by Emily
"There's a bar back in the tower. Have somebody get it for me."
Kellie kept talking to her, telling her that the capacitor looked good, that everything was under control, while somebody tracked the tool down. Finally, MacAllister broke in: "We've got it." And a minute later they were lowering the bar.
She caught it and went back to work.
The capacitor compartment was suspended over her head. She looked up at it and tried to insert the bar under the lip of the metal.
"Toward the top,"said Glory. "The problem's near the top."
It was difficult to work without a perch, to get any leverage on the bar when she had no place to plant her feet.
"How are you making out?" asked Chiang.
The bar was heavy. Her arms quickly got tired, and once she almost dropped it. The compartment door was jammed tight.
"Okay," she said.
She struggled on. Chiang said he thought it was taking too long and they should pull her up and let him try.
"He thinks," said Kellie, "we need more muscle down there."
"He's probably right." Hutch slid the bar into her vest and took a minute to rest her arms. Despite her boyish dimensions, she was, like all women, somewhat top-heavy, and she had to fight a tendency to turn turtle. "Let's stay with this a bit," she said. "If I can't get it, I'll be happy to give Chiang a shot."
Her vest was cutting off the blood in her armpits. She changed position, retrieved the tool, and tried again. She worked with increasing desperation and finally got the bar inside the compartment. She pulled down, pushed it in farther, and pulled again. Something gave, and the door popped open. The capacitor hung immediately overhead.
"I've got it," she said. She secured the bar to her belt, reached up into the compartment, felt around, and estimated she had a reasonable amount of clearance. She tied the line around the front and rear of the capacitor and secured it.
"Okay," she said. "Take up the slack. But not too tight."
They complied. She got out from under the compartment. "Glory," she said.
"Yes, Hutch?"
"Release the capacitor."
It dropped out of the compartment and swung back and forth in a long arc. But the line held, and her knots held. To her immense relief it did not fall to the bottom of the canyon.
After they'd recovered the second capacitor, she resisted the temptation to get out of the chasm and instead pushed up through the airlock into the spacecraft.
She salvaged as many reddimeals as she could, breakfasts, lunches, and dinners packed in self-heating containers. They weren't exactly food off the griddle, but for something to eat on the trail in an alien place, they were going to look pretty good. She picked up some coffee packs, found two bottles of wine, and some sandwiches and fruit from the refrigerator. The galley supplied unbreakable dishes, utensils, and mugs. She paused in front of the water tank. That was something they were going to need at the far end of the journey. She removed it, emptied it, folded it up, and put it in her vest.
There were other useful items: towels, washcloths, toothbrushes, soap, an extra e-suit, a lantern, a pair of Evening Star jumpsuits, more cable, two backpacks, and a medkit.
The lander slipped a few more centimeters.
She packed everything into plastic bags and they hauled them up. Kellie was urging her not to press her luck.
"Coming now," Hutch said.
And then Glory's voice: "Hutch?"
"Yes, Glory."
"Are you leaving now?"
"Yes."
"You won't be back?"
"No, Glory. I won't be back."
"Would you shut me off?"
The capacitors were marked with the manufacturer's name, Daigleton Industries, the date of manufacture, which was the previous year, and the Daigleton logo, a stylized atom.
They put them on the worktable and threw canvas over them, and MacAllister opened a private channel to Hutch. "Maybe we should leave a couple of people here to make sure they're still here when we get back."
"Who's going to take them?" she asked.
"What about the cat?"
"I can't imagine what it would do with them." She adjusted the canvas. "No, we're safer together. If this place is as dangerous as Randy thinks it is, we shouldn't leave anybody here."
"Congratulations, Hutch. Outstanding job." Marcel sounded delighted, relieved, wiped out. Had he really been following all that?
"Thanks, Marcel. We've got a bunch of survivors here."
"I see that. By the way, we have a message for you from the Academy."
"Read it," she said.
"The subject is 'Aliens on Deepsix.' It says: Priscilla, you are directed to make every effort to rescue whatever inhabitants of Deep-
six you can find. Humanity requires no less of us. It's signed by the commissioner."
MacAllister snorted. "Gomez thinks she's writing for the ages. 'Humanity requires. . . .' Poor boob. They'll be laughing at her for a thousand years."
PART 2
OVERLAND
XIII
One of the sure signs of a moron is that he, or she, babbles about the glories of the wilderness. Moonlight. Cool crisp air. The wind in the trees. Flights of birds overhead. Be assured these people always do it virtual. That way one dmgs no mud into the house.
—Gregory MacAllister, "Boy Scouts and Other Aberrations," Editor at Large
Hours to breakup (est): 240
They melted snow, boiled the water, and drank it down. There'd been water in the lander, but there had been no practical way to retrieve it MacAllister predicted they'd all break out in hives by dinner. He added, more seriously, that they'd better start learning how to hunt They estimated that they had a six-day food supply. That means," he added, "we'll be traveling on empty stomachs when we get to Tess."
Their destination lay south-southwest but they couldn't immediately proceed in that direction because they had no way to cross the crevice that now divided the landscape as for as they could see.
They made snowshoes and put all their gear and food into sample bags and the two backpacks Hutch had salvaged from the lander. Hutch provided MacAllister with a cutter and showed him how to use it Then they took a last look at the tower and the capacitors and struck off across the plain.
"You'll be out of the snow in a day or two," Marcel told them. That was good news. Once they had solid earth underfoot they'd be able to move more quickly. But it was a struggle for the two older men right from the beginning. Nightingale developed a blister after they'd gone
about a kilometer. Hutch treated it with ointment from the medkit. Within another hour, MacAllister was limping and grumbling.
Their first challenge was to find a way across the chasm. They walked along the northern edge, moving slowly so the two could keep up. Hutch wondered whether MacAllister had been right, that he and Nightingale should have been left behind to take their chances.
At a patch of forest, they called a halt and fashioned walking staffs for everyone. "Don't need it," protested Kellie.
"Use it anyhow," Hutch insisted. "It's good for you."
Nightingale took his gratefully. MacAllister manfully swallowed his discomfort and smiled. "We all look good with staffs," he said. "Adds a certain panache."
They traveled well into the afternoon before they were able to get around the crevice. Gradually it closed, and the plain was solid again. They turned southwest.
Aside from bird sightings, all of which Nightingale treated with barely muted alarm, they encountered their first full-size native beast shortly afterward. It was about the size of a moose, shaggy, with white fur and unsettling blue eyes that gazed steadily at them with. Hutch thought, cool intelligence. For all that, it did not look particularly ferocious. Its snout was shoved into an icy stream, and it did not straighten up as they approached.
They drew their weapons nonetheless, switched on the power, and spread out.
It looked at each of them in turn, studying Hutch with special at
tention as if it recognized that she was directing the small party.
Hutch glanced at the worried faces and unsteady hands of her comrades, concluded she was in as much danger from them as from the creature, and moved out of MacAllister's line of fire.
As the last of them were passing, it startled them by rearing up onto its hind legs. A collar of hard bone rose around its neck. The collar ended in two long spikes, one flanking either jaw. The creature had a wide mouth full of shark's teeth and a permanent grin that reminded Hutch of an alligator.
"That thing's all dental work," whispered MacAllister.
It inspected Nightingale and showed him its teeth. Nightingale froze.
Armored ridges protected the animal's underside and its back. Its claws looked like daggers.
"Stay cool," said Hutch. The exobiologist stood absolutely still, his eyes wide. She slowly inserted herself between him and the creature. It swung its long jaws her way, looked back at Nightingale, and hesitated.
"We're not in its food chain," said Chiang.
MacAllister snorted. "By the time it discovers that, somebody's going to have a decided limp."
It looked at them, waiting perhaps for a hostile act.
The drawback of the cutter was its limited range. Notched up to full power, it had little effect beyond a few meters. MacAllister leveled his weapon and his thumb hovered over the punch pad. He was going to shoot.
"No." Hutch kept her eyes on the creature. "Don't do it, MacAllister. Everybody back away."
"Why don't we just kill it while we can?" the editor insisted.
"Slowly," said Hutch.
MacAllister frowned at her. "It's a mistake."
Hutch made her voice cold. "Do what I say."
The animal watched and after a few moments appeared to lose interest. It dropped back onto all fours and recommenced drinking.
After they'd gotten to what appeared to be a safe distance, Kellie let out her breath. "Shoo," she said quietly.
Nightingale thought he'd gotten through the experience pretty well. He felt he'd stood his ground, and believed he was ready to use his weapon if need be. He found it hard, however, to control his trembling afterward.
"You all right?" Kellie asked him.
He nodded and tried a smile. "I'm fine," he said.
They had no compass. Marcel followed their progress from Wendy and occasionally issued course corrections. The landscape remained unfailingly bleak, cold, and desolate. By late in the day they were seeing more hills. Occasional flocks of birds appeared overhead.
Nightingale was not in anything resembling the kind of physical condition required for this sort of effort. Everything he owned hurt. There was, however, consolation in the knowledge that MacAllister was having an even harder time. Hutch, who was certainly aware that she was encumbered by two people who preferred taxis wherever they went, continued to call frequent breaks.
The other four talked constantly. Chiang and the two women seemed to have accepted MacAllister in spite of his abrasiveness. Nightingale was once again hampered by his natural shyness and de-fensiveness. He tried to make acute observations, throw in occasional witty remarks, but it didn't work. Nobody really seemed to listen to him. He was the outsider, and gradually he withdrew and concentrated his efforts simply on trying to keep up.
It should have been different. After all, they were the only five human beings on the planet. That fact alone should have bound them together, should have prevented the development of factions and militated against the exclusion of any single member.
It was unfair, especially in light of the fact he'd given them their one chance at survival.
By sundown, he was limping badly and was being actively assisted by Kellie. They'd arrived in a glade, and Hutch called a halt. Nightingale eased himself gratefully to the ground, killed his field, pulled off his shoes, and rubbed his soles. By God it felt good.
He applied more of the salve from the medkit. Warmth spread through his feet, and then a general sense of relief.
The others fell quiet.
And something moved in the shrubbery.
There was a scramble for weapons.
The thing looked like a big scorpion, a scorpion the size of a child's wagon. It had a pair of antennas, which swept them in a kind of rhythm. Mandibles clicked audibly. The tail was shorter by far, and bisected. It had eight legs.
"Stay still," said Hutch,
It didn't matter. At the same moment, the creature charged Chiang. Chiang fell over backward, firing wildly. Hutch and Kellie burned it simultaneously. The thing let go a high keening sound, changed direction, and went for Hutch. They caught it again, and the scorpion crashed into a rock, rolled over, and lay on its back with its legs moving weakly.
"That's the biggest bug I've ever seen," Chiang said, getting to his feet.
MacAllister examined his cutter. "It's a good weapon," he said. "Will it run down? How much energy does it have?"
"It'll recharge on its own," said Hutch. "Just like your suit. But yes, there are limits. Don't play with it."
It wasn't a scorpion, of course. There were major differences, other than size and the tail, which mounted no stinger. The narrowing between cephalothorax and abdomen wasn't correct. The eyes were wrong. The segmenting was unique. Its chelae were smaller. The head was more heavily armored. Not for the first time, Nightingale mourned the lost opportunity to examine this world's biology.
There had been some thought of stopping there for the night, but they now agreed unanimously that it would be a good idea to move on.
Nightingale had not been able to get used to the shortened days. When they finally made camp, an hour later, he was bone weary and half-starved. They were in light forest, on the crest of a long, gently curving ridge. It had gotten dark. Overhead the superluminals moved serenely among the constellations, and he would have given much to be aboard one of them. Nevertheless, he was, by God, keeping up.
They broke out the reddimeals.
Nobody was dressed for this kind of weather. The heaviest garment anyone wore was probably MacAllister's black sweater. The two women were in jumpsuits. Chiang had only a light pullover shirt and a pair of shorts. And Nightingale's slacks and casual shirt were designed for a far more balmy climate. None of this would have mattered much were it not that they had to shut off the e-suits to eat.
They collected some wood and built a fire. When it was up and burning steadily, they keyed the reddimeal containers, which cooked the food. Then, at a kind of prearranged signal, they got as close to the fire as they could, shut off the suits, and gobbled chicken, beef, and whatever else showed up in the dinners. Everything tasted good that night.
Kellie made coffee. Nightingale swallowed everything down and, as quickly as he could, buttoned up again. He hated having to gulp his food when he was so hungry. But it was just too cold to linger over it.
They held a council of war, and agreed it was time to think about testing some of the local food supply, in order to conserve the reddimeals. If they discovered the native stuff was inedible, they would have to resort to rationing. There should be some game in the woods, and Kellie suggested to everyone's horror that the scorpions might make a food source. If any more showed up.
No one wanted to discuss it further.
They asked Nightingale, the resident expert. Did he know what they could expect to find? Was the local food edible?
"No idea," he said. "Nobody knows. We terminated the mission too quickly, and what we learned was inconclusive. Deepsix biology uses levo sugars and not dextro. So that's okay. They use DNA to make proteins, which is good. You might get some nutrition, but I doubt it. You have at least an equal chance of being poisoned. The fact is we have a supply of reddimeals, and we're only talking about a few days.
"What I mean is ..." He paused, then plunged ahead: "We don't have to worry about subsisting indefinitely. What we're really interested in is satisfying our appetites. We could ration, go on half meals. But that's not going to hel
p old guys trying to walk long distances. There's no real way we can be sure about toxins or allergens. If there's, say, a poison, our immune system may not even recognize it, or if it did, it might have no defense against it. I think we're reasonably safe, but I can't guarantee it."
Hutch nodded, called Embry on Wildside, and asked for advice.
"Best would be not to go near anything local," she said.
"That'll give us some very hungry people."
Embry wasted no time becoming irritated. "Better hungry than dead."
There was a long silence. "If you really have to do this," she continued, "have someone sample the stuff first. A very small sample. Very small. Give it some time. A half hour, at least. If he doesn't throw up, or get diarrhea—"
"Or fall over," said MacAllister.
"—or fall over, you're in business." Embry took a deep breath. "Hutch," she said, "I feel guilty about the way things turned out."
"It's okay. You didn't cause the quake."
"Still.. . Well, anyhow, I wanted to wish you luck. Anything I can do, I'm here."
"I know."
They'd covered eleven kilometers that first day. Not bad, considering they'd gotten a late start, had to detour around the crevice, and were walking through snow.
They had, of course, no bedding. Nightingale made himself as comfortable as he could, lay back in the firelight, and wondered if his body would ever feel right again.
They decided to forget trying to divide the nineteen-hour days into standard temporal terminology, because nobody was ever quite sure what nine o'clock actually meant. Instead they thought in terms of dusk and dawn, noon and midnight. There were roughly nine hours of darkness, which they divided into four watches. Midnight came when Morgan's World rose.
Nightingale unstrapped his oxygen converter and laid it beside him, where it would continue to work, without pressing into his shoulders. He slept for a while, woke, noticed that the fire had burned down, heard someone throw a fresh branch onto it, slept some more, and eventually found himself gazing up at the stars.
Morgan had moved over into the west. It was framed within a stellar rectangle. A couple of stars lined up under the rectangle, providing it with a stand or stem. To primitive people, he thought, it would have become a constellation. A flower, perhaps. Or a tree. Or a cup.