by John Shirley
Another hour in the rumbling, jolting sandtracker, grinding past the torn, strange bodies of a half-dozen dead scythids; past the cold camp of a Nomad who had retreated to watch them from high on a purple bluff; through a maze of small canyons, and then a small forest of the saguaro-like plants … and then up a barren, steep trail, till they pulled up beside Roland’s outrunner waiting on the edge of a ridge.
Cal was glad to climb out of the hot, dusty sandtracker. He stretched, and watched as Roland walked with Crannigan over to a group of mercenaries to talk. Rans joined the men. Cal wanted to go over and listen but since he supposedly couldn’t understand them that would look pretty suspect.
He crossed to the edge of a nearly sheer slope, overlooking the plain below the ridge. It was a remarkably flat plain, starting about fifty meters below the ridgetop. It looked as if a nuclear bomb had gone off down there, in some phase of prehistory, and turned the plain’s sand to coarse, cracked glass. It was hard to tell from up here for sure, with the glare of sunlight on the glossy surface, but it looked as if the cracks were converging, like windshield cracks around a hole. Maybe that was the epicenter of the ancient blast, ground zero.
And rising over it all, far away across the cracked flatland, was the dark purple broken cone of a mountain, probably an old volcano.
Specks moved across the plain, far away. Skags? Scythids?
Flying creatures wheeled over the plain, just silhouettes against the sky. Looking at them he decided they were bird-shaped, and not rakks—probably trash feeders.
“Hey kid—how’d you like riding in that sandtracker?” Roland asked.
“My ass is killing me—uh-oh.” He had answered without thinking—and Crannigan was there, standing beside Roland, with Rans Veritas and two mercs. Crannigan was smirking—and Roland was grinning.
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Roland said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Crannigan figured it out. But he just hired us both on.”
Cal blinked. “Me too?”
“Sure,” Crannigan said. “We might need you for a hostage. Or we could trade you to the Psychos for a bottle of booze.”
The mercs laughed and wandered off, Crannigan with them.
Rans remained, staring. “I know this kid. I remember now. Zac Finn sent me a picture, when we were talking on warp mail. He sent a holo of his wife and kid. And this is the kid, right here!”
“Yeah?” Roland said, turning a warning glare at Rans. “So what?”
“So—he’s a liability! Might be anybody out there looking for him! Bringing trouble down on us! They’ll find out about the crash site!”
“We all work for Atlas now,” Roland pointed out. “The company’ll watch our back.”
“I say we get rid of this kid, dammit!” Rans insisted. “If his old man is alive the kid might do anything! He might sneak off and help his old man get what’s ours!”
“You the one talked my dad into coming down here?” Cal demanded, staring.
“I made him a deal and it didn’t work out!” Rans snarled. “Don’t be mouthy, boy! I did what I had to! I got myself shot half to pieces for this thing … and I’m not losing my share! Not for anyone! Your old man is out of the picture now!”
“Maybe,” Cal said, looking him in the eyes. “And maybe not.”
Roland chuckled. “Don’t get on the wrong side of this kid, Rans. He’s a pistol. And learning to use one too.”
Rans snorted and stalked over to the men making a temporary camp at the ridgetop.
Roland glanced over at the other men standing with Crannigan. He pushed his goggles back on his head. “Looks like we’ll stop for something to eat, get our breath, then move on, when we figure out how to get the vehicles down off this ridge …”
“What’d he mean about a hostage?” Cal asked.
“Just talk. Nothing. Unless he’s thinking ahead to the possibility that your old man is alive—and trying to get hold of the same thing he’s after. He could trade you for the rights to the find, see.”
Cal grimaced. The thought made him uncomfortable. “Crannigan figured it out—about the language thing?”
“Yeah. Pretty early on. Now they all know—but nobody cares. Give ’em something to laugh about around the camp at night. I heard a couple of ’em trying out your ‘No mezucka Englitchy’ and having a good laugh.”
Cal shrugged. “So—it just gave you time to show Crannigan he can trust you?”
Roland nodded. “You’re a pretty smart kid. That’s about it. But”—he lowered his voice—“there’s something else.” He glanced over at Scrap Crannigan, then stepped closer to Cal, and spoke almost inaudibly. “Crannigan figures he’s gonna rip Atlas off. And Rans. Everyone. He figures he can’t do it alone—and, since I ain’t given to false modesty, I will admit I’m about the best man with a gun this side of Pandora. So Crannigan offered me a split. I join with him … we catch the mercs by surprise, kill ’em off.” He started counting the plan’s points off on his fingers. “Call the Atlas shuttle down. Kill everybody on board the shuttle. Take the goods from the alien ship, load ’em on the shuttle, head up to orbit. We surprise the crew up there, take that ship over. Atlas ship’s mostly automated so—not many crew … Then we take the goods and offer it to Dahl, or one of the other corporations—and me and Crannigan split the full price, not the little cut Atlas is offering. After that, he figures he’ll retire to the homeworld …”
Cal studied Roland’s expressionless face. Was he really thinking of taking the deal? He’d said, Kill ’em off … Kill everybody on board the shuttle …
Like it was nothing.
Cal had to ask, “Would you—really do that?”
Roland’s smile was twistedly ironic. “Naw. But Crannigan doesn’t know that. And we don’t want him to know that until the last moment. So keep your trap shut. All he knows is, I said okay. And I told him I wouldn’t tell you about it. But I figure you got to know what’s up. When the time comes, Crannigan’ll get what’s his. And it won’t be an ET treasure.”
“Suppose you’d said no right to his face, right then? What would he have done?”
“He’d have shot me dead. Or waited for the first time I turned my back. Just to keep me from telling the others. Then he’d claim I was up to some shit so he had to kill me.”
“What about my dad? Anyone hear anything, see anything … ? Of him—or my mom?”
“No word yet. But maybe he’s on his way to the site. That’s the, what you call it—the hypothesis, right? We see either one—we’ll do our best to protect ’em. Put you back together with your folks.”
“You don’t want any of that stuff from the crashed ship?”
“Kid—I don’t know if that alien ship is really out there. It might be all skagshit. If it’s there—I’m not gonna murder a buncha guys in their sleep, or whatever Scrap’s got in mind. But I’ll get my share from it—and I’ll see that Crannigan pays his debt to McNee. Don’t you worry. The problem is going to be living long enough to sell the stuff off, once we get it. But if we live, you’ll get your cut, kid. You’ll clean up.”
“Yeah?” Cal wasn’t particularly excited by making money on this trip. Not right now. He’d trade any amount of riches for a sight of his family.
“Yeah. Alien artifacts from anywhere are worth a pretty penny. Especially if there’s tech involved. Trouble is, all these bastards are thinking the same thing. I figure half these damn mercs are thinking like Crannigan. They’re thinking maybe they can take the thing for themselves. The word has gotten round that there’s riches out there, in that volcano. But lots of times I see people go after riches, they end up as meat for scavengers.”
Cal closed his eyes, controlled his impulse to start crying. But it must have shown on his face. He felt Roland’s big, rough hand laid reassuringly on his arm. “Take it easy. I didn’t mean your dad ended up that way …”
No? But his dad had gone after riches …
And he might already be bleached bones somewhere in the de
sert.
Zac was out of water, nearly out of food, and running short of hope.
It was early evening. He was in the shadow of an overhang under a ridge, on the edge of a glassy plain, still a long way from the volcano cone. And there was no hope of getting across the glass plain without being spotted by some predator. No cover at all. No water likely out there in that flat emptiness. As for food—he was more likely to become food.
Zac took out his telescope and turned it on the horizon, made out some skags, off in the distance between him and the volcano. Flying creatures circled over the skags.
He swept the horizon but saw nothing else. Then a sound prompted him to look up at the ridge. Dust was sifting down from the edge of the ridge, about an eighth of a kilometer away, and light glinted on metal. He turned the telescope that way and after some fiddling with it, made out an outrunner poised on the top of the ridge, and a couple of men standing near it—judging by their outfits, they were mercenaries. Maybe ex–Crimson Lance.
Great, he thought as he lowered the telescope. Now what do I do?
If he set out across the plain, they’d probably see him and head out after him. The presence of mercenaries suggested one of the big corporations—they had their own little armies but they used mercenaries when they were trying to keep something quiet. They were probably after the same thing he was. Maybe they worked for whoever had sent the security bot to sabotage his DropCraft.
They were looking toward the old volcanic cone, just like he was …
And maybe they were looking for him too, so they could finish what they’d started on the Study Station.
Even if they didn’t go after him, he’d run into those skags and rakks out there, and who knew what else. There was no cover on that plain.
There was one chance—a slim one. He could wait here, till it got dark. Then head out in the dark and hope to elude both the human predators and the animal ones.
Of course, the mercenaries would go on ahead. But this was Pandora. Who knew what they’d run into?
A squadron of mercs in big outrunners, they’d call attention to themselves. They could draw off whatever he might have to face—they just might accidentally keep him safe …
He’d come too far to give up now. He had to try it. He would go after dark—the moon had been setting earlier at night, so it’d be mighty dark. If the moon set and he got lost in the dark, he’d use the alien artifact that pointed the way to guide him. The night would be his cover.
But that meant he would have to wait here, right here, crouching under this outcropping, until nightfall …
Zac sighed. He had a little food. He had no water. But now, anyway—he had a little hope. Just a little.
The flatbed truck emerged from a canyon and Vance brought it to a skidding stop on the edge of a cracked, glassy plain. The sunlight, in this spot, threw glare back from the enormous shards, so that Marla had to shield her eyes with her hand.
“What is that?” she asked. “Ice?”
“Nah,” Vance said, handing her a pair of tinted goggles. “It’s melted what-you-call-it—silicon. I’ve been out on it, about a quarter klick, once before. It’s just a coating over the rock and sand. Solid enough.”
“Where’d it come from?”
He stuck out his lower lip and cocked his head. “Ain’t nobody knows for sure. But a year or so ago, Grunj took a scientist guy prisoner. One of those archaeologists. There’s a lotta bones of archaeologists scattered around on this planet. Anyway, the guy had been working out here on this thing, came out to the Trash Coast looking for something else. I talked to him some. He said this here was from some old nuclear blast—happened thousands of years ago. Ain’t radioactive anymore. There’s a crater out in the middle of it. Not sure if some alien visitor did it—or some old civilization used to live here. He said he figured those big ugly bastards—the Primals—were degenerates, left over from that bunch. Mutated, kinda … mentally messed up … Their ancestors weren’t so beastly-like.”
“What, um …” Marla suspected she was going to regret asking this. “What happened to the archaeologist Grunj took prisoner?”
“Oh, him? He was kinda young. Eventually Grunj decided not to sell him, or ransom him out. See, if Grunj takes an interest in a young guy—he don’t last long. I think he was already dead, though, when he fed him to that big ol’ skag of his …”
He opened a canteen—she automatically put out her hand for it, but he drank from it first, before handing it to her.
Lot of differences between this guy and my husband, she thought, as he finally passed her the canteen.
“I don’t see anything out there,” she said. “Is it safe?”
“Safe?” Vance said, as if puzzled by the idea of a place that was really safe. “No place is safe.” He fell into a brooding silence. Then after a long pause, he growled to himself and said, “When I was a kid, I lived in a place that was supposed to be safe. Luxury space colony called Highbuckle, on the moon of Thora. We had security guards with big guns. We had an automated defense fortress in orbit right over us. We had cops and a militia. We had a protection pact with Thora. We had a force field projected from the fortress. We had walls and big doors and locks and computer surveillance—lady, we had it all. But the Wastemakers didn’t care about that stuff. They found a way into the autodef fortress, took it over, dropped our shields, turned the fortress’s guns on us. Killed most of the colony. Then they came down and killed the rest. Except for one or two …”
“The Wastemakers. I’ve heard about them. I thought they were a myth …”
He shook his head. “Crazy cult bastards. Think they got to cut and burn and ream their way across the outer colonies, because their priestess told ’em that they’re the promised people waiting for the Blonde Goddess to return from the Silver Screen of Heaven. And she’s gonna take them up to this Silver Screen, whatever the hell that is—and until then they’re the only real human beings around, see. They can kill anybody they want and take what they need till the Goddess returns. ’Cause they’re the only … goddamn … human beings.”
“Sounds like you heard about their religion from them personally.”
“Yeah. They take kids prisoners, for the fresh genetics, see, sometimes. They have this ritual that makes you ‘human’ all of a sudden so they can use your … your seed. I was with ’em a year, when I was eleven, while they waited for me to get to puberty. But I managed to kill the bastard that kept me prisoner, and I got in a robot shuttle, told it to take me someplace else, went into suspension. When I woke up it was a year later and I was in the hands of Sky Pirates. They coulda killed me, or sold me, but Captain Flench needed a cabin boy—a servant, like. When I was sixteen, I joined their fightin’ crew. Became a raider.”
She looked at Vance with a new understanding. “So—you saw the Wastemakers kill your parents?”
“Yeah. And my brother. In that safe little haven of spoiled rich people. Safe and protected Highbuckle. No place is safe, lady. No place.” He noticed her staring at him, and he scowled and looked away. “Let’s get a move on—we’re gonna go around the edge of this plain. It’s the long ways but … we’ll be too easy to spot out in the middle of that big flat nothin’. We lose a day … but we’ll get there. Might be better if we got there second so’s we can make sure we got the jump on ’em …”
He accelerated the truck, turned it sharply, cutting back toward the grittier edge of the plain, skirting its glassy surface. They skidded and fishtailed at first on the slick surface, and then he had the truck close enough to the curving wall of rock enclosing the plain—here, sand and dust had blown into soft moraines that gave the vehicle better purchase. They bumped along over the snaking sand, at the edge of the glass plain, following a curving, indirect path but still generally toward the coordinates Zac had sent her.
Thinking about Zac, she asked, “Vance—what’d you mean, if we get there second we can get the jump on them?”
He chuckled. “You’re thinking
of your old man. You got the crazy idea he might be alive, right? Chances of that are about as good as rolling a six on dice that only got snake eyes. Better forget him, girl. He’s long dead.”
Marla felt a chill quiver through her. “You know that? You heard it—on that communicator of yours?”
“No,” Vance admitted. “But that’s just how it is on this hellhole. Probably died in the crash and if he didn’t—he’s skag droppings by now, girl. Sorry but … that’s how it is. Ain’t nothing and no one safe. Unless maybe the guy with the biggest gun and the eyes in the back of his head. And not even then.”
“That communi—” She broke off, grabbing for the dashboard as the truck hit a sand dune and jolted. “—communicator of yours. Can you call orbit with it? I mean—if you can’t, how are you gonna get off the planet, once you’ve got what you want, if you’re afraid to go to the settlements.”
His grin faded and he turned her a cold look. “I’m not afraid of anything. I’m just not gonna be stupid.” He frowned at the windshield, steered around a pothole, and added, “Don’t you worry, I’ll get off this rock. Maybe I’ll take you with me—if you don’t ask stupid questions, and if you don’t try and steal that communicator. That thing won’t call orbit anyhow—it’s just for local transmissions, and only bandit frequencies. You can get that idea out of your head.”
They drove for another half hour, along the curving edge of the plain, in the shadow of the natural stone wall around it, bumping over short sand dunes, and all the time she wondered, Is he lying about that communicator?
“What the hell is that?” Vance burst out, stopping the truck.
They’d come to a barrier of boulders, about ten meters high, with spikes sticking out of it, thin shards of glass each about a meter long. It extended from the cliffside out about forty meters into the plain, and then stopped out there like an unfinished wall. It almost looked like it could’ve happened accidentally. But then again, looking closer …
“Somebody put that damn thing up,” Vance said. “Looks like they brought down part of the cliff … stuck those glass spears in there.”