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CHAPTER 26

“That looks like somewhere I’d like to vacation,” Tom Ferrell said, grinning.

The atoll had started with a blown-out caldera a still-unknown millions of years before while the planet was hot. At some time in Bellerophon’s pre-terraformed formation, a stratovolcano had blown its top, resulting in a deep, more-or-less circular bowl with the western edge blown out in a slide. Then, later, magma had bubbled up in the middle into a few minivolcanoes. Still later, as the planet cooled to its core, the volcanic activity died. That was how it existed for at least tens of millions of years until the Cyber Corps decided the planet was right to terraform.

When the robots added water, and when it adjusted to its current level, the only parts that extended above the water were the tops of the edge of the caldera and the summits of two minivolcanoes in the middle. Since that time there had been erosion of the slopes of all the bits of rock sticking above the ocean’s surface as well as invasions of plants and animals.

The result was two sets of more-or-less semicircular small volcanic islands, each surrounded by a barrier reef of coral, mostly interconnected; two larger islands on the north side of the archipelago protected from the massive waves of the Pallas by the barrier islands; and a deep channel between the northern and southern set.

The eastern opening to the ocean, where the largest waves came in, was the narrower but still about six miles across.

The western opening, where the caldera had blown out in a slide, was sixteen miles across.

The southern set of islands hadn’t developed a full barrier reef between themselves and the channel but the shallower northern waters had a barrier reef confining the channel and creating a lagoon between itself and the islands.

Besides that lagoon, on the southern side of the large islands, there was a large lagoon not only between the two inner islands but between those and the northerly ring of barrier islands. That lagoon, nearly five miles across, should be teeming with fish and the spiny lobster “crayfish” that were the point of the expedition. The trade winds blew steady from the southeast and while the massive waves in the region were broken by the barrier reefs and islands, the trade winds were not.

The plant life on the islands was very similar to prehuman Hawaii: very large, hundred-plus-foot iron trees dotted the slopes with breadfruit trees in lower, swampier areas; mangroves in all the extremely wet areas; coconuts and other palms on the frequent black and pink sand beaches and a plethora of different tropical understory. There were very few reptiles and none had grown to extreme size or ferocity. The lower regions were home to vast colonies of migratory birds. Given more time, absent predators, some of them probably would have evolved into flightless birds. As it was, there didn’t seem to be any hostile predators of any sort, unless you got in the water where there were sharks.

The nearest continental landmass was Chindia, which was about a thousand miles to the west, downcurrent. The nearest in the other direction, Avia, was nearly ten thousand miles away across the vast reaches of the Pallas.

It defined the term “remote tropical paradise.”

Jason had chosen a landing point on the innermost of the north islands to avoid the currents and waves he spotted in the channel. It was on the eastern side to catch the trade winds. The barrier reef was only a hundred meters from the shore and the area that it was a barrier to was only about a hundred feet deep. Between the shore and the barrier reef was a combination of sea grass, open sand and patch corals.

In the sat view there was a waterfall apparent just inland. That would do for fresh water. There was definitely a stream from it. The fresh water had cleared an area around the stream exit of coral and created a breach in the barrier coral.

“It might be a place to put in a resort,” Jason said. “But there are so many of these . . . ”

Whether it was easier or to add some spice was unclear, but the aliens had left hundreds of similar stratovolcanoes surrounded by ocean. That was the nature of many of the tropical islands on Earth as well so it might have had something to do with replicating the conditions of Earth.

“There’s nowhere that’s actually ‘remote’ because of coming in from space,” Jason said. “Once the economy is fully up and going, there’s probably going to be a lot of competition for resorts. Not to mention, anyone with any serious access to credits is going to be able to afford a house somewhere like this.”

“That . . . is a thought,” Tom said. “But I’d prefer something that’s not made entirely of flexmet.”

“That’s worked out,” Jason said, grinning.

There were no readily accessible clearings so the containers had to be lined up on the beach, the only clear land. The plan, already laid out, was to deploy them in two sets of six with a twenty-meter break in the middle, one end anchored on the stream.

Tom handled the drop perfectly, as always.

“Top of a container?” Tom asked.

“There’s no sign of significant predators,” Jason said, hefting the Safari 70. “But is it just me or does this look like the kind of place where a tyrannosaurus might come charging out of the brush at any moment?”

“First there’s with the oohing and aaahing,” Tom said, spinning the ship around to deploy the landing stairs on top of one of the containers.

“Then with the running and screaming, yeah,” Jason said, tossing on his pack. “It’d be just like those robot bastards to leave a few velociraptors hidden on some remote island. See you when I see you. If I see you.”

He hopped to the top of the container and looked around cautiously.

The containers were already opening out, deploying drones, Herman and the four Alfreds. He’d come up with different names for them but they all looked alike to him. The drones took off over and under the trees as well as out over the lagoon.

One job of the drones was to drop shark repellers. The repellers used a combination of electromagnetics, sonics and chemicals to keep sharks at least five hundred meters from each repeller. They came complete with thirty-meter “lines” of flexmet and weights. One was set right out from the proposed campsite and as sharks bolted away from it, additional ones were placed outward in the lagoon.

As one of his priorities, Jason intended to check out this lagoon by snorkeling but not fishing it primarily. The bigger lagoon to the southwest of the island, between the two old junior volcanoes, was the better place to fish, arguably, and that way he wouldn’t fish out the water right in front of him.

“There are no visible sharks within one kilometer,” Jewel reported. “Given only one shark-sized break in the reef, if we maintain a good guard on that you shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Understood,” Jason said. “Landward?”

“No sizeable predatory species,” Jewel reported.

“What about small?” Jason asked.

“There is a minor potential threat,” Jewel said, putting a caret on his glasses for direction.

“Where?” Jason said, turning around. He’d chosen this island because there appeared to be no large predators. “Ah, jeez! Land crab!”

The giant land crab was attempting to dig through one of the scattered cases. A drone was attempting to shoo it away. The ugly-as-hell beast was about a half meter wide and snapped a giant claw at the drone, which dodged effectively.

“They’re pests,” Jason said. “Tasty, tasty pests.”

Land crabs were simply crabs that had evolved to live on land. Hermit crabs and fiddler crabs were two types of land crabs that were common on many continents.

But tropical islands were frequently home to dozens of species. And they could be a real pest. They got into anything if you weren’t careful.

The islands were home to migratory birds which nested in rookeries during egg-laying season as well as dozens of species of permanent seabirds. Bird nests meant baby birds falling from the nests, birds dead from old age, the occasional fallen egg. That was one of their major foods along with dead fish washed up on the shore.

However, certain species, and this was one, had evolved claws which were larger and stronger than Maine lobster. They used them to dig through shells of bivalves as well as crack and dig into coconuts.

All land crabs were considered tasty. Their diet was no different than crayfish which were also scavengers and which were considered delicacies. But the coconut land crabs were considered extraordinary.

They were relatively rare on Earth. It wasn’t that they grew particularly slowly but they were predatory on their young, as were birds, so there was a huge die-off of juveniles. They also were only found on tropical islands with exactly zero large predators. So, their presence proved that there weren’t any large predators of note. No monitor lizards or Komodo dragons for sure. No velociraptors.

But the real reason they were considered special was their flesh. They didn’t primarily eat coconut but it was part of their diet and that infused them with the taste of coconut.

“Can a drone pick one of those up?”

“Yes,” Jewel said.

“Have drones pick them up and put them in cases,” Jason said. “Use flex to lash their claws so they don’t attack each other. Have the Alfreds pick up the cases later. All the ones they can collect within two hundred meters of the camp and any that enter a one-hundred-meter interdiction area. Make sure those damned things don’t make it into camp. They can probably gnaw their way through flexmet and I especially don’t want any turning up in my hooch. Any large centipedes, that sort of thing?”

“Nothing large either predatory or scavenger except the land crabs,” Jewel said. “So far. But there are lots of crabs. Thousands. Multiple different species.”

Jason looked into the brush. There were more crabs scuttling around in there and he spotted some tree crabs as well.

“The crabs are going to be a problem,” Jason said, sighing. “We’re going to have to find some way to catch them or they’re going to be getting into everything. The big ones the drones can catch one at a time. But the smaller ones are an issue as well . . . ”

He stood in the shade of a palm tree and thought about it. There was always something.

“Put traps out,” Jason said. “Flexmet. Bait. Look at traps for land crabs. There’s got to be something in literature. Catch them and dump them in cases. They’re mostly active at night. Put some flex around the posts of the house. It should make it harder for them to climb. Not sure what to do about the stairs. We’ll look at that later. Crabs are the main issue?”

“Many insects, none appear to be stinging or biting. Other than that, it’s just you, the birds and the crabs.”

“This has got to be too good to be true,” Jason said, looking around again.

The lagoon was spotted with patch coral, pink sand and patchy seagrass, the water crystal clear. Beyond the barrier reef was a deeper blue area and across the deep lagoon was a collection of tree-covered, rocky, jagged islands that didn’t completely break the view of the deep ocean. He could see gigantic waves crashing against the eastern barrier reefs but the inner lagoon wasn’t even whitecapped.

The trade winds blew strong onto the beach keeping back the insects in the interior. And even then, they might be bothersome but not biting.

“It’s not unlike, say, the Hawaiian Islands prior to the arrival of the Polynesians with pigs,” Jewel said. “And later the Europeans with rats and mosquitoes. The lack of centipedes is interesting. There is one species that, while not a threat, is nonetheless predatory and interesting.”

“How interesting?” Jason asked, putting on his smartglasses.

The view was of what looked like a caterpillar. But it had what looked like multiple thin thorns where its mouth would be.

“The species is similar to one found on the Hawaiian Islands,” Jewel said. “But it appears to be convergent evolution. It evolved the same way, for the same reason. It is probably predatory primarily on other insects. However, one species found so far is big enough to be predatory on small birds and amphibians.”

“How big?” Jason asked.

“About six inches,” Jewel answered.

“When I head in, spot one for me so I know what to avoid,” Jason said. “If that and land crabs are the major threats . . . ” He thought about it for a bit then shrugged. “Bring up my gun case.”

He regarded the growing collection thoughtfully. The drones were never wrong and there were exactly no real threats according to Jewel. But he just couldn’t let his shoulders unwind on the planet. Every other area he’d been in had been one giant human-eater after another.

On the other hand, the .458 was a heavy mother to carry around.

So was a .30-06, but it was lighter than the Safari.

He finally chose the Savage .30-06, loaded with 168 grain. That should do it. Just in case the drones were wrong for the first time.

“It’s really not necessary,” Jewel said.

“I’ll believe it when I’ve seen it,” Jason said, heading inland. “Start on the hooch while I’m gone.”

There was a low growth of sea grape blocking the way and he cut it with a flexmachete. Beyond the sea grape was a mass of twisted roots of iron trees and lianas hanging from them. More machete work. The wind dropped off quickly as he penetrated the interior and the heat got oppressive. Crabs scuttled away from him in every direction. There were so many different species, much less individuals, he had a hard time sorting them out.

With no biting insects he rolled up his pants and sleeves to get some coolness. He’d worn tropical-weight clothes. The pants had been refitted but the shirt was still baggy. That was good in the heat.

He ducked under a liana, vaguely headed in the direction of the waterfall. There was a wetland area that wasn’t apparent on the satellite map about thirty meters behind the beach. It was probably an overflow area for the stream during the rainy season. The area was thick with mangroves, sea birds nesting in them and squawking, while the ground was littered with land crabs.

He left them to the drones and just dodged around the scuttling, tasty, tasty crustaceans.

Jason cut to the left toward the stream, finally breaking through the brush. The stream bed looked clearer than the path he’d taken. It was sand bottom, so he should be able to keep his feet.

A few twists through the jungle and a careful step over some rocks brought him to a pond with a waterfall on the back side. The waterfall cascaded down a long section of basalt rock that had been worn down into a tube, then the water exited in a cataract that splashed into the pool.

It was the original concept behind a water slide.

“Sweet,” Jason said, chuckling.

He waded across one side of the pond, trying not to slip on the underlying rocks, then reached the east shore and started hacking a trail up the hill to the north.

He finally reached a plateau about a hundred feet above the sea-level pond. The stream gathered there in another pool, then poured over the cliff through the channel that might have at one point been a lava tube. In the dry season it was about half full. He could see that the water under the final cataract was deep. Much deeper than the surrounding area. Easily deep enough to dive into. The final drop was only about ten feet.

Jason regarded the whole thing, wiped the sweat off his brow from the climb up the cliff, then shook his head.

“I bow to the reality of the current situation,” he muttered, sitting down to take off his boots.

* * *

When he waded out into the lagoon, via the freshwater stream, the hooch was already complete.

Using the woodworking techniques developed at the last camp plus some ingenuity, the bots and drones had completed a traditional elevated-over-water, palm-frond-covered and walled hut with an addition of a covered waterside porch. They were busy at work with a short floating pier extending from the house.

Jason walked down through the crystalline waters of the lagoon until he reached the gap between the containers then up the short steps into his new tropical home. The main hut was distinctly cooler than being out in the sun but the walls still prevented most of the winds. That would be of particular use at night when they’d be a bother.

The floor was wood with woven palm-frond rugs. There were openings facing out to the water, east, and south down the beach as well as doors to the porch to the north and landward to the west.

The porch had benches around the sides, neatly sanded to be splinter free, as well as an alcove with benches and a small table, all native woods. Both it and the hut were about nine hundred square feet. The bots had even completed two sets of shelves, a gear rack, racks for fishing rods and spear guns, already in place, and a wide, woven elevated bed. His pillow and poncho liners were already in place. The case containing his spare clothes, dive gear and toiletries was at the foot of his bed. There was room for more furniture if he wanted.

The whole construction had taken barely five hours while he’d been exploring and playing in the waterfall. Earth construction-industry professionals were in for a rude shock.

It had been a long day. Hell, it had been a long two months and he deserved a break.

Jason lay down on his palm frond bed and went to sleep to the gentle lap of the waves and the trade winds in the palm fronds.

* * *

When he awoke it was late afternoon.

He rolled over, stretched and expected the usual complaints from his body. When he didn’t get them, he grinned. He was still having a hard time realizing it would be years before that was an issue again.

“I suppose I should do some work while I’m here,” Jason muttered. He was mildly peckish, though, and the water looked inviting. “Spearfishing or angling? God, all these decisions in this job are going to drive me nuts! Being your own boss is hard!”

He contemplated his rods and pulled down a medium weight. The old rod he’d had was commendably battered and repaired. Their alien benefactors had been kind enough to substitute one that was brand new. Same type, same manufacturer, slightly newer and probably a better model.

He missed his old rod. It had character. But this one would develop character in time.

He’d apparently left a jig attached to the old one. There was a brand-new jig already attached.

Based on every other experience he’d had fishing in this world, that would probably do.

He walked out on the porch and down to the pier wearing only a pair of swim trunks, then tossed the line in the water and started retrieving with short, jerking motions.

There was an immediate hit.

“There is no sport to fishing in this place,” Jason muttered for the umpteenth time.

The fish was unfamiliar. It had large scales and was red in color. Sometimes that was a bad thing, red was a sign of toxins in nature, though sometimes it didn’t matter. Probably best to get it checked out. You never knew what could be toxic in nature. Barracuda were occasionally toxic from eating toxic fish.

“I need this analyzed,” Jason said, holding it up. “And if it’s edible, cleaned and filleted. Kitchen?”

“On the land for now,” Jewel said. “This building is a fire safety hazard. I’ve run a filtered water line from the stream for fresh water. We’re having a little trouble with the mortar for the fire pit and barbeque. Other than that, it’s going well.”

“I will leave you to it,” Jason said. “To the cobbler his last. I’m going to go check on the availability of crayfish.”

He went back in his house and started breaking out mask and fins.

“Work, work, work . . . ”

* * *

“Mr. Oldham.” The voice came with a pair of shiny wingtips and neatly hemmed dark-blue cuffs that stopped right in front of where Cade was working. He had almost finished harvesting his crop of carrots, carefully knocking off all the precious soil and heaving the orange root vegetables into a flexmet basket.

“People mostly call me Cade,” Cade said. “Unless they’re from the government.”

“At it happens,” Wingtips said, “I’m from the government.”

Cade sighed. He stood. The ache in his arms and back felt good. They felt like progress, like his body was on its way to becoming the body he remembered, the body he still thought he was in, when he could be sufficiently distracted to forget all the insanity of the last few months. “Is this where I’m going to find out that someone imposed a zoning ordinance while I wasn’t looking, and I have thirty days to relocate my planting beds?”

The government man chuckled. Impressively, he had a little potbelly going, and a red tie with a blotchy mustard stain that hung askew over a white shirt. He had thick dark hair and sideburns and a grin that surely must have once sold used cars. “That’s the spirit.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” Cade said. “But I’ve got one more bed of carrots, and then I need to wash and sell these, get them to the restaurants that have already paid for them, and then think about replanting the beds.”

“Independence,” Wingtips said. “Entrepreneurialism, diligence.”

Cade shook his head. “Last chance, unless you’re arresting me.”

“All right, all right, I’m not here to ruffle feathers,” Wingtips said. “The opposite. I’m here to follow up on your application for an early colonization slot and grant.”

“Must be a few thousand people down there by now,” Cade said, not wanting to put his foot in his mouth. “I heard a few already died.”

“They did, that’s right.” The government man cleared his throat. “My name is Hampton, by the way. Can we take a walk?”

By way of answer, Cade started to stroll in a leisurely fashion toward the nearest main street. “What killed them, the colonists who died?”

“Well, arguably, some of them brought it on themselves.” Hampton ran his fingers through his hair. “We had lots of applications, you see.”

“Millions,” Cade said.

“Tens of millions. The AIs had to do the actual processing of the applications, but first we had to think about them and look through and figure out what to prioritize. So, we figured, this planet is untamed, we’re going to need people who have the spirit of adventure. You know, people who are excited to be in a place with tigers and crocodiles and wolves and all kinds of new and dangerous species.”

“Are you telling me I should have put ‘big-game hunter’ on my application?”

“Yeah, kind of,” Hampton admitted. “Or ‘hang glider’ or ‘climbed Mount Everest’ or ‘BASE jumped off London Bridge.’”

“I guess I’ll have to reconcile myself to going in a later wave,” Cade said. “Most exciting thing I ever did was get bitten by a cottonmouth.”

“The thing is,” Hampton said, “those adventurers have been pretty good about running around, shooting game. And reasonably good at getting themselves killed. And not very good about building up the infrastructure.”

“You mean like wells?” Cade asked. “Septic tanks, roads, and so on?”

“Yeah,” Hampton said. “There are colonization sets sitting idle on the ground because their owners walked off into the trees and got trampled by buffalo rather than do the work of clearing and planting fields. Everyone wants to be the Crocodile Dude. Or because the owners are having more fun hunting, or are prospecting for golf.”

“Huh.” Cade didn’t know who the Crocodile Dude was. He suddenly felt conspicuous, with dirt under his nails.

“So, we’ve revised our thinking. Did a little looking into the old West, actually. The American frontier.”

“Now you want to send gunfighters,” Cade guessed.

“That’s the thing. The American West wasn’t settled by just gunfighters. It was settled by ranchers, farmers, and shopkeepers.”

“I am a farmer,” Cade conceded.

“You’re a farmer,” Hampton agreed. “You’re such a farmer that you can’t help yourself. You made the most you could out of this space station and farmed here in the playground.”

Cade shrugged.

“You collected human waste for fertilizer.”

“The Japanese did it,” Cade said. “They didn’t have big herds of cattle to help.”

“Ingenuity. Problem-solving. Also, you might be obsessive,” the government man continued. “You bought up all the planting beds you could, just to plant cabbage and carrots. We talked to your wife, she told us she tried to get you to take this time on the station as a vacation, but you just wouldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t do it,” Cade said.

“Obsessive,” Hampton said. “In a good way. And you’re champing at the bit. You’re on edge, waiting for the real deal to begin. You’re so high-strung, you punched your son in the face the other day.”

“I thought he was vandalizing my crops,” Cade said. “In fact, he was vandalizing them.”

“And you’re a community man, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean? I have kids.”

“I mean, you’re a deacon, aren’t you? At Pegasus Mount Moriah?”

“Mount Moriah of Pegasus Church,” Cade said. “Yeah. Pastor Mickey.”

“You helped find and pay for the building.”

Cade shrugged.

“It wasn’t the crazy individualists who settled the West.” The government man nodded slowly. “It was the people who knew how to build together and live together. In your application, you applied for the whole family to colonize as soon as possible. Single slot, or failing that, a colony ship. Is that still the desire?”

“You talked to my wife,” Cade said carefully.

“She told us to ask you,” Hampton said. “You figure out what you want to do, Mr. Oldham. There’s room on the next big drop for all four of you, and grant money to cover it.”

Hampton turned to go, and then stopped, as if struck by a final thought. “Mind you,” he said, “you still might get eaten by the local wildlife.”


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