"Relax," Macready said. "It's just the rain. Must be noon, or thereabouts."
"It rains at noon?" Nadezhda said.
"And early evening, and midnight. Like clockwork."
"Tell me, Captain, why do you bother to patrol this jungle? I don't understand the risk."
Macready checked his compass. "You should see in about five minutes."
Five minutes later they came upon another clearing, smaller than the first. A half-dozen salamen, their skin glistening ultramarine, labored around a squat tower some six meters tall. They all wore black neck collars with antennae attached. Some were digging post-holes to help support the tower; others cleared nearby brush with machetes.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Macready said. "We thought the locals were too stupid for useful labor, but Doc Hubb said otherwise. Those shock collars are his invention."
"'Shock collars?'" Lev said.
"Yeah. Gives 'em a little jolt if they try to move too far away, or just laze around. Nothing lethal."
"So you're exploiting them," Nadezhda said. "How typical."
"Don't curl your lip like that, sister. We tried to trade gew-gaws in exchange for labor, but these primitives have no concept of money. And we need their help for this little construction project we've got going. Unlike us, the lizards can work in the open without some nasty trying to eat them."
Lev had drifted closer to the tower while Macready spoke, peering through the open framework of metal struts. "What are they building?"
"It's, ah, a communications relay. But don't get too close, please. State secrets and all that." To the rest of the men he called out: "Time for a smoke break. Half you apes are on perimeter, while the other half take five. Then rotate."
Nadezhda watched in shock as he took off his helmet, and fished a cigarette out of the lining. "You want one, honey? I'd like to take a better look at that pretty face of yours."
"You're … breathing that? Directly?"
"Sure. Can't smoke inside a suit, can you? The air's thick, but you get used to it."
"I'll forego, thanks."
He stooped to work a chrome lighter, shielding his cigarette from the rain. "I always heard Russians would kill for American smokes. Blue jeans, too."
"I'm Ukrainian, and no, I wouldn't murder someone for tobacco."
"Suit yourself."
He took several puffs before walking over to inspect the tower. Whatever he saw must have met with his approval, because he nodded, snapped panels open and shut, and checked wiring with a contented expression. Lev observed the whole time. Nadezhda knew the engineer must be taking apart the structure in his mind, trying to glean function from form.
"Alright, break's over," Macready said. "Fall in."
Helmets snapped back on and the column headed into the foliage, moving with nicotine-boosted energy. Through gaps in the canopy, Nadezhda could see the Dnieper circling above. She wondered how Schmidt was holding up.
Thirty minutes passed. Macready spoke at length on his internal communicator. "We're not far now," he told Nadezhda.
"Wonderful."
"You'll feel better, once you get some chow in you. We've got a great cook. It keeps morale—"
The man named Nelson called out from the front of the column. "Captain, Movement!"
"Where?"
"To our right. Above."
"I've got movement on our left," someone else said.
Macready's head whipped around. "They're trying to flank us. Defensive positions."
The branches on all sides shuddered and shook.
"Spiders!" a voice called. "I see 'em …"
Macready clapped a hand on Nadezhda's shoulder and pushed her into a crouch. Automatic fire opened up. An explosion of intense white lit the brush some ten meters ahead, and just before the glare blinded her she saw a trio of black, multi-limbed shapes go flying. For half a minute her vision swam with bright spots. When it cleared, she saw an olive-furred shape come swinging through the branches towards them. It moved exactly like an orangutan. But this was no primate; the creature had gleaming, multi-faceted eyes, fangs, and eight arms, the uppermost thickly muscled.
Macready's gun roared. The spider dropped among the ferns with a wet thud. But more came swinging in from all directions. Foss's rifle spat tongues of fire, again and again. A spider swooped in and grabbed Nelson just as he was pulling a grenade. The furred limbs tore the armored gorget from his throat, and fangs sank into exposed flesh. Nelson screamed, his body already stiffening. The spider tossed him high into the air, where he was caught by another swooping shape and borne away.
"Goddammit," Macready said. "There goes all our white phosphorous." But then he was firing point blank, ducking to avoid a pair of clawed arms. He dropped his carbine in the tussle and drew a boot knife. Nadezhda snatched up the gun, swung the butt with all her strength. A compound eye caved in. Macready's blade slashed along the abdomen, freeing a tumble of lime-green guts. The spider collapsed.
"Give me that," he said, by way of thanks, and grabbed the gun back. He had it chattering again seconds later.
Nadezhda searched for the knife, but the fight was already dying down. Staccato bursts became single shots. Olive figures scuttled away through the ferns.
"Christ almighty," Macready said. "That was too close."
Nadezhda called for Lev. She found him curled beneath a cycad, knees tucked against his wide chest. She brought him around with a couple smacks to the helmet.
"I hate spiders," he said, still dazed.
"It's always the big guys who freeze." Macready shook his head. "Count off! Any wounded, report."
Amazingly, there were no further casualties. After reloading, and a quick substitution up front for Nelson, the column moved out. Macready ordered a double march. "I've got a bad feeling," he told Nadezhda, "like maybe that was just a recon wave, and they've hurried off to get reinforcements."
Minutes later, branches started rustling as if in confirmation. Macready's face went pale. The rest of the unit heard it too, and the double march threatened to turn into a rout. "Maintain formation! First person who bolts pulls night duty when we get back."
The surrounding jungle rumbled.
"Goddamn," Macready whispered. "They brought the whole Spider Nation with them."
Foss's voice echoed from the front. "Sir! I can see the fence."
That did it. Night duty or not, the column broke formation and ran.
"Aw, hell." Macready started running, too.
Nadezhda and Lev had no choice but to sprint after. Close behind came what could only be war-whoops, issuing from inhuman throats. Nadezhda forced herself to focus on the terrain ahead. The trees were thinning out, forming an open, mossy expanse. A pair of metal posts, about two meters high and five apart, had been driven into the ground. If this was the fence, it didn't look like much of a barrier.
"Someone raise base and tell them to shut off the fence," Macready was yelling. "Crenshaw, do you hear me up there? Tell them to shut off the fence."
The metal posts formed a ring around the mossy clearing. Beyond, Nadezhda could see a white dome and the squat shape of a big freighter rocket, resting on its tail fins. An angled parasol of radar-absorbing panels had been erected over the ship. The rocket bore the General Motors logo on its flank, and below that, a slightly smaller American flag.
She never thought she'd be happy to see that particular combination of stars and stripes.
CHAPTER FIVE
The fence crackled with violet sparks as soon as they'd charged through. Nadezhda turned to see dozens of spiders come breaking out of the trees towards them, their gem-like eyes glinting, clawed limbs ready to tear and rend. The leadmost pair scuttled between the posts. A flash, a sizzling noise, and an arc of purple lightning touched their furred bodies, making each olive hair stand straight. The spiders hurled backwards into the jungle, smoking. Nadezhda swore she could smell ozone through her suit's filters.
Mindless as they might look, the rest of the creatures
opted not to rush the electrical wall. They fled back into the brush, encouraged by gunfire. The bullets sparked like tracers when they passed through the barrier.
"Cease fire," Macready said. "What'd I tell you about wasting ammo?" He looked over to where Nadezhda and Lev crouched, recovering their breath. "Glad you two could make it."
Another burst echoed behind him. This came from a quad-barreled monstrosity ten meters away, mounted on an open turret. The gunner hadn't been aiming at the jungle; his barrels angled up, towards a flight of dragonflies silhouetted against the green clouds. One of their number exploded in a shower of chitin, and the rest went banking away.
"Sumbitch planet never lets up," Macready said.
The Dnieper executed a tight circle overhead, before coming down to land between the dome and the big rocket. Crenshaw's piloting skills had improved. Nadezhda hurried over to the boat, expecting the worst. But Schmidt was able to climb out of the cockpit, albeit with assistance. His eyes, now yellowed as egg yolks, remained unfocused when she spoke to him. Lev slipped the doctor's arm over his shoulder and helped him to walk towards the dome, where Macready waited.
The structure was made of tough-looking fabric, sewed into ribbed sections and then inflated. A hand painted sign above the airlock read SLAG CITY. Nadezhda wondered if the name was idiomatic. But Macready offered no explanations; he pulled back the entrance flap and waved them inside. They passed through a cross-current of refrigerated air, then under a bank of ultraviolet lights. After a minute of waiting, the inner flap parted.
She had been picturing a drab and sterile interior. What she saw instead was a smoke-hazed bar, with padded stools, ash trays, a juke box blaring mournful guitar music, and a half-dozen Americans dressed in coveralls, drinking bottled beer and playing cards. Their buzz of conversation ceased. She became acutely aware of the red star adorning her helmet.
Macready cleared his throat. The men slid from their stools and stood at rigid attention.
"At ease," the captain said. "We've returned with some important … guests." He set his gun aside and started unlatching the armor on his vacc suit, as did the rest of the party. Nadezhda looked at Lev and shrugged.
Her red-gold braids tumbled out as she slid off the helmet. She reached to loosen her neck seals, but stopped when she sensed eyes upon her.
All eyes. Even Crenshaw was staring.
"Is something wrong?" Nadezhda said.
Macready smoothed back his blond crew cut. "Nothing's wrong, sweetheart. We're just a little surprised, is all. You sure don't look like one of those babushkas they keep showing in Life magazine."
"That's nationalistic propaganda."
"How about a drink? I'd say you earned it."
"There are other concerns at the moment." She nodded to where Schmidt stood, still propped up by Lev, and still cocooned in his vacc suit.
"Right, right. Forgot about your sick crewman. We'll go see the doc, pronto." Macready snapped his fingers at an aproned man behind the bar. "Cookie, find the chaplain for me. Tell him he's got to write another eulogy. Nelson bought it this time out."
There were groans, down the bar.
Macready managed a remorseful expression. "He was a good spacer, and an even better boot. I hope he gives those spiders a stomach ache. Lutz, Foss, help me escort our guests to sick bay."
The bar took up roughly one quarter of the dome's space. The rest was given over to a maze of partitions, hung with pinups of near-naked American women, family photographs, and travel posters depicting lush beaches. Macready led them through a storage area where large drill-bits lay stacked, and a topical map of the southern continent dominated one wall. A series of pins had been stuck into the map. Lev craned his head and squinted, earning a sharp glance from Macready.
"Nothing to see here," the captain said.
Moments later he stopped in front of a curtain and drew it back. Beyond lay a short hallway, with four beds along its length. Two were apparently occupied, covered by opaque plastic tents. A chubby man wearing a yachting cap lounged at a nearby desk, his face buried in a comic book.
"I brought you a patient, doc," Macready said.
The book lowered. A pair of intelligent eyes peered out, lingering a little too long on Nadezhda. Brows went up. "You must've been patrolling behind the Iron Curtain."
"Found 'em in the wreck of the Venera Three. Their science officer has a case of the mustards."
"Jesus, another one?" Doc Hubb swept his feet off the desk. "What am I running here, a plague ward?"
"In the interests of national diplomacy, I'd appreciate it if you took a look."
Hubb grinned at Nadezhda. "How about I give Ginger here a thorough physical, first? What do you say, honey? No? Well, can't blame an old sawbones for trying." He ambled over to Schmidt and peered through his faceplate. "This looks fresh. How long ago was he infected?"
"Several hours," Nadezhda said.
"Still conscious, I see. How do you feel, tovarisch? Savvy the King's English?"
"Fluently," Schmidt said, with his characteristic snap. Then his voice faded. "S–some kind of symbiotic organism …"
"That's what we figure, though given the incompatibility of proteins I don't see what the fungus is getting out of it. These two here," he gestured at the tented beds, "have been infected for a week. They're still alive; the mustard's still alive."
"Captain Macready said you had a prognosis," Nadezhda said.
Hubb fixed his commanding officer with an inscrutable look. "Always confident, our good captain. What I can tell you, there appears to be no illness in the physiological sense. No fever, no change in vitals. White blood cell count remains the same. The effect seems purely psychological. Lassitude, lapses of consciousness. My patients spend most of their time staring into space."
"Just before Dr. Schmidt found the mold he didn't seem like himself," Nadezhda said. "He took his helmet off, despite warning against it earlier. And he went straight to a cabinet with a live puffball specimen. Almost as if the mold was guiding him …" She didn't add that Schmidt was a sensitive. The Americans didn't need to know about Soviet advances in psychic research.
"Can't comment on that," Hubb said. "Our guys caught the spores purely by accident. Or seemed to, anyway."
"What are you going to do?"
He shrugged. "For now? Keep them stable. I already tried topical sulfa. No effect. I could set up an ultramycin I.V., but if the host body isn't treating the mold as an infection it's probably a waste of good antibiotics. No, I get the feeling the only way to get rid of the fungus is to scrape it off. Or irradiate it. For that we'll need better facilities than what we've got here."
Hubb picked up pen and chart and started writing. Nadezhda found his passiveness irritating, but reminded herself she wasn't in charge here. The idea of a Soviet physician, reading comic books while his patients suffered …
"I've got things to do on the ship," Macready told her. "Now that your crewman's squared, let's get you some food and accommodations. We'll have plenty of time to talk politics later."
* * *
The 'accommodations' turned out to be a makeshift brig, set up near the center of the dome; a metal cage with just enough room for two people, two bunks, a sink, and a chemical toilet. As a nod to privacy, Macready ordered a plastic curtain hung around the toilet. Nadezhda took off her vacc suit under Crenshaw's watchful gaze and bathed in an ultrasonic shower. She was given a fresh pair of coveralls, while her suit was whisked away for cleaning and re-charging. Or so Crenshaw assured her.
Food arrived on plastic trays. Nadezhda sipped protein broth and ate wedges of deep-fried potatoes. The latter, she had to admit, weren't bad. A bottle of beer came with the meal, but she gave hers to Lev. She needed to think, not wallow in the false comforts of alcohol.
A bored-looking guard had been posted just outside the room. After they'd finished eating, Lev leaned close. "I got a good look at that 'communications relay' while we were in the jungle," he whispered. "It's a cobalt
bomb. There's a high-gain antennae attached, probably for orbital detonation."
"A bomb? But why?"
"This dome's loaded with mining equipment. My first thought was they were setting up a sounding charge—you can get a good seismographic reading with a nuclear explosion. But if that's the case, why use a bomb that produces all that fallout? Why not something cleaner?"
"I think Macready might tell us more. He's careless."
"He's certainly interested in you." Lev's face darkened. "Oversexed Americans. I don't like the way they stare."
"Don't sulk. We can use it to our advantage."
The guard outside snapped to attention. Footsteps approached, and Captain Macready, dressed in a dove gray uniform with brass buttons, his face flushed, had a few quiet words with his underling.
"Speak of the devil," Lev said.
The guard hurried off. Nadezhda noticed a bottle-shaped bulge under Macready's suit coat as he ambled over. "I'm really sorry about all this," he said, nodding at the bars. "But there's national security at stake. I hope you can understand."
Nadezhda swept her now-loose hair back over her shoulders. "If our positions were reversed, Captain, I'd probably do the same."
"I'm glad you see it that way."
"You brought something?"
"Oh, this," he said, pulling the bottle out from beneath his coat. Stolichnaya. "It's practically contraband in the U.S., but I've got connections."
"How thoughtful of you."
Macready glanced at Lev. "I don't want to be rude, buddy, but I think it would be best if the lady and I could talk privately, captain to captain. Would you mind waiting on the other side of the cell?"
Lev did mind, very much, as his clenched hands and teeth indicated, but at a nod from Nadezhda he slunk away. Macready knelt before the bars and poured two small cups of vodka. "To your health," he said, handing her a drink.
"Vashe zdarovye."
They clinked glasses. Nadezhda had always detested vodka, but she managed not to wince as she gulped the stuff down.
Red Venus Page 4