Genellan: Planetfall

by Скотт Г. Джир

  "Never untie 'em. Sarge ties 'em for me. That's why he's a sarge. Took him near twenty years to learn." Petit heehawed like a jackass.

  They hiked on, rarely silent, frequently raucous.

  "A river!" Petit shouted, pointing ahead. "It runs over the edge!" The men advanced on the small stream, climbing a modest elevation. The terrain had changed; the land bordering the cliffs was broken with abrupt rises and outcroppings jutting from the flat rock. The plateau rim descended and tundra grasses resumed in desultory patches. The stream, swollen with recent rains, gurgled over the cliff and launched into wind-whipped spray.

  The bank was steep, the waters deep and fast. Tatum swung his vision upstream, searching for a convenient ford. He followed the river into the distance and saw movement. He put the field glasses to his eyes.

  "Something—someone's foraging out there. Along the river! Way out!" Tatum said, alerting his comrades. He handed the glasses to Petit. After only a brief moment Petit lowered the glasses. Tatum asked, "Is that who I think it is?"

  "Chastain," Petit answered. "He's limping, but I recognize his walk."

  They took off at double time, but it took an hour to get within shouting range of the wandering Marine. Tatum debated firing off a round, but Chastain was already heading toward the main camp. It would have been a waste of a bullet. Eventually Chastain responded to their hails, turning and crouching in alarm. Chastain' s fear turned to recognition, and he ran toward them, stumbling and falling.

  "Where's MacArthur?" Tatum shouted.

  Chastain, displaying a painfully radiant sunburn, staggered to his feet, mouth and hands stained purple from berry juice. "Don't know," he mumbled, shoulders slumped. "I lost him."

  "What d'ya mean, you lost him?" Petit snapped. "You big—" "Shut up, Petit!" Tatum shouted. "Jocko, you're back with us. You're okay. But where's Mac? Where did you see him last?"

  Chastain, tears streaming down his cheeks, babbled apologetically, with confused references to big rivers and bears and beautiful valleys. They listened; Tatum asked questions whenever Chastain's explanation became too cryptic, but the day was fading into afternoon. If they searched for MacArthur, they would be overdue, and that would get Shannon highly exercised. Chastain needed food and medical attention. Frustrated, Tatum scanned the skies and saw more of the winging creatures. The large birds were soaring westward.

  * * *

  MacArthur awoke, blindfolded. His head and his extremities were immobile. He felt naked, yet warm and comfortable. His last memories were of a profound and desperate need for water and of excruciating pain in his infected shoulder. He was no longer thirsty and his shoulder no longer pained him. Panic lurked, but he felt too relaxed. A mild odor permeated the air—sulfurous. His stomach growled.

  "Hello," he whispered hoarsely. "Anyone there?"

  He heard movement, quiet and unobtrusive, a presence.

  "I know you're there," he croaked. He listened. Hours went by. He slept. He awoke and listened and fell asleep again, certain that he was being drugged.

  He awoke again. There was movement in the room. MacArthur waited and listened, his hearing grown acute in the stillness. A noise impinged on his awareness, a whistling fading in and out of frequencies higher than he was capable of following. Out of boredom MacArthur whistled a few notes. The high-pitched noises stopped with alarming abruptness. He tried whistling more notes. Nothing. He whistled, "a shave and a haircut—two bits," the familiar "long-short-short-long-long" pause «short-short» sing-song. He whistled the ditty several times. At least he had precipitated a reaction. Even if it was silence.

  Suddenly high-pitched noises answered—a soft trilling, almost too highly pitched to perceive rhythm: "a shave and a haircut—two bits." Someone was there! They had answered. He whistled again. They reciprocated, this time in lower pitch. He heard them communicating. They sounded excited. They whistled the ditty; he returned it. More noises with arrhythmic gaps. Much of the communication was beyond his hearing range, few of their sounds below a soprano's highest notes. He whistled only the first part, the first five notes, and stopped. Nothing. He repeated the first five notes, and waited. And again. And then the two short notes came back from his unknown hosts. He did it again, and they quickly answered. He waited. Something whistled the first five notes and stopped. He supplied the ending. They did it again. He whistled his part and then started to laugh. It was ludicrous. He lay on his back, buck-naked, whistling a mindless ditty. And someone or something was answering him. His laughter was hearty, uncontrolled; tears rolled from his eyes. Something touched his face. He tried to flinch away, but his head was tightly bound. His tears were gently wiped away.

  * * *

  "Elder, may I ask the status of the injured long-legs?" Muube asked.

  "A most resilient creature," Koop-the-facilitator replied. "A serious infection and malnourishment, but it responds well."

  "Very good. What happens now?" the herb master asked.

  "The council is considering options, master Muube," Koop said. "Though I am told the leader-of-the-hunters wishes to release it."

  The ancients waddled past mist-drenched planters. The orchids were of all shapes, sizes, and colors, rigorously organized.

  "Impressive, herb master," said Koop, moving from blossom to blossom, much like the honeybees buzzing about their heads.

  "I am grateful, elder," Muube replied. "A bountiful year for our medicines."

  "Were it so for all our resources," Koop bemoaned, stopping before a colossal yellow and black orchid, staring reverently at the variegated blossom.

  "Beautiful!" the elder whispered reverently.

  The guilders ambled down the endless line of planters, steam welling up the cliff face, sunshine sparkling through spectral mists, the buzzing of honeybees melding with the muted roar of the river far below.

  * * *

  Braan, accompanied by the relief sentries, returned to the lake, landing on the second island. The watch captain briefed the hunter leader. The long-legs' watercraft had been repaired. Twice daily, just before sunrise and just after sunset, the ungainly craft made the round trip, escorting splashing long-legs as they swam to the hot springs. The green-clothed ones spent large amounts of time exploring; the raft had approached their new position on two occasions.

  "The long-legs will soon explore this island," the watch captain said. "Perhaps it is time to move to a safer location."

  "Safer? We can only move so many times," Braan responded, "before we are forced to move from even our homes."

  "What now, leader-of-hunters?" the off-going watch captain asked.

  "Return to clan and cliff. Await thy next duty, warrior. But caution, a patrol of long-legs comes," Braan warned. "Avoid them. Thou art relieved."

  The weary off-going watch departed on favorable winds. Braan, satisfied the watch was in place, soared over the lake on a fresh updraft. Rising through a caravan of puffy clouds, Braan glided along the ridges. Wary of rockdogs and mindful of the long-leg sentries, Braan landed and established an austere camp. And waited.

  The sun set, evening dusk grew thick, and the campfire cast a flickering glow among the tents. The returning long-legs patrol walked up the hill. A sentry shouted and the camp emptied into the tent area, surrounding the returned Giant-one. Sentries moved from their posts, closer to the welcoming din. Taking advantage of the distraction, Braan pushed from the high rock and silently glided to the cave terrace. His luck held—the cave was empty of tall ones. Brappa lay unattended, torso and wings wrapped with soft cloth, but he was not bound to his crib. Braan moved close and softly alerted his son to his presence. Brappa acknowledged and listened carefully to his beloved father.

  * * *

  MacArthur awoke on the hard granite of the high plateau, the morning sun already tall in the eastern sky. He shivered. Shaking dullness from his brain, he stiffly gained his feet. It was a crazy dream. His shoulder? It ached, but he remembered how much worse the pain had been. He peeled back his clothes and look
ed in amazement at his bare shoulder. The wound was closed and the ugly gray and yellow streaks running down his arm were gone. He owed his arm, if not his life, to someone. But to whom? To what? And Chastain? Where the dickens was Chastain?

  He took inventory. His clothes were clean and dry, but his knife and pistol were gone. He crouched and checked his surroundings. Nothing moved. He searched for clues—tracks or broken ground—but saw only inscrutable granite. With one last look around he stumbled off at a trot, feeling peculiarly fit. After a hundred paces the reality of inactivity overcame him and he slowed his pace. He was on the plateau; the landing site could be no more than a day's march.

  He was exhausted and famished when he finally arrived at the landmark lake with the islands. The sun was an hour set, and clouds, pushed along by a cold wind, obscured the stars and moons. The lithe Marine yawned and blinked watery eyes. Through the bleariness he detected a glow against the hills, a hint of light. A campfire? The Marine shook off the chill and stepped out toward the beacon. As he rounded the perimeter of the lake, the soft spray of campfire light disappeared. A ridge of rugged karsts rose before him, and the smell of spruce grew stronger—and burning wood. MacArthur stalked the hillside. He detected a sentry leaning against a tree and recognized Mendoza, the propulsion technician. His relief was overwhelming; trembling, he wiped tears from his eyes. But a feeling of perverse pleasure displaced his joy. MacArthur stole silently by the unaware sentry.

  The camp was settled in for the night. A meager fire burned in the tent circle, near which sat Ensign Hudson and Chief Wilson. Gunner Wilson was telling space stories. MacArthur crawled close and listened to the ridiculous old saws, enjoying Hudson's affected gullibility. O'Toole walked down from the rocks, and MacArthur detected another soft glow emanating from the cave. O'Toole threw a log on the campfire and joined in with a yarn of his own. MacArthur lay in the needles and listened for a languid minute, enjoying the embrace of the quiet evening. But his stomach growled. Hunger rampant, he rose to his feet and shuffled into the dim circle of light, hat low over his eyes. Sitting down on the far side of the fire, he held his elbows high and put his hands on his face, stretching and yawning. The warmth of the fire was delicious.

  "Gunner—" MacArthur spoke softly. "You're so full of crap. That young officer is never going to respect you, you keep lying to him like that." The story tellers looked up. Wilson opened his mouth to retort and recognition froze his tongue. All eyes simultaneously opened full wide.

  "Sheee-it," Wilson sniveled, recovering. "What a pure asshole, MacArthur. Well, I'm the only one's glad to see you, but only because you owe me money."

  Hudson and O'Toole shouted at the top of their lungs, emptying the tents and cave. The campfire was overwhelmed with the crew of Harrier One. Chastain burst from a tent, dragging it with him. Staring in tousled disbelief, he grabbed MacArthur in a bear hug and lifted him into the air.

  "How long you been back, Jocko?" the smaller man shouted above the din, feeling a twinge of pain in his shoulder but too happy to complain.

  "Over a week!" the big man answered. "We sent patrols out looking for you, Mac, but they came back empty. I told Sergeant Shannon I was heading out tomorrow to look for you myself. This is home, Mac. I told them about the valley, Mac, but this here's a good camp. We got a cave and beds and hot water and—"

  MacArthur laughed despite the pain to his shoulder and begged to be put down. "If it's so great, get me some food!" he shouted.

  "Is he okay?" Shannon shouted as he sprinted down from the cave with Quinn, Buccari, and the rest of the cave's occupants close behind. They arrived as Wilson was rescuing MacArthur from Chastain' s embrace.

  "He's not dead or injured," Wilson said. "Maybe brain dead. 'You okay, Mac?"

  "Just sick to my stomach 'cause of your ugly face, Gunner," MacArthur said. Shannon muscled his way through the crowd, Quinn on his heels.

  "Where the hell you been, Mac?" Shannon blurted.

  "You sure you're all right, Corporal?" Quinn asked. "Private Chastain said you had a badly infected shoulder. He thought you were dead."

  "Thought I was dead, too" MacArthur said, rubbing his shoulder.

  Quinn turned to the crowd and shouted, "Everybody back to bed or to their post—right now! MacArthur'll be here in the morning. Break it up. Lee, take him up to the cave and have a look at his shoulder." The crowd fell away, but not before they had all hugged the corporal or at least slapped him on the back. MacArthur climbed to the cave, following Lee to her sickbay. Shannon followed, firing questions, but Quinn interceded and suggested questions wait until morning. Shannon and Quinn stayed on the terrace and conferred in low but obviously heated tones. Rennault, injuries on the mend, walked by MacArthur on his way to his sleeping bag. They exchanged greetings. That is when MacArthur noticed the other patient.

  "What in the—what's that?" MacArthur asked, peering into the shadows. Lee had set Tonto off by himself. Fenstermacher walked up to the animal, smiling stupidly.

  "Leslie had my baby," Fenstermacher yawned.

  "Joke's getting old, Winfried!" Lee said with great suffering. "It's an animal we found next to the lake after the earthquake. We had a tidal wave. It washed onto the rocks and broke its arm. Did you feel the earthquake, Mac?"

  MacArthur walked slowly over to the creature's bed. "Yeah," he said, studying the beast. It blatantly returned his stare, blinking rhythmically.

  "Why didn't you let it go?" MacArthur asked, looking down at Lee.

  "It's an animal. It's got a broken arm. It would have rebroken the bone and probably died," she answered. "It's done real well, and it can leave if it wants to. It stays here, almost as if it knows we're helping it. We named him Tonto."

  MacArthur returned his attention to the ugly animal and gave it a wink. The animal stared back impassively. MacArthur scratched his sunburned nose and walked over to where Lee had laid out a sleeping bag. A night's sleep sounded inviting, maybe more so than food. Lee followed him, brandishing a flashlight. MacArthur looked up to see the animal intently observing. Fenstermacher grumbled something, and the creature shifted its gaze.

  "Lee called you Winfried!" MacArthur suddenly said, watching the animal. "Nah, Fenstermacher, your name ain't really Winfried, is it?"

  Lee said, "Oops," and started peeling back MacArthur's jumpsuit.

  Fenstermacher sat up in his sleeping bag and glared. "Thanks, Les," he grumbled. "Yeah. Winfried. So what?" he challenged.

  "Nice name," MacArthur replied. The animal followed the conversation. "Goes with Fenstermacher." Fenstermacher snarled a superb string of expletives and rolled over, his back to the others.

  "Looks good. You look real…" Lee said, strong hands working the muscles around the wound.

  "She says that to everyone," Fenstermacher mumbled from the corner.

  Lee was quiet, looking at his shoulder from several angles.

  "Sutures!" Lee said loudly and abruptly. "What happened to you?" she asked. "Who took care of you? These sutures are professional."

  MacArthur looked at his shoulder. Their curiosity piqued by Lee's outburst, Quinn and Shannon also walked over.

  "Don't know," he said. "One minute Chastain's carrying me, and the next I wake up blindfolded, in a warm place. Couple of days later—who knows—I wake up again. My pistol and knife are gone, but I'm alive, and my infected shoulder is almost healed." MacArthur stopped and looked from face to face.

  "That's the story," he continued. "That's all there is. Chastain should have told you about everything else. I nearly got us killed in the river. Oh—and the valley! The valley! We found a valley with a big lake full of fish and ducks and big otters. We saw little deer and bears and something that looked like an elk—"

  Quinn picked up a bowl. "We were going to wait until tomorrow to show you these," he said soberly. "Someone gave water and honey, real honey, to Chastain the day he lost you. "Lee, give him the vial."

  Lee handed MacArthur a glazed ceramic tube.

  "Taste i
t!" Quinn ordered.

  "Honey? I've heard of honey, I think. What is it?" MacArthur asked.

  "A food made by bugs—real bugs—honeybees," Lee said. "There used to be a lot of them on Earth. Still have bees, I guess, but no honeybees."

  "There're still some left," Quinn said. "A luxury of the rich."

  MacArthur pulled out the stopper and tentatively tipped the container over. A drop oozed onto his finger. He touched it to his mouth and immediately knew he wanted more. His saliva glands welled warmly around his tongue. Quinn took the vial and handed him a chipped bowl.

  "Is this familiar?" Quinn asked.

  MacArthur felt a wave of fatigue wash over him.

  "Sorry, Commander," MacArthur replied. "Nothing. I don't recall being fed or drinking anything. They kept me blindfolded and, uh…drugged, I think. I slept a lot—almost the whole time. I remember whistling."

  "Whistling!" Shannon exclaimed.

  "Yeah," MacArthur replied. He sat erect, his memories holding fatigue at bay. "Funny thing. After I laid there for a long time I thought I could hear them talking, only their talking was real high-pitched, like whistling, only higher even. I, ah…started whistling at them. They whistled back."

  "Whistling!" Quinn said, looking at Shannon and Lee. "Whistling! Seems we've heard whistling around here, too."

  MacArthur looked at the animal. It stared back. Quinn related the events of the night they were visited by Tonto' s friends and of the whistling sounds thought to be communication. MacArthur listened to the story and pondered. Then he stood and walked over to the animal. The ugly beast stared up fearlessly. MacArthur licked his lips and softly whistled the first five notes of the sing-song ditty: "shave and a haircut." The animal registered the sounds with a start, its expression clearly revealing it was analyzing the sounds. MacArthur whistled the same five notes. Fenstermacher moved, standing as if to provide the answer. MacArthur waved him down. The animal watched the movements and gestures, glancing briefly at Fenstermacher. It returned its unwavering attention to the man standing over him, and MacArthur whistled the ditty again and waited. He was about to do it again, when the animal opened its mouth just enough to show a jagged line of teeth. It shrilled sharply—two short notes.