Genellan: Planetfall Part 6

Dawson, too tired to speak, threw a rock at the Marine. "Knock it off, Pet.i.t!" O'Toole snarled. "You know the d.a.m.n rules."

"Moaning glories," Lee said wistfully, breaking the uneasy silence. "We're going to call them moaning glories."

After sunset Braan spiraled down to the big island. The rest of the hunters descended in pairs at cautious intervals. Silently, they glided from the ridge top, hidden by darkness, neither moon yet visible in the night sky. At the base of the island's rocky spire, Craag and Tinn'a carefully rolled back small boulders revealing a tight cave. Cliff dwellers had been to this island before, many times. Caches had been excavated, their entrances carefully camouflaged, to be used by fishing parties. Braan a.s.signed watches, and the hunters settled into their duties.

Morning arrived still and cold, a patina of frost glazing the rocks. The lake was invisible, shrouded in a blanket of fog, the islands jutting eerily into the clear air above. Fish rippled the water, but Braan insisted on maximum stealth, forbidding fishing. They would eat roots and grubs.

With alarming abruptness sounds from across the water broke the muted silence-clanking sounds, metal striking metal, groans and protestations, loud yawns, and a steady gabble of voices. A fire flickered orange in the gray shroud of dawn. The hunters, even those scheduled to sleep, took covert positions on the high ground to witness the G.o.ds. What clamorous G.o.ds!

The first golden rays of sunshine illuminated the peaks of the snow-mantled mountains. A breeze stirred. Kibba whistled softly and pointed. On the lakesh.o.r.e, less than a bowshot away, stood three strange beings, their long legs hidden in lingering mists. Two were extremely tall; the third was smaller, but still easily the height of a guilder. They had white, round heads covered with caps the color of yellow rock flowers. The large ones wore forest-green garb, while the shorter one wore a sand-colored covering. The short one bent, scooped a small container in the water and lifted it to eye level. One of the big ones pointed, and all three walked down thebeach, the smaller one struggling to keep pace with the long strides of the other two.

The creatures rounded a bend in the sh.o.r.eline and approached the rocky tumble from which fell a small waterfall. One of the green-clad giants clambered up the boulders and moved along its face until it straddled the descending streamlet. It bent and put a hand in the water and then stood erect, shaking its head vigorously. It returned to the beach, and after several minutes, the strange beings turned and headed away from the waterfall, returning along the sh.o.r.eline to their camp.

Braan threw his body from the island peak and swooped low over the foggy lake. The visitors did not look back. Using his speed, Braan heaved air downwards, laboring to the top of the sheltered waterfall. He perched next to the small cascade and observed it tumbling into the lake below. A profusion of wildflowers clung to crevices and crannies, and gnarled fir trees stubbornly hugged the rocks. Higher up, two twisted and weather-whitened snags leaned over the feeder brook. At that moment, the sun broached the rim of the plateau to the east and cast the pure light of morning over the scene. But Braan barely noticed. Breathing heavily, the hunter sought a vestige of the alien presence. He could smell them-a curious, sour scent. He sniffed the air for other reasons-another scent, the stale spoor of rockdogs, a.s.saulted his awareness. Danger was near.

Braan warily continued along the rocky elevation, away from the lake. He ascended a rock-tumbled ridge and prowled a shallow canyon cradling another babbling stream. A breeze rustled the isolated clumps of gra.s.s and wafted the sweet smell of wildflowers. The exertion and the sun's bright rays warmed his blood, dulling his attention. Without warning, one of the strange creatures walked from behind a boulder. It was looking at the ground and picking rockberries. It sensed Braan's presence and turned to face the hunter. It was tall, nearly twice Braan's height, and covered in sand-colored material-not skin or fur. It had grotesquely long legs and hands with five fingers-strong looking hands. The tall, flat-faced being's wide, big-lipped mouth was stained with rockberry juice. It had monstrous, ungainly protrusions of skin and cartilage protruding from its round head, and it had blue eyes! Blue as the sky. The strange creature's pale eyes stared out at him, startled at first, revealing a fleeting fear. The fear dissipated, leaving only curiosity.

The representatives of the different races stood, confused, but instinctively unafraid-as if a sudden move would cause the tableau to disintegrate. Braan stirred first. Suppressing the urge to take flight, the hunter scrambled uphill. The long-legs watched him climb, taking a few halting steps after him-to prolong the encounter, not in pursuit.

"d.a.m.n," Dawson muttered.

The sun was sliding high, the moaning glory chorus dying out. But the midnight-blue berries growing spa.r.s.ely on the tortured, ground-hugging shrub were exquisite. Big and juicy-real food. She tried not to eat too many, but they were so good. She picked rapidly, spitting seeds. It was time to head back. O'Toole said he would watch the radio while she was out but not to take more than an hour; he needed to get the beacon ready. Dawson had set out on the little stream and followed its course into the flower-bedecked defile. She was retracing her steps, absorbed in picking berries, when she looked up and saw the creature. A giant bat?

Taloned feet caught her attention, as did the spindly digits of its hands. Unbelievably, the little animal carried a bow and wore a leather garment. Dawson stared down at its long, narrow face, large black eyes unflinchingly locked into her own. She sensed intelligence and tried to say something, but her voice failed. Dawson exhaled-she had been holding her breath. The creature warily turned and waddled uphill, moving quickly over the rocks. Dawson swallowed, took a deep breath, and reluctantly headed down the hill. O'Toole would be angry.

Braan circled back to maintain contact with the tall newcomer. The long-legs moved unsteadily downhill, carrying its container of rockberries. Berries-it was not a meat-eater. Braan was attracted to subtle movement on the hillside. Rockdogs-two of them-skulked along the shadows of boulders above and ahead of the long-legs. Stalking.

Rockdogs were cunning and dangerous, one of the most dangerous of adversaries. Braan looked around. There would be more than two to a pack. The rank and musty dog scent was strong,the animals directly upwind. Braan scanned the downwind rocks, looking for dogs still hidden. The hunter loosened his wings and pulled an arrow from his quiver, ready for fighting or fleeing. He climbed, watching the parallel paths of the animals below, but also watching for surprises from above. The waiting rockdogs held their positions, shiny pelts blending into rocky shadows. Two more rockdogs crept into view! Events were out of Braan' s control. If the long-legs were G.o.ds, they were about to be tested by the appet.i.tes of nature.

The long-legs walked awkwardly down the rocky hillside, using its hands to stabilize its clumsy bounds. It was only paces from ambush and looking at the ground, unaware of the impending danger. Braan noticed movement farther downhill.

Dawson stopped to catch her breath and to admire the view. The fog had blown clear. Sunlight reflected from the golden lake, and the rim of the plateau stretched starkly across the near horizon, delineating the immeasurable distance to the endless prairies beyond. She reached into the bucket and grabbed another handful of berries. Thirsty, she knelt by the sparkling stream and drank deeply of its icy water. The sun warmed the red lichen-streaked rocks, so many of them faceted with quartz and pyrite crystals.

Getting to her feet, she looked down the hill. The cave entrance was out of sight, but she saw Marines milling about, preparing for the hike to the lander site. She wanted to see the landing, but someone had to watch the radio. She stretched and stared into the blue skies, thinking about the peculiar animal. Perhaps her eyes had played tricks on her. She took a step forward and froze-thirty paces downhill, Tatum crouched behind a rock, his a.s.sault rifle aimed at her.

"Sandy, don't shoot! It's me-Nancy!" she shouted.

"Not aiming at you," Tatum replied in a throaty whisper. "Freeze."

Dawson looked up and saw two black shadows moving above Tatum.

"Behind you," she whispered, slowly pointing. Tatum turned. The closest dog lifted a grizzled muzzle and snarled, baring ferocious canines; its chewed and notched ears laid back on its head, and a magnificent mane of silvered hackles rose across its back. It sprang. Tatum swung his rifle, discharging it on full automatic. The leaping rockdog died before it fell to the ground, a volley of explosive slugs shredding its raven chest. Rifle blasts exploded the still morning, sending echoes bouncing through the valley and across the lake. The dog pack scattered like leaves before the wind, frightened by the detonations of man.

Braan's eardrums throbbed. Flames had belched from the stick held by the green-clothed long-legs. The rockdog had been slapped down in mid-air, and the vicious concussions had caused Braan pain. Braan was dizzy. G.o.ds! The power of G.o.ds! Magic power-the power to kill! Frozen with awe, Braan watched the long-legs. The green-clothed one, the long-legs with the magic stick, even taller yet, put an arm around the obviously frightened sand-colored one. The green one scanned the rocks-a hunter. The sand-colored long-legs was not a hunter, much less a G.o.d. The sand-colored one pointed uphill. The long-legs-that-killed peered in that direction, and without looking down, leaned over and grabbed the carca.s.s by its scruff. Together they dragged it down the hill, leaving a trail of blood. Meat eaters, after all.

"Would you look at that!" Fenstermacher gasped.

Dawson, holding her berry pail, followed Tatum as he lugged the trophy across the clearing. Tatum lifted the ebony carca.s.s above his shoulders and dropped it in a splatter of gore and dust.

"Fresh meat," he shouted. The humans approached cautiously. The beast, even in death, was fearsome; fangs and claws sprouted from b.l.o.o.d.y black fur.

"Who knows how to skin it?" Gordon asked.

"Skin it? Why?" Dawson said. "Can we eat it?"

"I'll butcher it," Shannon announced from the cave terrace. "But it will be tougher than anything you have ever eaten."

"I bet it lived in the cave," said Tatum, squatting and examining the animals claws.

"Yeah," Shannon snapped. "While I'm gutting that SOB, I want you Marines to get your b.u.t.ts in gear and get the nav beacon out to the landing site. Tatum, get 'em going!"

"You bet, Sarge," said Tatum, standing erect. "It jumped us." "Used up enough friggin' ammo," Shannon snarled.

"There was three more of 'em, but this is the only one I shot," Tatum replied. "Dawson saw something else, too. Tell 'em, Nance."

Shannon bounded from the terrace to the tenting area. He unsheathed a jagged-edged survival knife and strode up to Dawson. He bent his head only slightly and stood nose-to-nose with the tall lady.

"What the h.e.l.l you doing walking off by yourself? I told everyone to stay with the group at all times? I don't care if you have to take a c.r.a.p. You do it with company, and that company will have a loaded weapon with them. You hear me?"

Dawson tried to return the sergeant's stare, but Shannon was too fierce, too belligerent; she could not maintain eye contact. His dark eyes were red-rimmed and sunken, surrounded with black shadows, his face and head covered with week-old stubble, thick and grizzled. Dawson unconsciously ran her hand down the nape of her neck feeling her own incipient crop of red hair. Averting his eyes, she meekly replied, "I hear you, Sergeant."

Shannon mercifully redirected his glare and squatted next to the carca.s.s. He commenced to stab and tear at the animal's belly.

"So what else'd you see?" he asked softly. Before she could respond, Shannon looked up at the Marines still standing around, curiously awaiting Dawson' s story. "Am I going crazy, or did I not tell you leadb.u.t.ts to get your a.s.ses in gear? Get moving, now!" Get moving, now!"

Everyone jumped. Pet.i.t and O'Toole, slinging rifles over their shoulders, grabbed the beacon and double-timed toward the lake. Tatum and Gordon followed. Mendoza, awkwardly carrying a rifle, and Fenstermacher, with a holstered pistol, moved off to take sentry positions above the cave. Leslie Lee stood on the cave terrace, watching and listening. Dawson looked up at the medic and then back down at Shannon's broad back.

"So what'd you see?" Shannon asked, as he yanked out entrails with a liquid, ripping sound. Dawson stared, fascinated at the gore. Feeling her stomach wamble, she swallowed; dizziness threatened to overcome her. Shannon's hands and wrists were crimson with blood, his jumpsuit sleeves rolled up to his meaty, tattooed biceps, as he tore the pelt from the back of the b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.s, using the knife to lever it free, leaving behind pink marbled flesh.

Dawson opened her mouth, but no words came forth. Tasting hot, acrid berries, she turned her head, put her hand over her mouth, and ran to the edge of the clearing.

As Braan worked his way back to the lake he observed the green-garbed long-legs making their way along the northern edge of the lake. Braan reached the high rocks above the lake, unlimbered his wings, and leapt out over the sparkling green water. The hunter glided most of the way to the island and then let himself settle onto the clear surface. The waters were warm. Braan landed softly and folded his wings, catching enough air to maintain buoyancy and, with only his eyes and nostrils exposed, paddled to the island. Craag awaited.

The explosive reports had frightened the hunters. They feared for their leader's well-being, but their fears had been a.s.suaged on seeing Braan traversing the cliff face. The commotion in the aliens' camp had also attracted their attention, and they watched the strange beings depart for the high plateau. The hunters listened in awe as Braan related his adventure.

"The long-legs are powerful," Braan said.

"Why were you not harmed, Braan-our-leader?" Bott' a asked, a bold question.

"The sand-colored one had not a magic stick, and I made no move to attack. The rockdogs attacked," Braan replied. The longlegs had not desired to harm him; the long-legs did not perceive him to be a threat, even though he was clearly armed. A good portent.

The silent hunters pondered the events. Braan suddenly deduced why the strangers were returning to the plateau rim: the thunderous craft would return. The aliens were being delivered to the plateau by the silver ship. Every explosion heralded the arrival of more long-legs.

"Today there will be great noises, as yesterday and the day before. The flying object will return. More long-legs will be among us," Braan announced. The hunters marveled at their leader's prediction.

The second landing was not routine. Penetration and approach were normal, and transition was routine, but touchdown was rough.

The lander wavered severely, skidding and tottering. Buccari felt lateral forces tilting the nose of lander. With lightning reactions she disengaged the autopilot and jammed in a hard control input, offsetting the unprogrammed yaw. She was lucky, catching the excursion in time. A split second later and the lander would have toppled from its skids and exploded with a full load of fuel, killing crew, pa.s.sengers, and all Marines in the vicinity. The corvette crew stranded in orbit would also have died, only more slowly.

As she waited for the lander skin temperature to stabilize, Buccari checked her instruments and command programs. With tertiaries still turning, she and Jones ran a diagnostic on the control systems but could find no indication of what had caused the unruly control inputs. When the skin temps fell within limits, the Marines and pa.s.sengers moved the bulky cargo clear of the lander and staged it for transportation back to camp. Quinn had surprised Buccari by insisting that the planet survey package be transported to the planet. Buccari had not argued; they would need the medical supplies, the seeds, the raft, and the tools.

Reluctantly, Buccari shut the lander down. She checked her chronometer; the corvette would be overhead in fifty minutes. She took off her helmet, unstrapped from her station, rolled out of her seat, and climbed clumsily down the steeply slanted center pa.s.sage to the aft cargo door. Gravity felt as welcome as a headache. Buccari stepped heavily onto the surface of the planet and recoiled at the bright sunlight. She was uncomfortable-a hatched fledgling, raw and exposed. Buccari took a deep breath of natural atmosphere into her lungs, so different from the insipid air of s.p.a.ce. She could taste moistness. A sweet, humid scent flooded her sinuses. She sniffled.

Buccari scanned the exhaust-blasted rock at the base of the lander, her vision unaccustomed to focusing at a distance and reluctant to range outside of a narrow realm. Forcing herself to squint outward, she saw yellow and white blossoms clinging in profusion to the granite slabs of the plateau. Obsessed with the thought of touching real flowers, she trudged from the blackened rock to the nearest cl.u.s.ter of blossoms, knelt stiffly beside them, and delicately immersed her face in the shallow garden. The odor was euphoric. The quartz-shot rock beneath her was warm and smooth; her discomfort melted into the receptive granite.

An impatient buzzing caused her to sit upright, as a tiny yellow bee retreated from her newly claimed flower patch. A clutch of saffron b.u.t.terflies flitted nervously about, moving unsteadily against a gentle headwind. She laughed aloud and fell on her side, head on an elbow, to watch the offloading of cargo; but then she noticed Shannon rounding the lander, headed in her direction. Reluctantly, and with dismaying effort, she pushed to her feet and met him halfway.

"Nice planet, Sergeant," Buccari said.

"Thank you, Lieutenant, but I had very little to do with it," Shannon replied. "Big autopilot in the sky, you know?"

"Touche, Sergeant." She walked in step with him toward the lander. "Well, something's wrong. Had a secondary control input at engine cut-off. I was lucky to catch it, and even luckier not to overcorrect."

"What's your plan, Lieutenant?"

"Don't think there's an option. Unless Jones can find something mechanically wrong and fix it, we'll be going for orbit as she stands." Buccari blinked at the horizon, still finding it difficult to look to a distance. "We'll fly it out manually. Fuel's no problem."

They walked up to the lander as Jones was shutting the access hatch. Jones pulled off his helmet and disconnected his suit power umbilical.

"Nothing, Lieutenant," Jones announced. He smiled at Shannon and nodded a greeting. "Gyros check out, and the thruster servos check good. No leaks. I'll keep looking, but all the obvious things pa.s.s muster. You sure it was the port side that fired? Playback shows nothing."

"No, Boats, I'm not sure. It happened too quickly to check instruments. I just jammed power. Maybe I dreamed it. It happened so fast," she said.

"Nah, we was definitely slewing. You saved the ship, Lieutenant."

Buccari smiled and flexed her biceps. She turned to Shannon. "Let's prepare a sitrep for Commander Quinn."

Hudson read Buccari's message aloud over the general circuit. References to the possibility of intelligent life captured Quinn's attention, but only momentarily. Quinn's focus-the focus ofeveryone on the corvette-was the status of the EPL. The lander was their bridge to existence, their ladder to life. The corvette was starting to feel like a coffin.

Rhodes and Wilson, at their respective watch stations, were playing chess on one of the corvette's computers. Quinn brought up the three-dimensional representation of their game on his own monitor. It was nearing end game. Rhodes, playing black, was vulnerable to white's rook and p.a.w.n attack. It looked like mate in less than five moves. Quinn changed screens and ran a systems check, sardonically chuckling at the ruinous state of his ship. His thoughts wandered involuntarily back to the motherships and to his wife. With conscious effort, he swept away the depressing thoughts and returned to the chess game.

"Sir, I downlinked the diagnostics and EPL maintenance data. Anything else?" Hudson asked, sitting at his watch station on the flight deck.

Quinn sat silently. Buccari and Jones were the best apple crew in the fleet. It was up to them to get the lander back to the corvette. There was nothing more he could do.

"Tell her good luck," Quinn replied, staring through the viewscreen. He shook off his dread and returned to the instruments.

"Fifteen down safe and six to go...counting Buccari and Jones," Hudson chattered over the intercom. "This planet looks more like home every day. Not paradise-whatever that is-but fresh air and water, and life. Flatulent flowers, big bats with bows, and fifty kilo carnivores."

"Anything is better than slow death in a tin can," Rhodes responded over the intercom. Quinn brought the chess game back up. Rhodes made a defensive move.

"Ah, Virgil, my friend," said Wilson over the intercom. "We don't know what we'll find down there now, do we? It may well turn out in a few days we'll wish we had the privilege of dying in s.p.a.ce, surrounded by things we understand."

"Horsebleep, Gunner!" responded Rhodes. "You're dead for sure in this bucket. It's only a matter of weeks before it falls out of orbit, and we'll be dying of thirst long before that. I don't care what you say, you're like the rest of us; if you can delay pain and death, you will."

The intercom went silent. Hudson finally reported back: message to Buccari received and understood. Quinn acknowledged and returned to monitor the game. Rhodes's defensive situation was getting worse. Wilson's rook relentlessly menaced the black king, leaving Rhodes's position untenable. Yet Rhodes refused to concede, desperately seeking a counter that would take the pressure from his king and shift the weight of the attack to his opponent.

"Same-day rule!" Wilson needled. "You still there, Virgil?" Rhodes grunted an obscenity over the circuit. Wilson continued. "No, I reckon survival instinct says it's better to get off this burned-out pile of metal and to live for as long as we can. I feel it, too. I want to get down. But just wait-it's warm here. I don't want to die in the cold."

"You're wearing your helmet too tight," answered Rhodes's disembodied voice. "You're going to live fifty more years, Gunner, and we'll find you a regular tropical island down there. It's a whole new world. No people...except us. Here's my move."

"You know, Virgil," Wilson said quietly. "Chess is a lot like life. You start off with lots of power, but it ain't developed-you can't use it. You have to try things. Some things work, some don't. If you use your pieces well, you get to play longer, but there's no getting around it-sooner or later you start to lose your pieces, your fuel, your power. And after a while, you're down to the endgame, making do with only the last few pieces, kinda like getting the most out of an old dog, or an old horse-or an old beat up corvette." Wilson made a seemingly distant and unrelated move.

Rhodes advanced a piece. "Okay, Gunner. Enough bulls.h.i.t. Your move."

Quinn watched as Wilson moved the white bishop with tantalizing slowness across the board, attacking the black king. "Time to start another game, Virgil. Checkmate."

Chapter 9.

Decisions She strapped into the c.o.c.kpit. All systems were responding, but there was no hint of what had caused the lander to misbehave. Buccari read through the ignition and takeoff checklists. She was nervous. She had performed full-manual takeoffs, but only from Earth. Earth, even with its encompa.s.sing strife and poverty, had abundant recovery fields, and the penalty for failing to make orbit was simply coasting to a runway, refueling and trying again, or worst case-having someone do it for you. This was her first cold-iron restart from the surface of an alien planet. She would get only one chance to do it right. Fuel was critical, and anything short of complete success would mean leaving four men stranded on the corvette for the rest of their very short lives.

She peered out. The sky was a glorious mixture of coral and orange, with violet and gray-scalloped clouds s.p.a.ced evenly overhead, a splendid reward for the coming of night. A solitary erect figure stood in the distance, fading into the dusk-Shannon. The other Marines were not visible, but she knew they were there, deployed as guards around the EPL. Guards against what?

She was anxious to return to the planet; she had seen flowers and smelled natural air. The corvette was dying, and life in s.p.a.ce was a poor subst.i.tute for living under the warm sun of a virgin planet. But then she put her hands on the controls and felt the narcotic thrill of latent speed and power. The heavy, trigger-laden control stick transmitted an electric sensation, a stimulation resonating deep within her. The ma.s.sive throttle accepted her strong grip and promised explosive acceleration beyond dimension. She donned her helmet and secured the fittings; the hiss of air brought back her professional world, like a light switch illuminating a dark room.

"Okay, Boats. Ready for ignition. Checking good."

"Checking good, Lieutenant," Jones responded. "Temperatures and pressures in the green. Starting injector sequence."

Jones read off the checklist and Buccari responded with the countdown. At time zero Jones initiated ignition sequence; fuel pressures climbed into actuator ranges; the tertiaries ignited, providing power and superheat. At ignition plus three seconds main igniters commenced detonating in stages; a low-level static rasped in Buccari's helmet speakers. The hover blaster screamed their high-pitched screech, and the secondaries fired from the tail. The EPL slowly lifted from the exhaust-battered rocks. The annunciator panel indicated the landing skids and stabilizer nozzles were stowed. The main engines gimbaled to line up with the lander's arcing center of gravity as the nose of the craft searched for vertical. Buccari's firm hands rode the controls, balancing the craft on a column of fire. At ignition-plus-six, the lander's main engines exploded with a monstrous kick of power, crushing Buccari into her seat. She grasped the catapult handles adjacent to throttle and sidestick, acceleration forces clawing at the muscles of her forearms and neck. Fighting the leaden inertia of her body and the dullness of her mind caused by the compression of her brain, she forced herself to concentrate on the lancing flight of the lander. Her vision tunneled, eradicating peripheral vision; her eyeb.a.l.l.s rattled in her skull. Seconds seemed like hours, but they were mere seconds. The acceleration schedule altered dramatically; she adjusted g-loading, dropping it consistent with dynamic pressure optimizations. Buccari flexed her arms and shoulders against the cramping strain.

"Nice job, Lieutenant," Jones said. "Never wavered from profile. Escape velocity in fifteen. Temperatures stable. Checking good."