by Eric Brown
Hunter excused himself and retired to his room.
He lay on his bed for a long time, unable to sleep. The night sky flared with bright pulses of orange and magenta light, sending shadows flagging across the walls of the room. He thought of Sam, and the daughter he had yet to meet, somewhere out there in the interior. He cursed the day he had first heard of Tartarus Major, regretted the three years it had robbed from his life, that long away from his daughter. He slept fitfully that night, troubled by dreams in which Sam was running from the teeth and claws of the creature that had killed him.
He was woken at dawn, after what seemed like the briefest of sleeps, by the ugly klaxon of the tracked bison. The vehicle was equipped to sleep eight - in small compartments little wider than the individual bunks they contained. It was invitation enough for Hunter. He spent the first six hours of the journey catching up on the sleep he’d lost during the night. He was eventually awoken by the bucketing yaw of the bison as it made the transition from the relatively smooth surface of a road to rough terrain.
Hunter washed the sweat from his face in the basin above his bunk, then staggered through the sliding door. A narrow corridor ran the length of the vehicle to the control cabin, where a driver wrestled with the wheel, accompanied by a navigator. A ladder lead up to a hatch in the roof. He climbed into the fierce, actinic sunlight and a blow-torch breeze. Alvarez and Fischer were seated on a bench, swaying with the motion of the truck.
Hunter exchanged brief greetings and settled to quietly watching the passing landscape. They had moved from the cultivated littoral to an indeterminate area of characterless scrubland, and were fast approaching the jungle-covered foothills that folded away, ever hazier, to a point in the distance where the crags of the central mountains seemed to float on a sea of cloud.
They were following a route through the scrub which he and Sam had pioneered years ago in their own bison. The landmarks, such as they were - towering insects’ nests, and stunted, sun-warped trees - brought back memories that should have cheered him but which served only to remind him of Sam’s absence.
As the huge sun surged overhead and the heat became furnace-like, Alvarez and Dr Fischer erected a heat-reflective awning. The three men sat in silence and drank iced beers.
They left the scrubland behind and accelerated into the jungle, barrelling down the narrow defile torn through the dense undergrowth by Sam’s vehicle before them. It was minimally cooler in the shade of the jungle, out of the direct sunlight, but the absence of even a hot wind to stir the air served only to increase the humidity.
Around sunset they broke out the pre-packaged trays of food and bulbs of wine, and ate to the serenade of calls and cries from the surrounding jungle. Hunter recognised many of them, matching physical descriptions to the dozens of songs that shrilled through the twilight. When he tired of this he said goodnight to Alvarez and the Doctor and turned in. He lay awake for a long time until exhaustion, and the motion of the truck, sent him to sleep.
This routine set the pattern for the rest of the journey. Hunter would wake late, join Alvarez and the Doctor for a few beers, eat as the sun set, then retire and lie with his chaotic thoughts and fears until sleep pounced, unannounced. His chest pains continued, but, as Dr Fischer ordered, he reported them early, received the quelling injection and suffered no more.
To counter boredom, he pointed out various examples of Tartarean wildlife to his fellow travellers, giving accounts of the habits and peculiarities of the unique birds and beasts. Even this pastime, though, reminded him of Sam’s absence: she would have told him to stop being so damned sententious.
Seven days out of Apollinaire, they came to the clearing where Hunter had lost his life. Alvarez called a halt for a couple of hours, as they’d made good time so far. The driver slewed the bison to a sudden stop. The comparative silence of the clearing, after the incessant noise of the engine, was like a balm.
Hunter jumped down and walked away from Alvarez and the others, wanting to be alone with his thoughts. The encampment was as Sam had left it on the day of the attack; the dome-tent located centrally, the battery of cameras set up peripherally to record the teeming wildlife. His heart pounding, Hunter crossed to where he judged the attack had taken place. There was nothing to distinguish the area; the disturbed earth had scabbed over with moss and plants, and the broken undergrowth in the margin of the jungle had regrown. He looked down the length of his new body, for the first time fully apprehending the miracle of his renewed existence. Overcome by an awareness of the danger, he hurried back to the truck.
Sam had been this way - the tracks of her bison had patterned the floor of the clearing - but if she had left; any recorded message there was no sign, only the ubiquitous radio transmitter which she had dropped at intervals of a hundred kilometres along her route.
They ate their evening meal in the clearing - a novelty after having to contend with the constant bucking motion of the truck at mealtimes so far. No sooner had the sun set, flooding the jungle with an eerie crimson night light, than they were aboard the bison again and surging through the jungle into territory new to Hunter.
Over the next six days, the tracked bison climbed through the increasingly dense jungle, traversing steep inclines that would have defeated lesser vehicles. They halted once more, two days short of their destination, at a natural pass in the mountainside which had been blocked, obviously since Sam’s passage, by a small rockfall.
While Alvarez’s men cleared the obstruction, Hunter walked back along the track and stared out over the continent they had crossed. They were at a high elevation now, and the jungle falling away, the distant flat scrubland and cultivated seaboard margin, was set out below him like a planetary surveyor’s scale model. Over the sea, the nebulous sphere of the dying sun was like a baleful eye, watching him, daring their mission to succeed before the inevitable explosion.
Alvarez called to Hunter, and they boarded the truck on the last leg of the journey.
The night before they reached the valley where the star-ship had crash-landed, Hunter dreamed of Sam. The nightmare was vague and surreal, lacking events and incidents but overburdened with mood. He experienced the weight of some inexpressible depression, saw again and again the distant image of Sam, calling for him.
He awoke suddenly, alerted by something. He lay on his back, blinking up at the ceiling. Then he realised what was wrong. The truck was no longer in motion; the engine was quiet. He splashed his face with cold water and pulled on his coverall. He left his cabin and climbed down into the fierce sunlight, his mood affected by some residual depression from the nightmare. He joined the others, gathered around the nose of the bison, and stared without a word into the valley spread out below.
In Father Rogers’ story the valley had been snow-filled, inhospitable, but over the intervening years the snow had melted, evaporated by the increased temperature, and plant life in abundance had returned to this high region. A carpet of grass covered the valley floor, dotted with a colourful display of wild flowers. Over the edges of the lower peaks which surrounded the valley, vines and creepers were encroaching like invaders over a battlement.
Hunter was suddenly aware of his heartbeat as he stared into the valley and made out the sleek, broken-backed shape of a starship, its nose buried in a semi-circular mound it had ploughed all those years ago, grassed over now like some ancient earthwork. Little of the original paintwork was observable through the cocoon of grass and creepers that had captured the ship since the thaw.
Then he made out, in the short meadow grass of the valley, the tracks of Sam’s vehicle leading to the ship. Of her bison there was no sign. He set off at a walk, then began running towards the stranded starship.
He paused before the ramp that led up to the entrance, then cautiously climbed inside. Creepers and moss had penetrated a good way into the main corridor. He called his wife’s name, his voice echoing in the silence. The ship seemed deserted. He returned outside, into the dazzling sunlight, and made
a complete circuit of the ship. Sam’s truck wasn’t there - but he did see, leading away up the valley, to a distant, higher valley, the parallel imprint of vehicle tracks in the grass.
Beside the ramp was a radio beacon. Tied to the end of its aerial was Sam’s red-and-white polka-dotted bandanna. Hunter untied it and discovered an ear-phone.
Up the valley, the others were approaching in the bison. Before they reached him, Hunter sat on the ramp, activated the ‘phone and held it to his ear.
The sound of Sam’s voice filled him with joy at first, then a swift, stabbing sadness that he had only her voice.
* * * *
Somewhere in the interior . . . Luke’s day, 26th, St Bede’s month, 1720, Tartarean Calendar.
I’ve decided to keep a regular record of my journey, more for something to do before I sleep each night than anything else.
I set off from Apollinaire three days ago and made good time, driving for ten, twelve hours a day. I preferred the days, even though the driving was difficult - the nights seemed to go on forever. It didn’t occur to me until I stopped on that first evening that I’d never camped alone in the interior before. It was a long time before I got to sleep -what with all the noise, the animal cries. The following nights were a bit better, as I got used to being alone. On the morning of the fourth day I was awoken by a great flare from the sun. I nearly panicked. I thought this was it, the supernova. Then I recalled all the other times it’d done that, when you were with me, Hunter. It wasn’t the end, then - but perhaps it was some kind of warning. Nothing much else to report at the moment. Long, hot days. Difficult driving. I stopped yesterday at the clearing where ... it happened. It brings back terrible memories, Hunter. I’m missing you. I can’t wait till you’re with me again. Freya is well.
The interior. Mary’s day, 34th, St Bede’s month.
I’ve spent the last few days trying to find the best route through the damned foothills. The map’s useless. I’ve tried three different routes and I’ve had to turn back three times, wasting hours. Now I think I’ve found the best way through.
The Central Mountains. Mathew’s day, 6th, St Botolph’s month.
Well, I’m in the mountains now. The going is slow. What with a map that’s no damned good at all, and the terrain clogged with new jungle since the thaw . . . I’m making precious little progress. Sometimes just ten kays a day. I haven’t had a proper wash for ages, but I’m eating and sleeping well. I’m okay.
Central Mountains. John’s day, 13th, St Botolph’s month.
Another frustrating week. I suppose it’s a miracle that I’ve been able to get this far, but the bison’s a remarkable vehicle. It just keeps on going. I reckon I’m three weeks from Codey’s Valley, as I’ve started to think of it. At this rate you won’t be far behind me. I’ve decided to leave the recording on one of the radio beacons somewhere, so you’ll know in advance that I’m okay. So is Freya.
Central Mountains. Mark’s day, 22nd, St Botolph’s month.
I’ve been making good progress, putting in sometimes fourteen hours at the wheel. I’ve had some good luck. Found navigable passes first time. I should make Codey’s Valley in a week, if all goes well.
Central Mountains. Mary’s day, 27th, St Botolph’s month.
I’m just two or three days from Codey’s Valley, and whatever I’ll find there. I must admit, I haven’t really thought about what might be awaiting me - I’ve had too much to concentrate on just getting here, never mind worrying about the future. It’ll probably just be a big anticlimax, whatever. I’ll wait for you there, at the ship.
It’s dark outside. I’m beneath a great overhanging shelf of rock that’s blocking out the night sky’s lights. I can’t hear or see a single thing out there. I might be the only living soul for kilometres ... I just want all this to be over. I want to get away from this damned planet. Promise me we’ll go on a long, relaxing holiday when all this is over, Hunter, okay?
Codey’s Valley. I don’t know what date, St Cyprian’s month.
I ... A lot has happened over the past couple of weeks. I hardly know where to begin. I’ve spent maybe ten, eleven days in a rejuvenation pod - but I’m not really sure how long. It seemed like ages. I’m okay, but still a bit woozy . . . I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll go back a bit - to the 28th, I think, when it happened.
I was a day away from the valley, according to the map. I was feeling elated that I was nearly there, but at the same time ... I don’t know, I was apprehensive. I could think of nothing else but the Slarque, what they’d done to you. What they might do to me if they chose to . . . Anyway, perhaps I wasn’t concentrating for thinking about this. I was driving up a ravine, crossing the steep slope. I’d had little trouble with the bison until then, so I think what happened was my fault. I lost control. You know how you feel in that terrible split second when you realise something life-threatening is about to happen, well . . . the truck rolled and I couldn’t do a thing about it. I was knocked unconscious.
I don’t know how long I was out, maybe a day or two. The pain brought me around a few times, then put me under again, it was that bad. I thought I’d cracked my skull, and there was something wrong with my pelvis. I couldn’t move. The bison was on its side, with all the loose contents of the cab piled up around me. I knew that if only I could get to the controls, I’d be able to right the bison and set off again. But when I tried to move - the pain! Then wonderful oblivion.
When I came to my senses, the truck was no longer on its side. It was upright again - and I wasn’t where I’d been, in the cab. I was stretched out in the corridor, something soft cradling my head.
Then the truck started up and roared off up the side of the ravine, the motion wracking me with pain. I was delirious. I didn’t know what the hell was happening. I cried out for the truck to stop, but I couldn’t make myself heard over the noise of the engine.
When I regained consciousness again, night was falling. I’d been out for hours. The truck was moving, but along a flat surface that didn’t cause me pain. I tried to look down the length of my body, into the cab, and as I did so the driver turned in his seat and peered down at me.
I knew it was Codey.
Spacers never lose that look. He was short and thickset, crop-headed. I reckoned he was about seventy - Codey’s age - and though his body looked younger, that of someone half his age, his face was old and lined, as if he’d lived through a hundred years of hardship.
I passed out again. When I came to, I thought I’d dreamed of Codey. The truck was stopped, its engine ticking in the silence. Then the side door opened and Codey, wearing old Fleet regulation silvers, climbed up and knelt beside me. He held an injector.
He told me not to worry, that he was going to take me to the ship, where he had a rejuvenation pod. My pelvis was broken, but I’d soon be okay ... He placed the cold nozzle to my bicep and plunged.
I felt nothing as he lifted me and carried me from the bison, across to the ship. He eased me down long corridors, into a chamber I recognised as an astrodome - the glass all covered and cloaked with creepers - and lay me in the rejuvenation pod. As I slipped into sleep, he stared down at me. He looked worried and unsure.
Yesterday, I awoke feeling . . . well, rejuvenated. The pelvis was fine. Codey assisted me from the pod and led me to a small room containing a bunk, told me to make myself at home. The first thing I did was to hurry out to the truck and root around among its tumbled contents until I found the container, then carried it back to my new quarters. Codey watched me closely, asked me what it was. I didn’t tell him.
I remembered what Fr Rogers had said about him, that he thought Codey had flipped. And that was then. For the past thirty years he’d lived up here, alone. When I looked into his face I saw the consequence of that ordeal in his eyes.
Codey’s Valley. Mark’s day, 16th, St Cyprian’s month.
Early this morning I left my cabin, went out to the truck and armed myself. If the story Father Rogers had told me in the mona
stery garden was true, about Codey and the Slarque . . .
I remained outside the ship, trying to admire the beauty of the valley.
Later, Codey came out carrying a pre-heated tray of food. He offered it to me and said that he’d grown the vegetables in his own garden. I sat on the ramp and ate, Codey watching me. He seemed nervous, avoided eye contact. He’d not known human company in thirty years.
We’d hardly spoken until that point. Codey hadn’t seemed curious about me or why I was here, and I hadn’t worked out the best way to go about verifying Father Rogers’ story.
I said that Rogers had told me about the crash-landing.
I recorded the following dialogue:
CODEY : Rogers? He survived? He made it to Apollinaire?
SAM : He made it. He’s still there—
CODEY : I didn’t give him a chance of surviving . . . They monitored him as far as the next valley down, then lost him—
SAM: They?