“It’s Donovan.” Kalico emphasized the words in a way that should have explained everything.
Michaela threw her hands up. “I know. It’s just that nothing in our briefings, our training, or our experience has prepared us to think in these terms. It’s like the old sea stories of mermaids, krakens, Davey Jones’s Locker, and sea monsters are suddenly true. What’s next? The Flying Dutchman?”
“Could be,” Kel told her. “Got a better explanation for the seaskimmers?”
Michaela laughed. “All right, your point. But seriously, are explosive charges the best we can do?”
Kalico walked along the submarine, inspecting the gleaming yellow hull, the fancy lights, the robot arms with their stainless-steel fingers and flip-out tools. The thing looked glossy and imposing.
“Maybe not,” she told them. “But for the moment, I think it’s the best option. We have the explosives, can make the delivery technology to either kill or dissuade any creature that might want to attack the sub. My people and Lawson will work with you on that. If we can keep the big stuff away until we figure out if it’s hostile, or how to discourage it from getting close, can I assume you can keep the little stuff like jellyfish away?”
“Hey, Supervisor,” Jaim told her, “I can use the arms to wave them off. Slice a couple of them up with the knives or saws, discharge a load of bubbles their way, you name it.”
“Director?” Kalico asked, turning to get the woman’s take.
“Let’s go with a weapon instead of a cage,” Michaela agreed, stepping over to stare at the sub. “Once we get the countermeasures built, we start slow, follow transects, stay close to the Pod as we map the reef and the drop off. Nothing big until we have an understanding of the risks and what works.”
Kel was fingering his chin again. “I really don’t like the idea of setting off explosives underwater close to the sub. Water doesn’t compress. We’re going to have to do the math. Tailor these charges for a specific distance. The bigger the blast, the farther it has to be from the sub. As it is, there’s no telling what that kind of detonation is going to do to the hydrophones and some of the sensors. We’re going to have to engineer a couple of levels of fail-safe. If one of those things goes off while it’s strapped to the hull . . . ?” He winced.
Kalico told him, “I’ll have my explosives people work with you. We’re to the point that we’re tailoring charges for shot holes in the Number Three. Maybe, if we’re lucky, all it will take is a small bang and whatever might look nasty will swim away.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Jaim asked, walking over with a cloth to scrub at the smears of algae on the sub’s side. The stuff didn’t seem to rub off.
“You get to be an old-time sub commander,” Kel told Jaim with a smile. “Just like back in the twenty-first century. You’ll have to figure targeting solutions, and we’ll give you torpedoes. I’ll find some paint and letter it really nicely.” He pointed to the rounded protrusion of the hatch on top. “Das U Boot!”
“Yeah?” Jaim jammed the rag into her pocket and stuck her thumbs in the belt at her waist. “I like that.”
28
Two Falls Gap. The place was even more beautiful than Talina remembered. She circled her battered aircar above the isolated dome and admired the location where it nestled on the south side of the low forested gap between two blocks of uplifted gabbro. A couple of kilometers to the west, beyond the ascending ranks of broken foothills, the high Wind Mountains shot up like an impenetrable wall. Atop the near-vertical slopes, ragged peaks towered a thousand meters above the basin and seemed to be combing clouds out of thin air.
The sheer mountain wall was composed of upthrust formations of granite, gneiss, and schist lined with veins of quartz and crisscrossed by transected dikes. The strata made patterns of gray, pink, black, and white in contrast with the rumpled basalt and gabbro foothills below. Since the escarpment provided such an orographic barrier to the moisture-thick winds blowing in off the Gulf, rainfall was a near constant in the heights.
That precipitation cascaded down the steep slopes in a remarkable series of waterfalls that ultimately fed a trellis-pattern of rivers where gabbro and overlaying basalt foothills had welled up from the broken crust in the wake of the asteroid’s impact.
Talina set her course toward the low gap. There, tumbling over uplifted blocks of broken crust, two rivers—one draining down from the north, the other up from the south—sluiced through low spots on either side of the gap. Separated by a resistant block of basalt, each river fell thirty meters to their confluence in a deep pool. The Two Falls River then followed a tortured course through a narrow and deeply cut gorge that twisted and turned its way down to the clay-rich coastal plain with its thick forests. There it slowed, meandering through the lowlands in sinuous loops and finally emptied into the Gulf one hundred and eight kilometers to the east.
Situated just up from the falls, on the rocky bank of the southern fork, Two Falls Gap Research Station had been constructed on an outcrop of gabbro where erosion and weathering had exposed bare stone. Surrounding it, the shallow, volcanically derived soils allowed a fertile garden filled with terrestrial plants to flourish. The dome, placed as it was on bedrock, was twenty-five years old now. The original white had grayed as a result of fungus and weathering, battered by the afternoon showers as warm air from the lowlands compressed against the sheer uplift.
That same rain, collected in cisterns, provided heavy-metal-free drinking water for the small research station.
The single solar collector atop its mast appeared to be aligned with Capella as the primary tracked across the sky. Talina had to hope the batteries still held a charge and that the electrical system remained functional. At least the power had worked the last time she was out here, which was what? Five years? Maybe six? Had it been that long?
“So, that’s home?” Dek asked, eyes squinted against the pain in his remodeling retinas as he sat hunched on the worn passenger seat beside her. “It’s so beautiful, it’s stunning. This has to be one of the prettiest places in the universe.”
With the vertical mountain wall topped by high clouds and tumbling white waterfalls as a backdrop for the thickly forested Donovanian foothills, it looked like a vision of Shangri-La. Some of the most stunning scenery she’d ever laid eyes on.
“That’s it. At least for the next couple of weeks. Maybe a month. No one but you, me, and the quetzals rampaging through our bodies. As long as you don’t shoot the solar collector or blow a hole in the dome that lets in sidewinders and slugs, we’re in good shape. You are welcome shoot the hell out of the forest, and no one will care except the trees.”
“How’s the charge?” He nodded toward the gauge in the dash.
“Thirty-eight percent. That’s why I’ve got a spare power pack. The only pisser will be if the main battery at the station is flat. If that’s the case, we’re headed south to find a way through the Winds, and then west to Rork Springs. Not my favorite place given what happened to Trish out there, but at least we know the quetzals are friendly and the station still functions.”
“I really apologize for causing you all this grief. Wish I could think. I mean, this really sucks toilet water. Every time I try and hold onto a thought, some part of my past starts happening again. Like I’m right there back in Transluna or stuck in some dark crawlway on Ashanti. Hard to keep it all straight.”
“Yeah, I know. I ended up in my mother’s kitchen back in Chiapas. Turned out it was Xibalba.”
“Where?”
“I told you. That’s the Mayan version of hell. It’s in the underworld and ruled by the Lords of Death . . . who turned themselves into quetzals. Psychotic hallucinations can be so creative. Think of the Lords of Death as a delightfully colorful and ethnically charged alternative to the more traditional pitchfork-wielding red devils with spike-tipped tails, horns growing out of their heads, and cloven feet standing in a supe
r-hot fire.”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “So, what’s your version of hell?”
“Transluna,” he whispered, eyes gone hollow. “I didn’t know it at the time, but I had a really shitty life. I mean, you’d think if I was going to conjure a version of hell, it would be on Ashanti. Maybe the old nightmare of the Unreconciled sneaking up from Deck Three to cut me apart alive.”
Talina made one last pass. The dome, the outbuildings, the overgrown confusion of crops in the garden patch, all seemed to be in order. An old generator, a couple of shipping containers, and the elevated cistern appeared normal. She couldn’t see any threats, no heat signatures that would indicate a quetzal or bem.
“Let’s see what we’ve got. Keep an eye peeled, and holler if you see anything that looks suspicious.”
Dek laughed bitterly. “As if I’d know.”
“Your quetzal sense will warn you. Trust it.”
Talina settled them over what had been the landing pad—a flat of dark stone marked by patches of soil. She took a moment to scan all the way around, her IR and UV adding to her assurance that no danger lurked in the shadows. But for a column of buzzing invertebrates that swarmed in the air just behind the solar collector mast, she saw nothing between her and the forest.
Talina eased the car to the ground and let the fans spin down. Only then did she pull her rifle from the rack, flick the safety off, and swing her feet over the side.
The chime filled the air, higher in tone, more melodic and lilting than that around Port Authority. She sniffed for any hint of vinegar that might indicate a BEM or spike, but the air smelled of saffron and cloves. From the other side of the cliff just downriver, the twin waterfalls made a constant low roar. Streamers of mist rose from the canyon depths. Capella’s light danced through them like fingers of living rainbow.
Talina checked the ground, assuring herself that the patches of soil weren’t deep enough to hide a slug, and better yet, the plants that had taken root there were all terrestrial species of cilantro, parsley, and some low flower that might have been a clover.
Dek winced as he leaned forward in the seat and pulled his ornate Holland & Holland rifle from the rack. He seemed to be having issues, his movements awkward, gaze unfocused.
“Dek? Can you stay in the car? Let me check it out?”
“Yeah, right.” His eyes fixed on infinity, his fingers playing along the rifle’s wood.
For a second she paused, wondering if she should take the weapon away from him. No. Not on Donovan. Any risk that he might hurt himself or the aircar was balanced by the knowledge that at any moment, some marauding quetzal might charge out of the forest, or who knew what other threat might appear?
Talina muttered under her breath, asking Rocket, “What do you sense, old buddy?”
“Strangers. Not recent.”
Down in her belly, Demon hissed in agreement.
“Okay, so quetzals have been here, but not for some time.” She scanned the sky, fully aware that this was mobber country. All that she saw was a distant band of scarlet fliers, and here and there one of the really large invertebrates hovered over the treetops.
Talina started forward. She placed each booted step with care, her rifle at the ready. The chime rose and fell, seemed to mock her with its slightly atonal symphony.
She approached the dome warily. The door was closed and latched as it should have been. No one left a door open on Donovan. Well, all but that bem’s ass, Weisbacher. That was another reason Talina should have shot him.
She turned the latch, heard the locking bolt retract, and swung the door open. The scent of mold and mildew caused her nose to crinkle. Stepping inside, she swept the room with the muzzle of her rifle, seeing a couple of workbenches along the dome’s curve, a couch, table, a large desk shoved against the back wall, shelving, and cabinets on the right. The left side of the room sported a table and chairs, kitchen on the back wall, a cooler that was still humming—which was good—and floor-to-ceiling cabinets. Old throw rugs covered the duraplast floor.
Nothing had changed since the last time she was here.
Talina took her time searching the room, encouraged by the lack of invertebrates. If the little creatures hadn’t managed to get in, chances were that bigger ones, like slugs and sidewinders, hadn’t either.
Entering the central hallway, she opened the bathroom door to find a two-stall shower, twin toilets, a urinal, two sinks, and mold-speckled mirrors. The once-white walls were splotched with patterns of green mold. The room had a peculiar odor that she had no hesitation about locking away again behind the closed door. Across from the bathroom, the usual storage room had cleaning supplies, garden tools, some sample bags, empty buckets, a utility tool chest, and tarps.
Finally, she opened the door to the sleeping quarters. This consisted of the back third of the dome. All the closets on the partition wall gaped empty. Five beds were aligned in a radial pattern, their heads against the dome’s curving exterior wall. A small nightstand stood by each.
The beds were just that. Mattresses on frames. No blankets or pillows.
“Maybe we should travel on to Rork Springs,” she told herself. “This place is pretty pathetic.”
Closing all the doors behind her, she walked back out to the aircar where Dek was muttering to himself, gaze dissociated. “You don’t want to make me do that, Tabo. That’s demeaning, and I won’t stoop to it. Don’t need to be a man who . . .” The words melted into an incomprehensible mumbling. Dek’s hands clenched and unclenched on his rifle’s stock.
Talina looked around, studied the clouds that formed against the implacable mountain wall in a solid bank of cumulus. Their gleaming white surfaces contrasted to the gray-cotton depths inside. Where they billowed against the rugged and vertical slopes, steamers of rain skirted the bottoms.
Did she really want to fly out to Rork Springs? It meant jogging far to the south—almost to Corporate Mine—before she could find a pass low enough for her aircar to cross the Winds. Then it would be another couple of hours flying back to the north-northwest.
Where she’d be forced to relive Trish’s meaningless death every time she stepped out the front door. See her dying friend each time she laid eyes on that couch in the main room.
Thunder boomed, carrying down from the heights to echo in the lowlands.
Screw it, by the time they got south, they’d be flying through thunderstorms.
“Come on, Dek,” she told him. “Give me your hand.”
Dek’s eyes remained unfocused, his mutterings so much senseless babble.
Talina reached down, grabbed him by the shoulder, and shook. “Dek! Hey, wake up!”
He blinked. Look confused, and then managed to focus. “Talina? We’re . . . I mean, are we at Chaco’s place? But it looks . . . not right. Nothing . . . right . . .”
“Two Falls Gap. Come on. Help me here.”
Talina slung her rifle, half-manhandled him out of the aircar, and took his weight on the left side as they hobbled into the dome.
Inside, she lowered Dek onto the couch, wishing she’d taken time to wipe it down with a wet cloth first, but too late for that.
“Don’t move,” she told him, retreating back to the aircar, putting up the top, and grabbing the pack she’d made up back in PA. From the under-seat storage, she pulled out survival blankets and gear. Toting her outfit back inside, she dropped it on the table with a clatter, asking, “How you doing?”
“Kylee’s playing with Rocket,” he told her with a smile. “Hide and seek, but Rocket cheats.”
“He was really something, the little twerp.” She could sense Rocket’s pleasure where he perched on her shoulder. Imagined him taking a bow, his collar flaring in happy colors of white patterned with pink and orange.
Stepping over to the sink, Talina checked the water. Was delighted to see it run when she opened the fa
ucet. She allowed the brown scaly stuff to cycle through until it was clear, and then ran a sample through the test kit from the survival gear.
“Looks like we’re good to go with the water,” she told Dek. “A little scale from the pipes, and the occasional algae signature, but otherwise it’s drinkable.”
“ . . . bite my fart . . . gas-sucking son of a bitch . . .” Dek looked delirious again. “Clean your own damn toilet, scum suckers . . .”
His fists were knotting manically, his legs moving, twitching slightly, his feet jerking.
“Learning muscle control,” Rocket told her from her shoulder.
“Demon? Or you and the Rorkies?”
“Can’t tell without exchanging TriNA.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope it’s you. If Demon takes him over, I’ll be damned if I’ll let him live that way.”
In her gut, Demon chortled.
Of course he did. The piece of shit knew how much it would hurt her if she had to kill Dek.
29
The coast consisted of a line of exposed dark-brown dunes, partially vegetated, that ran down to the flat expanse of tidal zone. On the beach, breakers rolled in curling lines of white that streamed off to the north. Beyond the surf, the immensity of the Gulf stretched away to the horizon. Past that, pillars of white cumulus formed against the too-blue sky.
Back from the dunes and behind a belt of vegetation, Kalico had ordered a small knoll to be flattened, the trees blown away with a series of strategically placed barrels of magtex. Then she’d flown in a bulldozer from the clay mine at Port Authority and had the cat skinner, old Artie Manfroid—with all of his years of experience—blade the knoll top all the way down to its crumbly bedrock.
Kalico ended up with a three-acre pad of exposed basalt interbedded with a highly friable quartzite-like sandstone. The stuff didn’t offer much in the way of a foundation, cracked and shattered as it was. But the pad sat in the geologically turbulent interior of the crater. By blading down to virgin stone, it gave roots nothing to cling to; the trees couldn’t encroach. Some of the smaller plants would probably try to creep their way across the clearing, but the big stuff would be stopped cold at the margins of the site where topsoil was piled.
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