"Take him to my chambers," Et Kalass ordered, shaking his head woefully. The procession moved quickly to the lifts and up to the minister's suite. The stricken noblekone was placed upon the minister's own bed. The ancient Samamkook, trembling and feeble, was also shown to a lounge and ordered to recline—a great honor in the presence of nobility. Minister Et Kalass, a look of despair governing his features, stood silently over Et Avian, while General Et Ralfkra took charge and graciously directed the assisting multitudes to leave. Anxious staff slowly filed out, and Et Ralfkra followed them through the anterooms, shutting and locking the security seals on the great doors. The militia general returned.
"A performance without rival," Et Ralfkra declared.
Et Avian swung his legs over the side of the bed. Standing erect, the noblekone unhooked the straps securing the massive body cast and ripped it from his body. He grimaced. A spider web of scars flowed over his shoulder and across his chest.
"Your report, General," he said, slipping on a mantle. "Are we ready?"
"Not yet," General Et Ralfkra replied. "It is close, but we need more time."
"Time! More time! When then?" Samamkook asked, his voice weak but his tone adamant. The old commoner, brittle and rheumy-eyed, shifted feebly in the chair.
"Easy! Easy, my old friend," Et Kalass cautioned. "It must be at the right time, or it will be for naught. We—"
"If I am to be part of your great plan then you best accelerate your timetable," Samamkook interrupted. He laid his head down and sighed impolitely.
"There is no hurry, sir," Et Kalass replied with great respect in his voice. "For you will not die—not as long as you have a job to do."
"Thank you for your opinion, Lassie," Samamkook said. "But you have little say in the matter."
Et Avian remained silent. He rested his hand on the old commoner's shoulder.
* * *
After four days of clear weather and hard hiking, the salt mission returned to the valley of the great river. They were met at the top of the bridge valley by sentries prepared to assist them in the final uphill portion of their trek. The salt bearers were tired, but the horses had made a profound difference. Sixteen hunters, including the injured novice, had been relieved of their burdens by the goldenanimals. The unburdened hunters took shifts among the other salt carriers, preventing the crippling fatigue of the long hike back from the flats. The line of cliff dwellers headed briskly down the valley trail to the bridge and the river crossing, leaving the humans behind. Under a lowering overcast the horses were pointed south, paralleling the river valley. Ahead lay the valley of the smoldering pinnacles, and beyond that the ferry crossing to MacArthur's Valley—a two-day ride—the final, and shortest leg, of their journey. Buccari was ready to climb back on the wide back of the golden horse.
"Whose idea was it to come on this trip, anyway?" she asked.
"Don't get me started…sir!" MacArthur bellowed over his shoulder. Buccari cringed and grimaced at O'Toole. It started to rain.
It rained all day and intermittently during the night, leaving the twin volcanoes shrouded in low overcast. The horses and their riders slogged along the undulating shoulder of the river valley and past the location where Chastain and MacArthur first came to ground. The mists were thick, and the only sign of the volcanoes was a sulfurous odor. On the second day a chill wind blew from the north, aggravating their discomfort, their rain-soaked skin damaged by the constant rubbing and chafing of riding.
The horses plodded along in single file, traversing steep terrain that merged with the low clouds, across the sloping margins of a ridge that ran away into the mists. On one side lay the river valley; on the other lay the downs of the prairies. MacArthur ranged ahead, leaving O'Toole, Buccari, and Shannon to bring up the rear.
"Whose idea was it to come on this trip, anyway?" O'Toole asked, turning around and directing his voice softly down the line of horses.
Buccari smiled painfully. "Don't get me started!" she said pompously.
Shannon's rumbling bass chimed in: "Don't get me started, either."
They laughed at MacArthur' s expense—there were only a few hours to go before they reached the ferry crossing. The thought of returning to the warmth and comforts of their settlement was salve to their fatigue and injury.
Buccari, her rear bruised and sore, shifted uncomfortably and stared into the mists. There was little to see. The land fell steeply away toward the river on the right and climbed gradually toward the northern plains on the left. Outcroppings of rock—gravestones in the fog—lifted from the tundra. Buccari's horse tensed; it neighed, a loud noise in the misty silence. All four horses were suddenly nervous, shaking their manes and flicking their tails.
"What is it, Mac?" Buccari asked. The corporal had halted.
"Wind's changing," Shannon said. "I can smell buffalo."
"Keep moving," MacArthur ordered, hauling on his reins. Shannon and O'Toole followed. Buccari was left in the rear, her horse balking until she gave it a hard kick. It moved skittishly, prancing sideways. She raised her head to yell for help—and detected movement in the rocks.
"We've got company!" Shannon bellowed.
The huge reptile sprang from the rocks, front legs high in the air, stiletto claws extended, a terrible hissing emanating from its saw-toothed maw. Buccari's horse reared and twisted to meet the attack, but the dragon was too quick. It impacted squarely on the horse's rump, one lightning claw flicking hotly against the side of Buccari's head. The stricken horse threw the dazed officer to the ground. She landed hard, rolling down the steep grade, limp and just clinging to consciousness.
Even before she stopped rolling she heard the staccato explosions and saw the muzzle flashes of automatic rifle fire. Holding her head, she looked up through thick mists made worse by her dizziness to see the flared-necked reptile drag the struggling horse to the ground, its great maw locked on its haunch. More bursts of automatic rifle fire, and the screeching mass of scales and teeth fell over. It great tail slammed the ground twice, shuddered, and was still.
Hamstrung, the noble horse screamed horribly, struggling to stand on useless hind legs. Buccari watched in great sorrow as MacArthur walked through the shroud of fog to fire two rounds into its ear. She tried to stand, but her rubbery legs would not cooperate; the hillside spun; she lay down to keep from passing out.
The silence was deafening—and short-lived. A bestial roar broke the calm, horrible and primordial, loud and resonant despite the fog. And then another. The echoes at last surrendered to wet and heavy stillness.
Buccari struggled to a sitting position and was relieved to see MacArthur bounding down the hill. She put her hands to her throbbing head and tried to focus on something—something big— that moved through the mists. It stopped and retreated, melding smoothly into the grayness. MacArthur skipped noisily down the steep, shingle-strewn slope, suddenly pulling up short. He saw it, too. The Marine planted his legs and fired a burst into the fog. A hideous screech lifted the hair on her neck, and something sprinted along the scrabbly rock, its crashing footfalls lingering in the stillness.
"Hold still, Lieutenant!" MacArthur shouted, stalking backward.
Buccari felt warmth running down her cheek; she touched her face and then stared dumbly at the bloody fingers. MacArthur, his head pivoting constantly, knelt next to her.
"I'm bleeding," she said weakly. "I'm going to have a scar like you."
"You're lucky you still have a face," MacArthur hissed. His clear eyes blazed into the fog, trying in vain to regain sight of the animal. "What the hell was that—can you walk?"
"Don't know," she said. She made an effort to stand, but her legs wobbled and she collapsed. MacArthur slung his rifle over his shoulder.
"Cover me!" he shouted up the hill. He bent down and picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Standing erect, he juggled her several times to get positioned and started hiking up the hill.
"Easy!" she said. "My head aches."
"I know all abo
ut headaches," MacArthur said.
She wanted to reply, but all discussion was ended by another primeval scream that flowed into a rumbling roar and ended with a reverberating growl. MacArthur staggered up the steep ground, occasionally stumbling to his knees, causing Buccari' s head pain to surge and pound. He reached the others and set Buccari down roughly. Shannon and O'Toole were on each side of the nervous horses, staring into the mists. O'Toole kept glancing sideways at the fallen reptile, muttering like a crazy man.
"I think I can get up now," she said.
"Hold still. Let the bleeding stop," MacArthur snapped. Shannon handed him a grimy cloth. MacArthur reduced it further, ripping it into strips and binding Buccari's wound. "Hold pressure on it," he ordered.
"Let's move," Shannon said. "The horse carcass should keep them from following us. We've used enough ammo."
"Roger that," MacArthur agreed. "Help me with the lieutenant."
MacArthur swung up on his horse. Buccari was lifted up behind him.
"Hang on," he directed. "And keep talking."
"I… I'm okay," she mumbled. She reached around MacArthur' s slim waist and clasped her hands together, pressing her good cheek to his wide back. She could feel the hard muscles of his body working as he twisted. The horse moved at a nervous trot. She groaned softly.
"Sorry, kiddo… sir," MacArthur said tenderly.
A kilometer later they backed the pace down to a walk. The weather lifted to the shifting winds; visibility increased rapidly, and the river was revealed with shafts of sunlight breaking through the scattering overcast. The horses calmed, as did the riders.
"That was a goddam dinosaur," Buccari said, taking a deep breath.
"No shit," MacArthur answered, looking over his shoulder.
Buccari blinked against the throbbing pain. She moved one arm from MacArthur's waist and tentatively tested the bandage, trying to gauge the length of the gash. It ran from her scalp, just over the ear, to the fat part of her cheek bone, almost to her nose.
"Adds character, Lieutenant," MacArthur said, as if reading her mind. "It'll take a lot more than that to ruin your looks."
"Thanks, Mac," she said, genuinely flattered. She returned her arm to his waist.
"And, Lieutenant, I'm glad you came on this trip," he continued.
"Now I know you're lying!" she retorted. "I lost a horse."
"You didn't lose the horse. It could just have easily been any of us. That crocodile was going to get any horse it wanted," he said. "No, I'm glad you came, because now you can see how important the horses are. The horses will make the difference between us living or dying on this planet. But I'm real sorry you had to get hurt."
"Me, too," she said. They continued in silence, starting a descent into the narrow valley leading to the ferry landing.
"You're probably right about the horses, Mac," Buccari finally said.
"Of course I'm right," MacArthur responded, cocksure. "Arrogant asshole!" she replied.
"Affectionate nicknames! Thank you very much." He reached back and gave her a gentle, lingering pat on her thigh.
"You stink," she said quietly. She looked at his hand but made no effort to move it away.
"So do you," he replied.
"No I don't, I'm an officer and a lady."
"Well, one out of two ain't bad."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.
"Nothing, nothing, er…just a little Marine humor."
Buccari grabbed a handful of the Marine's skin and pinched hard.
"Aarrggh!" he shouted loudly.
"You're lucky I don't have a knife."
Chapter 37. Autumn
Hudson settled into the acceleration chair. The crew of the booster rocket worked efficiently, giving clear evidence that konish space travel was a routine event. A konish full-pressure suit and helmet had been modified for his use, but it was not elegantly done. It hung on him, and he was certain the impending g-forces would efficiently locate all spots where the material was gathered.
"The flight-ah will take-ah forty of your minutes, Hudsawn," Kateos said, strapping in next to him. "If you have difficulties, please tell me." Her proficiency with Legion was incredible. His own facility with the konish tongue was growing more slowly. Kateos drove them to learn each other's language, while she continued to make progress with the voice recognition and translation programs.
Hudson was to spend the winter across the planet, at Goldmine Station. It was Kateos's idea, seconded immediately by Buccari. A common language was necessary. Without adequate communications an accord between the races would be unlikely. Hudson's role as emissary and translator was formalized.
* * *
The modest domicile, appropriate for a young warrior, was high on the cliffs—windy, cold, and near the dangers of carnivorous interlopers—but it was his. He was master. Returned from the successful salt mission, Brappa, son-of-Braan, glided onto the terrace of his new home. Gliss, beautiful and nubile, waited on the windswept rock, dark growlerskin pulled tightly around strong, capable shoulders. The sight of his new wife caused Brappa' s heart to soar with boundless spirit. Gliss opened her arms and Brappa embraced her. Scandalous behavior, yet understood and forgiven: the fervor of youth.
"Husband," his wife said. "A meal is ready, and thy rooms art warm."
"Thine eyes art the only warmth I need," Brappa replied, singing the famous words of love. "I have missed thee dearly. Now we live our lives as one, for I am home."
Glorious words. The salt vaults were filled and the hunting forays over. Home were the hunters, and happy were their wives and families. It had been a good year with but few hunters lost or injured. Many gave credit to the long-legs for the colony's good fortune.
Gliss was radiant; Brappa knew she wanted many children. The delighted pair turned to their entryway—and came to a halt, for sonic echoes lifted on the breezes. Familiar sounds—friendly noises—separated from the ambient background, and distinctive echo patterns grew louder.
Their time alone would have to wait.
"They come," he said unnecessarily. The lovers turned and faced the steamy emptiness. Two young cousins flapped happily to the terrace wall and took perch, and then Braan and Ki wheeled into view, landing with athletic prowess, followed by Craag and his mate; and then the venerable patriarch, Veera—grandsire to Gliss— lifted above the terrace wall, alighting with stately dignity. The terrace was quickly overflowing with family and well-wishers; lesser members of the clans perched on the walls and rocky cliffs behind them.
"Thy manners, my son. Thou wouldst invite thy guests into thy home," Ki pronounced, softly but formally. "'Tis impolite to keep friends on the terrace overlong."
"Our home is thine," said the nervous Gliss, using a timeless litany. "Please enter and sing." She turned and hurried inside, panic on her young and beautiful face. Brappa followed, leading the multitude into his humble three-room warren.
Food and drink were brought, and the singing was vibrant. What more festive than a homewarming and the celebration of the coming of winter combined? The celebrants and their gleeful noise overflowed the friendly confines. Neighbors stopped to partake in the cheer and goodwill. Singing spread over the cliff face, and it was a night for the ages.
* * *
Resplendent, the valley was painted with the magic wand of autumn. Forest pine, emerald fir, and blue spruce gave depth and contrast to the russet and gold of the turning hardwood. Dry, brittle leaves, dusted with frost, layered the forest floor, and on crisp mornings an earnest film of ice margined the lake, laminating the stony beaches with frosty glaze. It was cold, but as the days shortened the sun shone brighter.
Day's end, a peaceful, chilly gloaming settled over the valley; stars twinkled in deep velvet. Standing at the threshold of her new stone cabin, Buccari noticed Dawson, her infant carried papoose fashion, walking across the common. The tall redhead smiled and waved enthusiastically. Buccari reciprocated.
A commotion came from the horse barn,
the horses neighing and prancing; O'Toole was feeding the animals. Threads of smoke wafted into the twilight; the homey smell of wood fire bespoke the coming mealtime. A palisade of sturdy pine boles, strong enough to deter bears and buffalo dragon ran the perimeter of the settlement, with a stout gate that opened to the lake. Two smaller doors provided alternate escape or entry routes. Guard posts, uniformly box-shaped, stood at four of the five corners of the fort, and Shannon, at Buccari's insistence, kept at least two manned at all times.
The harvest had been bountiful. A round stone structure stood next to the horse barn—a grain silo—filled with raw grain. Tookmanian had built a kiln for pottery and an adobe-brick oven in which to bake biscuits and coarse breads. Yeast and small amounts of salt and honey were provided by the cliff dwellers. Bread, wild tubers, herbs, berries, buffalo steaks, and the abundant fish of the lake provided a healthy diet.
Buccari studied her callused hands with pride. She was proud of herself and her crew. Most of them were warming themselves inside the sturdy lodge, where Wilson and his kitchen staff were moving across the rough-hewn floor preparing evening meal; the next watch was already eating. She debated a shower; the lodge had running water—of sorts. The friendly spring upon which they had centered the camp was channeled through stone and leather aqueducts directly into the lodge, and a large, beaten-metal pot hung suspended over a fire in a room off the kitchen. The hot water was used for washing—clothes and bodies. Fenstermacher hadcontrived plumbing that fed an adjustable mixture of icy spring water and hot pot water. The lines to take showers were long, and the warm water pot was always in need of replenishment. Buccari decided against the shower. She would clean up inside her own hut.
Buccari retreated into her abode, closing the thick door; leather hinges squeaked softly. The shutters were already pulled to, and she could feel the glow of the fire radiating and warming the single room. No more than six paces square with a floor of hewn wood, to Buccari the hovel was a castle. The fireplace, built with a wide-stepped hearth for corded wood, dominated the back wall. The door stood centered in the front, and shuttered windows penetrated two of the walls. A low ceiling formed a loft in which she made her bed. A stair built into the wall slanted steeply upwards.
Genellan: Planetfall Page 41