She slapped her pad onto the coffee table and began to sketch. One globe showing the continents of North and South America. Beside it, another globe marked with visible canals. Above each, the appropriate astronomical symbol for Earth and Mars, respectively. Nicole pointed to one, then the other.
“Not same,” she said to Jenny, repeating Jenny’s words from their flight.
Next, she added what she hoped was a recognizable rendition of a factory between the two, with a couple of earth movers for emphasis. She pointed to the Earth, then the equipment, then Mars.
“Same?” she asked. One plus one equals...?
Jenny hazarded a nod, then hurriedly repeated her answer aloud.
Okay, Nicole thought, as always these days unconsciously calling on Hal metaphors, good thermals, we’re flying with a lot of life.
Then, she pointed to the machines she’d drawn, and waved both arms wide to encompass everything around them.
“Same,” Jenny answered very quietly.
Nicole had to search for the word, because it had no analog in either Trade or High Speech, which meant forcing herself to consciously shift internal gears and try to look at things from a purely human perspective. It made her head hurt. It also made her angry. The information was there, but she only seemed able to access it in dribs and drabs that never stayed with her for very long. And possessing it gave no guarantees that she’d be able to express herself properly. She rolled the syllables around her mouth, working tongue and jaw in silence until she was sure she had the proper form.
“Terraform,” she said.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She knew from the moment she awoke that she was on another planet.
She knew just as certainly that she had come home.
She was lying on the padded floor of a domed habitat large enough to hold her and not much else. From the initial muzziness of her thoughts and the octogenarian stiffness in her bones she suspected that she’d been unconscious quite a while and that she’d been drugged. She looked for some key memories, hoping for a clue to when she’d been taken, but all that came to her was some blurred imagery from Ciari’s cabin.
She sat bolt upright then, ignoring the disorientation and borderline nausea that accompanied the sudden movement.
“Jenny,” she cried, grappling desperately with a silverfish image of shadow-cloaked figures in the night, marginally backlit by the fire’s embers. Jenny stretched out on the couch, unmoving, Nicole herself lunging across the upper floor study, from desk to stairs, catching a partial stunshot that threw her stumble-tumbling off the landing, cries of alarm from below as she fell.
She gingerly touched her forehead, a bit above the close-cropped hairline, to find the bump almost gone.
She looked around for something to wear, but nothing came immediately to view and she didn’t have the mental energy yet to go hunting. Again with that sick sense of being an old woman, she pushed herself upright and hobbled the few short steps out the entrance.
A meadow. Grasslands one way, forest the other, her first outside breath filling her lungs with the lush cinnamon spice she always associated with the Hal. This world had to be a little bigger than s’N’dare, its core more dense, the difference in gravity was perceptible enough to be noticed. The air was richer, too. There was sky weather on s’N’dare; here was water weather as well.
She stood clear of the tent to get a better view of the trees and couldn’t help a grin of familiarity from years back. The “getting to know you” phase of Wanderer’s First Contact with Shavrin’s ship. The four Terrans had found themselves in a huge environmental holography suite, capable of generating all-encompassing, three-dimensional illusions. The Hal had shown them a travelogue of their world, scattered scenes from nature. Nothing of their society, no clue as to where each image was in a planetary context, or the planet within a galactic one. They simply wanted to see how their “guests” would react to these new experiences, as individuals and members of a group.
One of the locales had been a forest. Very old growth and vaguely deciduous, most akin to the woodlands of the Pacific Northwest, only there was nothing she could recall from Earth that remotely compared with this. The reality was even more impressive.
A skirling breeze raised goose bumps on her bare skin and she ducked back inside the tent to see what had been left her. All she found was a knife, a big blade, single-edged hunter, with a scabbard and a belt. There was a carafe of water, anchored to the floor, and an equally small dispenser of survival rations. She treated herself to a couple of drinks, noting sourly that the cups were ridiculously disposable; one barely survived a refill. Not a hope of using them to carry liquid any distance. The biscuits could travel, but the dispenser would only release a couple at a time. If she read the timer correctly, she’d be fed four times a day.
She opened the flap once more and hunkered down in the doorway, to view the morning and ponder her situation.
This was the Harach’t’nyn. She could go or stay. If she stayed, there was shelter and sustenance to keep her healthy until the Overlords came for her. From the size of the food packets and their container, probably three days.
Her gaze fell to her forearms, which she’d sort of naturally crossed atop her knees, and their elegant interlacing of stripes. She lightly stroked them with her fingertips.
Stay, and all this was for nothing.
Did that justify the alternative? This was primarily a Spirit Walk, and the benchmarks came from racial memory, focused through ancestral teachings. Each supplicant followed their own instincts, and interpretations of what they’d learned, trusting both to show them the True Way. Ideally, the walkabout would bring her to the Memorial Mount of Shavrin’s Clan, a place Nicole had visited before, in Virtual and her dreams. But she could just as easily be lost, and she had nothing to sustain her but her own devices.
She gave a little shrug. On one level, this was nothing more than a somewhat extreme survival exercise, and she had no doubt she could ace it.
Then she heard the cry.
From behind, and well in the distance, carried on the wind together with a ghost of a scent that had her on her feet in an instant, knife in hand, body taut to its full length as she craned for the faintest sight of whatever had called.
There was another cry, a little louder but perceptibly more urgent—not so much that the caller was any closer but that he was very much aware of her, and making her aware of him.
Of its own accord, the blade flashed in the sunlight and the pommel hammered down on her hand where it clutched the apex of the domed habitat, catching her right across the knuckles. She yelped, as much in startlement as actual pain, but enough of both to shock her back to her senses. She was gulping air, her heart racing, her body felt as though a brushfire had been lit beneath her skin. She flushed again, even more deeply, grabbing the tent frame in both hands as though it were an anchor and she a vessel being swept towards a rocky shore by some swift and terrible tide. Her eyes were wide and wild; she felt ice in her lungs and butterflies farther down, embarrassingly aware that her nipples had grown visibly, almost painfully erect.
“Blessed Maker,” she started to say, but stopped herself with the first syllable, teeth chattering with the aftermath of one emotional extreme and the stress of another just beginning as she turned to the dormant parts of her.
“Jesus,” she said, her Hal accent giving the words an exotic twist. Nonetheless, she spoke in English. Deliberately. Defiantly. Using this as another anchor to keep her from sure destruction. “Mary and Joseph. Christ!”
That last was a shout.
She didn’t feel right standing erect. She wanted to be closer to the ground; four-footed was the proper way to hunt.
She narrowed her gaze, in response to a shifting shadow far along the tree line.
He was watching, with all requisite patience, waiting for her to acknowledge his entreaty. His mottled coloring provided superb camouflage, yet she had no problem pi
cking him out, thanks to the same instinct that was trying to drive her towards him.
She had to get out of here—but which way?
Terrific, she thought. This whole experience depends on me trusting my instincts. Only those instincts were flashing her cues she didn’t dare take.
But I’m more than Hal. At least, I hope I am. How about seeing where those instincts lead.
She swept the field, the hackles of her neck—hell, her whole scalp—prickling with the awareness of the silent watcher, wondering if he’d follow, partly hoping that he would. Wanting to fight him off, but not so hard that...
“Stop it!” she cried, deliberately putting herself back on the Academy parade ground and using the voice staff drill instructors use on unwary cadets who should know better.
She took another hefty drink before she went and finished the last of her biscuit ration. Then she struck out for high ground.
Can’t figure where to go, she told herself as she strode for the shadows of the woods, until you have a decent sense where you are.
And just as suddenly, a biting rejoinder, that to her surprise prompted a chuckle of wry amusement.
Fucked is where I am, actually.
She wanted to move fast, but she was breaking trail and learned quickly that her bare feet weren’t made for this kind of travel. It seemed like every step, no matter how careful, found her a new set of nettles or brambles or stones. Under the forest canopy, the air grew significantly warmer as the day progressed, and the undergrowth didn’t permit much of a breeze to counteract it. She could hear the air moving way up-top, stirring crowns and high branches, but around her all was still and steamy. The water she’d drunk soon burst free as perspiration, making her slick and sticky, and annoyingly attractive for the local insect life.
Here, Hal memory came to her aid, as she hunted up a t’agua bush and crushed the berries on her skin, smearing a film over all the skin she could reach. They looked good to eat, too, but a faint touch of juice on the tip of her lip reminded her why they weren’t. Some animals thrived on them; the Hal didn’t number among them.
She kept pushing upslope, walking mostly, but occasionally forced to climb, and gathering a growing collection of aches and scrapes along the way. Days were longer than on Earth, all the more so since the vegetation told her this land rode the leading edge of summer, but that still didn’t mean she had time to waste. Sooner rather than later she’d have to find shelter, and sustenance. She thought more than once of going back to the tent but dismissed the idea out of hand. She’d seen no sign of the creature from the meadow, but likewise had no doubts that he was following. She still wasn’t ready to trust herself if they met face-to-face, and she didn’t think her knife would be sufficient to protect her.
For some reason—and that prompted a grim (and altogether human) chuckle—the more she thought about him, the more disturbingly familiar he seemed. The shape of his head, the way he held himself, they struck resonances she couldn’t explain, and she grumbled a hopeless wish for a pair of binoculars.
Eventually, the sun having quartered the sky, she reached the crest of the escarpment. The ridge line continued to climb and she decided to follow it, since the forest was still too thickly wooded to get any bearings. Underfoot, loamy earth gave way more and more to scattered boulders, where wind and erosion had worn away the soil down to bedrock. She could walk more easily and so picked up her pace, scanning the way ahead through the thinning trees. The trunks were smaller, shorter, evidence of a harder struggle for survival.
The end, when it came, was breathtaking. She emerged onto a massive outcropping of stone that jutted off into space like a promontory. Below, a couple of hundred meters down a steeply climbable drop, she saw a twisting river valley fed in part by a waterfall from the stream she’d seen in her meadow. The sun was to her right, easily halfway to the horizon, which meant she was looking south. A glance farther east showed her a coastline, with dark water visible beyond.
She bared teeth—her appreciation for this moment wholly Hal—because she knew now precisely where she was, and what was expected of her.
She wasn’t aware, as this revelation cascaded through her thoughts, that she’d sunk down into a crouch, legs folding double to put knees on a level with a back that she was unconsciously elongating, hands gripping the rock before her as naturally as if she’d been born to run this way. She flexed a set of fingers, and her mind filled in the proper sound of claws skimming the bare rock.
The proximity alarm saved her, a nerve-scrambling siren most often described as the “car alarm from Hell,” sounding off barely ten meters along the crest and spooking her so badly she nearly flung herself off the precipice.
She wasn’t the only one scared. The beast from the meadow—which had been following and had begun at last to make his move—uttered a howl that mixed fright and defiance, bursting from the shadow of the trees and onto the promontory in a challenge stance.
Nicole was splayed flat on the sun-baked stone, her knife pinned unreachably underneath her, staring in terrified astonishment at the sight the animal presented. The body fur was longer, but that was a minor cosmetic variation; the shape of the legs was different and the proportions between them and the arms as well. Stood to reason, quadruped orientation versus bipedal. But beyond that, she could have been looking at a Hal.
On the whole, he was bigger than most of the males she’d seen, broader in the shoulders and thighs, the legs built to push him hard and fast and she suspected for a good long time. Most of the motive power clearly came from them, the arms were for balance and direction. The fingers didn’t appear as articulate as a bipedal Hal’s, but there was an opposable thumb and the capacity for independent movement was confirmed when he grasped a rock and tossed it towards the sound. His base coat was a dark chestnut, splashed with mottled orange, ideal autumnal camouflage.
His head twitched marginally towards her, as though acknowledging her presence, and she caught a glimpse of hazel-gold eyes. He had no tail, and on closer inspection both eyes and ears were larger than on the bipedal Hal—All the better, she supposed, for hunting. He growled, only the noise was laced thick with subvocals intended just for her that made it as much an invitation as it was a warning for whatever was sounding the alarm.
Immediately into her head popped the correct response and she clenched her teeth to keep it there. With slow, deliberate movements, she pushed herself up enough to clear her knife. Then, praying to every deity that came to mind, she uttered a warning of her own.
It wasn’t much compared to his. No matter the desire, human throats weren’t designed to produce the same variety and depth of aural resonances. He turned his gaze to her, full-on, the expression of questioning confusion so eloquent that for a moment she couldn’t respond. He tossed a quick, wary glance towards the siren, and reached a hand to her, emphasizing the gesture with a little half step towards the cover of the trees.
Again, she repeated the warning, attempting a subvocalized refusal of her own. She did not want him, she would not go.
He roared, the sound so powerful, coming without the slightest warning, that Nicole was on her feet in an instant, one leg bent, the other braced, ready to stand fast or move as the attack warranted, one arm out to ward off any blow while the other held her knife at the ready. She met his gaze with a determination as grim and indefatigable as his own.
He looked hurt.
But he left.
She wanted to collapse, as fatigue replaced the empowering rush of adrenaline to the point of utter exhaustion. Instead, she straightened to her full height, her back protesting mightily at the strains she’d put it through, and picked her way along the rock until she came to the source of the alarm.
It was an armored pressure suit. Twice the size of a big man, it was designed to take an awesome amount of punishment, both natural and man-made—radiation, solid impacts, heat, directed energy, the works. Any doubts as to its origin were banished when she rubbed the scorched surf
ace over the left breast and uncovered the etched shield of a United States Marshal.
It was empty, of course, nobody home, its wearer long gone. She flipped the locking latches on the helmet, lifted it off with a moderate effort, and silenced the alarm. Then, she began releasing the body clips as well. It was late, she was tired, and she didn’t want to find out the hard way that her four-footed paramour maybe wasn’t inclined to take no for an answer.
Inside the torso, she found a carryall with her name on it, a leftover of the Wanderer mission she and Ciari had shared together. She set it down beside the suit and climbed in, to find the fit a great deal more snug on the inside that she expected.
You modified the suit, Ben, she thought, as she struggled with the Popeye-sized arms—and their infuriatingly stubby fingers—to close the shell. She shifted the carryall under her butt—with apologies to herself if there was anything breakable inside—and lastly seated the helmet properly on its neck ring. Internal systems sensed the presence of an occupant and popped back on-line the moment the circuit was closed.
“Ident please,” she heard Ciari say, in English and High Hal. It was good to hear his voice.
“Nicole, Ben,” she replied.
“Voiceprint confirmed. Biostats confirmed. Identification accepted. Internal unit systems active.” She didn’t want to consider the fate of anyone who wasn’t approved trying to spend any time in here. Automatically, she checked the air and saw that the suit was bleeding off an external shunt. Made perfect sense: why draw on finite reserves when there’s breathable atmosphere available?
She wanted to sleep but she was too tired, in that special state where everything functioned but nothing really worked. She could speak, but Heaven knew whether or not the words would make any sense. Walk, but probably run into things.
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