Wasteland of Flint

by Thomas Harlan

  "They ate her," Bandao said, his voice tight with fear. The automatic in his hands was steady as a stone itself, but the gunner's face had grown paler by degrees. "They caught her somewhere—maybe she was sleeping and they came at night—and they ate her up, cell by cell. Like she was fossilized all at once."

  "Mister Bandao," Gretchen's voice echoed his fear with a harsh tone. Sweat beaded her face. "Lower the gun and get out of the doorway. Maggie, cycle the isolation door closed."

  "Sister, you're still in there!" Despite her outcry, a single claw stabbed the emergency isolation glyph and Bandao had to skip back to avoid being caught in the swift rush of the glass-and-steel door. A dull thump signaled the room sealing. "What are you doing?"

  "I was out at night, in the dig." Gretchen said, circling the immobile Russovsky and climbing onto the examining table. "The ground is alive, you know, filled with tiny life.... Sinclair has video of them reproducing, expanding, building their geometric hives. Am I infected?"

  "What?" Magdalena stared through the heavy isolation glass. "What are you talking about?"

  Bandao stepped to her side, quick brown eyes sweeping across the medical display. "I can't tell," he muttered. "It's been too long since I used one of these.... Wait, Magdalena, load up her medical record from Company files. Then we can compare." The gunner looked up, mouth tight. "What about the scientists from base camp?"

  "Oh, crap!" Gretchen stiffened, then tapped her comm. "Parker, where are you? The bridge? No, I'm not mad at you anymore—listen to me! Seal the ship, we need pressure lock between each ring right now! Then get on the surveillance cam and find all the scientists we just brought up from the surface. Yes, all of them, even in the showers." Gretchen keyed another channel open with shaking fingers. "Fitzsimmons, Deckard—we've got a problem."

  In his dim cocoon of glowing displays and quietly chuckling comps, Hummingbird reacted immediately to the events in the Medical bay. His fingers slashed across the main input panel. There was a questioning chirp. "Four Jaguar," he said in a relaxed, unaffected voice. "Four Jaguar."

  Palenque main comp immediately locked out every panel and sub-comp on the entire ship. In some areas, like Engineering, a low hooting alarm went off, signaling a communications failure. At the same time, a direct channel to the Cornuelle unfolded on Hummingbird's main panel. Captain Hadeishi stared out in surprise, his private cabin silhouetted behind him, a cup of steaming tea held in one hand, a paperbound book in the other. His mouth moved, surprised, but Hummingbird heard nothing—the channel was only one-way at the moment.

  A tiny image of an outraged Parker jumped in one corner of the secondary panel. Hummingbird ignored him as well, lips tight, his eyes fixed on the v-feed from Medical. A preset routine spun through the civilian ship—even as the two Marines herded a gaggle of frightened, outraged scientists into the hab ring—closing hatches and ventilation ducts, sealing airlocks, isolating each section of the ship with brisk, invisible efficiency. Another preset shifted nearly sixty percent of Palenque main comp to flinging the data flowing from the examining table in Medical into a broad-spectrum search against the databanks in both Hummingbird's Smoke-class comp and the navy system aboard the Cornuelle. If those sources failed—the blue pyramid, which was shining softly in a golden nest of whisker-thin wires, stood ready as well.

  The tlamatinime's thumb was poised over a sturdy red glyph—this was Four Wind—the sign of the Second Sun which had been destroyed so long ago, when all living men were swept away by terrible winds and gales, leaving only monkeys as their descendants.

  "We're matching..." Bandao muttered, face screwed up in concentration, his fingers gingerly moving the controls on the medical display. Maggie had a paw tight on his shoulder, the white arc of her claws digging into the padded armor hiding under his jacket. "What does this mean?"

  Gretchen crossed her legs and took a deep breath, head in her hands. Russovsky had not moved. Whatever lived inside her. whatever motivated her to action, to sudden motion, seemed puzzled by the closed door. The distant hooting of alarms, and the way—apparently unnoticed by either Bandao or Maggie—the main door to Medical had sealed itself, apparently without orders, was of more concern. She tapped her comm quietly, but there was no answer. No channel opened, no soft green light indicating the shipside comm band was awake and taking messages.

  Now what? Gretchen waved at Magdalena, drawing the Hesht's attention. She tapped her comm and made a face. Maggie checked, finding her comm dead as well. The Hesht fiddled with her settings and was rewarded with a blinking light of some kind. Moving very quietly and staying away from the Russovsky-copy's line of sight, Gretchen slipped from the table and moved to the observation window. Magdalena held out her comm, letting Anderssen see which channel she'd changed to. Ah, a local suit-to-suit circuit.

  "... hear me?" Maggie's soft voice echoed in Gretchen's earbug. Anderssen nodded, moving back to the far side of the examination table. "Dai says your readings are okay, but there's some kind of khu-shist energy pattern permeating the Russovsky and you have something like it in your boots."

  Gretchen looked down. Aw, crap. The sides of her soles were discolored and shiny. Bet that doesn't come out with spit and a cloth, either.

  "Okay," Gretchen subvoxed, "can you tell what's happened on the ship?"

  "I don't know," Maggie hissed. "Something's locked us out of main comp."

  Gretchen stared around in mounting panic. The chamber was sealed and now she realized the air vents had sealed up. An ozonelike odor tickled her nose and she backed away from the Russovsky-copy again. What a day to decide not to wear my z-suit. "Can you do anything in here with just that panel?"

  She saw Bandao lean over and speak into Maggie's comm. "Control the examination table, the lights, do an emergency atmosphere dump—"

  "I don't want that—hey!"

  Russovsky moved, reaching the glassite door, one arm swinging back. Before Bandao or Gretchen could react, the copy smashed a fist into the clear material and there was a resounding crash! The glassite flexed, spiderwebbed with cracks and rebounded with a singing, clear note. The copy staggered back, staring at its fist in wonder. Gretchen hissed in surprise, seeing the knuckles crumbling away like sand, spilling shining blue particles to the floor.

  "She's breaking down," Gretchen hissed into her comm.

  "She's been getting weaker the longer she's been aboard the ship. Bandao—what's her energy field reading?"

  "Weaker, but still hot!" The gunner snatched up his automatic from the display.

  The copy smashed into the door again, this time with both fists. Metal squealed, glassite splintered violently, sending tiny flakes whirring past Gretchen's head, and the entire door frame creaked. More blue sand scattered the floor and now deep rents split the copy's arms and shoulders.

  "Is there radiation shielding?" Gretchen shouted into the comm, scrambling back away from the blue dust winking on the floor. Some of the particles flickered with an inner light "Cut her off, cut her off!"

  Bandao stabbed a series of glyphs on the panel. The copy wrenched at the side of the hatch, grainy fingers digging into the twisted frame. There was a sound of metal tearing, then a deep basso hum welled up, filling the entire room. Secondary panels slashed down from the overhead, cutting off the observation window. One panel, over the hatch, ground down against the buckling frame, then stopped with a whine. Gretchen switched on her hand lamp and was greeted with the sight of the copy turning toward her, shining bluish-gray sand spilling away from massive wounds on its hands, face and arms. Even the z-suit and the poncho were breaking down. The copy lurched blindly toward Gretchen.

  "Lort!" She cursed, flinging the hand lamp away. The copy swung, tracking the spinning light, and lunged toward the flare of illumination. Gretchen dodged sideways, heard a crash as the copy slammed into a medical cart, then leapt to the deformed hatch. Bandao was on the other side, kicking at the twisted frame, trying to clear the jam.

  Gretchen caught the door frame, the
n pulled hard, foot braced against the wall. The distended frame squealed, then popped back toward her. With a thud, the radiation shielding dropped, sealing the hatchway.

  There was a sigh behind Gretchen and she jerked out of the doorway. Her boots skidded on gravel and sand, but she managed to catch herself. There was no sign of the copy, only disordered bluish dust everywhere. Even the color was fading, moment by moment, leaving only a dull gray residue on the floor.

  "Uhhhh ..." Gretchen slumped against the wall, dizzy, her heart racing. "Maggie?"

  There was no answer from the comm. Even the blinking light of the local suit-to-suit circuit had gone out.

  Hummingbird looked away from the jumbled image on his display panel. A tiny Anderssen had her head between her knees, back to the bulkhead of the medical bay. He tapped open the comm channel to the Cornuelle.

  "What happened?" Hadeishi had put away his tea and his book, and leaned forward, dark hair—unbound and loose, as he was off duty—framing a thin, concerned face.

  The tlamatinime rubbed his jaw, feeling the wrinkled seams of age under his fingertips. "Anderssen's ground team recovered the missing scientist today," he said, eyes drifting across his panel. Everything had come to a standstill on the Palenque, all of the compartments sealed, everyone isolated and confused. Only Fitzsimmons and Deckard remained on the loose, and they were in their quarters, hurriedly donning full combat gear. "But she was not what they expected."

  "She was a cartel agent?" Hadeishi's brown eyes had gone hard and cold.

  Hummingbird laughed softly. The so-efficient Sho-sa Koshō had made her views known to him, in her direct way. However, the woman had access to only a fraction of the information known to the tlamatinime. "No, she was not in the pay of Norsktrad Heavy Industries or some other pochtecatl." He stopped and raised a temporizing hand. "At least, not anymore. The—ah, how to put it?—the shape the ground team returned to the Palenque was not human. It was, instead, an entirely lifelike copy—at least to the human eye. They took the shape to Medical and tried to examine her and there was some trouble."

  "Was anyone killed?" Hadeishi's jaw twitched slightly, which made Hummingbird wonder who the naval officer would worry about on the civilian ship. Certainly not me, or his Marines.

  "No. Though the shape—some kind of mobile crystalline lattice—has been reduced to its essential components. The immediate danger is past."

  Hadeishi nodded and his shoulder shifted a fraction. Hummingbird realized the Fleet officer had prepared his own response, much like the tlamatinime's own. In the crucible of the moment, as the shape had tried to escape the medical bay, Hummingbird hadn't hesitated to initiate a destruct sequence for the civilian ship. Now the moment had passed, now Chu-sa Hadeishi had taken his hand away from a similar glyph, the tlamatinime was filled with a chill sense of relief at escaping annihilation.

  "There is a possibility of infection," Hummingbird continued. "But I believe Anderssen and the Marines have matters in hand. If not, then we will have to sterilize this ship."

  Hadeishi nodded, black eyebrows beetling together. "What about you? We can relocate you in five minutes notice—"

  Hummingbird shook his head. "There are more pressing matters than my safety. First among them is the matter of the mining refinery ship. Is it still in the system?"

  The captain sat for a long moment considering the matter. "Perhaps. Hayes and Koshō are reviewing the sensor logs, looking for a transit spike—so far they've found none. Our arrival may have caught them by surprise, in which case they are hiding somewhere in the system, waiting for us to leave. Or they may have left before we arrived. We have been making a detailed survey of the system—those logs could be examined for traces of their passage or presence."

  "Do it." Hummingbird stared at the Nisei captain for a moment, wondering how much to tell him. Hadeishi is well regarded, a loyal and able captain. He's done me good service in the past, but... He shook his head slightly, deciding to fall back upon the traditions of the Mirror. There is risk enough already, and the Chu-sa is reliable. "This situation could become very dangerous, Hadeishi-san. Not only to those of us in this system, but to the Empire. I am going to take care of matters both here on the ship and below on the planet. I must rely on you to deal with this mining refinery ship. But you must do so quietly."

  Hadeishi started to speak, then stopped, eyes narrowing. Finally, he said, "By quietly you mean in such a way no one will notice, or know, the miner was here, or we were here, or even the civilian expedition."

  The tlamatinime nodded. "Even so."

  "Without," Hadeishi continued, slowly stroking his beard, "the use of atomics, or antimatter weapons, or even—I venture—anything which might leave a lasting and detectable residue in the system, much less that which might be observed from the surface of Ephesus Three."

  "Yes."

  The captain straightened in his chair, tugging his tunic straight. He met Hummingbird's eyes with the slightest smile—barely a crease at his eyes, no more than the faintest twitch of his lips. "So the Mirror commands," he said, making a bow in his seat, "so we obey."

  A sharp bark of laughter escaped Hummingbird, and he nodded, making a wry smile. A cold thread of fear was trying to wrap around his neck, but he kept such phantoms away by a concentrated effort. He hoped the blue pyramid did not reveal something beyond his power to comprehend, though the bits and pieces of this puzzle were assuming a dreadful shape. "But quietly, Chu-sa Hadeishi, quietly."

  "What about you? To find the whereabouts of this miner—or even to discover if the ship is still in the system—will take us out of orbit, well beyond easy reach if you need retrieval."

  Hummingbird suppressed a further laugh, for he was long familiar with the ways of men, and with the Nisei in particular. The captain was not asking about Hummingbird, but about the men and women on the Palenque. He was asking about his Marines—would they live to return to the Cornuelle?—and even perhaps about Anderssen and the scientists. Delicately phrased, the Méxica thought, very... what is that word? Ah, kotonakare-shugi—the willful disregard of troublesome matters.

  "Anderssen," Hummingbird said, trading time—which he felt pressing—for politeness, "is taking her own steps, even now. She has a quick wit, in her light-haired way. If she fails, then I will do what must be done. I hope," he added, "to return Thai-i Isoroku, Gunso Fitzsimmons and Heicho Deckard to you at the earliest opportunity."

  Hadeishi made a sharp bow in response and the tlamatinime knew the man was a little embarrassed to have his concern referred to openly. The thought made Hummingbird a little sad. The Chu-sa obviously cared for his crew, as a grandfather did for even the meanest member of his clan. And I would trade all their lives for the Empire, he thought. Vague memories of a time when he had maintained such romantic notions threatened to surface and he made a sharp effort to keep them from distracting him. They are knights, as I am, in the service of a greater power. Like flowers, we are nothing but a fleeting moment of duty and service.

  "Is there anything you need, before we cut comm and boost out of orbit?" Hadeishi's attention was already far away, calculating angles and fuel usage and a dozen envelopes of detection. Hummingbird shook his head, then made a shallow bow of his own.

  "The road is long, crags above, ravines below," the tlamatinime said, raising his hand in parting.

  "But our feet are swift, our eyes eager to see the home hearth," Mitsuharu said, and closed the comm.

  Hummingbird rubbed his face, wrinkled fingers bronze in the glow of the comp displays. Fleet and civilian records had no record of a mineral or crystalline life-form which so deftly replicated a living human being. Too, he was intrigued by the degradation of the copy as time passed. It seemed, to his eye at least, the creature drew its strength from the planet in some undefined way. Travel to the ship, and then isolation behind the radiation barrier, had robbed it of the ability to move and hold shape.

  "But what made you?" He wondered aloud, replaying the arrival of Russov
sky on the ship at half-speed. "The world below was destroyed so long ago—has such a complex organism had time to flower in this barrenness? Or are you something left over from before—a ghost out of a dead epoch?"

  There was a cheerful chirp from one of his sub-panels. Hummingbird looked over, a sudden feeling of unease stealing upon him. The blue pyramid had seen fit to reveal one of its secrets to him. He pulled himself to the display—which sat apart from the others, and was only connected to his comps by a series of cutout buffers—and tapped a convoluted glyph showing a flayed man's face draped over the blackened head of a priest.

  A v-pane unfolded and Hummingbird began to read, his dark face barely illuminated by the soft lights playing across the glassite surface. In his eyes, a queer twisting flame burned, reflecting the images dancing before him in the depths of the pyramid.

  "Urrrh!" The tip of a metal bar scraped under the ragged edge of the radiation shielding. Maggie twitched her fingers aside—barely avoiding a bad cut—and then squeaked her own makeshift lever into the narrow opening.

  'Together," Gretchen shouted, hoping Magdalena and Bandao could hear her. Anderssen bore down with all her weight and the pleated metal groaned. An inch of bright lamplight was revealed and there was an answering grunt from the other side. "Again!"

  They'd managed to lift the radiation barrier nearly a foot when the main lights suddenly flicked back on and the medical comp beeped to announce it had reconnected to the rest of the shipside network. Gretchen looked up, feeling the cold breeze of the air circulators on her sweat-streaked face.

  "Oh, that feels good ..." She stood up, wiping her brow, and stabbed a forefinger at the hatch controls. She was rewarded with a screeching sound, and the broken panel ground up toward the overhead. The radiation panel hissed back as well and she ducked through the opening into the nurses' station. "You two all right?"