Gorruk was tasked with the assault. After years of frustrating preparation, during which even the indomitable general refused to acknowledge acceptable odds for success, a rare meteorological event occurred. The sun-star erupted with solar flare activity during the planet Kon' s approach to orbital perigee. Gorruk' s astronomers and meteorologists predicted this anomalous thermal radiation pattern would cause a loss of symmetry in the atmosphere's heat balance, resulting in a skewing of weather patterns. The atmospheric equator would tilt slightly for almost a full cycle of their largest moon. Gorruk was informed of this momentous happenstance and, true to his opportunistic nature, ordered great forces in motion. His army would be ready should the forecasts prove accurate.
Gorruk' s scientists watched as the planet's immensely stable weather system began to ponderously shift, creating local anomalies that would occur only once or twice in a century. The meteorologists' predictions came true. Portions of the northern hemisphere normally inhabitable became torrid. Hot gales swept over crops, reducing the land to bitter dust. Northern farmers wept and retreated from their homes. Yet on the opposite side of the globe, searing equatorial desert winds abated, and a low ceiling of clouds mercifully covered large parts of the sterile zone. Blast furnace temperatures mellowed to merely scorching, and the deserts became tolerable—giving opportunity to cross their trackless wastes.
General Gorruk, behind monumental stockpiles of supplies and massive accumulations of weaponry, exhorted his armies into religious frenzy. It was time for the grand stroke, risking everything to shift the balance of global conflict. Eight armies of the Hegemony, spearheaded by armored columns and mobile infantry, moved southward into the waste lands. An eight-pronged pincer lunged across the sere and forsaken landscape, an irrepressible force moving inexorably onward.
Gorruk would have preferred to lead the assault. It was his passion to personally close with the enemy, wielding death-inflicting weapons, to see the terror that overwhelming strength and indomitable courage could exact from a stricken enemy. Yet he alsoknew his job as supreme commander precluded such tactical pleasures; he could not risk being eliminated, leaving the armies without their decision-maker. Generals, regrettably, must lead from the rear.
Coded transmissions confirmed the progress of the advance. His satellites were still working but no doubt would soon be destroyed. Gorruk's eight armies ground forward, closing on southern objectives. What had not been anticipated was the untimely deployment of enemy tank divisions in sector nine, most unfortunate for General Klarrk's Third Army salient; Klarrk was getting cut to pieces and no reinforcements could be spared—the fortunes of war.
"We are on schedule," Gorruk said. "Have the strategic rocket forces verified launch yet?"
"Yes, General," answered the brigadier. "The first wave of missiles are in the air, and tactical fighters and bombers are in position to follow the ballistics."
Gorruk looked into the sky. The cloud ceiling was breaking up as predicted. He should be hearing the attacking aircraft any moment.
"With the exception of the Third Army, it goes well, General Gorruk," remarked the brigadier. "The First and Fifth Army salients have reached their objectives and have overrun positions. The enemy is totally unprepared."
"Of course," Gorruk replied.
* * *
"Your Excellency," Et Kalass pleaded, his dignity slipping away. "We are making progress. We have photographs and video of the wreckage of one of their spacecraft. "We must—"
Jook reclined on his pneumo-pillows and listened contemptuously. "Too late, Minister," the Supreme Leader said. "The die is cast and irreversible actions are underway. We are at war, and war is everything." As if in punctuation, a deep rumble shook the huge palace; one of the enemy's intercontinental rockets, launched in desperation, had reached the capital city. Jook did not deign to look up.
"General Gorruk' s valiant forces have established bridgeheads in the southern hemisphere," Jook continued. "The armies of the Northern Hegemony are victorious today, victorious beyond our wildest expectations. General Gorruk has spanned the wastelands. Within weeks he will march on their industrial centers. It is but a matter of time before they capitulate."
"A quarter of a million kones have died," Et Kalass blurted. "A dear price."
Jook glared down malevolently. "Not dear by half, my lord!" the Supreme Leader retorted. "It is but small down payment to the dogs of war. We are at war. What did you expect? Do you not understand? Gorruk has crossed the deserts. In force! Imperial armies are triumphant!"
"Gorruk may have crossed the deserts," Et Kalass persisted, "but the aliens have the power to cross the infinite universe. We forego a far greater opportunity."
Jook lunged to his feet, mouth open. With great effort, he contained his emotions and slowly reclined. "I have seen your reports," he said calmly. "In fact I share your views, Minister. Finding the secrets of the alien ships must take high priority. However, at the moment I must consider the activities of our generals on a higher plane."
"Yes, Exalted One," Et Kalass replied. "The—"
"I am told it is winter in the area of search operations," Jook said. "A terribly inclement time on a miserably inclement planet. What opportunity exists for us there? What would you have me do? Can it not wait until next year, or even the year after?"
"My science team remains on Genellan, Your Excellency," pleaded the noblekone. "Gorruk's shuttle removed the military personnel but left Et Avian. Our little war broke out, and there has not been a shuttle since."
"We are at war, Minister. All boosters must be conserved for purposes that advance the good of our cause. I am told those on Genellan are in no danger. We will resupply them when it is necessary." Jook stared down from his elevation. "You are dismissed."
Et Kalass, realizing logic would not penetrate the ruler's adamantine priorities, pivoted on his hinds and walked out. Et Kalass had not been surprised by the commencement of war, however he had not anticipated Et Avian being stranded, nor had he expected Gorruk' s horrific success. Events were out of control. How to mitigate their impact? Global conquest by northern generals would be a monstrous setback to his plans—to the restoration of the nobility. Perhaps the survival of the nobility was cause to relegate the aliens and their power of interstellar travel to a lower priority. He would have to adjust to the vagaries of political reality. Jook was correct—when at war, war was everything.
SECTION THREE — ESTABLISHING RELATIONS
Chapter 25. Communication
The wind stiffened at dusk, blowing snow sideways. Cliff dwellers packed the cold whiteness around the salt bags, building low-walled enclosures over which they draped animal hides. The creatures, chewing their meager dinners, scurried into the shelters, piling atop more hides and atop each other. Four heavily bundled dwellers remained outside, positioned around the humans.
"Sentries," Buccari said, squinting in the fading light.
"Or guards," MacArthur rebutted. "A matter of semantics."
Buccari stared at the Marine. "Semantics, eh? I didn't know you were a philosopher, Corporal," she said into her ice-crusted scarf.
"Philosopher? No. Well, maybe, but only when it gets warmer," MacArthur replied, burying a tent stake sideways in the snow. "You know," he remarked without guile, "our little friends are smart. They sleep together and stay warm. Being warm is more important than philosophy."
Buccari tented alone.
"Perhaps," she answered, hiding her face behind her scarf.
MacArthur straightened abruptly, staring past her. She turned to see two cliff dwellers approaching through the falling snow. She remembered the mannerisms displayed during previous contact. MacArthur followed her lead.
* * *
Braan bowed in return, pleased by the display of manners. The long-legs stood erect and looked at each other. Braan took the initiative and whistled the special low notes. The hairy-faced one responded in kind, although the short one was obviously the leader. This one uttered grunt
s and pulled back the flap covering the shelter. It pointed—obscenely extending the first finger—rudely signaling the hunters inside. The hairy-faced one kicked snow from its foot coverings and entered. Not knowing how else to signal, Braan rudely pointed at Short-one-who-leads and indicated that it should go next. Short-one-who-leads moved in next to the taller one.
Braan directed Craag to enter the enclosure. The courageous hunter shook snow from his cloak and slowly moved inside, joining the long-legs. Braan followed, pausing to feel the peculiar fabric of the tent. He left the flap open, the last hint of daylight illuminating their council. Panic welled in Braan' s belly. Sitting close to a potential enemy was against all instinct. The odor of the long-legs, sour and dank, pervaded the tent's interior, and Braan suddenly missed the sweet breezes of the snowstorm.
* * *
"Definitely the same bugs that took Tonto back," MacArthur said. "Look at the scars on their captain's nose?"
"Captain!" Buccari said, pointing at the lead hunter, anointing him. The creature recoiled from her pointed finger. She looked at her hand and slowly dropped it. The cliff dweller noticeably relaxed.
"Captain doesn't like to be pointed at," she observed. "Evidently not," MacArthur replied.
"But he pointed at me when we were outside," said Buccari, perplexed.
"Yeah, but he was uncomfortable," MacArthur replied, pointing his finger into the air. The cliff dwellers watched suspiciously. MacArthur moved his hand slowly in their direction. When MacArthur's finger was pointed at Captain, the creature gently pushed it aside. MacArthur nodded, and both cliff dwellers bobbed their heads up and down. Captain reached out and firmly grabbed MacArthur's hands, extending the Marine's fingers in a praying position. The cliff dweller, holding his own hands in the same manner, thrust them toward MacArthur, withdrew them, and then did the same toward Buccari. Pointing the long index finger on his four-fingered hand toward MacArthur, he shook his head and pulled his finger away, using his other hand.
"Interesting!" Buccari said, her hands together. "Pointing with one finger must be impolite."
"Progress," MacArthur said. "A good first step—proper manners."
A dark form in the snowy gloom moved across the tent opening.
"Mac, you there?" Chastain asked loudly.
The cliff dwellers recoiled at the booming voice.
Buccari spoke softly: "Chastain, move away from the tent. We have two of the animals in here." Chastain's shadowy hulk moved silently away. Buccari, using both hands, pointed to the tent entrance. The creatures nodded vigorously and scrambled through the opening. Buccari and MacArthur followed, the cliff dwellers already invisible in the snowy gloaming. Buccari looked up at MacArthur, feeling the warm spot on her thigh, where his knee had touched her. She was excited; they had taken another step in establishing contact with the strange animals, but her excitement was heightened by physical contact with her own kind.
"Good night, Corporal," she said, trying not to smile at the handsome face. She put her hands together in cliff dweller fashion and put them next to her cheek. Then she stuck out her fist with her thumb extended, jerked it over her shoulder and said, "Scram!"
"Aye, sir," MacArthur replied, moving away in the darkening snowfall.
"Oh, Mac, er. Corporal," Buccari called after him. "Yeah…Lieutenant," he replied, quickly turning.
"Tell everyone how to point. Wouldn't want any incidents."
MacArthur pointed as if firing a pistol. "You got it," he said.
She laughed and crawled into her tent, wearing her clothes against the penetrating chill. She climbed into her sleeping bag, sealed the thermal flaps, and zipped the bag over her head. Snow-muted laughter drifted in. Her stomach growled, but she fell into an exhausted coma of dreamless sleep.
* * *
The hikers awoke in the flat light before dawn, camped on the edge of the world. The blizzard of the previous evening had masked the proximity of the cliff face, mere paces from their tents. Cloudless skies arched high above, the air transparently clear. MacArthur studied the terrain. The rock wall of the river valley, covered with snow, appeared vertical with no hint of a trail. Beyond the precipice, past the sinuous gash of the great river, spread the rest of the world in virgin white, awaiting the sun's golden rays to pour over the eastern horizon. Visibility was limitless. Beyond the twin volcanoes, their sullen summits issuing wisps of sulfurous smoke, the plains rolled to infinity, softly white and featureless in their snowy mantle. Far, far away, on the distant northeastern horizon, beyond the curve of the planet, jagged tips of another mountain range bathed in the sharp, golden aura of daylight revealed the coming dawn.
MacArthur stared, mesmerized at the vast scale and depth of his vista. In outer space one could see infinite distances, but the view before him was more powerful. It was dimensionalized by finite objects, objects a human being could understand, objects that had weight and size, with a clearness and granularity far exceeding reasonable expectation. You could see a star, but you could never comprehend one. Intellectually maybe, but never viscerally.
The cold, dense air made his hearing acute; MacArthur detected the twitter and chirping of cliff dwellers, shrill and constant, as they hiked up the trail, their encampment cleanly evacuated. The loud voices and industrious clankings of the humans were amplified, every word, every syllable clear and distinct. The powdery snow squeaked plaintively under the souls of their boots. Heightened senses enhanced his feeling of physical power. He felt powerful—omnipotent. He felt alive.
"Daydreaming, Corporal? Sun's not even up," Buccari said. She slogged through the dry snow to his side, only paces from the brink. He looked down into her face, one rapture replaced by another. She had not put on her ragged scarf, and her complexion glowed with high color. The first spark of sun peeked over the horizon and flashed in her green eyes.
"Morning, Lieutenant," he said, turning to watch the sunrise. "It's beautiful." His words exploded in vaporous puffs. The eastern horizon had been a stark demarcation of land and sky, a bold line of definition. The fiery sun overflowed the boundary, its red-gold splendor suffusing all realms. Feeble rays of warmth touched his exposed face, enforcing his sense of well-being.
"Wonderful!" she replied. They turned to each other, sharing a mutual resonance. MacArthur forced himself to leave the moment.
"Running behind, aren't we?" he chided. "Our friends are moving out."
"You're right," Buccari groaned, stretching her back. "We better hustle. Then again, we don't have to worry about losing them, do we?"
The advance of the departing cliff dwellers was marked by a gash of tracks up the mountain. Two dwellers, Captain and his constant companion—Lieutenant Buccari had christened him 'X.O. for Executive Officer—loitered at the column's rear. The dwellers lifted a hand and turned to the steep trail. The column stretched far up the ascent until it disappeared around the profile of the cliff, a necklace of black pearls in diminishing perspective.
* * *
Braan heard panicked whistles. The hunter leader moved rapidly up the side of the halted column, Craag following close behind. The terrain was nearly vertical, the traverse perilous. Hunters lay on their sides, leaning against the rocky slope, feet dug securely into the packed snow. Three animals protected each salt bag, moving it several hundred paces at a turn. Braan and Craag stepped over the hunters and their cargoes, the trail too narrow for them to walk around.
* * *
"Caught up with 'em!" MacArthur said. "Take a breather." Buccari, in the number two position, leaned a shoulder into the snow and loosened the belay.
"Forgot how steep," she said, "and how narrow this trail is."
"The snow might have something to do with that, Lieutenant," Jones said, third in line. "You're checking good, sir. I'm just trying to keep up with you."
"Thanks, Boats," Buccari replied. "We should have stuck with EPLs. I'll take a short fuel, bad alignment reentry any day."
"I'd go anywhere as long as you're the pilot,"
Jones said.
"She's got my vote, too," MacArthur joined in from above.
Buccari grinned at the Marine, but he was staring up the trail. She looked down at Jones and smiled nervously. Jones smiled back, but not comfortably. O'Toole and Chastain, stood close together, talking quietly, pointing nonchalantly out over the void.
"Let's move," MacArthur said.
Buccari felt the slack go out of the belay. She exhaled, moved her weight over the path, and dug a boot into the packed snow for another step forward, when urgent whistling came from above. Snow cascaded down the fall line onto their heads.
"Keep moving!" MacArthur shouted. "Get out from under that snow!"
The whistling heightened in urgency. More and different sounds sliced the still air, screams of panic and desperation. A switchback appeared. Buccari followed MacArthur on a short climb before traversing in the opposite direction; the path widened slightly. Able to look upslope, she comprehended what was happening: a team of bag bearers had lost control of their precious load. A cliff dweller with a bag strapped to his back lay spread-eagled on the steep slope, his leather-covered talons and fingers sunk desperately into the snow; but the snow beneath him was moving inexorably downwards. Two cliff dwellers not burdened with bags leapt into the air.
"Jocko!" MacArthur yelled down the hill. "Untie and take one of the lines back to where the snow was falling on the path. One of the bats is over the edge with a bag on his back, and his hold is about to let go."
Buccari wondered what good Chastain could possibly do standing beneath a potential avalanche.
Genellan: Planetfall Page 25