Genellan: Planetfall

by Скотт Г. Джир

  Tears welled in her eyes. The fuel levels were so low! But she knew what she had to do. The decision was easy.

  "Boats, get this thing unloaded and made ready," she shouted. "But Lieutenant—" Jones started to speak.

  "Get moving, Boats!"

  "But Lieutenant, no way this bucket's going to make orb—" "Jones," she hissed. "That's an order."

  "Aye.. aye, Lieutenant," Jones replied softly.

  "Lieutenant, Shannon here," Shannon's voice came up on radio. Buccari looked outside and saw the sergeant. Lee and another helmet-masked Marine stood nearby. Tatum, judging from his height.

  "Yes, Sergeant, and don't say anything about the landing," she replied, trying to calm her rampaging emotions.

  "Aye, sir. It looks like you still have a problem."

  "A big one, Sergeant." Buccari leaned back, sensing the nagging pressure of gravity against her back. "I've got to rendezvous with the 'vette as soon as possible. I can't shut down, and I'm below critical fuel." It was a confession.

  "I'm no pilot, Lieutenant," Shannon transmitted, "but I know when things are out of control. Are you sure you—"

  "You're right, Sergeant," Buccari cut in. "I'm the pilot. Listen up. Notify Commander Quinn as soon as the 'vette comes over the hill. Tell him to start looking for me on acquisition radar. I'll be needing help. I'll make contact as soon as I clear the atmosphere, but he may have to start maneuvering before I can talk to him."

  "Aye, aye, Lieutenant," Shannon said. "Understand. He gets you on radar and meets you halfway. He can boost to orbit after he gets you."

  "Yessir, Superwom—I mean Lieutenant!" Jones shouted. "We can—"

  "Not we, Boats," Buccari replied. "You're grounded. I'm going solo. Leaving your big body behind will help the fuel curve." "No, Lieutenant! I—" Jones wailed.

  "Stow it, Boats!" Buccari cut him off. "Watch the skin temps. Offload that generator and get this piece of junk ready to go!"

  "Aye, aye, Lieutenant," Jones mumbled, continuing to curse softly as he released his mike switch.

  * * *

  Takeoff was easy. The lightly loaded lander punched through the lowering overcast and reached escape velocity with minimum acceleration. Bursting through the thick cloud deck, Buccari confronted the glaring explosion of a setting sun. Ignoring the Olympian scenery, Buccari set the fuel consumption parameters to bare minimums and accelerated out of the atmosphere. The rendezvous coordinates, given available fuel, indicated a critically narrow flight profile, but it was still theoretically possible to coast up to the corvette's orbit—with absolutely no fuel remaining. The crew of the corvette would have some work to do to bring her aboard.

  Within minutes of attaining orbital velocity her engines starved. The EPL was now an unpowered satellite in extremely low orbit—too low! She verified that her identification beacon was emitting. Fifteen minutes later her transponder was interrogated. The corvette had located her.

  She came up: "Harrier One, lander's up. Come in, Harrier One."

  Commander Quinn responded, his relief apparent. "Okay, Sharl, we got you. You're low and ahead of the 'vette. Real low! Can you elevate?"

  Buccari was elated to hear his voice. "Sorry, Commander. I'm dry as dirt. You'll have to come get me. Sorry for the inconvenience."

  "Sit tight, Sharl. We'll catch you in about an hour."

  As the orbiting ships slipped into the planet's shadow, Buccari realized she had less than two hours of air remaining.

  * * *

  On board Harrier One Quinn choked back the lump in his throat. No one had ever executed a manual landing to a one-gee planet and still retained a fuel balance sufficient for returning to orbit. Buccari had performed a miracle—well, almost. The corvette still had to retrieve the EPL. Buccari would go down in pilot history…if they were ever rescued.

  "Main engines ready to answer," Rhodes said. "But I sure wish we could get to her with the maneuvering jets."

  "Me, too, Virgil, with all my heart, but it would take about two weeks. She might get a little impatient withus." Quinn started the main engine ignition checklist, proceeding carefully. He had absolutely no confidence in the wounded power plant.

  The pre-ignition checklist complete, Quinn keyed the microphone. "Sharl, Quinn here. We have to fire the mains. You know what that means. We don't need much, but it's hard to tell what will happen. I thought you should know, in case you see us screaming by."

  "Rog', Commander. I'll throw out a net," came Buccari's stolid reply.

  The two men proceeded deliberately through the remainder of the checklist, rechecking and verifying. Quinn monitored the engine instruments, trying to interpret the myriad danger signals the engine instruments were throwing back at him. His professional tools were a mess, but his objective was clear. They were doomed to die in their respective orbiting coffins unless they could unite and combine assets. The corvette could not enter the atmosphere; it was a large space vehicle with no aerodynamic controls. It had fuel, but its engines were crippled. The EPL, their planetary lander, was adrift in orbit, capable of penetrating the atmosphere and landing on the planet but trapped in orbit without the fuel required to initiate a deorbit burn, much less enough fuel to land safely.

  "Mighty low orbit, Commander," Rhodes interrupted the checklist.

  Quinn looked up from his console. They were already in a rapidly decaying orbit.

  "Yeah…low," Quinn said. "So we pick up the apple and boost back to orbit, where we load it with a full bag of fuel and head for the deck, to live happily ever after. If that song breaks down, we'll have to come up with a new verse."

  "I'm ready to sing," Rhodes replied tensely.

  Quinn took a deep breath and commenced the countdown. It was only a two-second burn with one percent power—a pat on a baby's ass.

  "…three…two…one…zero." Quinn hit the ignition switch. The engines fired and held for two seconds, and then extinguished as programmed. Both men screamed in delight.

  Quinn hit the transmit button. "We're coming, darling!" he shouted.

  After a pause Buccari responded, her voice theatrically stiff: "Excuse me, Commander, but were you addressing yourself to me?"

  * * *

  The soft rumbling had grown steadily over the past kilometer, sometimes eclipsed by the gravelly cacophony of the individual streams, but never completely lost. It was a distinct noise—a vibration, a loud, crashing background ambiance. MacArthur crested a gravel bar to gain a vantage point. He peered into the misty gloaming and saw the river—the real river. Its primary channel spread before him, perhaps three hundred meters across, moving smoothly and with obvious power. Upstream and downstream MacArthur saw white water—cascades of turbulence bounding over and around large boulders—the source of the ambient roar that had been haunting them.

  It was their last hurdle; the bank opposite rose steeply, and the foothills beyond were tantalizingly close. The men moved across the bar, curious to approach their challenge. MacArthur stopped at the edge, his confidence slipping. The river churned and roiled, moving swiftly to their left. Downstream, surging white waves seasoned with crystalline humps of green-black water crashed and rattled over a spectacularly rugged section of rocks.

  "Let's walk downstream. If we cross here and don't make it, it'll be a rough ride." MacArthur had to repeat himself because of the noise.

  They hiked over slippery rocks, past angry sections of chewed-up water crashing around jagged pinnacles. The noise was deafening, the air thick with mist. MacArthur' s apprehension grew. He began to doubt their ability to make it across at all, much less before nightfall. They confronted a barricade of debris, an accumulation of bleached-out limbs and logs impeding their progress, but as they worked through it MacArthur registered an idea. Wood! They would make a raft of driftwood. It would be ungainly, but if they could find a calm stretch of river, they could make it. It would not have to be a big raft, just enough to take their weight.

  "Jocko, start collecting wood," MacArthur ordered.
Grimacing, he slid straps from his aching shoulders and deposited his load on the rocks. Feeling suddenly and deceptively springy-legged with the lightening of his load, he stretched his back and shoulders. They were reasonably high above the water. If he could not find a likely spot to cross the river, they would camp here for the night. "Try to find some large pieces. Couple of meters long. Enough for a raft. I'll check out the river." Chastain shucked his immense pack onto the rocks with a crunching thud.

  Gloomy dusk was fast surrendering to impatient night. MacArthur scanned the river downstream, searching for telltale spumes of luminescence indicating rocks and rapids. The crescendo of the tortured water abated; he could hear the torrent at his feet, and the river flowed more gently, still with good speed but without the urgency associated with turbulence. He walked farther; the loudness receded. The river melded into darkness, but the low cliffs of the far bank gave him a dim perspective of distance. He slowed his pace. The river could be crossed with a raft. He stopped and stared one last time into the darkness—the decision made.

  As he peered into the murk, clouds to the south pulsated with flickering blue light. A low rolling cannonade of thunder echoed up the river valley. He turned and headed back, leg-weary, stumbling over loose river rock.

  * * *

  Council chambers echoed with clicking talons. The hunters were ushered before the elders, unusual at this late hour—the elders fatigued easily. But the explosions from the sky, louder even than thunder, had reached the cliff dwellers' deepest fears. It had started again! The elders were frightened. The hunters lined up before the council, and Braan moved into the dock. For once he waited to be addressed, as was proper.

  "I bid brave warriors welcome. Braan, leader-of-hunters, of clan Soong, please speak," said Koop-the-facilitator politely.

  "Long life, excellency, I am humbled," Braan said with unusual ceremony. A cool breath of air fluttered through the chamber, causing spirit lamps to gutter and dim. The storm rolling up the river valley was a severe one—brilliant threads of lightning had guided the hunters' flight down the cliff face. Raindrops had pattered on them as they approached the portal of the grand assembly. An angry night.

  "Braan and his hunters have returned," the facilitator said, his expression intense, "and the mysterious thunder plagues us still. What news of its source?"

  "Visitors.. powerful visitors, elder," said the somber Braan. "Loud noises come from their flying machine. Each time it soars, noise rends the air and more strangers are come."

  "Bear people?" the facilitator asked.

  "Not bear people," Braan replied. The hunter leader proceeded with his detailed report, rapidly exceeding the limits of cliff dweller knowledge. Braan was interrupted with astonished exclamations. The hunter leader begged to proceed, endeavoring to answer with the whole tale. There were mysteries for which he had no answers.

  "They are not gods. They are tall and strong and have clear eyes, but they fear injury and death," Braan stated, hearkening to the rockdog incident. "Yet they kill like gods—from a distance, using sticks that spout loud noise and flame. Weapons we cannot match."

  "'Tis the stick that kills, not the being?" a steam user asked. "The long-legs kill with the stick," Braan affirmed.

  "Have they wings?" a fisher asked. "Did not initial reports attribute to them the power of flight?"

  "No wings. With the exception of the silver machine, they cannot fly or soar. Or at least were not seen doing so. They walk slowly and clumsily wherever they go."

  "Thy recommendation, Braan, leader-of-hunters?" Koop asked.

  Braan pondered and said nothing. This was not rude, for a direct question was an invitation to consider deeply. The facilitator sat back, content that he had asked an important question.

  Braan's answer, when it came, was not unexpected. "Our knowledge is insufficient to make a choice. Our alternatives are to kill them or to become their allies. Both alternatives offer consequences. Killing them could only be done at dear price, for they have powerful weapons. Yet kill them we can, for they are few, and we are many." Braan paused and looked about the chamber. The elders each fixed him with a stare of undiluted fear. Braan worried for the future.

  "Becoming allies is likewise a dangerous path," Braan continued, "because it can only be done if the long-legs so desire. By offering ourselves to their compassion, we lose the advantage. If they prove treacherous, the cost in dweller lives would ultimately be far greater."

  "Should we not attack immediately, before more long-legs arrive?" Bott'a-the-hunter asked impetuously—and rudely. The elders stirred.

  "The young warrior's question is appropriate," Braan said. "To attack swiftly would increase the likelihood of victory. But it would also eliminate all other options. We would become enemies—a difficult condition to alter."

  "Thy recommendation?" the facilitator persisted.

  "Their numbers are not yet a cause of concern. It will take many landings of their flying craft to threaten us. If they are to be our allies, we must first test them," Braan said.

  "Test? And how?" Koop asked.

  "I know not. yet. Continued surveillance will reveal our path. Hunters will maintain a sentry until the snows come. Perhaps the cruelty of winter will resolve the matter."

  The council talked briefly among themselves. Koop stood erect. "Braan, leader-of-hunters, thy plans are our plans. Perhaps the long-legs will define their own fate—and ours—regardless of our wishes. We meet next in one cycle of the small moon."

  Braan bowed in good form and led his party through the grand assembly and out into the blustery night. Pouring rain and thrashing breezes eliminated all thought of soaring; Braan walked to the lift. He looked forward to seeing wife and family, but he remembered Brappa, still in the field. The warrior Craag would take care of his last son.

  * * *

  The night grew old. Rain fell hard, blown sideways by gusting squalls, while silver-white lightning danced in the clouds, shooting salvoes of strobing illumination. MacArthur, wiping rain from his eyes, stood back from their handiwork and waited for a blast of lightning to highlight their creation. Chastain knelt and used a stout stick to crank tight the bindings on the last of the cross-supports. He deftly secured the knot and tied off the bitter end.

  "That'll hold," Chastain said proudly, rolling back on his knees. Continuous lightning, striking closer each time, splashed his features with white-blue brilliance. A ragged, air-boiling bolt struck the river bank but a stone's throw away; thunder exploded in their faces, loud beyond comprehension. Their ears rang, and electricity hummed in the air, tingling fingers and toes. Ozone stung their nostrils.

  "Holy smokes!" Chastain shouted.

  "Yeah, no kidding," MacArthur laughed nervously. "Too close. Let's move behind that gravel bar and set up shelter. Wait it out." Another blue-hot streak of lightning flashed to the tree tops on the hills beyond the river. A shock wave blew against their cold, wet faces.

  Hours crept by. Finally, the wind abated, and the lightning moved off, flickering to the west and north; but the rain fell even harder—a deluge. MacArthur checked the raft. The river was rising. The rain-swollen river crept inexorably beneath their makeshift craft.

  "Time to go," MacArthur shouted. Unbelievably, Chastain had rolled over on the wet rocks and fallen fast asleep. MacArthur envied his companion's stalwart nature and debated waiting for morning, but the rising river was answering his worst fears. There was no telling how much water would be coming down the channel in the next few hours, but MacArthur had a hunch it would be significant.

  Chastain rousted out and dragged both packs to the raft, diligently securing the equipment. MacArthur tried to help, but his body responded poorly. His head and shoulder throbbed. He removed his glove and slipped a hand beneath his coat and clothes, exploring clammy, bare skin. The shoulder felt wet, but then his clothes had been soaked through for hours. MacArthur pulled his hand out. His fingers were sticky and slippery at the same time, and even though it was dark,
he knew the hand was covered with blood.

  "You all right, Mac?" Chastain asked.

  "Let's go," MacArthur replied, reaching for a corner of the raft. Chastain copied his action, moving the raft only slightly before the river buoyed its weight. The current was strong. The men walked into the water and were quickly up to their waists, the forceful river tugging urgently on their unwieldy craft and their weary bodies. The icy water jolted MacArthur into alertness; survival instincts pumped adrenaline into his battered system yet again.

  "Push off," MacArthur ordered, gasping. "We'll pole it across." Rain pouring from black skies drilled the wooden raft and its hapless crew. Darkness was total. The Marines pushed into the impatient current, jumping sidesaddle onto their tiny craft. The raft tottered dramatically, Chastain' s greater bulk over-ballasting to one side. The burdened logs spun slowly in the rain-gushing murk.

  MacArthur gripped his pole. Shoulder protesting, he extended the branch to its limit, searching for the bottom, and felt nothing. The jiggling current tried to bend it from his hands.

  "Too deep. Can't touch bottom," he gasped. Chastain groaned.

  MacArthur, dizzy from black nothingness, took a deep breath. "Let's swim," he said, sliding into the water. Treading black water and clinging to the raft, he could tell from the craft's severe slant that Chastain was still onboard.

  "C–Come on, Jocko. Can't…by myself." MacArthur spewed frigid water.

  "I can't swim, Mac."

  "Yeah, sure, Jocko. L–Lets go."

  "No, Mac! They cheated me through the tests. I played football."

  MacArthur dropped his forehead against the weathered wood. He floated alongside for a few seconds, thinking, shivering. Rain hissed.

  "J-Jocko. You can get in the water and paddle, or you can stay up there. M-maybe we'll drift gently ashore. Or maybe we'll run out of deep river and find ourselves running this pile of sticks through a set of rapids like the big ones behind us." MacArthur stopped to catch his breath and spit out water.