Genellan: Planetfall

by Скотт Г. Джир

  "And all we discovered at Shaula," Merriwether whispered into his ear, "were the dead crews and destroyed ships of the Hakito Fleet. The intelligent life was long gone by the time we got there. We've finally found the bastards."

  Runacres allowed his memory to dominate his concentration. Twenty-five years earlier he and Merriwether had been corvetteofficers on the belated rescue mission sent to Shaula System. The Hakito Fleet, HLA units of the Asian Cooperation, was a year overdue, and the AC leaders had requested the Tellurian Legion to investigate. After obtaining all the necessary assurances and guarantees, the Legion had agreed to the AC request, dispatching two HLA cells to distant Shaula. The frustrated rescuers found only burned and ransacked hulks—and drifting lifeboats—in gruesome orbit about the star's single barren planet. Some of the lifeboats were filled with desiccated remains, but many boats were inexplicably empty—leaving over three hundred crew members unaccounted for. It was mankind's first and only contact with a technologically advanced life form, and it was the reason Legion exploratory units were equipped with missiles and energy weapons.

  "Of the two hundred twelve stars discovered with planets in viable orbit," Quinn was saying, "only sixteen have had planets capable of supporting life. Of these, only four have had planets marginally accommodating to human existence—one category alpha-three, one alpha-four, and two alpha-fives. The colonies established on these intemperate outposts are not self-supporting, and none has developed a perpetuating birth rate. All are prohibitively expensive to maintain."

  "The two fives are being discontinued," Merriwether interjected.

  "We know this," Runacres growled. "What has this to do with—"

  "Bear with me, Admiral," replied Quinn. "Rex-Kaliph is a hot and active star, warmer and larger than Sol. It supplies energy to not one…not just one, but to two—"

  "Preposterous!" a staff exobiologist exclaimed. "Mass ratios and Copernicus' Law—"

  "Quiet!" Runacres snapped. "Yes, Commander?"

  "Rex-Kaliph," Quinn continued, her eyes closed, "provides sufficient energy for two life-supporting planets, one massive and warm and another Earth-sized and Earthlike, if marginally cooler." She paused. The vid screens were still, dead quiet. What she proposed was incredible.

  "Amazing," Wells said. "Two life-capable planets in one system."

  "Two life-capable planets," Quinn said, "but only one alpha-zed."

  "And a highly developed race of beings not inclined to share their planets," Merriwether said. "Perhaps the Killers of Shaula."

  "But now we're getting to my point, Admiral," Quinn said. "Rex-Kaliph Two, the second planet from the sun, is the system's primary planet. That's the home of your highly developed race, and that's the planet being so belligerently defended. It's at best an alpha-five biosphere, probably more like an alpha-six. Prior to the attack, survey teams detected electromagnetic activity characteristic of an intelligent and highly technical civilization emanating from R-K Two. That planet is much larger than Earth, and quite dense, maybe three times more massive. Gravity on the surface of R-K Two is almost one and a half times that of Earth, and its atmosphere is extremely dense. The spectral lines are busy—lots of oxygen, nitrogen, methane, and gaseous carbon compounds. Surface temperatures are uniformly warm, and the weather appears to be slow-moving and hot. It has a natural condition that exceeds Earth's worst pollution fears and is not considered permanently habitable."

  "Tell that to the aliens," Merriwether drawled. "Must be what makes them so cranky."

  "What's your point, Commander?" Runacres asked.

  "Sir, we did a broad-channel scan on the third planet," Quinn replied. "Everything—atmospheric parameters, temperature ranges, mass specifics, spectral composition—is totally within a very low alpha category. Yet, strange to say, there is little to indicate that it is inhabited."

  "Your point," Runacres demanded. "What difference does that make?"

  "Yes," Wells agreed. "The locals seem quite possessive."

  "Yes, but the planets have vastly different, almost incompatible biospheres, Admiral," Quinn said. "My point—my hope—is that R-K Three is as unattractive to the aliens as our colonies are to us. Perhaps, just perhaps, they will negotiate with us—"

  "Negotiate?" harrumphed Merriwether. "These are likely the same monsters that massacred our people at Shaula. They've started their negotiations from a rather extreme position, wouldn't you say? What makes you think they'll cooperate? And excuse me, Commander, but we have seen other planets that satisfy most, if not all, alpha requirements, and none has been a Garden of Eden. Yournew planet may not be worth losing more people and ships over, and that may be part of the negotiations ultimately required!"

  "What do we do, now that we've found the monsters?" Wells asked.

  "We don't know that we have found them," Runacres replied. "Who says this is the same race? Perhaps the universe is inherently unfriendly—but we've interrupted Commander Quinn. Please continue, er. Cassy."

  "Admiral, because of the nature of their technologies, I feel certain the inhabitants of R-K Two are not the Shaula killers," Quinn persevered. "And R-K Three satisfies the habitability parameters within the most narrow range of any known planet ever surveyed. What's more, we obtained short range optical and spectral imaging from Harrier One."

  "Imagery! How? From the middle of a battle?" Wells asked.

  "Yes, sir," Quinn replied softly. She hit the advance, and a grainy, highly magnified image of a wispy turquoise sphere contrasting against the velvety backdrop of space shone from the wall screen. Despite the low digital resolution the opalescent planet looked like Earth.

  Quinn broke the silence. "Don't ask me how, but the fleet datalink captured telemetry from Harrier One's survey cameras. The signals were intermittent and barely synched, but adequate to confirm broad-channel scans, narrowing the data even further. This planet—R-K Three—is a winner!" She looked about the silent room, a gleam of hope in her eyes.

  "Maybe a bit cool," she added.

  Runacres knew what Quinn was thinking, and Merriwether verbalized it. "Harrier One may have made that planet," she said softly, but clearly enough for the microphones to pick up. "We could have people alive in that system. We have to go back."

  Runacres sat quietly. Only the Legion Assembly could make that decision.

  * * *

  The orbiting corvette flashed in the red light of the setting sun, completing its second full day in orbit. Two moons moved silently in the ebony heavens, the larger satellite a scimitar of brilliant silver, the smaller moon tiny, lumpy, golden.

  "A search radar, Skipper," Hudson said. "Someone's watching us."

  Buccari watched the commander clear his console. He had been re-playing the communication tapes of the battle. Buccari felt his despair.

  "Surprising it took this long," Quinn sighed. "At least they aren't shooting…yet."

  "You get a fix on the transmitter, Nash?" Buccari asked.

  "Yeah," Hudson replied. "Mapping isn't complete, but the source is located here." Hudson designated the coordinates on their screens. "We'll be out of range in five minutes. Funny. No acquisition signals, no targeting lobes, no interrogations. It's as if they're indifferent."

  "They may have other targeting methods," Buccari said. "Optical—"

  "No matter. It's time to start moving," Quinn said, as if coming awake. "We didn't come this far to get blown out of orbit. Run the fuel numbers, Sharl."

  "The good news is we're in low orbit," Buccari said, scanning her digital clipboard. "We have fuel for an injection run and at least seven round trips carrying standard loads, assuming we have a stable landing site. Any problems or delays and we easily double the consumption. And, of course, any serious problems and the lander doesn't get back up to the ship. Makes the rest of the calculations somewhat academic."

  "Don't be so damned optimistic," Quinn said.

  Buccari smiled, taking the command pilot's rudeness as a good sign. "I've been working on EPL manifests,"
she said. "On the first landing I recommend we take down a generator and an auxiliary fuel tank—"

  "Crew first, equipment second," Quinn said.

  "But Commander," she argued, "after we inject the Marines, we'll have fuel for seven or even eight landings. We only need four runs to get the crew and their equipment down. If we have fuel problems on the planet, the whole program is over. Anyone left onboard is stranded."

  Quinn hit his palm with a fist. "That's my point," he responded too loudly, strain showing in his face. "We load the lander with crew until we get everyone down. We'll review priorities after the first trip. For now, do it my way."

  Buccari withheld comment. She glanced through the flightdeck viewscreen at the ethereal limb of the planet. The corvette was well past the terminator. Her thoughts darkened with the planet below; night engulfed their only hope. No lights twinkled, no cities sparkled—no lights at all. Buccari scanned the unplumbable depths. And then her eyes detected a soft amber glow—a luminescence above the orbital plane, rotating into view on the horizon.

  "Nash! I have a visual on lights! What's on the instruments?"

  "Volcanoes, Sharl," Hudson stated quietly. "Showing moderate to heavy seismic activity. We could be in for some interesting shore leave."

  "Get off the deck, Sharl," Quinn ordered abruptly. "This is my watch."

  "Aye, Commander," she replied dryly, separating from her station and pushing through the pressure iris. She took the first junction and descended onto the mess deck, stopping at her locker to stow helmet and battle suit. Helmet off, she could once again feel and hear the ambient drone of the circulation systems, the vibrations and whispers of the ship's power systems. The confined and recirculated odors of life in space, stale and antiseptic, assaulted her sensibilities.

  The mess deck was congested with the off-watch. Sleep cells were vacant, everyone more nervous than tired. As usual, spacer Marines floated around the game tables, although the magnetic dice were still. The hulking, forest-green clad men watched her, their demeanor uncharacteristically subdued. It had been two days since the emergency sortie, and the rugged warriors, particularly the darker ones, displayed resurgent stubble on their normally hairless bodies—an inevitable result of foregoing twice daily depilatories and skin scrubs. The air in the corvette was pungent, especially in the vicinity of the Marines.

  "What's the deal, Lieutenant?" Corporal Tatum asked, orienting his lanky body to Buccari's vertical and assuming a respectful, if loose, position of attention. "MacArthur says we're going to inject." All conversation stopped.

  "That's the plan," Buccari replied.

  "Injection!" Gordon exclaimed, thin-framed and youthful. "Hope Mac tags me."

  "Don't be so anxious to die, Boot," admonished O'Toole, a high-browed private first class. "But don't worry; there's only six fun plugs. You can ride down with the rest of the women.. er, excuse me, Lieutenant. I didn't—"

  "No problem," Buccari yawned.

  "Sir, what's it like—the planet?" Chastain asked. He was huge—a giant—his cow eyes wide with innocent alarm. "Can you breathe the air? What we going to do, huh, sir?"

  "Got no choice, pea-brain," said Petit, heavy-bearded, barrel-chested and lantern-jawed. "What else we going to do—hold our breath?"

  The giant hung his head, embarrassed.

  "Easy, Petit," warned Tatum. "Let Jocko ask his questions—"

  "Good. It looks real good," Buccari replied. "We got a breathable atmosphere. We know that much. Survey systems are still in bad shape. We should have a reasonable planet profile in a few hours, but Private Petit is right—we don't have much of a choice." She was tired, hungry, and thirsty. Too excited to sleep, she could not ignore her stomach. She pushed by the Marines and aimed for the galley.

  "Where's Corporal Mac?" she asked as she grabbed a squeeze container and drew off some soup. It was hot, deliciously warming her hands.

  "Lander bay, Lieutenant," replied Tatum. "Him and the sergeant-major are helping Jones configure penetrators." As Tatum spoke, the afterhatch yawned open. Lander Boatswain First Class Jones, Corporal MacArthur, and a senior enlisted Marine floated onto the mess decks.

  "Lieutenant, checking good!" the boatswain roared. "Heard the skinny from Ensign Hudson. You whupped up on those bugs. Burned three of them! Flamed butt!"

  "Not sure whose butt got flamed, Boats," replied Buccari. "Let's worry about getting everyone down, shall we? Everything ready?"

  "You bet, sir. Checking good, with you steering and me flapping," Jones crowed. "Been telling Sarge Shannon here how good you are. These boot chewers don't believe you're a legend."

  "Throttle back, Boats," Buccari said, smiling weakly, "and stop spewing."

  "She's superwoman, er… excuse me, Lieutenant," Jones persisted. "Lieutenant Buccari and me've won the fleet EPL competitions three years running. No one's ever even won it more than twice, 'cept us."

  "Don't believe it," Buccari smirked, "especially the part about him being the reason why. I could have done it with Fenstermacher."

  "Aw, Lieutenant! Hurt me sorely," Jones groaned.

  "Everyone knows the lieutenant is the best pilot in the fleet," Laser Corporal MacArthur said. The lithe, square-shouldered Marine stared squarely into Buccari' s eyes, his own pewter-gray eyes alert and clear. Buccari looked down at the deck.

  "Mac thinks you're pretty, too, sir," Chastain said. The Marines hooted and banged their boots on the deck.

  "Why, Corporal!" Buccari declared, pivoting sharply to confront the squad leader. "Thank you. I bet you say that about all the officers."

  "Eh…" MacArthur stammered, blushing as he pushed the hood from his wide forehead. "Hardly, sir—er…I mean, you're welcome, sir. No disrespect intended." He shot Chastain a withering glare, his fine features revealing determination more than anger.

  "You can't be denying your fame, Lieutenant," interrupted the sergeant-major, a chesty, square-jawed, broken-veined space veteran. "Sergeant-Major Shannon, sir."

  "My pleasure, Sergeant-Major," she said, turning to meet the newcomer. "I've seen you around the mothership. Sorry we didn't get introduced earlier, but we've been busy." Buccari put out her hand. Shannon enveloped it.

  "I would agree, sir," Shannon said. "Very busy."

  "You were evidently caught on board by accident?" she asked. "Yes, sir," the sergeant said. "I was inspecting MacArthur' s squad when GQ sounded. Just my luck."

  "I hope your luck gets better, Sergeant-Major."

  Chapter 5. On the Ground

  Buccari moved into the lander bay and found Boatswain Jones, slickly burly in his silver pressure suit, floating at the EPL hatch. "All strapped in. All injection units checking good," he told her.

  "Let's hustle," Buccari said, "before they get claustrophobic." She made final adjustments to her pressure suit and then dove into the open lander hatch. With practiced agility, she moved forward in the craft, pulling herself into the single pilot station. Positioned in the acceleration seat, she donned her helmet, connected harness and comm fittings, and commenced pre-flight checkout of the Endoatmospheric Planetary Lander—the apple.

  "Compute! Systems status—initiate," she barked. "Pilot Buccari."

  Ladder lights on the power console sequenced and the EPL's control computer replied with a machine-generated voice: "Pilot Buccari. Control authorizations check. Pilot has command."

  "Launch sequence," she ordered, adjusting to the snug cockpit.

  "All systems checking good, sir," Jones reported from his station.

  "Boats, I'd be surprised if they didn't," Buccari acknowledged. They ran through prestart and start checklists. The lander was in good order; the injection systems displayed green lights. Buccari felt anxious for the Marines stuffed into their penetrator casings—human artillery shells.

  "Stand by to jettison EPL!" Buccari announced.

  "Apple cleared to launch," Hudson responded. "Report clear. Rendezvous will be launch plus ninety-three. One orbit. Control set to button four. You
copy?"

  "Roger, launch plus ninety-three; button four. EPL retros in two minutes. Counting down." Buccari settled into the pilot's seat, anticipating the launch of the lander, to separating from the larger corvette, which was itself launched from a mothership—a spawn from a spawn, each with diminishing purposes, powers, and ranges. But this was her ship. She was pilot.

  To starboard the bay doors yawned smoothly open; an overwhelming blackness crept through the widening aperture. Buccari cut the lights in the cockpit, cursing herself for waiting to start night vision adaptation. Red light bathed the cockpit, and a constellation of reflections fell back at her from the umbrella of the canopy. She palmed down the intensity. The white brilliance of genuine stars blossomed.

  Vibration hummed through metal; the lander moved outboard, pushed by a spidery gantry crane, until it was clear of the confined bay. Ahead were the first signs of sunrise, a perfect red-gold arc starkly defining the limb of the ebony planet, silhouetting it against the utter blackness of space. Buccari released the attachment fitting, fired a micro-pulse on the port maneuvering rockets to initiate a separation rate, and reported "Clear." At the correct moment she rolled the lander on its back and commenced retrofire, falling toward the dark pre-dawn. The corvette, glinting in the rising sun, retreated on its orbital trajectory and disappeared into black infinity. The flowering sun-star, Rex-Kaliph, climbed rapidly over the planet's limb—a harsh, glaring blossom of light.

  During the helpless waiting and hard chopping turbulence of reentry Buccari considered her drop target. The granite-topped plateau chosen for the landing site was located in the interior of the largest of the planet's four continents. Curving around the plateau was a major river, providing excellent navigational references. A spectacular chain of mountains to the west was a concern; radar returns indicated peaks in excess of eight thousand meters— geological giants. The mountains were ominous, but radar returns also showed the expansive plateau to be hard and flat—an ideal landing site. Hudson had discovered the plateau and unromantically christened it "Landing Site Alpha." Everyone else called it Hudson's Plateau.