Return to Camerein

by Rick Shelley

  “Did anyone find anything in the back?” George asked, aiming the query at the people visible in the doorway.

  “Their ship was apparently the Avon,” Henri Caffre said. “I found that name stenciled on a couple of items. And one man had a readable ID chip. It showed Bridger as his homeworld.” Henri shrugged. “I am not familiar with it.”

  “I’ve seen the name,” Jeige said, “but I really don’t know anything about the world.”

  “A Commonwealth member,” George said. “A fairly new settlement, I believe. I’ve never been there, though. Vepper?”

  “Yes, sir, new.” Vepper kept working on his patient. “It’s a surprise they have men to send off to the Royal Marines yet.”

  “A Commonwealth world,” Marie said, wistfulness and deep disappointment in her voice.

  “They haven’t forgotten us,” Shadda said. Then his stomach growled noisily, and a couple of the others looked at him. Shadda flushed in embarrassment. “I’ll have a look at the rest of the wreckage,” he said.

  Shadda wandered around the crash site. There was no clear purpose to his route, or to the superficial inspection. He was no more than a sightseer. Looking back along the shuttle’s path, he was astounded by the extent of destruction to the forest. He was even more amazed at how much debris there was from the crash itself … but there could be nothing useful in it, not to him or his companions in exile. A Commonwealth ship! Maybe there was a chance for rescue, but it looked more like a missed opportunity to Shadda, a missed chance for relief from the tensions that had so knotted him up over the past seven years.

  “A chance to start living again,” he whispered. It was too much. Shadda walked away from the shuttle and fromthe visible evidence of the lander’s final approach and crash. He went to a pumpkin tree nearly a hundred yards from the craft, leaned his forehead against the cool orange bark, and closed his eyes.

  “We’ve lost the only hope we’ve had in seven years,” he whispered. “Will we ever have another?”

  The prospects for rescue seemed bleaker than ever before, even though—logically—the likelihood that there was at least one friendly ship somewhere in the area should have provoked almost unbounded optimism. Shadda bumped his forehead against the tree trunk several times, each time with a little more force. The predictable pain from the masochistic act was welcome. But then his stomach cramped, severely, and that distress took his mind off everything else for a few minutes.

  “If we don’t get started soon, it’ll be dark before we get back to the hotel,” Jeige observed.

  Nothing was going on inside the shuttle at the moment. Vepper was sitting back on his heels on the flight deck, just watching his motionless patient. There was nothing more that he could do for the flyer.

  “I’m afraid to move him yet,” Vepper said. “I don’t think he could stand the strain of being carried to one of the bugs.”

  “Let’s go outside for a moment, Vepper,” George said. “Marie, will you watch over the pilot until we return?”

  “Of course.” For once, Marie had no argument with The Windsor. As soon as he moved away from the stairs, she moved up onto the flight deck. Vepper had not moved from his position next to the pilot’s head.

  George stared at him from the doorway and said, “Vepper,” softly but firmly. Holford got to his feet and followed the prince out of the shuttle.

  “Does the pilot have any chance at all?” George asked, whispering even though none of the others had followed them out and there was no sign of Shadda.

  “I think not,” Vepper replied. He glanced back towardthe shuttle. “Very little, anyway. He appears to have massive internal bleeding, and med-patches alone won’t do much for that. There’s just nothing else I can do for him here, and I doubt very much that we can get him back to the hotel.”

  “Is there any point in trying?”

  “We can’t leave him as long as he’s alive, sir. As long as he has any chance at all, however remote, we must continue to do whatever we can.”

  “Of course. I was not suggesting otherwise. Do you think that he will regain consciousness before he dies, if that is to be his lot?”

  “There’s no way to tell.”

  “We really have no choice then, do we?” George asked. “We might as well move him to one of the bugs and start back. If he is to die anyway, it makes no difference, but we owe him every possible chance. Is the trauma tube at the hotel operational?”

  “I presume so, sir. We haven’t needed it.”

  “Well, let’s find something to use as a stretcher.”

  “There’s a folding stretcher on the troop deck, strapped to the bulkhead. It won’t fit in a bug full-length, though.”

  “But we can use it to get the man to the walker without hurting him worse than he is already.” George turned back toward the shuttle. I just hope the man has a chance to tell us what he can before he dies. He must have some idea what’s going on. It would be nice to have some certainty for once.

  Henri and Jeige carried the stretcher, picking their way through the debris between the shuttle and the safari bugs. Vepper hovered at the side, keeping a hand on the pulse—on the life—of his patient. George and Marie went ahead to prepare Jeige’s bug to carry the pilot. Shadda had come back from his wandering just as the others were lifting the injured flyer onto the stretcher. But he did not tag along during the transfer. He spent several minutes inside the shuttle instead.

  “What the blazes is he doing in there?” Marie asked while she and Prince George waited for the others to reach them.

  George shook his head. He had noted Shadda’s earlier reluctance to remain in the shuttle with its bodies. Now, the man seemed to court their company. “It is somewhat odd.”

  There was a long groan from the pilot as he was maneuvered into the rear of the walking egg. Marie and Henri collected spare cushions from the rest of the walkers to prop around the injured man. That task was nearly complete before Shadda hopped out of the shuttle and ran to rejoin the others.

  “I left messages,” Shadda said, as breathless as if he had just run a marathon. “I said that there are seventeen of us at the Commonwealth Excelsior and left directions. If anyone comes to investigate the crash, they’ll find the messages. Anyone,” he repeated, looking around as if daring the others to chastise him.

  “Admirable, Shadda,” George said, giving him a nod. Shadda grinned, his gastric distress momentarily forgotten.

  “I had to take the chance, sir,” Shadda said. “Even if they’ve all forgotten the Commonwealth Excelsior, they might yet come to investigate this crash.”

  “That is possible,” George said.

  “There is something else, sir.”

  Shadda paused, long enough for George to urge, “Go on, man.”

  “There were only twelve bodies in that troop compartment. It looked as if it might handle forty men. Maybe the dozen were all that it carried this time, but maybe—just maybe—the shuttle had put troops on the ground before … whatever happened. I admit that it’s a long shot, sir. I mean, why were the dozen left aboard if the others had landed? But I thought we should not miss any chance.”

  “You did right, Shadda,” George said. “I doubt that there were others put aground first. As you say, it seems to leave no rational explanation for those who remainedaboard. But I agree. It would not do to miss any possibility, however remote.”

  The sun had dropped more than halfway from its zenith, but the new clearing that had been ripped out of the jungle by the crash meant that the sun was still visible, forcing shadows from the people standing by the safari walkers. Then they all suddenly acquired second shadows as the sky brightened. The impulse was irresistible. All six looked up into the eastern sky. There appeared to be a second sun, a bright white dwarf. The new light was too brilliant for anyone to look directly at it. George was the first to speak, as the sudden light started to fade almost as quickly as it had appeared.

  “It appears that their ship has exploded. A ship ha
s exploded, at any rate.” What radiation are we soaking up from it? he wondered, but he wasted neither thought nor time on a futile attempt to escape it. Any damage was already done. Their nanotech health maintenance systems could take care of any direct damage to cells unless the molecules of that system were themselves damaged severely.

  “There goes our rescue,” Shadda said. It was almost a moan. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He wiped at them quickly, almost savagely.

  “Unless there is more than one ship above, no?” Henri suggested. “What disabled this one, neh? There must be someone else up there, friend or foe.”

  “Quite,” George said. He looked around the group, then cleared his throat. “The sooner we get started, the sooner we can get this chap into the trauma tube at the hotel.”

  If he lasts that long was everyone’s common thought. The extra sun in the sky had already faded to oblivion.

  George set a faster pace as the safari bugs started back toward the Commonwealth Excelsior. Potential harm to the injured flyer had to be balanced against the faint chance that a little speed might get him to the trauma tube in time to save his life. George took the driver’s seat in the leadbug, letting Vepper sit in back where he could more easily keep an eye on Jeige’s walking egg behind them, the bug carrying the injured copilot. There had been no room for Vepper to ride with the injured pilot; Vepper was certainly in no condition to drive. He was too agitated.

  “His condition is so fragile,” Holford muttered. “He has so little chance.”

  “We’re going as fast as I dare,” George said.

  “I know, sir. Even air transport might not be fast enough to save him.”

  The convoy of safari bugs had covered half the distance to the hotel when everyone heard Jeige’s panicked voice on the radio. “He’s having convulsions, shaking all over the place!”

  “Stop your bug!” Vepper shouted toward the radio. “This may be it, sir. I have to get back to him at once.” He was out of the egg before George managed to get it settled on its stomach with the legs folded. Vepper ran to Jeige’s bug. McDonough was just getting the canopy lifted.

  “Get out. Give me room,” Vepper ordered.

  The flyer was thrashing around in the rear seat. His face was flushed a deep red, almost purple. Vepper knelt by the seat and tried to restrain the injured man with his body and left arm while he searched through the first aid kit with his right hand.

  A sedative might stop his heart, Holford reminded himself, but if I don’t do something quickly he’s dead anyway.

  “Another hour, mate,” Vepper whispered as he dug out the remaining med-patches. “Another hour, please.” First the sedative, on the man’s neck, to stop the convulsions, then a stimulant and blood regenerator, right over the heart. “One more hour and we’ll have you safe in a trauma tube,” he promised.

  The flyer suddenly stopped his thrashing. He relaxed and expelled one long breath. Some of the red seemed to fade from his face. He opened his eyes and looked up. The flyerstared, but the blank brown eyes did not seem to be seeing anything.

  “Always hurry up and wait,” he said, so softly that Vepper barely heard him. Then the pilot’s eyes closed again. A strangled gurgling noise escaped from his throat.

  Vepper felt for a pulse on the man’s neck, but he knew that he would not find one. He took a deep breath before he looked up and said, “He’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?” Jeige asked, his voice displaying a hard edge that might have presaged hysteria.

  “I’m sure.” Vepper rose and stepped out of the walker.

  “What was that he said?” Henri asked. All of the others had gathered around the walker.

  “‘Always hurry up and wait,’” Vepper quoted, his eyes looking back to the dead man.

  “Military,” Shadda said. His stomach was rebelling again, noisily and at length. He put a hand to his gut and pressed against the agony.

  “We knew he was off a Royal Navy ship,” George reminded the others. “Those were Marines in the troop compartment.”

  “The war continues,” Marie said, as if she had not heard anything that had been said before.

  “So it seems,” her husband replied.

  “How could you have thought anything else?” the prince asked. “A downed shuttle, Marines aboard. Of course the war continues. Or a second war has begun.” He turned and walked away. The outburst had been unseemly. My own disappointment, George thought. I wanted a chance to question the man, find out about the war.

  For several minutes, no one had anything else to say. Mostly, they stared at the dead man. Occasionally, they glanced at each other. One more corpse. They had left thirteen of them in the shuttle. Somehow, this one death seemed more personal, more important, than the others. They had witnessed this death.

  “I used to fly as copilot on a shuttle, back in my military days,” George said when he returned to the group. Hisvoice was soft now, reflective, almost casual. The others understood the implicit It could have been me in his words. They recognized it because, one way or another, they had all felt the same thing, even though none of them were pilots. It could have been me.

  “What do we do now?” Henri asked.

  “We return to the hotel,” George said. He straightened up. His voice regained some of its accustomed timbre and volume. “There’s nothing else we can do here.”

  “What about …” Shadda asked, not finishing the question.

  “We can’t just dump him,” Jeige said. “We’ll have to take him along and bury him at the hotel.”

  “Yes,” Vepper said. “It’s the least we can do.”

  “Naturally,” George said.

  “I’ll drive him,” Jeige said, forcefully, as if there had been an argument over who would have that honor. Or duty.

  It was nearly dark before the column of safari bugs emerged from the trees near the hotel. The sun was ready to disappear below the horizon. After the flyer’s death, the group from the hotel had possessed neither the need nor the desire to hurry. The pilot was beyond help. He was done hurrying, done waiting, whatever might have been behind his last words.

  “Can you get a blanket or tarp for him?” Jeige asked Shadda as soon as everyone had parked near the hotel’s veranda and climbed out of the walkers.

  “Of course,” Shadda said.

  “Where do we bury him?” Marie asked.

  “With the others who died here?” Shadda suggested.

  “Along the path, down by the river?” George asked, as if he had to struggle to recall the location. “Near the edge of the hotel lawn?”

  Shadda nodded. “I’ll get something to cover him with.” He left the group quickly.

  “Where are the shovels and so forth?” Jeige asked before Shadda entered the hotel. “I’ll start digging the grave.”

  Shadda stopped and turned back to him. “There’s no need for that. I’ll fetch Dacen and Zolsci. We’ll take care of it.”

  “No,” Jeige said emphatically. “I’ll do it.”

  The unaccustomed physical labor was a distinct relief. Jeige could not recall the last time he had done anything requiring even a tenth so much effort. He had certainly done no physical work since coming to Camerein, and it had been years before that, perhaps even before his marriage. Thinking of that, of his wife, put more force into Jeige’s motions. He growled, unaware of the sound.

  He had found a spot next to the path leading to the river, slightly closer to the hotel than the other graves that had been dug during the war. The first step was to remove the sod. The roots of the local grass were tightly interlocked, but the blade of the shovel was sharp and cut through without much difficulty. Once Jeige had incised the boundaries of the grave—eight feet by three—he removed the remaining sod from the center of the rectangle. The turf was set aside to be replaced later.

  Dusk had faded into dark by the time Jeige got that far. The only light he had, except for the moon and stars, came from the veranda of the hotel, more than a hundred yards a
way. It was enough. The darkness seemed fit to the chore.

  “Will that be large enough?” Jeige stepped off the length and width again, using that as a rest from the hard work. “It should be okay,” he decided.

  Once below the protective roots of the grass, he found the soil sandy, easy to excavate. He moved into a steady rhythm, using first one foot and then the other to plant his spade in the dirt, tugging back to free it, then tossing the load up and out of the hole. He worked from one end to the other, one level at a time, back and forth.

  Jeige was surprised at how quickly the work went—and how fast the stigmata of work appeared on him. In tenminutes he had large blisters on both hands, for the first time in more than twenty years, but even those gave him little trouble. If anything, they were welcome reminders that he was actually doing honest, necessary work for the first time in decades. The dirt, the sweat, and the pain in his hands and back were badges of honor. And the pain was never severe. The medical nanosystem in his body provided pain relievers as needed.

  He even felt a moment of regret when the work was done. The hole was four feet deep and he knew that he could not make it any deeper without risking a major cave-in of the sides. The sandy dirt wouldn’t hold. Even climbing out brought down some of the dirt on one side.

  As soon as Jeige returned to the hotel, Shadda hurried to meet him. Jeige spotted Prince George and Vepper in the foyer, seated on cane chairs. Through the archway, he saw several of the others in the dining room. And he could hear his wife’s voice, loud, raucous, laughing, from the Savannah Room.

  “My husband the gravedigger,” Mai McDonough said, as derisively as her advanced state of intoxication permitted. She came out of the shadows to stand in the bar’s doorway. “See any ghosts? Talk with Yorick’s skull?”

  “It’s ready,” Jeige said, almost in a whisper. He spoke to Shadda rather than to his wife.

  “Everyone has been waiting,” Shadda said. “We will all be there to say farewell to the flyer. We have not served dinner.”

  Jeige blinked several times in rapid succession as an idea popped into his head. He glanced toward the door of the Savannah Room. His wife had already retreated to her usual post inside.