Genellan: Planetfall Part 4

Shannon sometimes considered the lateral acceleration to be the worst part of the trip-like he was going to lose his lunch. It lasted fifteen seconds-a lifetime-the penetrators accelerating in the opposite trajectory of the hypermach lander, decelerating relative to the ground. He smelled the bitter residue of rocket fuel left behind after the spent motor separated from the canister.

He was free-falling feet first in a pressurized t.i.tanium, ablative coffin. Waiting. Waiting in endless antic.i.p.ation for separation retrofire, which was truly the worst part of the trip. Shannon checked disconnects for the third time, adjusted his helmet yet again, and listened to the rasp of his breathing through the forced-flow oxygen mask. Temperature increased rapidly. After another eternity he looked at his altimeter, still off the thirty kilometer scale. He went through the checks again.

The altimeter finally registered. Shannon waited, ear ca.n.a.ls working to keep up with the compression schedule. He yawned and moved his jaw, ears and sinuses popping again and again. Long minutes rattled by. The altimeter unwound with increasing speed; the retros would be firing soon. He straightened his spine and positioned his head squarely over his neck, shoulders rolled back. One last look at the altimeter. He closed his eyes, tightly!

Whooom! His whole being jarred as if some giant had taken a club and swung it straight up at his feet. His knees buckled, but the active retro-harness supported his back and torso; his spine ached at the base of his neck; his brain felt fuzzy, almost unconscious. The next one would be stronger. Fifteen seconds after the first jolt- His whole being jarred as if some giant had taken a club and swung it straight up at his feet. His knees buckled, but the active retro-harness supported his back and torso; his spine ached at the base of his neck; his brain felt fuzzy, almost unconscious. The next one would be stronger. Fifteen seconds after the first jolt- Whooom! Whooom!-another charge fired from the base of the cone, an explosive blast directed straight down at the planet, a cannon shot trying to propel his sh.e.l.l back into s.p.a.ce. And ten seconds later, yet another. Whooom! Whooom!

Shannon shook the fog from his stunned brain. His rate of descent was in the safety range. He reached down and pulled the separation release, trying to beat the automatic sequence, but the system was faster. He heard and felt the shrill rattle of his drogue deploying overhead, and he prepared himself for another jolt, a very welcome one-the jolt of his parafoil filling with air. As usual the benevolent and satisfying ka-thump ka-thump flushed away Shannon's anxieties. With the parafoil deployed and stabilized, the bottom two-thirds of his penetrator slipped smoothly from his body, the reentry canister plummeting groundward. Dangling against the variegated backdrop of the planet below, Shannon could see his size-twelves encased in impact webbing, still attached to the control section around his belt. He cleared the webbing and stowed it. Scanning the target area, he picked up the loop of the river and adjusted his drift. On course, target in sight. Reaching up, Shannon slipped the quick-release fittings on the penetrator' s aerodynamic top section; the sh.e.l.l structure oscillated in the slipstream. With the last fitting uncoupled, it slid smoothly along a tubular backpack railing until it was secured between his shoulders like the sh.e.l.l of turtle. flushed away Shannon's anxieties. With the parafoil deployed and stabilized, the bottom two-thirds of his penetrator slipped smoothly from his body, the reentry canister plummeting groundward. Dangling against the variegated backdrop of the planet below, Shannon could see his size-twelves encased in impact webbing, still attached to the control section around his belt. He cleared the webbing and stowed it. Scanning the target area, he picked up the loop of the river and adjusted his drift. On course, target in sight. Reaching up, Shannon slipped the quick-release fittings on the penetrator' s aerodynamic top section; the sh.e.l.l structure oscillated in the slipstream. With the last fitting uncoupled, it slid smoothly along a tubular backpack railing until it was secured between his shoulders like the sh.e.l.l of turtle.

Shannon checked his men. Something was wrong with number five-Private Chastain. Five drifted noticeably downwind, falling out of the bearing line. At worst Chastain was already dead, suffocated or traumatically exposed by a pressure failure. At best he was simply unconscious, knocked out by bad positioning or a faulty harness during the retro-blasts.

Shannon keyed the transmit b.u.t.ton on his control belt with a series of quick double pulses followed by a single pulse corresponding to his own position in the drop. After a pause he was rewarded with a short double click-Pet.i.t-another short pause and then three mike clicks-O'Toole-followed quickly by four- Tatum. A long, empty pause ensued. Finally, six clicks in three quick pairs. Six was the squad leader, MacArthur. Number five, Chastain, was not in the game.

Shannon keyed his UHF: "Six, stick with five. Proceed to Alpha. Standard procedures. Copy?"

"Six copies," MacArthur came back, matter-of-factly.

Shannon swung around to reestablish contact with the landing site. A turbulent layer of clouds boiled up from behind the mountains to the west and south; ragged pinnacles, their snow-covered granite tops easily reached past his alt.i.tude. Shannon moved his gaze downward and observed the sinuous loop of the river delineating his target. He shook out his control shrouds and deployed his high-lift, high-drag secondary. Lieutenant Buccari had put them right on the money-not bad for a Mach twenty pa.s.s. Shannon estimated less than thirty minutes to touchdown. He checked his altimeter and, breaking regs, loosened his mask to sniffthe rarefied atmosphere. A hint of sulfur? It was cold-colder than he had expected.

Shannon reviewed the preflight briefing. Hudson's Plateau was immense-fifty kilometers from the cliffs at the river's edge to the first line of jagged mountains. And high-over two thousand meters above sea level, and over a thousand meters above the river valley. The great river encircled much of the ma.s.sif, and mountains to the south and west encompa.s.sed the rest. As Shannon glided over the precipice marking the edge of the plateau, he detected banks of steam spewing from the cliffs. Fingers and spirals of vapor broke loose and sailed in the wind before dissipating. Lakes dotted the granite plain, and a dragon's spine of rocky karsts tailed down from the awesome mountains. Ensign Hudson had described a central lake with three islands that was to mark their primary landing site, and there it was, nestled against the spine.

The last five hundred meters of a drop were the most interesting. Topography that had been one-dimensional at five thousand meters pushed upwards into view. Valleys and mountains, hills and cliffs, rifts and shadows reached out, providing perspective and depth. The pale granite of the high plateau rose to meet him. Shannon located his quick-release fittings one last time and tightened his helmet strap. Flat rocks streaked with crimson and gold lichens skimmed beneath his feet. He yanked on his risers, killing forward velocity and stalling the leading edge of his foil. He took four chopping steps and stopped-a stranger on a new world.

It was very cold.

MacArthur watched Chastain float away from the line of bearing. He locked down his turtle sh.e.l.l and shucked off his harness webbing. Chastain was drifting to the south and losing ground to the east. The other parafoils disappeared against the dark backdrop of the mountains. They would be in for a hike.

As Chastain' s foil spiraled mindlessly downward, MacArthur's scrutiny went to the innocent appearing terrain. Treeless, rolling plains stretched northward, meeting the horizon in an indistinct haze. To the south, the river curved toward them, its main watercourse spreading in interwoven braids across sand and gravel bars, the sun glinting dully from the many channels. It was as if four or five rivers had collided together, converging and diverging around shoals and islands, unable to agree within which bank to flow.

Beyond the river to the south, the ground climbed into ragged foothills and beyond that to distant, h.o.a.ry mountains. Huge clouds roiled around the shoulders and heads of the ma.s.sive peaks, and a thick layer of altoc.u.mulus poured through valleys rife with blue-green glaciers.

The rolling prairie below, mottled brown and green, took on definition. The wind gathered strength and veered from the north. They were being blown closer to the river, but there was ample room; a spreading valley lay between them and the larger river. Two symmetrical peaks venting steam and smoke marked the head of the valley.

At seven hundred meters MacArthur looked down for another check. Something was peculiar-the brown and green pattern of the land slowly shifted; the ground was moving. the ground was moving. He stared harder and, doubting his vision, saw animals-in countless numbers. A vast herd of grazing animals covered the visible plain! Several herds, and probably herds of different species. The ma.s.ses directly below were a deep reddish-brown. Off to both sides and randomly in the distance, he could see smaller groups, lighter colored-golden, almost yellow in tint. He stared harder and, doubting his vision, saw animals-in countless numbers. A vast herd of grazing animals covered the visible plain! Several herds, and probably herds of different species. The ma.s.ses directly below were a deep reddish-brown. Off to both sides and randomly in the distance, he could see smaller groups, lighter colored-golden, almost yellow in tint.

MacArthur verified his drift rate. With some maneuvering he could avoid falling into the herd; its ranks thinned toward the head of the valley, and the wind was bearing him away. Chastain, heavier and unguided, was falling into their midst. He should stay near Chastain, but Chastain could already be dead. Why get caught in a stampede?

But perhaps Chastain was only unconscious and needed first aid. Perhaps Chastain would suffocate in his oxygen mask. Maybe Chastain' s parafoil would catch the strong surface winds and drag him around the countryside; it was windy enough to threaten both men with that prospect. MacArthur grabbed his a.s.sault rifle from its attachment point on his turtle pack, checked the magazine, and prepared for landing.

The descent, the illusion of holding gravity at bay, had lasted almost an hour, but the inevitable reality of the looming surface became evident. The animals took individual shape, round-shouldered, big-headed and short-horned, with s.h.a.ggy coats and thick legs. MacArthur watched Chastain's deadweight landing, practically on the backs of the large beasts. Like a helicopter landing in a wheat field, or a rock being thrown into a still pond, the animals, sensing Chastain' s arrival, recoiled in a pattern of expanding ripples, and the area around Chastain' s point of impact cleared rapidly. Chunks of turf and dirt flew into the air, propelled by the bucking and kicking creatures. The nearer animals surged against their neighbors, and soon a circular area within two hundred meters of the fallen man's flapping parafoil was clear of the large beasts.

Chastain' s inert form collapsed bonelessly onto the ground, face first and helmet bouncing. His parafoil dumped its load and collapsed, only to flutter erect with fitful gusts of air, tugging Chastain's large body across the dung-spotted terrain in slow jerks. MacArthur, still high in the air, maneuvered into the wind, and landed squarely in the middle of Chastain's luffing foil. Grabbing his own shrouds, MacArthur spilled air and released his quick-disconnects. He noticed absently that the ground was soft, boglike, but dry and springy. Tundra! It was tundra, or taiga plains, like the far north of Canada. Memory invoked the hiking and hunting experiences of his youth. It required effort to walk.

After bundling both foils and securing them with shroud lines, MacArthur struggled to clear Chastain from his rig. He lifted the Marine's brawny shoulders from the dung-strewn ground-and dropped him! Slugs! Black, amorphous creatures as big as his thumb exploded from the heaps of greenish-black dung upon which Chastain had come to rest. A host of squirming vermin slithered from the disturbed manure. Most of the wiggling slugs burrowed industriously into the porous undergrowth, but dozens flowed over the prostrate Marine. Fighting his repugnance, and checking the ground under his own boots, MacArthur gingerly rolled the injured man over, pulled him onto some reasonably clear ground, and gently brushed off the slimy worms with his gloved hand. The dropping slugs disappeared immediately into the tundra.

Chastain was breathing but unconscious, nothing obviously broken. MacArthur disconnected him from his harness, allowing the ma.s.sive pack to fall away. He rolled the big man over on the soft ground, slid open his visor, and released his oxygen mask. Chastain shuddered; his eyes flashed open, wall-eyed with panic; his mouth gaped; he inhaled, only to exhale violently, throwing hands over his mouth and nose, jerking his head spasmodically back and forth.

"Can't breathe!" Chastain retched, exhaling words from empty lungs. "Can't bre-!" Chastain's groping hands found his mask; he pulled it over his face, wild eyes narrowing to slits. He attempted to sit up, but a stab of pain shot through his body- Chastain stiffened and fell supine, holding his mask to his face with both hands, desperately, as a drowning man with a life preserver.

MacArthur reached to remove his own mask. No sooner had he broken the face seal than was he stricken with an acrid pungency, an odor beyond description and magnitude. Tears welled, and sharp pain penetrated nostrils and sinuses. He fell to a knee, trying to expel the painful sensation from his nose and lungs. Slamming his breathing apparatus back to his face, he dared to breathe. Nausea surged through him. Fighting panic, he sucked in a lungful of oxygen.

MacArthur' s breathing pa.s.sages slowly cleared, but a sour, metallic taste clung to his palate. MacArthur looked at Chastain; both men were frightened. Their only communication alternative, beside sign language, was the radio. MacArthur broke regs and activated his transmitter.

"Air's no good. Big trouble, Jocko," MacArthur gasped, looking around, checking the slowly moving herd. The buffalo had calmed and were grazing on the spongy, dung-spotted turf. A few had moved closer, although none approached closer than an hundred meters. The motley, red-brown beasts were ma.s.sive, as tall at the shoulder as a man, with fur-shrouded fat humps similar to prehistory mastodons or musk oxen. Mature animals carried a stubby but sharply hooked rack of black horn.

MacArthur stood erect and looked down at Chastain. The big man was pale and wide-eyed, still suffering from his dose of atmosphere. "Where' you hurt, Jocko?" MacArthur asked.

Chastain closed his eyes, his breathing rapid. His hand activated his transmitter. "My back. Multiple retro-hit like a ton of bricks. Must of blacked out. What we going to do, Mac?"

MacArthur, still dizzy, tried to think. Their breathing systems would supply oxygen for two to four hours at the most, probably closer to two hours considering the stress. "Let's move. Can you walk?" he asked, fearing the worst.

"Don't know," Chastain responded. The big man rolled onto his knees. Between the two of them they were able to hoist Chastain erect, but only barely. Hunchbacked, listing heavily to his right side, Chastain staggered down the decline, struggling to lift his feet from the indentions caused by his ponderous weight.

MacArthur shouldered his pack and gathered the fluttering parafoils. An idea formulated. MacArthur removed his pack and attached it to Chastain' s, arranging the turtle packs in tandem. He secured both parafoils to the a.s.sembled ma.s.s and gingerly redeployed the foils in the freshening wind. To the skittish dismay of the buffalo, the parafoils billowed opened and jolted their load over the uneven terrain. Using harness webbing for a lanyard, MacArthur followed the wind-powered sled, breaking into a trot to keep pace. MacArthur quickly caught up with his crippled cohort.

"How you doing, Jocko?" MacArthur asked over the UHF, as he pulled abreast, holding the jerking cargo back against the insistent winds.

"Not sure I can, Mac," Chastain gasped, his sweaty face ashen.

"Yes, you can, Jocko. If I loose sight of you, I'll wait." Chastain nodded and MacArthur pulled ahead. Despite his words, MacArthur was worried. How could they escape what they could not see?

The terrain transformed as they descended. Crystalline escarpments spotted with livid lichens protruded from the taiga, the footing firmed, and the ground lost its sponginess. As MacArthur topped a small rise, he spotted a line of scraggly, yellow-trunked trees. Beyond the trees, the valley expanded and descended steeply into the haze. MacArthur knew the valley ended at the great river, but he also knew the lower they descended, the higher they eventually would have to climb.

"You'll see some trees in the distance, to the right. I'm heading for them. We'll check out the air when we get there. Keep it in gear, Marine!" MacArthur exhorted over the radio, trying to rea.s.sure himself, as well as to keep Chastain moving. He clattered ahead, moving at a jerky lope, the hard sh.e.l.ls of the turtle packs careening off rock. The wind abated, no longer carrying the urgent power evident on the higher terrain. MacArthur had to pull the equipment through swales and over gentle ridges. After an hour, sweat-soaked and exhausted, he gained the wind-bent trees espied from the top of the valley and sat heavily on one of the many quartz-veined boulders jumbling the area. He rested head and arms on trembling knees; a gnarled and twisted tree, its rough, mustard-colored trunk and spiky green-gray needles provided an oasis of cold shade.

It felt exquisite to rest, but survival fears held sway. Insulated by his helmet, MacArthur could hear only the pounding of his heart and the rasping of his lungs. He lifted his head and checked the thin stand of trees. Five paces distant a clear spring gushed from a flower-shrouded seep, forming an energetic rivulet that bubbled out of sight over granite steps. The water triggered a desperate thirst.

MacArthur fatalistically inhaled a full breath of oxygen and fingered the fitting on his mask. Loosening his helmet, he let the mask drop from his face. An insistent current of chill air caressed his sweaty cheeks. He pulled off his helmet. His hearing was a.s.saulted by the persistent symphony of nature. A brittle breeze swept over his exposed neck and brow. Still holding his breath, he shivered.

Positioning his mask near his face, MacArthur partially exhaled and then cautiously sniffed the air. It smelled horrible: an offending stench of incredible magnitude-terrible odors, a bitter conglomeration of offal, carrion, sewage, and burning chemicals so persistent and penetrating that all senses were a.s.sailed and dulled. His body begged to collapse into some minimal essence, to sleep, to escape. His head ached. His eyes watered, but somehow he knew that it was not fatal. He could breathe; his lungs could process the atmosphere. He could breathe without the involuntary spasmodic rejection experienced in the landing zone. It was horrible, but it was air, and the prospect of running out of oxygen lost its urgency, if not its fear.

He looked down at the clear spring at his feet. Water, yes. It had to be. What did it matter that the air was breathable, if the water was undrinkable. Without water they would die, too. They were marooned.

Casting helmet and mask aside, MacArthur fell to his knees. He sniffed at the pulsing fluid, smelling only the horrid air. He sipped at the water, trying to sample it, but thirst trampled caution, and he drank noisily of the sweet liquid.

Chapter 6.

Cliff dwellers The G.o.ds of the sky were angry, and Brappa bore witness to their displeasure. Brappa and the other sentries had seen flyers descending from the heavens. They had not been drunk on thickweed. There had been thunder in the morning skies and star bursts to the east. Not lightning but bright blossoms of red and yellow-in a sky devoid of clouds! After the brilliant lights came more terrible noises, more thunder! So loud, his ears rang. And from out of the bright fires and noise came four flyers, high overhead in the cold, liftless morning skies, flying toward the lakes.

Brappa, son-of-Braan, lead sentry of the morning watch, danced nimbly down the precipitous granite face. The golden glow of dawn overflowed into the river valley, illuminating and melting the thin crust of frost decorating the upper rim. The sentry chased the sunrise down the chasm's walls, jumping lightly into the air every few steps, spreading diaphanous membranes and gliding softly to a next landing, there to run three or four landbound steps and jump and glide again. His leaps covered many spans. He could have soared the entire descent, but he needed time to think.

Brappa pa.s.sed a vent and relished its sulfurous wetness, the vaporous plume quickly dissipating in the cold air. His descent brought him into an ever-increasing field of spewing mists and steam vapors, the air redolent of minerals and humidity. He neared the lacework of terraces that defined his home. The river, visible through wisps of steam, moved powerfully, its might channeled within the cliff-sided chasm, slate-gray in the early light, the sun not yet able to mottle its turbulent surface with splotches of pale green and white.

Brappa, son-of-Braan, landed softly on the moist granite terrace before the a.s.sembly portal. Sheltered above by a ragged cornice of quartz-veined rock, the shelf was the largest terrace on the cliff, ten spans deep at its widest point and running for more than seventy along the sheer face. A low crenellated wall bordered its precipitous edge. Between the crenellations grew an abundance of brilliantly flowering plants, giving off a heady conglomeration of aromas. Beyond the wall, steam poured upwards from the chasm, showering the plants in a persistent mist through which sunlight dappled and danced in beaded rainbows.

Penetrating the cliff face was a peaked arch looming two full spans higher than Brappa' s k.n.o.bby head-the a.s.sembly portal, crafted of obsidian and mounted with a ma.s.sive lintel of contrasting white jade. Skillfully sculpted pink marble boulders stood at the shoulders of the entryway, spreading outward in diminishing sizes. Gurgling water splashed over those boulders, draining into pools. Rock-lined gutters at the base of the cliff face carried the waters away. An ancient foot-worn stairway, elegantly hewn in the granite bedrock, emerged from the rough terrace and climbed thirty wide steps into the cavern.

Brappa sedately folded his wings into a complex double overlap and scaled the steps. Dark-mantled and hump-backed, he had bowed legs and a head shaped like a black mattock. Sinewy, hard-muscled forearms, each with three slender digits and a long opposed thumb, hung past his knees. A soft pelt of fine black fur covered his body, excepting his chest and belly which were covered with longer cream-colored fur, the markings of a flying cliff dweller-a hunter. Less than half a span in height, but he was young.

Three quite taller figures appeared at the threshold of the portal. These creatures' heads and necks were covered with charcoal fur similar to that of the smaller figure, but their body fur was completely cream-colored. Also cliff dwellers, these were guilders, their heads large and rounded, whereas the young hunter's crown revealed a marked protuberance. Over the eons the echo-ranging and soaring abilities of the larger guilders had atrophied, and their bodies had evolved for different needs. Guilders were taller, heavier, more skillful, and in many ways more intelligent. Hunters would say guilders were less brave.

The tallest guilder was ancient and wore a necklace of beaded emeralds and garnets, the badge of the gardener guild. Brappa halted and bowed low, hands flat with palms up, in obeisance to the council member. Brappa had much to say, but the rules required silence.

"Why art thou here, hunter?" the council elder whistled ceremoniously but with a tremor. He, too, had heard the distant thunder.

"I bid thee long life, elder. On orders from Kuudor, captainof-sentries, Excellency, I am the morning watch, bearing tidings of strange happenings over the lakes," Brappa squeaked and chirped.

"Follow," the old one commanded as he turned slowly and retraced his steps. Brappa followed the glum elder into the antechambers. Vaulted arches and delicate columns of wondrous craftsmanship stretched ever higher as they progressed down the widening hallway; intricately carved alabaster and jade mosaics lined polished alcoves. The domed a.s.sembly hall, a cavernous amphitheater over fifty spans square, opened before them, illuminated by the yellow glow of guttering spirit lamps.

Brappa had attended a.s.sembly before; but the young hunter was conditioned to the anonymity of the crowd and to the hushed babble of the ma.s.ses. On this morning the great hall was empty, all but silent; water gurgled through aqueducts, and echoes of their shuffling footfalls seemed deafening. Brappa' s talons clicked on the sparkling stones inlaid in the black marble floor. The brittle stillness discomfited him, but as a hunter-even if only a sentry-he displayed courage. With repressed disdain he noticed guild apprentices pushing mops and sponges, laboring to stay ahead of the natural humidity of their labyrinth. Hunters did not push mops.

Brappa and his escort skirted the grand hall and mounted a divided stairway curving around each side of a cantilevered marble balcony. Atop the stairs the elder signaled for Brappa to wait, languidly waving a bony hand toward the balcony as he disappeared from sight behind staggered rows of columns. Brappa squatted on a varnished wooden perch, intrigued by the intricate drainage system running about the periphery of the great hall; most of the channels were not visible from the lower levels. He traced the paths and confluences of the aqueducts and cascades as they drained the upper levels and brought the water out of the rock for use by the commune, both as aqua vitae aqua vitae and as natural art. and as natural art.

Braan, leader-of-hunters, stood in the stone dock. The old one entered and took his ordered position at the inferior end of the black marble table. The old gardener had seen over a hundred winters, yet he was still the youngest of the eleven ancients. There were no hunters on the cliff dweller council, for hunters did not live long enough. Cliff dwellers, hunters and guilders together, had no leader, only the eldest: Koop-the-facilitator, wearing the green jade of the fisher guild, was exquisitely ancient, his unruly fur completely turned to radiant white.

"Braan, clan of Soong, leader-of-hunters, speak thou for the sentry?" twittered old Koop.

Braan, snout gruesomely scarred, his head fur streaked with white, was not the oldest hunter, yet he was the leader of all hunters, for he was the most able. As leader of all hunters, Braan frequently addressed the elders. A leather thong adorned his neck, symbol of his rank.

"He is of my blood. His words art mine, Excellency," said Braan.

"What of the news?" Koop asked directly, rudely.

Braan was not offended, for the facilitator was old and meant no harm. "Facilitator, I know only rumors. Truth can best be defined by those who bear witness. I confess impatience. I fetch the sentry." He did not wait for permission but hopped from the dock and darted through the maze of columns. The hunter leader found the alert sentry on his feet, bowing respectfully. It had been a full cycle of the large moon since Braan-the-father had left on the salt mission. It was the father's first opportunity to see his son since his return. He solemnly returned his scion's honorable bow and then chucked him under his long chin. The son looked up and displayed multiple rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth in joyful grin. Braan slapped his son's back and pushed him firmly into the chambers.

Braan' s pride was well served. Brappa, son-of-Braan, took the dock with great poise. The novice delivered his scanty details firmly and was not shaken when the elders, particularly the steam users and stone carvers, asked probing questions. Braan listened silently, for the facts were confusing. His son, the lead morning sentry, had seen flying creatures that were neither hunter nor eagle, nor were they the angry sounding machines of the legendary bear people. A manifestation of the G.o.ds? The perplexed elders slumped on theirperches and whispered among themselves. Brappa, son-of-Braan, stood silently, awaiting.

Unbidden, Braan moved before the council. "Elders, my thoughts."

"Proceed, hunter," said Koop-the-facilitator, sorely fatigued.

"It is feared G.o.ds have descended upon the land, or perhaps bear people have returned. This must be investigated with a hunter reconnaissance. If G.o.ds or bear people have descended to the ground, we will find them. If bear people, we will defend ourselves. If G.o.ds, then we will show reverence. Long life." Braan pivoted, chirped for Brappa to follow, and marched from the chambers, talons clicking with impunity.

Braan strode swiftly through the a.s.sembly hall and proceeded onto the wide terrace, pausing only to shake out his membranes. The hunter leader marched up a stone ramp onto a crenellation in the flower-bedecked wall and pushed himself gracefully out over the steam-filled abyss. Brappa, but two steps behind, duplicated every move. The hunters, father and son in tight formation, settled into a swooping glide, searching for rising currents of air. Picking up speed, they banked sharply downriver, leaving the wide terrace in the foggy steam.

After echo-ranging their way along the cliffs and riding the meager morning convection currents, the two flyers emerged from the broken strands of steam. Flapping huge wings with slow, silent beats to break their advance, they landed softly on the terrace of the hunter chief's residence. The enveloping steam was less dense at the higher alt.i.tude, and warrens of hunter residences could be seen pockmarking the rocky cliffside. Cooking smells blended with the mineral-rich steam, pleasantly tempting olfactory receptors. The residence was distinguished by a cleverly crafted perimeter of black marble and gold inlay-a gift to Braan' s legendary great-grandfather Soong from the stone carver guild in appreciation for routing the eagles.

Ki, wife of Braan and mother of Brappa, possessed the acute hearing of all dwellers. She waited upon the narrow terrace, holding an infant on her hip. Ecstasy at seeing both son and husband radiated from her countenance. She stood silently until Braan removed the leather thong from around his neck, and then she commenced the welcome. "Welcome home, honored husband. And welcome, my beloved son," Ki warbled and bowed, averting eye contact.

Brappa returned the bow. The father remained silent.

"'Tis good to be returned to the warm mists of my mother's home. Sentry duty is cold, but...but I do well. I have friends," Brappa replied, also avoiding his mother's eyes. "Please forgive my ill-chosen words, for I meant not to complain."

"I heard no complaint, son-of-mine. It has been twenty days since thou went to duty, and thou art grown even more," she graciously spoke.

"Thank thee, my mother, for so saying. Thou art kind and generous," Brappa responded properly, compliment for compliment.

The infant, Brappa' s sister, quiet to this point, lost patience with the formal progress of the reunion. She waved skinny arms, her incipient wings brushing the mother's face. She yelled, her high-pitched voice and nascent echo-ranging system clashing together. Braan, chuckling, relieved his wife of the tiny burden, encompa.s.sing the chick with a fold of his flight membranes. The infant squealed with the rough handling, happy to have gained her objective. Custom satisfied, son and mother also hugged, Brappa's wings overlapping and enveloping Ki's diminutive form. They were unconcerned about the overt familiarity; the mists of the river valley were thick this morning, and hunters were perversely proud of their affections. And at this elevation they were among only hunter clans.

Nevertheless, they politely moved their embraces and good feelings into the low-ceilinged domicile, a precisely chiseled cave with the surpa.s.sing luxury of six chambers, unique in that it did not connect with neighboring caves. It had two other exits-a mixed blessing. Hidden and small, the exits provided ventilation and emergency egress, but they were also avenues for predators. Eagles, growlers, and rockdogs occasionally still evaded sentries, terrorizing the cliff dwellers, particularly the hunters, whose homes honeycombed the higher cliffs. Spirit lamps and the familiar gurgle of rapidly moving water welcomed the family as they stepped inside, and the odor of baking fish and green-onion soup combined with other smells of hearth and home.

They ate quickly and noisily. Brappa asked his father about his foray to the northern salt flats, but Braan had little to tell. A routine salt mission, the great herds were migrating, and the smellwas worse than the memory of it. They had seen white-rumps, field dragon, and many, many eagles. Growlers had been encountered, but fortunately the hunters avoided serious conflict. The predators were glutted with the flesh of the buffalo, typical for this time of year. The quota demands had required a large group of salt bearers. Braan wished for an easier solution to satisfying the dwellers' increasing appet.i.te for salt. The expeditions were too big, too vulnerable.

Braan indicated he was through, and the family ceased eating. Braan looked at his son.

"Report to the sentry captain and secure permission for three capable sentries to accompany warriors on a reconnaissance. I request thee be included, although it is Kuudor' s choice. Present the sentry captain with my respects, and inform him the expedition will depart on the afternoon thermals. Go," Braan ordered.

Brappa acknowledged the command, his excitement but poorly suppressed. Stopping only to give his mother a fleeting glance, the sentry darted through the home, jumped upon the low terrace wall, and leapt into the mists, wings popping as he heaved air downward.

Ki slowly followed her last living son to the terrace and watched him depart, as wives and mothers of hunters have watched their fathers, husbands, and sons, generation upon generation. Ki had already lost two sons, stout and brave-and so young. Too young.

"He is ready," Ki spoke sadly. She turned to stare into her husband's eyes, as she did only when they were alone. "Take care of my son."

It was a plea and a command. Braan moved close to his wife and held her face in his hands, rubbing her forehead against his, softly transmitting and receiving sonic bursts. Ki stepped backwards trying to smile, large eyes welling with moisture. Her husband had only just returned from one dangerous mission and was about to embark on another, taking with him her remaining male-child. Hunters lived short lives of endless struggle. Her husband was the leader of all hunters. Duty was his touchstone and death his faithful companion.

"Please take care of yourself, glorious husband." She bowed. Braan returned the bow. The hunter stood erect and silently padded into one of the smaller chambers. Opening the hidebound wooden chest that he had closed tightly just days before, Braan extracted his leather armor, iron knife, and shortbow and quiver. He somberly donned the equipment and, pausing only to squeeze his wife's hands, departed over the edge, wings whipcracking steamy air. Echoes died quickly in the mist.

The moaning had stopped-soft, gently expulsive sounds, like a distant, plaintive fog horn. Rounding the windswept lakesh.o.r.e, Shannon felt as if they were being watched. He was profoundly relieved to make the shelter of the yellow-barked trees.

"Found.. .a cave, Sarge," gasped Pet.i.t. The Marine lay in a heap behind a scraggly log, barrel chest heaving for air. Shannon dropped to a knee behind the fallen sprucelike tree and tried to control his own breathing. He could discern little about the cave; the small opening was elevated, and the shaft-if there was a shaft-dipped sharply away. A rocky overhang shadowed the entrance area. Tatum, fifty meters ahead, leaned heavily against large rocks directly beneath the cave. Shannon looked down the hill and traced their path across the plateau.

After leaving the higher ground of their landing zone, the terrain approaching the lake had deteriorated into spongy tundra. Game trails provided paths but also tended to meander and disappear into the reed-choked water. Magnificent white blossoms grew in abundance near the lake, their vines intertwining with lake reeds and tundra vegetation. The flowers sprouted from bulbous nodules in the vines. Shannon made a mental note to investigate them as a food possibility. But those thoughts were dispelled by the desultory moaning that came from all around them yet came from nowhere.

His concentration was taxed. Carrying thirty kilos of equipment made every trudging footstep an epic effort, and the adrenaline rush generated by the penetrator insertion had given way to total fatigue. Full planetary gravity pulled on every muscle and every tendon. Shannon's heart fluttered, his eyelids sagged, and stinging perspiration blurred his vision. His ears rang; blood pounded in his head. He shook the fog from his brain. The main stand of yellow-barked spruce was behind them, down the gentle hill toward the lake. Only a few stunted trees remained between them and the rocky escarpment. The ground was firm and mattedwith a fine weave of low vegetation. Early season berries, blue, black, and bright red, spa.r.s.ely dotted the hillside.

O'Toole landed heavily at Pet.i.t's side. He peeked over the log and then looked down at Pet.i.t.

"You okay?" panted O'Toole. "You look ugly. Uglier than usual."

Pet.i.t raised his head and then laid it back down, unable to respond.

"Drink some pig-juice, Pet.i.t," Shannon ordered.

Pet.i.t rolled his muscular body on its side, his pack thudding onto the ground. After a swig of precious field stimulant, his eyes cleared and his color returned. "Yeah," he gasped. "I'll live. Gawd, I'm out of shape for this cross-country stuff."