Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 9

 

Decisions

She strapped into the cockpit. 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 encompassing 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 spaced 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 space was a poor substitute 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 massive 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 eyeballs 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."

"Roger, Boats," she exhaled. "Checking good." She smiled, proud of herself. Full-manual takeoffs from planetary gravity were done only in an emergency. Things could go very wrong, very fast. She peered ahead, into the deep purple of the thinning atmosphere.

* * *

The hunters breathlessly watched the phosphorescent fireball scream into the pastel heavens, a white-hot exhaust trailing an immense tongue of orange flame. As the silver-tipped explosion neared the high wispy clouds, the roaring missile brush-stroked brilliant shades of red and yellow instantaneously across their dark undersides. The glowing rapier leapt from the planet's shadow and into direct sunlight, trailing a glorious and starkly white plume. Braan rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe out the fiery ghost images. Gradually they faded, allowing his night vision to adapt to the descending dusk. Braan hopped from the rocks. Hunters not on watch followed, congregating in the rocky clearing adjacent to their cave. They sat dumbly.

"Even if not gods, they are frightening beyond comprehension," Craag spoke at last.

"Gods would be less frightening," Bott'a said.

"They are not gods," Braan added softly. "I have been near to them. They are frightened . . . perhaps more frightened than we."

"Then they are dangerous, for the frightened eagle crushes its own egg," Craag said. Silence returned to the little clearing. Bott'a jumped lightly to his feet and motioned to Kibba. The watch mates wordlessly departed through the bushes. It was their turn to collect food, and fishing was too good to sit around talking. Brappa followed. Craag remained.

"Thy plan, Braan-our-leader?" Craag asked directly.

Braan was not offended. Craag had proven his loyalty many times over. By waiting for the others to depart he had rendered due respect. Braan looked the warrior in the eye, done only in challenge or in affection, and smiled to indicate the latter.

"A difficult situation," Braan said. "We must inform the council."

"Should we not leave watchers?" Craag asked. "I volunteer." "Yes. We will learn by watching the long-legs." Braan grew apprehensive. "My son will expect to stay," he said.

"If thou desire, I will insist on one more experienced."

Braan almost smiled. "Thou hast forgotten the pride of youth, my friend. It would not do to coddle my son."

"Perhaps the long-legs will go away," Craag said hopefully. "No," Braan whistled. "Our futures are tangled."

* * *

Buccari, still wearing her EPL pressure suit, floated onto the flight deck and strapped in. She was exhausted; the responsibility of flying the lander to and from the planet, the inability to make a mistake, had taken its toll. Quinn and Hudson watched her without speaking.

"What's your guess, Sharl?" Quinn finally asked.

"No idea, Commander," she replied, yawning.

"Maintenance diagnostics are going to take time," Hudson said.

"Without mothership systems it'll take at least two days," Buccari said. "We'll run a simulation. Jones is loading the programs, but I think Nash or Virgil should supervise. Jones's out of gas."

"Virgil, er...Mr. Rhodes just called in," Hudson interjected. "He's already relieved Jones. He knows EPL maintenance as well as anyone."

"You were right, Commander...about getting the crew down first," Buccari said. "We may not have many flights left in the old apple."

"They may be nothing wrong with the lander," Quinn replied, "and any decision would have had risk. Be thankful that most of the crew are safe. Without them on board we have enough air and water to take a couple of days to find out what's wrong, and you can use the rest."

Buccari floated numbly in her tethers, grateful for having been overridden.

"Nash, let Sergeant Shannon know about the delay," Quinn said.

* * *

The smell of roasted rockdog hung heavy in the still darkness. The smoke from the dying campfire disappeared straight up into star-blasted skies. The humans were quiet, sitting back or lying down, bellies full of tough meat. In the flickering light Shannon and O'Toole labored with a crude smoking oven. Raw meat would spoil quickly; cooked and salted, it would last much longer.

Shannon straightened, trying to loosen kinks in his tired muscles. Satisfied that O'Toole understood what to do, the sergeant walked into the darkness to use the latrine ditch. He detected a faint glow on the horizon. A tiny limb of the planet's smaller moon broke into view and palpably climbed the black sky, pulling its irregular mass after it. His bladder relieved, Shannon sat down on a downed tree and stared into the distance, mesmerized by the moonrise. Fatigue displaced his vigilance. He was anxious for the commanderto take the burden of responsibility. Shannon was trained to lead but not to be the leader. His career had been dedicated to faithfully executing the tactical orders of superior officers. This was not a tactical situation—it was a survival situation, and there was more than just Marines to worry about.

A twig snapped. Instantly alert, Shannon abandoned his stupor on the fallen log and moved toward the noise, pulling his knife. Soft rustlings emanated from the shadows, sporadic and barely discernible. The Marine crept obliquely toward the desultory sounds, trying to flank the noisemakers and to manufacture a silhouette against the faint glow of the fire. His own blade glinted in the guttering light. Slowly he pinched inwards, sliding from tree to tree, staring into darkness.

Movement! He retreated behind a rough-barked trunk, stealthily lowering into a crouch. Twisting to keep his weight balanced, aching knees protesting, he rounded the tree and peered into the shadows. His peripheral vision revealed indistinct forms, four-legged and long-necked. Small beasts, less than waist high to a man.

More movement and sharp noises erupted from Shannon's flank, startling the animals. In the blink of an eye they bounded from sight, their delicate leaps hardly stirring the fir needles.

"Sarge!" A stage whisper—Tatum's voice. "Sarge, is that you?" Tatum' s gangling form appeared from the darkness, assault rifle pointed threateningly.

"Yeah, it's me, Sandy. Put down your weapon before you ruin my day." Shannon sheathed his knife and stood erect, feeling a dull pain in his bones. Another figure materialized—the tall feminine form of Nancy Dawson. Women! Shannon cursed to himself.

"Evening, Petty Officer Dawson," he said.

"Good evening, Sergeant Major," she said, a spark in her voice. "Just thought we'd come out and give you some company." "Thank you. Appreciate it."

"See something, Sarge?" Tatum asked. "Or did we, er . . . interrupt you?"

"No, Tatum. You didn't frigging interrupt me," Shannon snarled, grateful it was too dark to see the look on Dawson' s face. "Saw some animals, like tiny deer." He plowed through the thicket in the direction of the campfire. Tatum and Dawson followed, catching the whiplash of the branches.

"You should be more careful, Sarge," Dawson admonished. "Could have been something big and dangerous, and you out here all by yourself—with just your knife!"

Shannon was tired, but he held his temper. She was right. He should not have wandered into the darkness alone. He admired Dawson's boldness, but he wished she would not lay it on too heavily. Tatum would spread it around enough as it was.

"Made your point, Dawson. You're right. But don't think I'm going to take back that chewing out I gave you. I did that for your own good, and to make a point for everyone else."

They walked into the circle of firelight, but still out of earshot of the rest of the crew.

"Fair enough, Sarge," Dawson said quietly, clear eyes glowing orange in the flickering light. "But, I didn't come after you to get even. I asked Sandy to go looking because I was worried—worried about you." She smiled, a warm smile for him alone, and then walked quickly away.

Shannon stood, abashed, unable to cope with the direct sentiment. He glanced at Tatum still standing at his side, sporting a silly smirk. Shannon did not have to speak; the look on his face was as eloquent as it was fierce. The smirk vanished and the corporal wisely double-timed back to his tent.

* * *

MacArthur cringed as he sniffed the air, the fetid stink of the buffalo herds alarmingly pungent in the stillness of morning. He turned to his partner. Chastain settled under his load like a strong-hearted beast of burden. As much as possible had been removed from MacArthur's pack, whatever they could do without having been wrapped and buried. Yet his lightened pack still rode heavily. His shoulder was weak, the laceration not healed, and it was painful; but MacArthur could no longer endure the waiting. The lander flights had stopped. Something was wrong.

They hiked down the valley, toward the river. Spongy taiga disappeared as they traversed sections of weathered lava pocked with steaming sulfur vents, reminders of the smoking mountains on their flanks. The yellow-barked trees increased in number and size as the spring led them downward, flowing through cauldrons of bubbling mud before joining a crystalline artesian upwelling, and onward, growing into a small stream as tributaries added to itshappy gurgle. They observed two breathtaking geyser eruptions and heard the distant roaring exhausts of numerous others.

Dainty birds of red and yellow plumage serenaded their passage, and hoofprints of small deer were seen, although the animals remained hidden in ample cover. The brush thickened as they progressed; runs of alder and willowlike bushes impeded movement along the running water, and berry brambles lined the stream banks, their thorny branches covered with bright red fruit. Blueberries, initially thick underfoot, disappeared as they descended.

MacArthur saw the paw print in soft ground next to the stream. "Jocko!" he gasped. "Look at this! Here's your bear!" It was a forepaw, with a span thrice that of a human hand. Predatory claw marks impaled the muddy soil. "Christ, it's huge!" MacArthur said, stepping back. He looked around warily for more tracks, or their source.

"Told you!" Chastain blurted. "What do we do if we see one?" "Don't shoot . . . unless you have to." MacArthur stepped out, senses heightened.

Chastain' s round face brightened. "My pappa once told me about David Crockett. You ever hear of David Crockett, Mac?" They plowed through bushes, the stream noisy to their left.

"Yeah, I heard of Davy Crockett," MacArthur replied. "Wore a coonskin cap." Several seconds went by; Chastain seemed to be thinking. MacArthur forged ahead, fighting the bushes. He moved away from the stream.

"My pappa says David Crockett used to hunt bear by smiling at them."

"What, Jocko? Smiling? You kidding me?"

"Yeah—I mean, no," Chastain continued. "David Crockett would see a bear coming, and he would just stand there and smile. The bear would get confused and stop...or something. I don't remember what happened next. But my pappa says it's a true story. David Crockett use to hunt bears by smiling at 'em."

MacArthur chuckled. They broke through blue-flowered thickets and moved onto an outcropping of lichen-covered rock where the stream joined a similar-sized tributary. The terrain descended sharply, filling the watercourse with splashing white water. In the distance they glimpsed the river valley. Beyond the valley MacArthur saw foothills reaching into hazy ridges, and beyond the ridges were magnificent, white-shrouded peaks, partially obscured by low clouds. The sun-star exhibited a golden halo of ice crystals, portent of change.

The land gradually flattened, the adolescent river running smoothly with occasional deep stretches. In the shadows swam dark-backed fish, and the fish invited the attention of bears. MacArthur rounded a bend of large boulders and found himself a dozen paces from the broad back of an ursine monster. The bear stared into the water, massive forepaw poised to strike. MacArthur froze. He eased a forearm straight up, fingers spread, and slowly turned his head, moving a finger to his lips. The Marine retraced his steps, waving behind his back for Chastain to retreat. Walking backward, MacArthur did not see the loose rock on the river's edge. The crumbling shelf gave way, and MacArthur, with a loud splash and an involuntary half-choked yell, slid into the rushing water. The flailing Marine scrambled onto the rock bank and clumsily regained his feet. Chastain moved forward.

The giant beast wheeled and was on them, great flanks and shoulders convulsing, shaking away clouds of dust and insects. Growling belligerently, it reared to its majestic height, menacingly glaring down at them with beady golden eyes. Bigger than even the largest Earth bear, its ears were floppier, more pointed, and its wet, black nose and wolfish snout longer, but the differences were overwhelmed by the similarities. It stank of fish and wet fur; its coat, ragged and mangy, was the color of bright rust, with dusky mane draping back and shoulders. Powerful muscles rippled under its hide, and massive forepaws, with cutlass claws, waved in the air. The bear sniffed the breeze, opening and shutting its mouth to gather and taste the strange scents, drooling and displaying dreadful yellowed fangs. The animal remained ominously quiet, perplexed by the sight of humans. MacArthur, dripping wet, was afraid to move. His rifle was slung over his pack, and his pistol was buttoned into its holster. He dared to glance sideways, to see if Chastain was ready. Chastain stood rifle in hand, but it was aimed at the ground. Disbelieving, MacArthur could only stare at his companion. Chastain stood confidently erect, cherubic features broken by an idiot's grin. MacArthur' s eyes rolled skyward. His trembling hand crept toward his holster.

The vignette held for eternal seconds. Slowly, very slowly, MacArthur worked his pistol free and made ready to repulse an attack, while Chastain just stood—smiling. The bear fell back on its haunches and closed its mouth. MacArthur looked at Chastain and back to the bear, trepidation abating. Unable to resist, MacArthur' s mouth formed an unsteady, toothy grin. More time crept by. The bear dropped to its front paws, slowly turned, and lumbered out of sight behind the rocks.

MacArthur released his breath and forced the muscles of his mouth to relax, wiping a frozen grin away with a sweaty palm. Inhaling a week's supply of air, he holstered his pistol, jerked his rifle from his pack, and signaled for Chastain to return the way they had come. Keeping as quiet as they knew how, the Marines made a wide detour before turning back in the direction of the river.

Half an hour later Chastain broke the silence: "Hey Mac, what's a coonskin cap?"

She had to admit it; the generator made sense.

* * *

Back | Next
Framed