall ones. Brappa lay unattended, torso and wings wrapped with soft cloth, but he was not bound to his crib. Braan moved close and softly alerted his son to his presence. Brappa acknowledged and listened carefully to his beloved father.

MacArthur awoke on the hard granite of the high plateau, the morning sun already tall in the eastern sky. He shivered. Shaking dullness from his brain, he stiffly gained his feet. It was a crazy dream. His shoulder? It ached, but he remembered how much worse the pain had been. He peeled back his clothes and looked in amazement at his bare shoulder. The wound was closed and the ugly gray and yellow streaks running down his arm were gone. He owed his arm, if not his life, to someone. But to whom? To what? And Chastain? Where the d.i.c.kens was Chastain?

He took inventory. His clothes were clean and dry, but his knife and pistol were gone. He crouched and checked his surroundings. Nothing moved. He searched for clues-tracks or broken ground-but saw only inscrutable granite. With one last look around he stumbled off at a trot, feeling peculiarly fit. After a hundred paces the reality of inactivity overcame him and he slowed his pace. He was on the plateau; the landing site could be no more than a day's march.

He was exhausted and famished when he finally arrived at the landmark lake with the islands. The sun was an hour set, and clouds, pushed along by a cold wind, obscured the stars and moons. The lithe Marine yawned and blinked watery eyes. Through the bleariness he detected a glow against the hills, a hint of light. A campfire? The Marine shook off the chill and stepped out toward the beacon. As he rounded the perimeter of the lake, the soft spray of campfire light disappeared. A ridge of rugged karsts rose before him, and the smell of spruce grew stronger-and burning wood. MacArthur stalked the hillside. He detected a sentry leaning against a tree and recognized Mendoza, the propulsion technician. His relief was overwhelming; trembling, he wiped tears from his eyes. But a feeling of perverse pleasure displaced his joy. MacArthur stole silently by the unaware sentry.

The camp was settled in for the night. A meager fire burned in the tent circle, near which sat Ensign Hudson and Chief Wilson. Gunner Wilson was telling s.p.a.ce stories. MacArthur crawled close and listened to the ridiculous old saws, enjoying Hudson's affected gullibility. O'Toole walked down from the rocks, and MacArthur detected another soft glow emanating from the cave. O'Toole threw a log on the campfire and joined in with a yarn of his own. MacArthur lay in the needles and listened for a languid minute, enjoying the embrace of the quiet evening. But his stomach growled. Hunger rampant, he rose to his feet and shuffled into the dim circle of light, hat low over his eyes. Sitting down on the far side of the fire, he held his elbows high and put his hands on his face, stretching and yawning. The warmth of the fire was delicious.

"Gunner-" MacArthur spoke softly. "You're so full of c.r.a.p. That young officer is never going to respect you, you keep lying to him like that." The story tellers looked up. Wilson opened his mouth to retort and recognition froze his tongue. All eyes simultaneously opened full wide.

"Sheee-it," Wilson sniveled, recovering. "What a pure a.s.shole, MacArthur. Well, I'm the only one's glad to see you, but only because you owe me money."

Hudson and O'Toole shouted at the top of their lungs, emptying the tents and cave. The campfire was overwhelmed with the crew of Harrier One. Harrier One. Chastain burst from a tent, dragging it with him. Staring in tousled disbelief, he grabbed MacArthur in a bear hug and lifted him into the air. Chastain burst from a tent, dragging it with him. Staring in tousled disbelief, he grabbed MacArthur in a bear hug and lifted him into the air.

"How long you been back, Jocko?" the smaller man shouted above the din, feeling a twinge of pain in his shoulder but too happy to complain.

"Over a week!" the big man answered. "We sent patrols out looking for you, Mac, but they came back empty. I told Sergeant Shannon I was heading out tomorrow to look for you myself. This is home, Mac. I told them about the valley, Mac, but this here's a good camp. We got a cave and beds and hot water and-"

MacArthur laughed despite the pain to his shoulder and begged to be put down. "If it's so great, get me some food!" he shouted.

"Is he okay?" Shannon shouted as he sprinted down from the cave with Quinn, Buccari, and the rest of the cave's occupants close behind. They arrived as Wilson was rescuing MacArthur from Chastain' s embrace.

"He's not dead or injured," Wilson said. "Maybe brain dead. 'You okay, Mac?"

"Just sick to my stomach 'cause of your ugly face, Gunner," MacArthur said. Shannon muscled his way through the crowd, Quinn on his heels.

"Where the h.e.l.l you been, Mac?" Shannon blurted.

"You sure you're all right, Corporal?" Quinn asked. "Private Chastain said you had a badly infected shoulder. He thought you were dead."

"Thought I was dead, too" MacArthur said, rubbing his shoulder.

Quinn turned to the crowd and shouted, "Everybody back to bed or to their post-right now! MacArthur'll be here in the morning. Break it up. Lee, take him up to the cave and have a look at his shoulder." The crowd fell away, but not before they had all hugged the corporal or at least slapped him on the back. MacArthur climbed to the cave, following Lee to her sickbay. Shannon followed, firing questions, but Quinn interceded and suggested questions wait until morning. Shannon and Quinn stayed on the terrace and conferred in low but obviously heated tones. Rennault, injuries on the mend, walked by MacArthur on his way to his sleeping bag. They exchanged greetings. That is when MacArthur noticed the other patient.

"What in the-what's that?" MacArthur asked, peering into the shadows. Lee had set Tonto off by himself. Fenstermacher walked up to the animal, smiling stupidly.

"Leslie had my baby," Fenstermacher yawned.

"Joke's getting old, Winfried!" Lee said with great suffering. "It's an animal we found next to the lake after the earthquake. We had a tidal wave. It washed onto the rocks and broke its arm. Did you feel the earthquake, Mac?"

MacArthur walked slowly over to the creature's bed. "Yeah," he said, studying the beast. It blatantly returned his stare, blinking rhythmically.

"Why didn't you let it go?" MacArthur asked, looking down at Lee.

"It's an animal. It's got a broken arm. It would have rebroken the bone and probably died," she answered. "It's done real well, and it can leave if it wants to. It stays here, almost as if it knows we're helping it. We named him Tonto."

MacArthur returned his attention to the ugly animal and gave it a wink. The animal stared back impa.s.sively. MacArthur scratched his sunburned nose and walked over to where Lee had laid out a sleeping bag. A night's sleep sounded inviting, maybe more so than food. Lee followed him, brandishing a flashlight. MacArthur looked up to see the animal intently observing. Fenstermacher grumbled something, and the creature shifted its gaze.