Genellan: Planetfall

by Скотт Г. Джир

  "Yes, my Lord," Director Moth nervously volunteered. "We have completed an exhaustive analysis of all radar trajectory information recorded during the engagements—massive data accumulations. We started the first iterations several days ago, and the results have only just today become, eh…publishable. Scientist Dowornobb has finished the compilation and will have his final report ready by, er.. soon."

  Dowornobb looked nervously to Samamkook, who stared impassively at the wall.

  "Scientist Dowornobb," commanded Et Kalass. "Please summarize your report. I am told you have interesting conclusions. I could never read through scientific journals. Some reference to Genellan, I believe."

  Dowornobb glanced nervously at Moth and proceeded to give a detailed synopsis of his findings. He was allowed to finish without interruption.

  "A compelling set of deductions," Samamkook said. "According to your theory, the alien vessels entered our system, loudly announcing their presence with electromagnetic emissions on all frequencies. These signals were overtures—attempts to establish communications." Dowornobb nodded his agreement.

  "We reacted quickly," continued the old scientist, "too quickly to realize the nature of the visitors. Or perhaps we did not fall into their trap—a possibility that cannot be discounted. Though I am inclined to do just that, given subsequent events. We attacked! The aliens barely defended themselves, choosing to retreat, somehow to, uh.. disappear, leaving behind a few smaller vessels. These unfortunate vessels were destroyed during the engagements, except for a mysterious ship that managed to elude our interceptors. That single visitor may have found refuge." Samamkook held his wide jaw in a massive hand.

  "Genellan is no place for higher orders of civilization!" Moth blurted. "They may have gone into orbit, but to what purpose? The planet is bitterly cold and noxious—hopeless!" He sat back and looked about.

  "Hopeless for us, Director," Samamkook said. "Yet life abounds on that cruel planet. Assuming they had the means to leave orbit—a large assumption—then it is no less likely they could endure."

  Dowornobb could not imagine living on Genellan. He had seen the queer fur-covered animals brought back for the zoos, but the conditions on the surface seemed so adverse. The miserable landscapes and weather were beyond even his fertile imagination. The sulfurous atmosphere—

  "…nobb. Scientist Dowornobb!" The minister was calling his name.

  "Ah, yes m-m-my Lord," Dowornobb sputtered.

  "You have made progress on their language?" Et Kalass returned to stare at the star mural.

  "Well, m-my l-lord," the young scientist replied. "Their language is not yet revealed. I have run the signals through language programs, but it has not given us much to work on. It has provided symbology that might be useful—pictographs and signs. We could establish some communication, somewhat like children talking."

  "Excellent. We can help you improve on that." The minister exchanged a meaningful glance with the young noblekone and then stood and walked out, his entourage following. Moth and Dowornobb assumed positions of respectful farewell and were soon alone.

  * * *

  The door to Dowornobb' s apartment crashed open in the early hours of the morning. The kone, reluctantly awake, sat up in his bed.

  "Who's there?"

  A dark form shifted silently in the bedroom entryway. Other hulking shadows followed, filling the short corridor leading to his small sitting room.

  "Who's there?" pleaded Dowornobb, now fully awake. Fear swelled within his great breast. He prayed for the intruders to be robbers or thugs—criminals. For if they were not outlaws, then that could only mean they were government agents.

  Chapter 15. Mercy

  "Sergeant Shannon sure was tight-jawed," Petit said as they left the tundra of the central plateau; the granite slabs and rocky scrabble of the higher elevation made for easier hiking. "I thought sure he was going to ream me for letting those critters get close to the cave. He didn't say nothing about it."

  "Good thing, too," Tatum said. "The mood Sarge was in, once he started chewing tail, he wouldn't have never stopped." "So, what's up his butt?" Petit asked.

  "Commander Quinn didn't want to send out a search party," Tatum replied. "I don't think the commander wants anyone to move out of sight of camp."

  "Why?" Petit asked. "He afraid we'll get lost, like Mac and Jocko?"

  "Who knows? Maybe," Tatum said, looking around; no cover was afforded by the flat, featureless terrain.

  "Wouldn't none of us be on patrol if the lieutenant hadn't waded in," Jones added. "Heard 'em talking. Lieutenant Buccari wouldn't take no for an answer."

  "She said we should also be looking for a better place to settle. She says winter on the plateau is going to be miserable," Tatum said.

  "She's something else, ain't she?" Jones replied. "Best damn officer in the whole damn fleet."

  "So why's Shannon so jacked?" Petit persisted. "He got his patrol."

  "Yeah," Tatum said, "but he wanted to go himself. He's worried about MacArthur and Chastain. And he needs a break from old mother Quinn."

  The patrol headed east, arriving at the plateau's edge early in the afternoon. Tatum was uncomfortable. A noxious sulfur odor bit at their sinuses, and the raw height of the plateau was intimidating. The brink was not sharp, but curved gently away from his feet, rapidly gaining in pitch with each advancing step. The rolling plains far to the east, hazy in the distance, were part of some other world. Their world was flat, and it ended, abruptly, only paces away. Petit and Jones stayed clear of the edge. Tatum shuffled backward to join them.

  With no apparent way down, Tatum hiked along the meandering brink of the precipice, hoping a navigable cleft or rift would show itself, enabling them to descend and backtrack along their original parafoil flight path. They found nothing.

  * * *

  Sentries sounded the alarm. Strange beings were reported on the salt trail. Kuudor sent for Braan, and the leader of hunters quickly arrived, Craag at his side. The hunters studied the long-legs struggling up the steep path traversing the cliff face. One had his arm around the neck of the other, being half-carried along.

  "The smaller one is damaged," Kuudor observed.

  "The larger one is deeply fatigued, but thou art right, captainof-the-sentry, the smaller long-legs is near death," Craag agreed, impressed with the efforts of the big creature.

  "They are not gods," Braan said.

  "But they are compassionate," Craag added.

  "Also unlike the gods." Old Kuudor spoke with sacrilegious candor.

  "We are in their debt," Braan said.

  "Thy son is not free, leader-of-hunters," Kuudor said. "Be wary of paying debts not owed."

  The sun was high in the cobalt sky and gaining intensity. The cliff face doubled the sun's intensity, reflecting it on the struggling long-legs and blocking the cool northwest wind.

  * * *

  "Almost there, Mac," Chastain huffed. "Keep moving; we can make it."

  The trail narrowed and climbed vertically; the river chasm yawned to their right. Flowers, purple and yellow, grew in abundance and thick-stemmed thistles with white spiked blossoms lined the dusty path, providing psychological relief from the precipitous drop. It was hot. Chastain plodded upward, hoping for a switchback to take them from the perilous cliff face.

  "You okay, Mac?" Chastain sucked air. "Say something, Mac. What're we going to do when we get to the top? Mac!" MacArthur gasped. Chastain was thankful for the gasps—signals that MacArthur was still alive. Doggedly, the big Marine trudged the endless slope, his swollen tongue constricting his throat and mouth. They desperately needed water—the irony of the large river that had nearly drowned them flowing so abundantly a thousand meters below. And in the near distance ahead, pulling Chastain forward— teasing him—a waterfall plunged from the cliff top, its white sheet of water atomizing into angel hair mists.

  "Almost there, Mac. Almost…there. The path is…flattening…out," Chastain wheezed dizzily. The big Marine fai
nted.

  * * *

  Braan and Craag glided above the fallen long-legs. The creatures, lying like death in the dust, stank, a bitter smell, the malodor of putrescence mingled with animal scent. The cliff dwellers landed above the path and analyzed the still forms. Nothing moved. Braan whistled and a dozen hunters appeared over the edge, cautiously approaching the still forms. They carried bowls, vials, and an animal skin litter. They obeyed Braan's instructions. Craag hopped down to assist, using his wings as a parachute.

  The smaller long-legs was rolled onto the litter and carried away. Its body was deteriorating rapidly, maybe too rapidly. Its life was now in the hands of the gardeners. The other creature was immense. Braan marveled at its physique—a rival to the mythical bear people. It was dehydrated, but that could be remedied. Other frightened sentries deposited bowls of water and vials of honey next to the fallen giant and departed quickly. Braan and Craag moved beside the stricken alien, each dumping a bowl of water on its head. The giant stirred and the hunters silently pushed from the cliff, swooping out of sight.

  * * *

  Chastain' s ragged, thirsty dreams splashed wetly to an end. He awoke blurry-eyed, with a terrific headache. Water! He licked at the liquid running from his hat. He snatched the hat from his head and squeezed salty moisture into his mouth.

  Where had it come from? MacArthur? No, Mac was hurt! Where was Mac? Chastain panicked, thinking MacArthur had gone over the edge. His brain clearing, he noticed the thistles were not trampled. He also noticed the bowls, two empty and two brimming with clear liquid. And vials. He sat in the dust, perplexed, shading his eyes. He yelled MacArthur' s name, his voice croaking as it escaped his dry throat. He looked at the small bowls of tempting liquid and touched one. His thirst took charge and he unsteadily and greedily brought the laden bowl to his lips and drank deeply— too deeply—choking on the life-giving fluid. Coughing and hacking, he stopped to clear his lungs and then drained the bowl. He looked at the plain crockery, no more than a cup in his huge hands, curiously turning it over and around, looking for a clue. Nothing.

  He picked up the other vessel and drank more cautiously. He sniffed the water as he drained the dregs. Once done, he was embarrassed and guilty for having drank both bowls. Confused, he looked down at the vials and picked one up. It had a stopper made of soft, pulpy wood. He pulled the cork from the vial and sniffed its contents. He could not figure the smell. He tipped the vial, and a clear amber fluid oozed thickly onto his finger. He touched the dollop to his tongue. Sweetness! Liquid energy! Chastain held the vial over his throat and let the wonderful, viscous substance run into his mouth, licking and sucking at the container. He looked at the second vial, sorely tempted, but placed it the zippered pocket of his jumpsuit. Evidence.

  Recharged, he stood and yelled MacArthur' s name, a full-throated bellow echoing across the face of the cliff. And again he yelled, less loudly, and a third time, but to himself, softly. He looked up the trail; he looked down the trail, taking indecisive steps. Silence. He sat heavily and looked around, wringing his hands. The sun cooking his sweaty head stirred him to action. Chastain put on his hat and rose to his feet, stooping to pick up an empty bowl. He hiked to the top of the cliffs and found, prominently positioned atop a flat rock, another vial of honey. Chastain consumed it without guilt; he did not require two vials of proof.

  He was on the plateau. Wracking his sun-dulled and food-starved memory, he recalled his injection briefing. Still uncertain, he headed over the rolling terrain of the plateau, sadly glancing over his shoulder, hoping to see his friend.

  * * *

  The unconscious one was carried under the misty waterfall and down the bore. At the tunnel's end the rough-hewn chamber turned sharply and opened abruptly on a terrace lodged in a deep vertical fissure. A pentagonal platform, supported by a network of pulleys and blocks, filled the lateral space within the fissure—an elevator.

  The hunters bundled the limp creature onto the platform, and the elevator dropped smoothly to the next level where a soft-wheeled cart was waiting to receive the burden. An elder wearing the emeralds and garnets of the gardener guild supervised the loading. Guilder apprentices relieved the hunters and wheeled the cart away. The curious sentries chirped excitedly and jumped from the terrace into the void, their wings unfurling and grabbing the strong updrafts.

  The cart trundled down a smooth-surfaced, slanting corridor lit by flickering spirit lamps. A runnel of water gurgled down a bermed gutter against one polished wall. The corridor ended in a high-ceilinged cavern partially open to the sky. Two other caves converged on the opening, revealing a panorama of blue sky and river valley, as well as another lift platform cantilevered out over the abyss. Support cables for the lift, made from chains, angled back sharply, running through a hole cut high in the rock wall. Mechanical noises and the hissing of steam emanated from a chiseled window halfway up the stone wall. Guilders were visible; one commanded the mouth of the opening, monitoring the movements below. The cart rolled out into sunlight, and the gardener waved his hand at the lift supervisor. The platform dropped smoothly.

  The elevator passed intermediate landing points before it stopped at a cabling terminus, the river still far below. The cart was pushed from the platform and navigated through a level, if sinuous, corridor, a tunnel in which curious cliff dwellers stood to watch the procession. Another lift station received them, and the process was repeated, continuing the ride down the face of the cliff. When they debarked, the steam was thick and warm, and the unseen river rumbled nearby.

  Chapter 16. Reunited

  Buccari awoke in the dark hours and could not go back to sleep. She slipped from her sleeping bag, grabbed boots and clothes, and crawled from the tent she shared with Lee. The wet chill of early morning seeped through her thermal underwear and made her shiver. She squatted next to the campfire embers and kindled a handful of tinder. Wood chips sputtered and ignited, flowering into warm tongues of flame. She added two logs. The banked ashes provided a foundation of heat, and larger flames soon curled about the logs. Buccari stood over the flourishing pyre and pivoted, warming herself in stages. With her back to the fire she looked into moonless skies, at the glory of the morning constellations, stars sparkling and dancing, great slashes of crystalline points of light, so dense as to make the black velvet skies appear textured with sharp shards of broken diamonds. Young stars, they seemed newly minted.

  Adequately warmed, she sat down on a log, back to the fire. As she laced her boots something caught her attention—the flap on Shannon's tent was slowly folding back. An arm protruded and then a back; an entire person cleared the tent entrance and stood erect, looking about surreptitiously—Dawson. The tall petty officer pulled her hood over her head and cinched it tight as she walked. Her path took her by the campfire. Buccari turned to the fire, but Dawson had noticed her. The communications technician walked up without hesitation.

  "Morning, Lieutenant," she whispered and sat down, leaning close to the flames, her countenance tired but peculiarly fulfilled.

  "Good morning, Dawson," Buccari replied, uncertain whether to be angry or indifferent—or envious.

  * * *

  Morning broke cold and still; a thin crust of frost covered the patrol's exposed camp. Tatum rolled out of his bag expecting to see the plateau's edge and the eastern horizon beyond. Instead, a thin wall of foggy vapors, slow streamers of misty steam, rose delicately into the sky—a curtain of steam, held together in the cool, stable air, curling in laminar wisps high over their heads, there to magically dissipate. Petit was posting the morning watch, his burly form silhouetted against the steamy white veil. Through the curtain an eerie orange sun broke from the horizon, its cold rays attacking the curtain of mist. Tatum turned to see Jones straggle from his sleeping bag.

  "Gawd!" Jones said, ogling the veiled sunrise. "Like a fairy tale."

  "Fairy tale!" Petit said, turning to face the other two. "Too damn cold for a fairy tale. Get that fire going and cook some breakfast."


  "Make it quick," Tatum said. "Shannon wants us back by sunset tomorrow, and I want to cover as much of the rim as we can. There's got to be a way down."

  As they ate, the sun's warmth forced the steam from the cliffs and down the vertical walls. By the time the spacers started hiking, only an occasional wisp crept over the edge. Tatum was relieved to be moving; standing next to the cliff edge induced vertigo, a dizziness of altitude and insecurity.

  Late in the morning Tatum noticed the soaring creatures, minute specks of black against an infinitely deep blue. By then the Marines were tending to the west of south, the curve of the plateau rounding away from their intended track. Higher ground lay ahead.

  "Not going to see much on this patrol," Tatum said, checking the sun.

  "Beats sitting around the camp twiddling our thumbs," Jones said. "I'm going to volunteer for more of these scouting trips."

  Tatum laughed. "Wait until it rains, or you can't find food or water."

  "I can take it," Jones said. "I should've been a Marine. I'm tough."

  "You'd never pass the physical, Boats," Tatum kidded. "What the.. What' s that supposed to mean?" Jones replied.

  "You can tie your shoelaces, and technical stuff like that. Too many brains," Tatum said as he scanned the distant plains with binoculars.

  "Didn't notice you have any problem with your laces," Jones said.