It felt exquisite to rest, but survival fears held sway. Insulated by his helmet, MacArthur could hear only the pounding of his heart and the rasping of his lungs. He lifted his head and checked the thin stand of trees. Five paces distant a clear spring gushed from a flower-shrouded seep, forming an energetic rivulet that bubbled out of sight over granite steps. The water triggered a desperate thirst.
MacArthur fatalistically inhaled a full breath of oxygen and fingered the fitting on his mask. Loosening his helmet, he let the mask drop from his face. An insistent current of chill air caressed his sweaty cheeks. He pulled off his helmet. His hearing was assaulted by the persistent symphony of nature. A brittle breeze swept over his exposed neck and brow. Still holding his breath, he shivered.
Positioning his mask near his face, MacArthur partially exhaled and then cautiously sniffed the air. It smelled horrible: an offending stench of incredible magnitude—terrible odors, a bitter conglomeration of offal, carrion, sewage, and burning chemicals so persistent and penetrating that all senses were assailed and dulled. His body begged to collapse into some minimal essence, to sleep, to escape. His head ached. His eyes watered, but somehow he knew that it was not fatal. He could breathe; his lungs could process the atmosphere. He could breathe without the involuntary spasmodic rejection experienced in the landing zone. It was horrible, but it was air, and the prospect of running out of oxygen lost its urgency, if not its fear.
He looked down at the clear spring at his feet. Water, yes. It had to be. What did it matter that the air was breathable, if the water was undrinkable. Without water they would die, too. They were marooned.
Casting helmet and mask aside, MacArthur fell to his knees. He sniffed at the pulsing fluid, smelling only the horrid air. He sipped at the water, trying to sample it, but thirst trampled caution, and he drank noisily of the sweet liquid.
Chapter 6. Cliff dwellers
The gods of the sky were angry, and Brappa bore witness to their displeasure. Brappa and the other sentries had seen flyers descending from the heavens. They had not been drunk on thickweed. There had been thunder in the morning skies and star bursts to the east. Not lightning but bright blossoms of red and yellow—in a sky devoid of clouds! After the brilliant lights came more terrible noises, more thunder! So loud, his ears rang. And from out of the bright fires and noise came four flyers, high overhead in the cold, liftless morning skies, flying toward the lakes.
Brappa, son-of-Braan, lead sentry of the morning watch, danced nimbly down the precipitous granite face. The golden glow of dawn overflowed into the river valley, illuminating and melting the thin crust of frost decorating the upper rim. The sentry chased the sunrise down the chasm's walls, jumping lightly into the air every few steps, spreading diaphanous membranes and gliding softly to a next landing, there to run three or four landbound steps and jump and glide again. His leaps covered many spans. He could have soared the entire descent, but he needed time to think.
Brappa passed a vent and relished its sulfurous wetness, the vaporous plume quickly dissipating in the cold air. His descent brought him into an ever-increasing field of spewing mists and steam vapors, the air redolent of minerals and humidity. He neared the lacework of terraces that defined his home. The river, visible through wisps of steam, moved powerfully, its might channeled within the cliff-sided chasm, slate-gray in the early light, the sun not yet able to mottle its turbulent surface with splotches of pale green and white.
Brappa, son-of-Braan, landed softly on the moist granite terrace before the assembly portal. Sheltered above by a ragged cornice of quartz-veined rock, the shelf was the largest terrace on the cliff, ten spans deep at its widest point and running for more than seventy along the sheer face. A low crenellated wall bordered its precipitous edge. Between the crenellations grew an abundance of brilliantly flowering plants, giving off a heady conglomeration of aromas. Beyond the wall, steam poured upwards from the chasm, showering the plants in a persistent mist through which sunlight dappled and danced in beaded rainbows.
Penetrating the cliff face was a peaked arch looming two full spans higher than Brappa' s knobby head—the assembly portal, crafted of obsidian and mounted with a massive lintel of contrasting white jade. Skillfully sculpted pink marble boulders stood at the shoulders of the entryway, spreading outward in diminishing sizes. Gurgling water splashed over those boulders, draining into pools. Rock-lined gutters at the base of the cliff face carried the waters away. An ancient foot-worn stairway, elegantly hewn in the granite bedrock, emerged from the rough terrace and climbed thirty wide steps into the cavern.
Brappa sedately folded his wings into a complex double overlap and scaled the steps. Dark-mantled and hump-backed, he had bowed legs and a head shaped like a black mattock. Sinewy, hard-muscled forearms, each with three slender digits and a long opposed thumb, hung past his knees. A soft pelt of fine black fur covered his body, excepting his chest and belly which were covered with longer cream-colored fur, the markings of a flying cliff dweller—a hunter. Less than half a span in height, but he was young.
Three quite taller figures appeared at the threshold of the portal. These creatures' heads and necks were covered with charcoal fur similar to that of the smaller figure, but their body fur was completely cream-colored. Also cliff dwellers, these were guilders, their heads large and rounded, whereas the young hunter's crown revealed a marked protuberance. Over the eons the echo-ranging and soaring abilities of the larger guilders had atrophied, and their bodies had evolved for different needs. Guilders were taller, heavier, more skillful, and in many ways more intelligent. Hunters would say guilders were less brave.
The tallest guilder was ancient and wore a necklace of beaded emeralds and garnets, the badge of the gardener guild. Brappa halted and bowed low, hands flat with palms up, in obeisance to the council member. Brappa had much to say, but the rules required silence.
"Why art thou here, hunter?" the council elder whistled ceremoniously but with a tremor. He, too, had heard the distant thunder.
"I bid thee long life, elder. On orders from Kuudor, captainof-sentries, Excellency, I am the morning watch, bearing tidings of strange happenings over the lakes," Brappa squeaked and chirped.
"Follow," the old one commanded as he turned slowly and retraced his steps. Brappa followed the glum elder into the antechambers. Vaulted arches and delicate columns of wondrous craftsmanship stretched ever higher as they progressed down the widening hallway; intricately carved alabaster and jade mosaics lined polished alcoves. The domed assembly hall, a cavernous amphitheater over fifty spans square, opened before them, illuminated by the yellow glow of guttering spirit lamps.
Brappa had attended assembly before; but the young hunter was conditioned to the anonymity of the crowd and to the hushed babble of the masses. On this morning the great hall was empty, all but silent; water gurgled through aqueducts, and echoes of their shuffling footfalls seemed deafening. Brappa' s talons clicked on the sparkling stones inlaid in the black marble floor. The brittle stillness discomfited him, but as a hunter—even if only a sentry—he displayed courage. With repressed disdain he noticed guild apprentices pushing mops and sponges, laboring to stay ahead of the natural humidity of their labyrinth. Hunters did not push mops.
Brappa and his escort skirted the grand hall and mounted a divided stairway curving around each side of a cantilevered marble balcony. Atop the stairs the elder signaled for Brappa to wait, languidly waving a bony hand toward the balcony as he disappeared from sight behind staggered rows of columns. Brappa squatted on a varnished wooden perch, intrigued by the intricate drainage system running about the periphery of the great hall; most of the channels were not visible from the lower levels. He traced the paths and confluences of the aqueducts and cascades as they drained the upper levels and brought the water out of the rock for use by the commune, both as aqua vitae and as natural art.
* * *
Braan, leader-of-hunters, stood in the stone dock. The old one entered and took his ordered p
osition at the inferior end of the black marble table. The old gardener had seen over a hundred winters, yet he was still the youngest of the eleven ancients. There were no hunters on the cliff dweller council, for hunters did not live long enough. Cliff dwellers, hunters and guilders together, had no leader, only the eldest: Koop-the-facilitator, wearing the green jade of the fisher guild, was exquisitely ancient, his unruly fur completely turned to radiant white.
"Braan, clan of Soong, leader-of-hunters, speak thou for the sentry?" twittered old Koop.
Braan, snout gruesomely scarred, his head fur streaked with white, was not the oldest hunter, yet he was the leader of all hunters, for he was the most able. As leader of all hunters, Braan frequently addressed the elders. A leather thong adorned his neck, symbol of his rank.
"He is of my blood. His words art mine, Excellency," said Braan.
"What of the news?" Koop asked directly, rudely.
Braan was not offended, for the facilitator was old and meant no harm. "Facilitator, I know only rumors. Truth can best be defined by those who bear witness. I confess impatience. I fetch the sentry." He did not wait for permission but hopped from the dock and darted through the maze of columns. The hunter leader found the alert sentry on his feet, bowing respectfully. It had been a full cycle of the large moon since Braan-the-father had left on the salt mission. It was the father's first opportunity to see his son since his return. He solemnly returned his scion's honorable bow and then chucked him under his long chin. The son looked up and displayed multiple rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth in joyful grin. Braan slapped his son's back and pushed him firmly into the chambers.
Braan' s pride was well served. Brappa, son-of-Braan, took the dock with great poise. The novice delivered his scanty details firmly and was not shaken when the elders, particularly the steam users and stone carvers, asked probing questions. Braan listened silently, for the facts were confusing. His son, the lead morning sentry, had seen flying creatures that were neither hunter nor eagle, nor were they the angry sounding machines of the legendary bear people. A manifestation of the gods? The perplexed elders slumped on theirperches and whispered among themselves. Brappa, son-of-Braan, stood silently, awaiting.
Unbidden, Braan moved before the council. "Elders, my thoughts."
"Proceed, hunter," said Koop-the-facilitator, sorely fatigued.
"It is feared gods have descended upon the land, or perhaps bear people have returned. This must be investigated with a hunter reconnaissance. If gods or bear people have descended to the ground, we will find them. If bear people, we will defend ourselves. If gods, then we will show reverence. Long life." Braan pivoted, chirped for Brappa to follow, and marched from the chambers, talons clicking with impunity.
Braan strode swiftly through the assembly hall and proceeded onto the wide terrace, pausing only to shake out his membranes. The hunter leader marched up a stone ramp onto a crenellation in the flower-bedecked wall and pushed himself gracefully out over the steam-filled abyss. Brappa, but two steps behind, duplicated every move. The hunters, father and son in tight formation, settled into a swooping glide, searching for rising currents of air. Picking up speed, they banked sharply downriver, leaving the wide terrace in the foggy steam.
After echo-ranging their way along the cliffs and riding the meager morning convection currents, the two flyers emerged from the broken strands of steam. Flapping huge wings with slow, silent beats to break their advance, they landed softly on the terrace of the hunter chief's residence. The enveloping steam was less dense at the higher altitude, and warrens of hunter residences could be seen pockmarking the rocky cliffside. Cooking smells blended with the mineral-rich steam, pleasantly tempting olfactory receptors. The residence was distinguished by a cleverly crafted perimeter of black marble and gold inlay—a gift to Braan' s legendary great-grandfather Soong from the stone carver guild in appreciation for routing the eagles.
Ki, wife of Braan and mother of Brappa, possessed the acute hearing of all dwellers. She waited upon the narrow terrace, holding an infant on her hip. Ecstasy at seeing both son and husband radiated from her countenance. She stood silently until Braan removed the leather thong from around his neck, and then she commenced the welcome. "Welcome home, honored husband. And welcome, my beloved son," Ki warbled and bowed, averting eye contact.
Brappa returned the bow. The father remained silent.
"'Tis good to be returned to the warm mists of my mother's home. Sentry duty is cold, but…but I do well. I have friends," Brappa replied, also avoiding his mother's eyes. "Please forgive my ill-chosen words, for I meant not to complain."
"I heard no complaint, son-of-mine. It has been twenty days since thou went to duty, and thou art grown even more," she graciously spoke.
"Thank thee, my mother, for so saying. Thou art kind and generous," Brappa responded properly, compliment for compliment.
The infant, Brappa' s sister, quiet to this point, lost patience with the formal progress of the reunion. She waved skinny arms, her incipient wings brushing the mother's face. She yelled, her high-pitched voice and nascent echo-ranging system clashing together. Braan, chuckling, relieved his wife of the tiny burden, encompassing the chick with a fold of his flight membranes. The infant squealed with the rough handling, happy to have gained her objective. Custom satisfied, son and mother also hugged, Brappa's wings overlapping and enveloping Ki's diminutive form. They were unconcerned about the overt familiarity; the mists of the river valley were thick this morning, and hunters were perversely proud of their affections. And at this elevation they were among only hunter clans.
Nevertheless, they politely moved their embraces and good feelings into the low-ceilinged domicile, a precisely chiseled cave with the surpassing luxury of six chambers, unique in that it did not connect with neighboring caves. It had two other exits—a mixed blessing. Hidden and small, the exits provided ventilation and emergency egress, but they were also avenues for predators. Eagles, growlers, and rockdogs occasionally still evaded sentries, terrorizing the cliff dwellers, particularly the hunters, whose homes honeycombed the higher cliffs. Spirit lamps and the familiar gurgle of rapidly moving water welcomed the family as they stepped inside, and the odor of baking fish and green-onion soup combined with other smells of hearth and home.
They ate quickly and noisily. Brappa asked his father about his foray to the northern salt flats, but Braan had little to tell. A routine salt mission, the great herds were migrating, and the smellwas worse than the memory of it. They had seen white-rumps, field dragon, and many, many eagles. Growlers had been encountered, but fortunately the hunters avoided serious conflict. The predators were glutted with the flesh of the buffalo, typical for this time of year. The quota demands had required a large group of salt bearers. Braan wished for an easier solution to satisfying the dwellers' increasing appetite for salt. The expeditions were too big, too vulnerable.
Braan indicated he was through, and the family ceased eating. Braan looked at his son.
"Report to the sentry captain and secure permission for three capable sentries to accompany warriors on a reconnaissance. I request thee be included, although it is Kuudor' s choice. Present the sentry captain with my respects, and inform him the expedition will depart on the afternoon thermals. Go," Braan ordered.
Brappa acknowledged the command, his excitement but poorly suppressed. Stopping only to give his mother a fleeting glance, the sentry darted through the home, jumped upon the low terrace wall, and leapt into the mists, wings popping as he heaved air downward.
Ki slowly followed her last living son to the terrace and watched him depart, as wives and mothers of hunters have watched their fathers, husbands, and sons, generation upon generation. Ki had already lost two sons, stout and brave—and so young. Too young.
"He is ready," Ki spoke sadly. She turned to stare into her husband's eyes, as she did only when they were alone. "Take care of my son."
It was a plea and a command. Braan moved close to his wife and held her face i
n his hands, rubbing her forehead against his, softly transmitting and receiving sonic bursts. Ki stepped backwards trying to smile, large eyes welling with moisture. Her husband had only just returned from one dangerous mission and was about to embark on another, taking with him her remaining male-child. Hunters lived short lives of endless struggle. Her husband was the leader of all hunters. Duty was his touchstone and death his faithful companion.
"Please take care of yourself, glorious husband." She bowed. Braan returned the bow. The hunter stood erect and silently padded into one of the smaller chambers. Opening the hidebound wooden chest that he had closed tightly just days before, Braan extracted his leather armor, iron knife, and shortbow and quiver. He somberly donned the equipment and, pausing only to squeeze his wife's hands, departed over the edge, wings whipcracking steamy air. Echoes died quickly in the mist.
* * *
The moaning had stopped—soft, gently expulsive sounds, like a distant, plaintive fog horn. Rounding the windswept lakeshore, Shannon felt as if they were being watched. He was profoundly relieved to make the shelter of the yellow-barked trees.
"Found.. a cave, Sarge," gasped Petit. The Marine lay in a heap behind a scraggly log, barrel chest heaving for air. Shannon dropped to a knee behind the fallen sprucelike tree and tried to control his own breathing. He could discern little about the cave; the small opening was elevated, and the shaft—if there was a shaft—dipped sharply away. A rocky overhang shadowed the entrance area. Tatum, fifty meters ahead, leaned heavily against large rocks directly beneath the cave. Shannon looked down the hill and traced their path across the plateau.
After leaving the higher ground of their landing zone, the terrain approaching the lake had deteriorated into spongy tundra. Game trails provided paths but also tended to meander and disappear into the reed-choked water. Magnificent white blossoms grew in abundance near the lake, their vines intertwining with lake reeds and tundra vegetation. The flowers sprouted from bulbous nodules in the vines. Shannon made a mental note to investigate them as a food possibility. But those thoughts were dispelled by the desultory moaning that came from all around them yet came from nowhere.
Genellan: Planetfall Page 6