Wasteland of Flint

by Thomas Harlan

  "She has," Gretchen muttered, her fingers dancing on the panel. "And Bandao is watching outside, just in case."

  Parker felt the air tremble and looked back. A cargo lading arm descended from the roof of the bay, entirely ominous in the darkness, only a suggestion of movement, of long reaching steel claws. Two massive lading braces appeared out of the gloom and slid into matching grooves on either side of the cargo pod. The pilot inched back—he'd seen more than one spaceport worker crushed between a pod and the side of a shuttle or the maneuvering arms. The pallet clanked away from the shuttle deck, then swung away into darkness.

  "Here we go," Gretchen said in a strained, tight voice. "Better get behind me."

  Parker slid past her, then flinched as a second pod—just as large as the first—emerged from the darkness. His hand tightened on a hold-on bar. "That's not—"

  "—on the loading track?" Gretchen's busy fingers had slowed. Now they drifted gently across the control panel. "No. No, it's not."

  The new pallet was held by a second pair of loading arms, and Parker knew—as he felt a cold curl of sweat slithering down the back of his neck—the new pod was approaching at a strange angle. He dialed up his work goggles and saw the lading arms from the adjoining number two shuttle cradle were holding the new pallet. "Sister! Boss... there's too much stress on that armature."

  "It'll be fine," Gretchen whispered, featherlight fingertips inching the arms towards the bay doors. "Just fine. There's just enough..."

  Metal squealed against metal, and the entire shuttle trembled. Parker bit back a shout of fear. Gretchen hissed, then stabbed a forefinger at a "backup" glyph. The pod shivered, there was another grinding sound and the huge rectangular bulk popped back. Parker was immediately into the gap, catching the upper edge of the shuttle cargo door.

  "There's no clearance," he said in a strangled voice. "You've torn a sixty centimeter strip right off the edge of the seal." The pilot's upper half was invisible above the four-ton cargo door. "I don't know if it'll close properly now."

  Gretchen blinked, then called up a schematic of the shuttle bay on the panel. When she looked up, she was startled to see Parker staring at her. For a moment, she'd forgotten he was there. "We have to get that second pod into this shuttle in no more than..." Gretchen's eyes slid sideways to her chrono, then back to fix on the pilot, "... two hours."

  "What happens in two hours?"

  "Hummingbird and his Marines will be down here," Anderssen said in a flat voice. "And they'll strap him into the Midge in that first pod." She tried to grin, failed, and went on. "You'll be with them, of course, as pilot. And you are going to adjust for carrying two pods rather than one in the shuttle cargo bay."

  "What's in the new pod?" Parker asked in a suspicious tone.

  "Me." Gretchen's face twisted into a tight simulacra of a smile. "And Russovsky's Gagarin."

  "Oh, boss, now wait a minute! That's—"

  "What we're going to do." A sharp hand movement cut him off. "Right now. Maggie's not going to be able to fool the surveillance system for much longer, not without leaving tracks all over the onboard environmental system logs."

  Parker swallowed, wished he had a tabac, then wiped his mouth. "Okay. Okay. We've got to load up differently—having the number two arm reach across is all crazy. These shuttles are designed to load straight on, right from the back. So ..." He stared at the schematic, then shook his head, long thin fingers stabbing tentatively at the display, "... we're gonna hope the Palenque doesn't suffer an inertial event in the next twenty-six minutes."

  In the darkness of the bay, the number two arm shifted, servomotors whining, and rose up. At the same time, the number one arm slid aside, stabilized and detached from the pod. While Parker sweated below, both sets of arms retracted with a rattling scrape. Both cargo pallets hung suspended in z-g, unsupported and Unsecured. The massive lading assemblies swung up and away, changing places in an ill-seen dance, then gently drifted forward to switch pods.

  The pilot was sweating rivers, hoping he didn't bump one ,of the two-ton pods and send it careening across the shuttle bay. With infinite delicacy, the number one arm approached Hummingbird's pallet. The steel tongues caressed the locking grooves, and Parker held his breath, feeling each second drag endlessly as the lading arm's attractor field locked with the magnetic striping along the groove.

  Gretchen leaned up against the wall, eyes closed, both arms wrapped around a hold-on. Her mind was whirling with frantic, useless details. Parker's constant stream of muttered commentary seemed to echo in a vast distance, supplemented by soft clangs and squeaks.

  The number two cargo pod—gripped securely in the shuttle one lading arm—advanced into the black mouth of the shuttle hold. The rectangular shape clanked to the deck and a series of telltales lit, indicating an acceptable lock with the cargo deck.

  Shuttle-side motors kicked in with a whine and the pod slid smoothly to the back of the bay.

  Fifteen minutes later, the number one pod completed the same maneuver and Parker shut down the cargo lading system with a heartfelt sigh. His watch said forty-five minutes remained before Hummingbird's wake-up. Very close. Sister—maybe I'll get to sleep when both of them are off-ship!

  Gretchen looked up from the shockchair of the Midge, a tangle of blond hair framing her face. A cocoon of straps coveted her, and the tiny cabin of the ultralight was crowded with supplies and packets of gear. The retracted wings of the aircraft were folded around and behind her in a hexacarbon cloak. Above her, Parker and Bandao crouched at the edge of an access panel in the top of the pod.

  "Now Parker-tzin, you remember to come back for me in sixteen days. Watch for us—we'll be in just one Midge if this is going to work—and don't miss with the skyhook."

  "I never—well, hardly ever—miss, boss." Parker's grin was half-hearted. "What if the Cornuelle shows up? Should I stay away?"

  Gretchen shook her head. "I'm sure they'll come, but you be there, too. I don't like heights."

  Bandao shook his head at their badinage, placid face as still and composed as ever. Gretchen caught his eyes with a wry look.

  "You can't go in my place, Dai. You'll have to keep Parker out of trouble for me."

  "Impossible." The little Welshman did not seem concerned. He handed her a heavy package wrapped in olive-drab canvas. "The Company is paying me to protect you, Doctor Anderssen. My contract requires I exercise due diligence. So here—you might need this."

  Weighing the package in her hands elicited a metallic clank. "A weapon?"

  Bandao shrugged, pale eyes showing no trace of humor. "A Sif-52 shockgun. Very simple to use. Breaks down into four components for ease of transport. Just jack the loading lever, then point and pull the trigger. The ammunition will work even in a low-oxygen atmosphere. There is a manual in the bag. And extra rounds."

  "Thank you, Bandao-tzin ." Gretchen smiled warmly at the neatly-dressed man as she tucked the canvas case beneath the seat. "Time to lock me up."

  Parker and Bandao disappeared from view. A moment later, the hatch cycled shut, leaving her in darkness. Gretchen tried to settle her shoulders comfortably into the shockchair and failed, though she was terribly weary. Maybe I'll sleep anyway.

  THE CORNUELLE, OUTBOUND

  Hadeishi watched the navigation plot in the threat-well shift, and the light cruiser's glyph swept across an entirely featureless volume of Ephesian space. The chu-sa looked up and nodded to his exec, who was sitting at attention, hands resting lightly on the chromatic surface of her control panel.

  "Main drives, if you please," Hadeishi said, leaning back a fraction in his chair. They were now at sufficient distance from the third planet to risk a larger signature. "And configure the hull for maximum scan."

  Muted activity followed, but Hadeishi smiled faintly as he felt the ship shift and tremble as the main power plant spun up. A counter began to run on his main panel, showing the time until he could call on cruising speed, then on maximum combat acceleration.

&
nbsp; Koshō turned her head slightly. "G-decking on?"

  Hadeishi nodded. He was tired of living in z-g. Tea should stay in a proper cup by itself.

  A second tremor flowed through the ship and the chu-sa felt his stomach twist, then settle into a reasonable orientation. The shockchair adjusted, letting his weight settle into the comfortable frame, and the faintest thread of uneasiness receded. That's better.

  "Deploy main sensor array," Hadeishi said, watching the threat-well stir to new life. Countless fresh details were now added to the holo as the hull and the main arrays began to soak up the sea of radiation and information sleeting past the light cruiser. He pointed with his chin. "Situation in orbit over Three?"'

  Smith perked up, nervously straightening his duty jacket. "I can throw a whisker to the Palenque, sir."

  Hadeishi pursed his lips, considering his options. "Any motion?"

  "All quiet at this lag and EM level," Koshō replied, her panel flickering with dozens of sensor feeds. The captain nodded. Without an active scan of near-Ephesian space, they were unlikely to pick up anything which was not in violent, reflective motion.

  "Smith-tzin, see if you can raise Thai-i, Isoroku—but quietly. Don't paint the whole ship trying to acquire a comm lock."

  The young midshipman nodded, his face composed in concentration. Hadeishi watched his panel with interest—one section mirrored the communications officer's display—and was pleased to see the boy had maintained constant targeting coordinates for the main comm array on the archaeology ship as the Cornuelle had sped away. Good thinking, Hadeishi observed. Now, how much drift and interference has occured?

  "I have a channel," Smith announced a moment later. He struggled manfully to hide his pride. "Engineer Isoroku is on voice-only comm, channel sixty-six."

  Very properly done, Hadeishi thought, glancing at Koshō. The exec did not seem to be paying attention. Her eyes were on the threat-well and her sensor feeds. Hadeishi did believe for a moment the sho-sa had missed Smith's initiative and efficiency. "Well done, Smith-tzin. Good morning, Isoroku-san. How are things aboard the Palenque today?"

  There was a delay. Smith's comm laser trudged to the distant orbital, then back again.

  "... shuttle one is away with nauallis Hummingbird aboard..."

  Hadeishi listened with mounting concern as the engineer related the judge's method of arriving on the planetary surface without attracting undue attention. A cold feeling began to well up in his breast, listening to the engineer describe Hummingbird's preparations.

  This is not good, he realized, mentally counting the days until the Cornuelle could return to the space around the third planet. "Isoroku-san, how are your repairs progressing?"

  "Speedily," came after a moment's delay. "Shuttle one will return in sixteen hours. We should have main drives operating today. Navigational control systems are also being repaired. In two days we should be able to ease out of orbit."

  "Those are your orders?" Hadeishi clasped his hands. "From the judge directly?"

  "Hai, chu-sa," replied the engineer. "He wants us out of the way as quickly as possible."

  "I see." Hadeishi's eyes lingered on the burning red disk of the planet at the edge of the threat-well. "Then "you should move ahead with all prudent speed. Sho-sa Koshō, can we tap local visual from the Palenque? I would like to see this for myself."

  THE EDGE OF THE EPHESIAN ATMOSPHERE

  Lying in darkness, Gretchen squirmed a little from side to side. The shockfoam in the cockpit of the Gagarin was old and stiff. There was a properly shaped cavity for lean old Russovsky, but not for the shorter and rounder Anderssen. A harness pinned her to the seat, holding her tight against the inevitable moment when everything would happen with violent simultaneity. For the moment, however, nothing was happening. The cramped cockpit of the Midge was entirely dark, every system shut down, the power plant quiescent. Outside the pitted, scored canopy, the wings of the ultralight folded around her like a shroud, nestled inside a web of shock cable and a tightiy packed parafoil. Even with light, she wouldn't see the corrugated walls of the surrounding pod. All she could feel was equipment pressing in around her.

  Anderssen doubted the Marines riding shotgun with Parker would bother to scan the interior of the cargo bay, but she wasn't going to risk discovery by powering up the Gagarin. Her z-suit was already providing air, water, and waste recycling. There was absolutely nothing to do but sit and wait in the darkness. Even the shuttle itself was quiet, falling out of the Palenque's distant orbit with engines cold, only a dust-gray wedge spiraling down into the gravity well of the planet.

  In the darkness, Gretchen tried to sleep. She was terribly tired, her nerves trembling with too many injections of eightgoodhours. The medband had finally stalled, passing some threshold, and refused to give her another jolt. Even requests for a sleep aid had been ignored. Anderssen picked at the lump the metal band made under the rust-colored layer of her suit. Stupid thing, she thought bitterly, I want to sleep now! Why won't you help me ?

  Trying to relax was impossible. Her mind raced, thoughts rushing past in a constant, dizzying stream. Every moment of the mission crowded her mind's eye, each memory sharp and preternaturally distinct. The airlock of the Palenque opening, revealing darkness. Parker spitting. The tons of white dust they'd cleaned out of the environmental filters. Shuttle one descending to the base camp in a huge brick-red cloud. Fitzsimmons laughing at her, dark eyes twinkling under a cloud of unruly hair. The cylinder lying in a pool of intense white light.

  My find, she thought, and her thoughts fixed upon the slab of limestone, the jagged edges and the rough, weathered surface. Every pit and crack seemed perfectly clear in her mind's eye. My ticket.

  The Company did not pay her well. She was a junior scientist without a patron in the Company hierarchy. Her postings to Mars and Ugarit had gone reasonably well, but neither dig director had decided to keep her on after the initial assignment. So there'd been no re-up bonuses. Field scientists were expected to maintain their own gear and tools, though each expedition provided food, transport and most necessities. But Ugarit and Mars had eaten up her clothes, tools, comps .. .

  she was never going to get rich bouncing from site to site this way. She needed a patron, a permanent posting, some status. Something no clanless macehualli technician scientist was going to get.

  In the darkness, Gretchen bit her lower lip, wishing she had something useful to do. If it were just me, she mused, her thoughts turning into a well-worn groove, I'd be fine.

  Junior-grade xenoarchaeologists were supposed to be solitary, clanless, without ties to home, hearth and district. They were not supposed to have three children of calpulli age at home. Gretchen's right hand moved automatically, blunt fingertips reaching sideways to brush the surface of a 3v card wedged into the rightside navigation panel on the Midge. A faint, greenish glow answered her motion and Gretchen snatched her hand back. She didn't need to see the three shining faces looking up out of the swimming pool. Her memory was better, sharper than a dying 3v from a cheap camera. In her memory, they were right in front of her....

  Mommy! Mommy! We saw an otter! A real one, like in the old books. It was swimming!

  Gretchen gasped, feeling a crushing weight press down on her chest. Heavy emotion welled up, tightening her throat. There was a little boy at home, and two little girls, who deserved better than working on a lumbering crew, or running drag lines on a fishing boat, while age stole their smiling eyes. But her salary didn't go very far—not far enough to get them into a calmecac school with the sons and daughters of the landholders, or the tutors they'd need to pass entrance exams for a pochteca academy. Her own hard-won education had cost the last of the credits her grandmother had so carefully hoarded during the war.

  Now all they had was a marginal farm on the edge of cultivation, a big rambling wood and stone house hiding amid stands of realspruce and fir, a truck which ran more often than not and the flitter. And me. We have me out here, at the edge of human sp
ace, sitting in a cargo pod with nothing but some hexacarbon around me and an ultralight that's spent too many hours in the air already... uuh!

  ―—―

  Gretchen felt the world lurch, the restraining harness biting into her shoulder. Her stomach dropped away and a thundering roar began to penetrate the heavy walls of the cargo pallet. Here we go, she gulped, feeling the Midge rock against the cargo rails. The air-landing pod groaned, the joints of the four walls squeaking in darkness. Fighting against rising nausea, she grabbed hold of the control stick and flipped a series of "dumb" switches to life. The fuel cells woke up with a whine. Power trickled through the Gagarin's main systems and faint lights began to gleam on the control panels.

  Comm woke up, tumbled across a dozen channels and then locked onto the sound of Parker's voice—gone icy cold and even, as if he were reading from a script. "Rate six hundred, rate five hundred seventy, rate ..."

  The scream of air across metal and ceramic drowned him out and Gretchen felt sweat spring out all over her body. She tried to reach the main wing controllers and failed, gloved fingertips failing to answer her mind's command. Cursing, she clenched her hand, mastered control of her arm and then—aiming carefully—mashed down a pair of control switches. A bleat of warning—lost in the shriek of reentry—answered her, but the locked-down wings began to stiffen. She'd need every second she could cheat from time and physics once the pallet blew out of the back of the shuttle.

  "Five hundred," Parker's voice cut through the steadily rising howl. "Brace!"

  Gretchen ground herself back into the shockfoam, legs stiff against the firewall beside the foot pedals. Her eyes screwed shut, though her forebrain knew it wouldn't make any difference....

  The Komodo slammed into the upper atmosphere, a sheet of flame licking at the edge of the triangular wings, bounced and then skittered across the sky, slewing from side to side. Inside her dark box, Anderssen was slammed into the shockfoam once, then twice, then she lost count. After an endless series of jarring motions, the comm channel bleated a warning and light flooded into the bay as the rear cargo door clamshelled open.