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Chapter Fourteen

Newton Baruch raised an eyebrow when Yaargraukh’s daily freekset squelch occurred two seconds into the minute reserved for “strategic advantage attained.” Following Riordan’s earlier “contact made” send, and given that both had been sent during the first thirty minutes of their respective hours, it seemed that despite the very rough start to the Crewe’s arrival on-planet, conditions were improving.

Newton glanced at the sun: three hours to sunset. He’d set his duty suit’s helmet chronometer to the local time—unlike the vacc suits, it could not be tasked to do so automatically—but was resolved to train his eyes and other senses to the realities of this environment. After all, they might one day find themselves without the use of all their impressive survival toys. But he was not hesitant about putting those toys to use; without them, it would have been far more work to shape his current perch upon the rocky rise at the end of a deep wadi.

He’d spent last night nearby, lacking enough daylight to make a full survey of the high ground that had been his destination. But this day, by rising before dawn, Baruch had finished assessing the surrounding terrain just before noon. Midway through, he discovered his current eyrie and had correctly projected that he would not find a more suitable spot.

It was a remarkably lucky find, he allowed, as he used the Dornaani multitool to expand the footholds he’d carved out of the hard-packed sand into legitimate steps. The wadi he’d followed ended, but also widened into a small box canyon, where it met the rocky roots of the east-west ridge he was perched upon. Near its crest, Newton had discovered a runoff channel that followed the rock to the floor of the wadi. In effect, he’d stumbled across a small, naturally created trench system that looked down upon the canyon and through its narrow entry to the wadi beyond. Happily, the view in the other direction had proven almost as advantageous.

Baruch leaned back from the rough riser he’d just finished: time to scan north again. He stood and turned, looking over the lip of stone and sand behind him.

Even from ten kilometers, the city at the confluence of the two rivers was readily visible, even if its details were not. Almost three kilometers across, a surrounding sprawl of low, rounded structures became more dense as it neared the cluster of thin, uneven spikes at its approximate center. Fanning out from its margins, the color of the ground was slightly darker and mottled by patches of what appeared to be ground-hugging growth of some kind. Earlier in the day, hazy wisps had appeared radiating out from the city, but always close to the ground. A quick look through Newton’s Dornaani monoscope discovered the cause: dust raised by clusters of indistinct figures moving into the periphery of exoflora or possibly beyond.

But at present, there was no hint of change or movement about the city, only a few scattered tendrils of what he presumed to be fires. Every day so far had started with snow or frost on the ground. But God only knew what they were burning.

Changing the multitool over to the telescoping and rotating awl, he wondered if there would be lights at night. Measuring out a span of trench equal to the distance between the grommets on the Dornaani shelter half, he set to boring mooring points into the rock lip on both sides of its highest stretch. The work would be long, sweaty, and dull, but he welcomed the almost meditative relaxation that a properly disciplined mind could achieve while the body labored at a simple task. And at the end, he would have the comfort of knowing that if rain fell, the shelter overhead would send the runoff to the down-sloping ground on either side.

With one mooring point carved out, he paused to drink from the dwindling supply of rain and meltwater he collected each night in a Dornaani container which was either plastic or a translucent composite. He lifted the duty suit’s helmet with his free hand, activated the transponder tracker.

The paired icons of Bannor and Duncan were closest and approaching from the south. About a day behind them were Ayana and Dora, approaching from the west, who, two nights ago, had used flares to locate each other. Like Newton, Dora wore a duty suit and had to contend with its limited ability to separate signals within five kilometers of each other. It had been pure chance that Baruch had noticed their signaling. Scanning the heavens for any recognizable constellations, he’d seen what he first thought was a shooting star, but soon realized it was a Dornaani flare fired high into the night sky.

He frowned. It was not wise, moving at night, even less so launching flares that could attract hostile exofauna. Still, if either his friends or creatures did approach in the dark . . . 

Newton unpacked the Dornaani EVA hand light and secured it on a natural shelf in the rock. At its brightest, narrowest setting, the beam would be excellent for signaling. Set slightly wider and shined in the eyes of an enemy, it was likely to cause profound afterimages, possibly temporary blindness.

But, Baruch temporized, all things being equal, if he had to use it at all, he’d rather the former than the latter application. As he set to boring the second mooring point, he hoped that the others would stop traveling at night. But if they insisted on doing so, it gave him comfort to know that, like a lighthouse keeper poised above treacherous oceans of darkness, he could guide them home to safety.

***

Ayana Tagawa shook her head. “Dora, there is no reason to risk drinking groundwater. I am happy to share from my supply.”

Dora Veriden looked away from a crevice in the rock formation that they’d been following. “You mean the supply from your suit?”

“It is all I have.”

“Yeah, and it all comes from your pee. No thanks.” Dora extended the gaff stick, dialed around until she found the setting for the EVA momentum brake, locked it, and toggled the tension release. The desired tip emerged from the slot at the top of the gaff stick and rapidly unfolded into four equilateral prongs or “feet.”

“Hah!” she exclaimed. “Just like Yaargraukh’s paws!”

Ayana sighed, resisting her reflex to point out that despite a superficial similarity, it didn’t work like Hkh’Rkh hands at all. “What do you mean to do with it?”

“You’ll see,” Dora chuckled. She picked up the plastic cup with which she’d been trying to scoop water out of the hole and held its lip so that two of the tongs were to one side, two on the other. She reversed the tension release and the “feet” began folding back into the body of the gaff stick. Halfway in, the collapsing tongs met the cup’s lip, pinning it from either side.

Ayana raised an eyebrow. “That is a very inventive idea,” she commented, “but it is not designed to stay in that position. You could easily lose the cup in—”

But Dora had already poked the stick into the hole. A soft splash indicated the cup had made contact with the water. She looked up at Ayana with a rakish smile. “You were saying something, yeah?”

Tagawa exhaled slowly and resisted the urge to sit on her stacked pack and musette bag. Insufferable. But she only said, “Just so long as you can get it out.”

“And if I can’t, then I fish it out. Not too hard with the feet extended, I bet. Hey, why they call this grabby thing a . . . a moment’s brake?”

“EVA momentum brake,” Ayana corrected. “During EVA, if you approach an object too rapidly, you can deploy the brake and hold it out in front of you. The feet have smart resistance; they start fairly flexible but become less so as more pressure is exerted from behind.”

“Huh,” Dora observed, drawing the gaff stick slowly out of the crevice. “Sounds handy. But not as handy as tongs!” She triumphantly recovered the mostly filled cup, made to drink it—and laughed when Ayana started forward with outstretched hands. “Ai, Madre! I’m not gon’ hurt myself!” Still grinning, she shifted her fingers to reveal the purification tab she’d been hiding in her palm. “I’m not stupid, you know!”

Ayana nodded. I am unconvinced. Aloud: “Is there any dust in the water?”

Dora was pouring it carefully into her almost empty container, studying the stream closely. “Nah. There’s probably some at the bottom of the hole, but it’s deep and I was careful not to stir it up.” She went back for another cupful. “It would have been nice for the others to give us at least one of those Froggie-made water and food testers, though.”

Ayana shrugged. “There was no way to know where each of us would land, let alone who would be closest to whom.”

Dora’s wordless reply—a low grumble—was one that Ayana had heard often enough since they’d departed Zeta Tucanae. It was the sound of Dora Veriden pushing back against logic that threatened to undermine her unfettered enjoyment of a good, cathartic gripe.

She finished pouring off the second cup and immediately dunked it back into the hole. “Must be a pain getting the tongs back into the gaff stick after they get bent up.”

“They return to their original shape, eventually. That is another way in which the material is ‘smart.’”

Another grumble. “The Frogaanis needed to make the knife bigger. And the spike longer.”

“Neither were intended as weapons; they’re EVA tools.”

“To do what?”

“Cut away cables and circuity. Or moor oneself to an asteroid. Respectively.”

Dora’s grumble was diminished yet dogged. “Wouldn’t be hard to make them real weapons, too, if the Frogaani bothered to think that way.” As the fourth and final cup added to the water sloshing around in her container, Dora’s tone changed from gruff disappointment to eager animation. “Ai! I know what! I’ll find a way to put a spear tip on this thing.” When Ayana didn’t reply, she raised her voice, “What? No warning against that, Mommy?” She looked over.

Ayana had almost forgotten about her, and had heard her last words as if from a very great distance. “Dora,” she said calmly, “stand slowly and keep your hand near your weapon.”

Dora, for all her anti-authority insouciance, always dropped it when serious circumstances arose. Now a focused professional, she did not glance about to look for the source of Ayana’s concern. “What and where’s the problem?”

Ayana struggled to keep her eyes on the object. “One hundred meters to the north. Flying object. Shaped like an insect. Following along the course of the wadi we passed.”

Dora’s voice was low and slow. “You mean the big wadi? The one that runs down to the river?” It left a visible cleft all the way to the horizon.

Ayana nodded, realized that Dora was probably no longer looking at her. “That is the one. The insect must be flying beneath its rim, now. I cannot—”

Either the creature was familiar with the area, or serendipity had fated it to approach along a narrow gap that neither of the humans had noted when passing the wadi. The insect abruptly popped above the northern edge of the stony spine they’d been following.

There was no way it could be a dragonfly, Ayana told herself, but her eyes insisted otherwise. The only caveat was its impossible size; over a meter long and its wings a blur, it seemed to levitate as it inspected them. And although Ayana had only taken one college course on entomology, she noted that the creature’s head was far more reminiscent of a mantis. A head built for killing.

Dora freed one hand from her gaff stick, moved it slowly toward her holstered Ruger.

Ayana was careful not to move her head as she spoke. “No. Keep the stick.”

“But I can—”

“If it comes at you first, threaten it with the gaff.”

“You mean these estúpida prongs? I—”

“It does not matter,” Ayana murmured as the insect started angling toward Dora. “Just keep it off.”

“Like I need you to tell me that when—?”

Perhaps it was her louder, sharper tone; perhaps it was the indignant raise of her chin—but the insect’s wings brightened and hummed as it drove at Dora.

She was instantly focused and calm, gaff stick at the ready. Motionless, she waited until the insect had sped to within two meters . . . and did not just jab, but lunged, at it.

The insect halted abruptly, dodged slightly to the side, seemed to regard the suddenly effective opponent . . . even as Ayana moved her hand toward the scabbard on her left hip.

The mantis head rotated slightly in that direction—and the immense dragonfly was suddenly flashing toward her, mandibles clattering like shrill castanets.

***

Pandora Veriden gasped, leaped forward. “No! You’ll—!”

But Tagawa’s statue-still pose, legs slightly bent and weight on the rearward right, spun into motion like a forcefully uncoiling spring. The creature arrowed at her—but like a mirror-slash of reflected sunlight, Ayana’s katana was through, its two halves tumbling away before Dora could even blink.

For a moment the head and the thorax struggled to move, the still-attached wings a whirring counterpoint to the ferocious grinding buzz emanating from beyond the mandibles—

And then all was silence.

Dora almost shook her head in surprise. “You’re okay with that thing,” she muttered, nodding toward the sword.

Ayana’s tone was not one of false humility but frank, even irritated, appraisal. “I was adequate, but I did no justice to my training.” She tossed back the flap of the small sack she carried on the outside of her musette bag, carefully removed the most soiled of her sanitary cloths. She ran its last clean fold along the blade, squeezing the creature’s black-amber ichor off. “With prey so scarce, I suspect many local creatures have a keen sense of smell,” she said as she made a more careful pass with the rag. “We must move quickly.”


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