Genellan: Planetfall

by Скотт Г. Джир

  * * *

  The storm stopped two days later. Bright, heatless rays of morning sun found the chinks and gaps in the rafters of the shelters, inducing the hapless occupants still asleep to awaken and to look once again upon a world with horizons. The dawn air, dense and transparent, revealed a host of morning stars twinkling thinly overhead, displaying their arrogance, daring to be visible during the light of day.

  Cold! So cold! Faces covered and hands gloved, the earthlings struggled upward, throwing back the snowy blanket of an alien winter. Of their shelters, only the peaked ridge beams protruded into the new day. The thin forest was reduced to a field of pygmy trees, drifted in virgin powder. Standing close to their shelters, the humans looked anxiously across the shrouded lake, vaporous breaths freezing in the air. Snow chirped under their footfalls, and every whisper, every sound, flew fast and far in the iron-hard air. In the distance, connected to camp by a trail of snowshoe prints, two hikers made slow progress. Avoiding the smooth craters that identified the hot springs, they plowed across the bowl of the lake, trudging in velvet shadows, growing smaller all the while.

  "Couldn't stop her, Gunner," Shannon said. "Didn't want to. We can't just hide in our shelters. Those things aren't going to go away."

  "You could've sent a couple more men," Wilson admonished.

  "Those two can move as fast as anyone," Shannon responded. "Sending more men would only have slowed them down. The nightmares won't be a problem as long as the visibility's good. They've got plenty of ammo."

  Ammunition.

  Shannon thought grimly about the limited supply. He worried as he turned and scanned the softly mounded terrain. The blanket of snow eradicated the sharp edges of their rock-tumbled world, and it worked to soothe his anxieties. His vision slipped outward, over the muted ridges and foothills to the awesome and lofty granite giants; the snows could not dampen the sharpness of those spires. Low rays from the rising sun gave the alpine vista a wash of colors from soft gold to brilliant alabaster, presenting the hard lines of precipitous terrain in emphatic relief. Shannon felt a reverence, a sense of awe.

  "What did Commander Quinn say?" Wilson persisted.

  "He's out of his head," the sergeant replied. "For dinner, if you cook up any of those furry devils, don't grab Rennault by mistake."

  "Not funny," Wilson retorted. The men stomped their booted feet for warmth. Both carried rifles.

  "Let's check out the lake," Shannon said. "Maybe we can still fish."

  "How's Tatum?" Wilson asked, content to trudge in Shannon's wake.

  "The dumb grunt doesn't know how to complain," Shannon replied. "How's Goldberg?"

  "Real good," Wilson said. "I thought Tatum going down would do her in, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. She's gotten tougher."

  "She's going to have be damn tough to bring a baby into this world."

  "So's the baby," Wilson sighed.

  They struggled through the snow for several minutes without speaking.

  "Nance is pregnant, too," Shannon said at last.

  Wilson looked at him. "You ever have kids before, Sarge?" "Hell, I never even owned a goddam dog."

  * * *

  "Think they'll take us in, Lieutenant?" MacArthur gasped.

  "Don't plan on giving them a choice," Buccari huffed, adjusting the ride of her pack. The backpacks were loaded heavily with firewood. It had grown dark, and the long day's hike over loose snow had taken its toll. Buccari trudged in MacArthur's wake, ungainly in her crude snowshoes. It was painfully cold, too cold to talk.

  Something moved in the gray distance.

  MacArthur stopped and peered into the gloaming. The large moon, a crescent settling behind the mountains, offered little assistance.

  "I saw it," she whispered, checking their rear.

  "Good," MacArthur replied. "I wasn't sure how to break the news."

  "Stick to the plan?" she asked.

  "Yeah. Soon as it gets too dark to see we'll build a fire." "Pretty dark now," Buccari said, unshouldering the carbine. "Careful with that," MacArthur said. "You're a little too anxious."

  "I am not anxious," she sniffed. "I qualified 'Expert' at the Academy."

  "You ever shoot anything that moves? Or bleeds?" MacArthur asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Crap, it's cold," he said, turning his head.

  The false light revealed only the texture of snow, and their own footprints trailing into the distance. Stars, subdued by an icy overcast, twinkled feebly overhead.

  "I'll shoot first," MacArthur continued, head still turned to the rear. "This assault rifle will do a lot of damage, and there's no sense in wasting bullets. If you have to shoot, make sure you're aiming at the target. Don't just point—"

  "Mac!" Buccari shouted. Yellow-fanged, mustard-eyed nightmares pounded out of the darkness, their growls rising in pitch like an approaching locomotive. MacArthur threw up his arms and ducked sideways. The first beast struck his shoulder and knocked him into the snow, unholy jaws snapping for purchase and finding nothing but backpack and wood. Buccari had no time to think—a second snarling creature was leaping straight for the bare whiteness of MacArthur' s face. Her carbine barked and the nightmare twistedin midtrajectory, landing in a convulsing, screaming pile. Other creatures scattered into the dusk.

  She swung her weapon to bear on the violence at her feet. The nightmare, straddling the fallen man, ripped and tore at MacArthur's bedroll. MacArthur's rifle was still slung over his shoulder. The Marine, trying to protect his face, struggled to sit. Buccari staggered to find a safe line of fire. With explosive abruptness muzzle flashes lit up the dusk as three gut-muffled reports from MacArthur's pistol rent the air. The animal jerked violently and slumped to the snow, its whiplike tail slapping a pattern in the snow. And then it was still.

  MacArthur shed his pack and crawled, trembling, to a crouch, assault rifle in one hand, a smoking pistol in the other. He pounced on Buccari's still thrashing nightmare, slamming his rifle butt on its skull. Bloodcurdling growls whimpered to silence.

  "You okay?" she panted, wrenching her eyes from the saber-toothed monster at her feet. It was dark. All she could see was his silhouette.

  "Yeah. Just.. some scratches. Time to build that fire."

  * * *

  "Sentries have heard the sound of long-legs' death sticks," Craag reported.

  Braan nodded thoughtfully. The two warriors stood in the outermost chamber of the hunter leader's residence. Brappa-theyoung-warrior, grown taller and backlit by the hearth's golden glow, stood in the tunnel passage leading to the main living area, listening to the news. Soft noises of mother and child came from within.

  "What dost thou make of it, my friend?" Braan asked.

  "Growlers are about. 'Tis likely a patrol of long-legs makes their way to us, and they have been beset by hungry beasts," Craag answered.

  "Can we not help?" Brappa asked impetuously, and insubordinately.

  Braan excused himself and turned gently to his son.

  "Brappa-the-young-warrior," Braan said. "Dost thou not have enough to think about with thy wedding on the morrow? Spare thy courage for the ultimate test. Leave this trivial matter to old hunters."

  "Eeyah! Young warrior!" Craag added. "Gliss, thy mistress to be, my young sister, is fair and strong. Growlers are as playthings by comparison. Thou must save thine energy and wiles if thou art to be the master of thy residence. Marriage and mortal combat are as first cousins."

  A derisive hoot emanated from the direction of the fire's glow where Ki-the-mother sat by the hearth. It was a time of felicity in the house of Braan and universally for all hunters of the cliff colony. Winter was for marriage and mating. The ferocity of cold storms kept the tough animals near home. The young hunters, the sentries, still posted the cliff edges, ever vigilant for encroaching enemies, but the mature hunters found themselves idle. With the scars and injuries of the summer campaigns behind them, well fed and of welling energies, the experienced warriors directe
d their attentions inwardly, to their families. It was a time for training, for teaching, for telling, and for touching.

  "Apologies, my father, and my brother-to-be," returned the chagrined young cliff dweller. "I have intruded where I belong not. I apologize for the directness but not for the essence of my question. The long-legs took care of me in my need. Is there not something we can do to help?"

  "A fair question, and from the heart, but for now we must wait. It is too cold. We cannot fight in the open under these conditions. Permit us to finish our discussion."

  * * *

  "Sarge! I heard gunshots," Gordon shouted as he came through the door of the dayroom shelter, bringing with him a wave of frigid air.

  Shannon glanced up from his meager and greasy dinner and looked over at Chief Wilson. Wilson shook his head, keeping his eyes on his plate.

  "How many, Billy?" Shannon asked.

  "A couple—maybe three or four," he responded. "Way out. You could barely hear 'em. You know how sound carries in this cold air. Beppo heard 'em, too."

  Shannon stared past the sentry's shoulder. There was nothing to do.

  "Mac's just taking target practice. Let me know if you hear more."

  * * *

  "You're bleeding," Buccari said as she kindled a small fire. It flared, its amber flames revealing a ragged gash down the corporal's cheek.

  "Was afraid of that." He removed his glove and gingerly touched his bearded face with bare finger tips. He glanced down at the bloodied fingers and grabbed a handful of snow to hold against the wound. "I still got work to do."

  The Marine checked the wind. The air was still. Using a snowshoe, he dug deeply, throwing snow into a pile next to the widening hole. Satisfied with the depth and breadth of the excavation, MacArthur walked out of the deep hole and proceeded to stomp on the snow pile and the area around it, adding more snow and packing it hard. Returning to the pit, he carved out a lateral hole—a snow cave—under the area he had compacted. MacArthur transferred the burning brands from the small fire to a spot before the cave opening. He laid the packs and their wood supply at the cave mouth.

  Buccari leaned up against the side of the pit, keeping her eyes outward, looking for movement. She glanced at the industrious Marine as he melted snow in a cooking pan.

  "Don't be watching me, Lieutenant," he said. "Keep your head up for more nightmares! You've got sentry duty, or do you want to cook?"

  "Sentry, aye!" She struck an alert pose. The small moon rose in the east, an illusion of brightness. Vague shadows moved at the limits of vision, but she could not resolve any beasts clearly enough to fire. MacArthur left the snow crater to hack apart one of the carcasses. Cooked on skewers over the flames, the charred meat was greasy, tough, and gristly, yet the ravenous hikers consumed goodly portions, and with relish, sitting as prehistoric man had sat many light-years away, both in time and distance.

  Sated, Buccari melted a pot of snow and drank the water. "With all due respect, Lieutenant, you'll be peeing all night." She laughed. "Where's the latrine, now that you mention it?" "Over there." He pointed opposite the fire, "Doesn't make sense to take a walk, does it?"

  "No," she said. "Let me clean that scratch, before the water cools."

  "From latrines to my face," MacArthur said. "What am I supposed to think?"

  "At least you're smart enough to make the connection," she replied, dipping a rag in the water and throwing on another log.

  Buccari knelt in front of MacArthur, wet rag poised. The corporal looked up, gray eyes sparkling in the dancing light of the fire. The gash, running from the fat part of his cheek diagonally into his beard, was deep enough to have required stitches in a civilized world. It would make a scar. MacArthur winced as she dabbed the cloth around the wound. As she was swabbing the injury, a lock of hair fell in front of her eyes. MacArthur reached up and gently jammed the tress under her hat brim. Buccari smiled, feeling embarrassment, and other emotions.

  "Thanks. Hair sure gets in the way." She looked away.

  "Pretty hair," he said shyly. "Keep it out of your eyes. You have the first watch." MacArthur pulled the shredded sleeping bag from his pack.

  "Use mine," Buccari said, amazed MacArthur would even think about sleep. "I can wrap yours around me. What do I do while you're sleeping?"

  "You ever hear of Jack London?" he asked, exchanging sleeping bags.

  "Yes, but—oh, I get it. It's cold. Time to talk philosophy."

  "London wrote about wolves…and fires," MacArthur said without levity. "That's the philosophy that matters: keep the fire burning. Nightmares will understand fire; best argument I can think of, but be ready to shoot. Use the rifle but have your pistol ready. Give me the carbine." He positioned the sleeping bag and crawled in. "Wake me up in two hours, and then it's your turn to sleep. We'll do two-hour shifts."

  She sat down in the cave mouth and scanned the darkness surrounding the crater. The opposite side was trampled low, and she had a good view. But behind her, directly over her head, the view was obstructed by the packed mound of snow. The feeling that something was there weighed heavily. She threw another log on the fragile fire and leaned against the shredded sleeping bag, soaking in the feeble warmth. She checked her watch. Two minutes had crept by. MacArthur was already asleep, his breathing deep and slow. Her own eyelids slipped downwards. Shaking fogginess from her brain,she stood slowly, warily turning her head to peek over the snowbank.

  Nothing. Nothing but the black night. She turned and looked past the fire and detected dim sparks of light floating in the air. The cruel stares of three predatory animals hung suspended in the distance, three sinister pairs of eyes glowing red in the firelight.

  "Aw, shit!" she whispered. Her cold hands perspired. She threw another precious log on the fire and lifted a burning brand into the air. Sparks sprinkled about her as inconstant illumination spread over the shadow-dappled snow. Surrounded! She counted ten beasts and stopped. There were at least thirty, all stealthily converging.

  "MacArthur!" she exhaled, breathlessly. "Mac!"

  She kicked his foot, afraid to take her eyes from the frightening vision. MacArthur stirred, moaning dully.

  "We got company, Mac. I need. need your help."

  The Marine eased from the cave and rose to a crouch. "At your service," he muttered, moving closer. His hip touched hers.

  He took the assault rifle, replacing it with the carbine.

  "That one's closest," MacArthur croaked, indicating a fierce specter directly across from the fire, its huge under canines shooting up past the top of its snout. "Let's hope he's the leader. Hold your ears." MacArthur took quick aim through the flames, exhaled, and fired a single round, dropping the animal like a lump of mud. The other monsters evaporated into darkness.

  The Marine checked his watch. "Kick my foot before you fire at the next one." MacArthur took the carbine, handed her the assault weapon, and climbed back into the cave. He leaned on his elbow and peeked at the fire.

  "Go easy on that wood." He flopped down and zipped the bag over his head.

  * * *

  "Beppo! I heard another shot," Gordon whispered excitedly. His breath glowed in the faint light of the little moon. Both men listened quietly.

  "Ja, me too," Schmidt answered. "You tell Sarge. I will wake up Mendoza and Chastain for the next watch."

  * * *

  "Another death stick explosion, Braan-our-leader," said the sentry.

  "Only one?" asked Braan.

  "Only one," the messenger replied.

  "A good sign." Braan dismissed the sentry.

  * * *

  MacArthur breathed heavily in his sleep. An hour crawled by. Buccari arranged the crumbling logs, causing yellow flames to flare brightly. Close by—behind her—a rumbling growl reverberated over the edge of the snowbank. Adrenaline flushed warmly through Buccari' s body, but the back of her neck went cold. She pivoted, simultaneously raising the assault rifle. Two fanged horrors crouched, coiled to spring. Buccari locked the sights
into line with the leftmost animal's nose and squeezed the trigger—just as the animal lunged. She staggered, her booted foot disturbing the fire. The predator jerked in midleap, a large caliber bullet ripping its throat, and fell from the air, thudding to the snow at the mouth of their cave. The other nightmare vanished.

  The sleeping bag zipper sang like a buzz saw. MacArthur bolted from the cave, firing his pistol and kicking viciously at the twitching carcass as he leapt over it, twisting and turning. Buccari stepped back and allowed the Marine to discharge his pent-up fright. He came to a trembling halt, lowered the smoking pistol, and slowly erected himself from the stooping, bunched-muscle crouch into which he had contorted himself. He looked at Buccari and then down at the inert animal. He kicked it again—hard.

  "Nice shot," MacArthur said, shaking his head. "Thanks for the warning." He blinked at his watch, having difficulty focusing his eyes.

  "Believe me," she laughed, wondering that she could laugh and be petrified at the same time. "If I had had time to kick you, I would have. with pleasure."

  "Hmmph." He yawned, looking down at the nightmare. Grunting, he bent over, lifted the limp carcass, and heaved it from the crater. He looked at his watch. "I got an hour. That's enough."

  "No!" she insisted. "It's still my watch!"

  He yawned again and crawled into the cave. "Put more wood on the fire, Lieutenant." He pulled the top of the bag around his head, but he left it unzipped this time.

  Buccari rubbed her bruised shoulder. She looked at the dead animal and acknowledged an atavistic gratification. She wanted more. If it was kill or be killed, then she was ready to play.

  The night was long, but in the dim light of predawn, Buccari and MacArthur climbed from the carcass-littered crater and continued their slow trek to the cliffs. Not long after sunrise, a patrol of hunters made rendezvous.