The ship Cris had landed on was picking up speed. He felt his front two landing legs come up off the hull of his host then drop back down. Now, in addition to sliding toward the edge of the spacecraft, he was about to be blown off this thing by the powerful winds created as the craft plowed through the atmosphere in its controlled, if unusual, descent.
Cris was watching the left edge slowly coming closer as the great ship he was piggybacking on spiraled down. Then, below on the surface, just visible over the edge of the spacecraft, he caught sight of a great city, a great walled city. It was massive, modern, metal and glass, and its buildings glistened in the sunlight. This must be the destination of this massive ship.
Wind and gravity combined at that moment to lift the Eagle off the canted top of Cris's ride. He felt his Eagle lift up and arc backward through the air, and slowly roll over. The Eagle was on its back in a free fall and still rolling. Cris looked up through the canopy. He could see the forest below approaching rapidly.
The Eagle had continued its roll and was now on its side when Cris caught sight of a silver streak below him at fifty degrees, inbound. Just as he realized the streak was an aircraft, he collided with it. The impact was jarring, causing every warning light and alarm on his panel to go off. He was now tumbling wildly on all axis.
His Eagle was not designed for atmospheric flight, there was no way for him to recover. All Cris could do was hold on, and await death. Then, he hit the treetops.
The forest was incredibly dense. The trees were sixty to ninety meters tall. He bounced off the top of the forest initially, then he started to fall between the branches. Suddenly, he felt himself slow and stop, then start to slowly descend. It felt as if he were being lowered, as if giant hands were handing him back and forth, lower and lower.
He was on his starboard side and, despite the darkness inside the forest, he could see the ground slowly approaching. At about six meters off the surface, he stopped and began to move laterally. In a few minutes, he was at the edge of the forest, facing a huge meadow. His Eagle rotated until he was upright, then he was gently placed on the ground.
Quickly, Cris released his seat restraints, jumped up and leaned back against his control panel in order to get a better view behind him and up at the trees.
They were indeed huge, their trunks twenty-eight meters or larger in diameter. At first, they looked like coniferous trees, but upon closer examination, he could see leaves rather than needles. These leaves were long and narrow, perhaps two meters long. They were dark green on the top but purple on the bottom. Down the sides of each trunk, every few meters, without any particular spacing, there were large, dark, glassy, round domes. Each had a thick sap running from it. This running sap must have just started, as it did not extend below the domes more than a meter or so.
As Cris climbed down from the cockpit into the passenger compartment, he noticed that his Eagle was leaning to the left several degrees. Unfortunately, the airlock was on the left side, as well. Cris reached for his helmet, and then stopped. If the atmosphere would not sustain him, he was dead. There were no options. The air in the Eagle would support him for only a few more hours, and the air in the suit, even fewer. In the briefing, Doctor Hatcher said this was a breathable atmosphere. Okay, Cris said to himself, let's see just how good a scientist you are, Hatcher.
Cris went to the forward hatch on the floor. Direct access to the exterior, he took a deep breath then thought to himself, There's no sense holding my breath. He opened the emergency release, and pressed open. The hatch slid aside, and the stepladder descended.
Cris took a breath. Then another. What was that smell? He stopped to examine himself. Vision clear, mental processes unimpaired, heart and lungs functioning okay, no nerve problems. He lowered himself out of the Eagle. The soil was spongy, not wet, but soft—and sprung back when he removed his foot. What he first thought was grass on the ground he discovered to be more like lichen. Looking up, he saw why the Eagle was sitting at an angle. The probe was still attached to the bottom of his ship, causing the two starboard landing legs to remain off the ground.
Cris stepped out from under the Eagle into the sunlight, he felt its warmth upon his exposed skin, and it caused him to pause. He had not experienced that sensation since departing Houston for the Moon. As he stood there, his face toward the sun, eyes closed, breathing, it dawned on him what that smell was. It was fresh air. Not the manufactured and recycled stuff he had grown accustomed to breathing on JILL, but fresh air.
After a few moments enjoying the sun and air, he opened his eyes. He stood at the edge of a great forest of these odd, and towering trees. Turning around, he saw before him a sea of thick lichen covering wide fields that stretched away toward gently rolling hills, and above, a beautiful blue sky, replete with soft, white clouds. The brilliant colors were what first impressed him. Perhaps his lunar experience had dulled his senses, all that gray of the Moon's surface, and those subdued colors inside JILL. Here, the colors seemed to explode into his face. The several shades of green, the azure blue sky, even the white clouds and the brown soil shouted their colors at him. By comparison, his Eagle was in black and white.
He turned to get a view of the port side of his Eagle. He was shocked. There was considerable damage. No doubt, the airlock would never have opened. The port engine was smashed and hanging at an odd angle. Then, he recalled the impact with the silver streak in the sky.
He looked up. Some twenty degrees from the zenith, he knew not what direction, he saw a smoke trail in the sky. The point of impact was marked by a dark cloud, from there, the trail circled around back toward the direction it had come, the pilot had been trying to recover. Cris could see several more dark puffs, then the trail made a beeline for the ground. Rising up from the crash point was an inky black column of smoke.
Cris jumped back inside the eagle, stripped out of the pumpkin suit, under which he wore his standard gray flight suit. He opened the compartment where the survival kit was kept. It was a standard Air Force survival kit. "What the hell good would this be to anyone on the Moon?" The kit contained everything a pilot crashed on Earth might need. Ration bars, envelopes of water, a COMde, a fishing kit, several thousand dollars in cash, and a 9 mm pistol with several additional magazines of ammunition.
Cris grabbed the food, water, the pistol and its ammo. Next, he opened the first aid cabinet. The trauma kit was in a satchel, so he slung it over his shoulder, placed the food and the weapon into it, and then hurried back outside. He locked the hatch and turned in the direction the smoke indicated the other craft had crashed. Cris took off at a dead run.
His time on the Moon had caused him to lose some muscle and stamina. He became aware of his weight and the thickness of the air. He tried several times, but did not stop. He would slow to a walk, catch his breath, grab the tick in his side, and push on. Eventually, he crested a hill, exhausted. He stopped and gasped at what he saw.
Below him was a village nestled in a small valley with a stream running past it. The structures were odd-looking: small, round cylinders, brightly colored with thick, thatched roofs. It was like a painting, one that might have been done by Van Gogh. The scene was quite pastoral except for the large, crumpled, and smoking silver craft less than twenty meters from the nearest structure.
It was, or had been, like the one they saw in the image from the first probe. He could see a sphere and delta shaped wings at its rear. It was perched in its own crater at a precarious angle among the thick green lichen.
Cris ran down; in case it was manned, he wanted to aid the pilot. On the side he approached, there was no obvious hatch or window. He circled around to the other side where he found a rectangular hatch open on the side of the sphere. Looking inside, he realized that this hatch was supposed to be on the top of the sphere. He was looking top down on two seats arranged side by side. One was empty, but in the other sat a normal enough looking human slumped over. The ship's door lay like a ramp up to the cockpit. Cris rushed up to the unconscio
us pilot who was lying on his side, strapped in his seat.
The pilot wore some sort of uniform that looked to be made of velvet. It was emerald green, trimmed in black and reminded Cris of a uniform from the period of the American Revolution. The man wore some sort of opaque helmet that completely encompassed his head. Cris grabbed the man's wrist and tried to feel a pulse, but there was none. Examining the helmet, Cris found a device on the lower left side with a switch that slid sideways. When he pushed it, the helmet unlatched at the sides. It was hinged at the top. Cris soon had it off. He felt the man's carotid artery. No pulse was evident. He lifted the man's eyelids—the pupils were dilated. He was dead.
Cris just sat there a moment. He was indirectly responsible for this man's death. Cris sat down on the edge of the open hatch and just looked at this fellow. He looked to be the same age as Cris and must have been someone important by his dress. Cris now looked about the cockpit. It was tight in there, little room for movement. There was a vast array of instruments and controls, none of which looked the least bit familiar to him. He also noted that there were no windows, no canopy, and no monitors.
Cris was looking at the various controls on a surface that separated the two seats when he noticed the pilot had a pistol seemingly attached directly to his belt. It was about the same size as his 9 mm but of a vastly different style. It appeared to be a simple cylinder sitting atop a pistol grip. On the top of the cylinder, was a raised rectangular box only two-and-a-half centimeters long.
Cris toyed with the thought of retrieving it, but then stopped to consider what that would look like to the local authorities when they arrived.
Cris nearly jumped out of his skin when, from behind him, he heard an excited voice. "Vemde, vemde! Manearia des! Vocia de es Kounder!"
The fellow who spoke was quite small, only about one-and-a-half meters tall. His skin was very tan, his hands calloused. His hair was long, a reddish color, and bushy. His limbs were muscled. He was clean-shaven and looked like a regular, but smaller, human being. Except for his eyes that were noticeably larger than Cris's. He was dressed in rags, a soiled, tattered pair of rough, short pants, and a very blousy shirt whose bottom was shredded. He was also painfully thin, his face drawn. One other thing of note—his legs were exceptionally hairy.
"Vemde, vemde!" he repeated, his urgent hand gesture indicating he wanted Cris to follow him. Cris rose and advanced slowly toward the little man. "Hello, I'm sorry about this. My name is Cris Salazar, I'm a Captain—"
"Sileni, sileni! U ao ent! Cah peer igo aque! Te vemde!"
"Okay, okay—I'll vemde."
Cris followed the little man through the eerily empty streets of the village. This small fellow was obviously quite nervous, perhaps even scared. He kept looking to the sky.
"Presspa, presspa!" His guide shouted and indicated he should move faster. They wove through a labyrinth of little side streets then emerged on the other side of town. They were now heading toward a larger wooden structure in need of repair and a good paint job. Inside, the little fellow led Cris to a back corner.
On the way through, Cris noticed two things. One, there were a number of strange looking animals in here…this must be a barn. There was a sort of goat, with horns like a ram, but rather than fur, it was covered in scales. Another animal resembled a horse, but was totally without hair, its body looking more like wet salamander skin. Its long head had no mane, and where a nose should have been were two furry appendages that looked like the antennae on a moth.
The second thing he noticed was the smell.
In the far corner, the little man indicated Cris should help him move a trough half-filled with dried lichen. From where the trough had sat, the man opened a well-camouflaged trap door and indicated Cris should enter.
"Listen, I don't understand what's happening here."
"Vala a grow ah!" The little man was growing very aggravated.
"Look, Vemde old boy, I need some answers. Can I speak to someone in charge? Take me to your leader." At that moment, both Cris's and Vemde's gaze shot upward as some large, loud aircraft flew over, momentarily blocking out the sun.
Vemde looked up at Cris, and, sounding as if he were pleading, said in a whisper, "A grow a. Poraftor!"
"Okay—I'm convinced." Cris climbed into the hole. Vemde gently closed the trap door over his head, and Cris heard him putting the trough and the camouflage back in place. Something was wrong. This guy was hiding him from the authorities. Cris decided he must learn more before he just turned himself over.
The hole was dark and about two meters deep, so Cris could stand. However, he did not want his hair to brush against the filthy floorboards above, so he squatted, listening intently.
The sounds of the aircraft above changed as it doubtless was engaging in a vertical landing, perhaps out by the crash site.
He wondered just what was happening. Why had the little man gone to so much trouble to hide him? Why was he so afraid? Who was in the aircraft that just landed?
Just then, he felt a tap on his foot. He looked down but could see little in the dim light that filtered in from above. A moment passed, and he saw what had happened. A small stone appeared to spring out of the wall and strike his boot. He knelt down and looked at the earthen wall: there was a dark hole about a meter wide. Inside, he could see movement. Then, a dim light illuminated a face. The face spoke. "Seiga! Seiga!" Then the owner of the face began to back up. The visage was almost gone when, again, the voice called out, "Seiga!"
Above his head, Cris heard a scream. What the hell? He lay down and started to crawl.
Chapter 6
Mag'Osnik the Thaumatergon
The tunnel, being only one meter in diameter, was a tight squeeze for Cris. No doubt, it was quite adequate for his diminutive friend who was making good time crawling backward. So quickly was the face backing away from him that he soon lost all sight and sound of the person who had beckoned him.
Cris had crawled only about three meters and already he was in perfect darkness. He called out “Hello?” There came a distant response, but he couldn't make it out. Even if he had heard the words, he would not have understood them.
This passage was no place for a person with claustrophobia. Tight, dark, dank, the smell of soil filled his nostrils.
On and on he crawled, periodically encountering supports along the walls holding the revetments. These were made from rough-hewn wood. The tunnel remained the same size and shape for some distance. Now, however, it seemed the right wall was closing in on him. Feeling the right wall with his hand, he discovered the tunnel was turning to the left. It was not designed for a man his size, so negotiating the turn was not easy.
Beyond the almost ninety-degree turn, the tunnel began to slope downward steeply. It also widened out to about a meter-and-a-half. He was making better time, now. Several meters on, he made a right turn, and ahead, he saw a dim, yellow, flickering light. As he approached, he could see that he was looking into a larger room beyond, which resembled an old, and very large, root cellar, its walls lined with stones and timbers.
Cris calculated that he must have crawled nearly three hundred meters and descended perhaps twenty meters underground.
As he crawled closer to what appeared to be the end of the tunnel, he could hear voices, muted, but the voices of at least three people.
The end of the tunnel had a wooden platform built in front of it to aid in exiting. Cris noticed, as he reached the tunnel's end, that it was worn smooth from considerable use.
He looked out into the large underground cellar. The flickering light came from the several dozen large candles burning all about the chamber. Cris slid into the room and, in doing so, made a slight noise—which silenced the voices. Cris stood on the wooden platform, crouched, and waited for whatever was to happen next. He became aware of the weight of his satchel, reminding him he was armed with a 9 mm pistol.
"Hello?" he called out again.
He heard a sound, and then footsteps. From his rig
ht, another of these small people appeared. He resembled Vemde to a degree: same size, though heavier, same skin color, hair, and the large eyes. He was older, as well.
This older fellow looked up at Cris with a look that said, well, what are you waiting for? Then, he said "Vemde," and waved the candle he carried with him.
"Vemde again," Cris uttered aloud to himself, "Okay, okay―vemde."
Cris stepped down onto the dirt floor of the large chamber; he had to crouch, because the room was only tall enough to accommodate the little people who built it. He took a few steps to enable him look down the tunnel into which the small fellow had disappeared.
The tunnel was a short one, and the room it emptied into was about six meters square. A rough, old, wooden table sat in the center of this room. There were eight small chairs around the table. The stone covered walls of the room were lined with wooden cabinets and shelves holding cups, plates. A number of clay jars and wicker baskets all appeared to contain items of food.
The little man stood by the table, pointed to it, and said, "De est a forma ecuid ado koma cab esa. Santa-se, koma, bee ber."
Cris entered the room, in a crouch. He pulled out one of the small but sturdy chairs and sat down. The little man indicated the food and drink on the table, then exposed his teeth and clacked them together.
Cris examined the food by the light of the many candles around him and on the table. Much of the stuff looked to be fruit: blue grapes, white prunes, and yellow apples with fuzz like a peach. There was a basket of what appeared to be jerky and a plate stacked high with flat bread that, upon closer examination, appeared to be made of the lichen he saw everywhere. Cris took a piece of the bread. His host walked up, picked up a clay jug, and poured what appeared to be dirty water into his clay cup. Cris took a bite of the bread. It was very much whole grain and chewy, but very tasty.
Cris's host stood there, silently watching.
Cris reached for the cup and sniffed the contents. It was obviously fermented. He took a small sip. It had the taste of grain with just a hint of wood smoke. Cris took a bigger sip, decided he liked it despite its appearance, then took an even bigger drink.
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