Ten minutes later, skin still damp from the stain, the three younger officers were climbing into thermal underwear and then into handmade imitation warsuits of the Rat Clan, suits on which the fort's tailor and his assistant had been slaving for two days. Once in the suits, they began to conceal about themselves the devices that lay on the long table at one end of the room. Slater managed to shift Grabbit's box into his Rucker belt pouch without being detected.
"We'll each have a minicamera." Muller held one of the tiny things up to the light. "They fit into the hilt of your bushknife, and they can't be—the knives, I mean—opened except by a reverse twist and a push toward the blade. The big knob on the hilt of each knife is a tiny beacon with a two-hundred-mile range and a service life of one hour. Copters and satellites will be listening to get a fix on it all the time. It is for the direst emergency only, and I don't mean personal emergency either, but that of the mission." He tapped the big knife on the table.
"It takes a good hard blow to smash the fake plasteel knob, and that activates the homer. Now look here." He held up a small package swathed in cloth.
"This is concentrated rations, Rucker style. It's hypercompressed, freeze-dried meat, uncooked. What animal, it's better not to speculate, except it won't be human. We'll each have three. Inside each block is a tiny blast grenade, a miniature of the issue type you're used to. The meat is genuine and edible. You'd have to rip the block open to find the grenade."
Muller continued to spell out the equipment, down to I-Corps minitorches, ultra miniature radio compasses, night-vision goggles, captured bows, and rifles as Slater tried to catch Danna's eye. But she seemed fascinated by the colonel's lecture and paid the anxious young man not the slightest attention, even when he shifted his position to place himself nearer her.
"I said, Slater, can't you use a Rucker bow? Are you awake yet, man?" Suddenly aware that he was being addressed, Slater tried to pull his wits together.
"Sir, I—yes, I can. I've practiced a lot and even killed some small game."
"I know, but you're certain not to be warman standard. That makes four of the party who can use one. Feng and Nakamura can carry spears. A few of the warmen do because some men simply never make good bowmen, no matter how much they practice. We'll all have rifles, but the cartridges can't be replaced, of course, so we'll nurse them—like real Ruckers."
The immensely powerful little cartridges he referred to were not the various pellets or darts that both the handguns and the rifles actually fired.
Filled with compressed nitrogen under enormous pressure, the cartridges powered the different projectiles, however. Once they were exhausted, only a UN ordinance depot could reload them. Rucker artisans could make or duplicate almost anything in their hidden factories, but the precious propellant cylinders had to be stolen or done without. As a result they were the most precious form of loot to any of the True People and the one universal coinage of the Ruck. With cartridges one could buy almost anything except another human being or escape from a blood debt.
"Well, that's about it," Muller said. "Captain Feng, a private word with you." He took the I-Corps officer off into a corner, and they spoke in low tones for a minute. Slater noticed that Feng seemed agitated and angry, rare thing for a man who cultivated imperturbability as a matter of course.
"I'm sorry to have to make this statement," Colonel Muller said as he returned to the others.
"Briefly, Lieutenant Dutt would seem to have deserted. She came to my quarters last night and asked to speak to me privately. I was surprised at the intensity of her plea as well as its nature though the latter was perhaps understandable in a young and ambitious officer. She wished to be one of our group, and gave many reasons, none of which I found convincing. I refused. Here is where she was and, indeed, is needed. She has had no special training for the Ruck and, as a matter of fact, appears actually to have disliked it, from what I can learn since. She was chagrined at my refusal, but perfectly correct about it. I thought little of the matter until an hour ago, when the gate guard commander, Lieutenant Choibalsan, reported that he had let her out the gate. She had the password, of course, and also a 'verbal order' from me! To 'inspect' something or other." He turned and smiled at Feng, who was obviously unhappy. "Any other branch but I-Corps might have had a rough time pulling off that stunt, Captain. But your branch has its own rules. I've even heard rumors that line officers who make trouble for you don't get promoted. A reputation that opens doors, and gates, is sometimes embarrassing, eh?
"I had to tell Feng first, since it concerns his branch and because I-Corps occupies a special position in our plans and, of course, our defenses. Captain Feng says that he wishes you all to be made aware of this matter, and he has also offered to resign his position and remain here at the fort. I have refused his offer since Chief Warrant Le Sage is perfectly capable of handling the I-Corps work for the time being. I have already sent a comm to I-Corps Central asking for another experienced officer on a crash basis, to stay here until the present matter is settled." He looked around, his gaze cold.
He went on. "I don't know what this means, but I don't like it at all. However, I am leaving warman Arta Burg of the True People here at the fort. When information I have asked for comes in, he'll bring it to me. I thank him, and Danna Strom for asking him. Now, enough talk. You all look fit and ready. Let's be on our way." He led the way out the door and all the others followed, leaving Burg and the two enlisted men behind. Slater felt sorry for the young warman, who plainly hated the fort and all it stood for.
At the main gate, two figures appeared out of the key dark and identified themselves as Major van Schouten and Captain M'kembe.
"All right, Major, I'm off," Muller said. "Now listen. You are in actual command. But you are not to give an order without consulting Captain M'kembe, do you understand? He has ten times your combat experience. I have cleared this with Ares and Orcus. If there is any doubt in your mind whatsoever, I'll have a written order drawn up." His voice was low but penetrating. Slater, who stood nearest to him, could hear clearly, but he was sure that at least a couple of the others could too. Knowing the colonel, this was unlikely to be an accident. He could not demote van Schouten, but he could take precautions. Now there were witnesses.
At van Schouten's murmured assent, Muller swung away and waved the others on past him and out the gate, which had been opened just wide enough for one to pass through at a time. Even so, Slater noted as he squeezed out, a squad of riflemen was deployed in the shadows behind them. Yes, Muller took few chances!
The little party ran at a lope across the frosted grass of the cleared areas, crouching as they did. No sound came from the fort. The sentries had been alerted, of course. A viewer on the battlements would have seen only a flitting patch of shadow, hardly darker than the surrounding night. Then Marswood swallowed them. Far away, the scream of an animal broke the silence. In the east, no glow appeared. It was still night and dawn was far off.
Chapter Seven – The Wayfarers
THE FOREST seemed silent as well as chill to Slater as he padded over the leaf mold. He had never been out in it at night. Save for Muller, who was notoriously a law unto himself, he knew of no one in the garrison who had. The Old Mars hands whom one met on leave, retired prospectors and whatnot, always claimed to have lived for weeks in the Ruck by themselves. Some had, there was no question of that, but most were liars. At any rate, regulations forbade night work except under direct orders and in extraordinary circumstances. In the Ruck odds against a man were tough enough during daylight hours, without adding to them.
They were moving along a narrow game trail quickly located by Muller and Thau Lang. Thau Lang was at point, Muller following. Behind them, in single file, were Nakamura, Danna, Feng, Slater, and, last, the young warman, Milla Breen. The Ruckers were thus interspersed through the little column to help the three greenhorns. Muller, it was obvious to everyone, did not fit that category.
As his first tenseness began to ebb away, Sl
ater found himself drinking in the beauty of the night. Random perfumes and strange scents came from the half-frozen, tangled vegetation around them. Insects whose DNA-modifications had tailored them to survive the dank chill stridulated and something croaked regularly. There was even a song, a gentle rise and fall of melody, which died away behind them after a time, leaving the night the poorer. Slater had had no idea that a night-haunting bird existed, that it sang to the dark wood. Certainly he had never read of such a thing. Perhaps it was not a bird. The Ruck had many strange life-forms of its own, many native and very old. The catalogs were a long way from being complete.
Other noises abounded. Ferkats, those solitary prowlers, screamed their war and hunting cries. Once in the distance a series of echoing howls momentarily silenced the wood. Muller halted the column, and they did not move again until the howling came again from a much greater distance. Mars wolves, the mutated offspring of early settlement dogs, were both cunning and ferocious. Like the canid ancestors from which they sprang, they were pack hunters, making them dangerous even to large parties.
As Slater's night sight grew better, he began to move with less hesitation. The party could not move really fast anyway, but there was a confidence in the steps of the three Ruckers and Muller that he envied and hoped to acquire.
So far as Slater could tell, they were angling to the east. The fort lay on a corner of the shallow plateau called Isidis Regio, the southern section of a larger plateau area. The fort had been designed to protect the cryolite mine that lay still farther to the south, on the edge of a deep valley called Thoth after the ibis-headed god of ancient Egypt. As well as he was able to judge from occasional glimpses of the stars through the tangled leaves, the track they were on seemed to parallel the broad trail from Fort Agnew to the Universal mine. He could see the reason for avoiding the actual trail easily enough. The Universal officials had their own police who were not above setting an ambush for Ruckers themselves, and the warmen might also be hoping to catch some late traffic.
Suddenly Muller signaled a halt. Slater could see his hand flung up against the far northern stars, where a racing blot of luminescence against the night horizon revealing the recession of Phobos, the larger and nearer moon of the Martian twins, hurtling along on its second journey of the twenty-four-and-a-half-hour day. But Muller had not halted them to look at the moon. Then, behind him, Slater heard Breen take a deep breath. He copied the warman's action. And down a gentle but icy breeze came the stench of decaying flesh.
In any wild area that scent attracts predators. In the Ruck, at night, there was simply no telling what might be drawn to it. Muller and Thau Lang spoke briefly, heads together, voices low. Slater simply watched the dark huddle and listened to the noises of the night. He could see Danna, a slight shape some few paces off, and had the urge to speak to her, but he was a trained officer and the discipline of the march was a thing one did not break lightly. Instead he rested, leaning on his rifle. He carried the short bow slung over his back, since there was no point in his even thinking of using it at night. A blotch of shadow he identified as Lang moved off and so he settled down. Evidently Muller thought a one-man scout party would be in order.
The old konsel was back in no time and the group hurried on at Muller's wave. In a few moments they were standing under the source of the smell, now so strong it made Slater gag. Yet he saw that Muller's face in the dying moonlight was quite serene as it looked up to the things above them.
They stood in a little clearing, and the light was three times that which they had been using in the dark thickets. Most Terran trees adapted to Martian conditions did not grow tall, despite one-third Earth gravity. The incredibly violent winds of the smaller planet, and the temperature extremes, did not encourage great height as a survival characteristic. But here, in a slight depression in the forest, two or three had managed to reach a respectable height. One of them was the tree under which they now stood trying to ignore the stench. It looked to Slater something like a beech, but he was no botanist. From an outstretched branch, like a crooked arm, two shapes hung at least fifteen feet off the ground. Once human, they were now very dead. Milla Breen made a grating noise in his throat and Danna touched his arm. He was silent but Slater saw the glitter of his eyes. He felt a touch on his own arm and saw that Muller had come over and was holding a knife out to him.
Slater estimated the distance, laid his weapons down, and jumped. It was about twenty feet, a good jump even at Mars weight and for a well-trained Earthman. He caught the body he had aimed for in one gloved hand, praying to himself the thing was not so decomposed that it would come apart under his weight. A human body is tougher than it looks. This one held. Open-mouthed, for he simply could not use his nose, Slater swarmed up it and onto the limb from which it hung. There it was a simple matter to cut both down and follow in one leap, bringing with him a section of the rope.
He handed this to Muller then trotted over to a corner of the clearing and was quietly sick.
He almost jumped when Muller spoke from close beside his ear. The way the colonel moved was simply inhuman. "Thanks" came the frosty breath. "They were Ferkat Clan. Hanging them up that way for the birds to play with is the worst thing an enemy could have done. No Rucker would have done it. Not even to one of us, let alone one of themselves. They always bury their dead out in the wood, under a tree or other big plant. This rope is Terran, or a good imitation. Someone is trying to make trouble." He ignored the reason that Slater was off by himself and went on.
"Whoever did this is either a mining company halfwit or serious about raising all the clans at once. Against us. I think the latter, personally, and so does Thau. I wish I hadn't had you jump though. It saved time, but it also emphasized that a Terran could do it easily." He left and went back to the others. The big knives cut a rude grave under the tree and the two poor husks were shoved into them. Thau Lang spread his arms and said a few words in his native tongue, then half-frozen soil was scraped over the bodies and tamped down. Quickly they were off again, padding over the cold, dead leaves and tangled grass, breath steaming from their hoods as they loped along.
They had gone a few miles and Slater was beginning to feel the strain in his calf muscles when they halted again, this time in response to a signal from Lang. Phobos had set and the night had the same predawn black that comes to Earth at the same hour. Slater crouched under a giant thistle, careful not to touch the leaves, then noticed that the others were holding their rifles at the ready. His came off his back in a second and he leaned back and signed "what?" to Breen, who was right next to him. Breen cupped one hand to his hooded head where an ear would have been. Slater nodded and listened.
At first there was nothing, save for the usual night sounds. Faint animal cries came from far away and the insects still chirped feebly here and there. Then he heard it. The howl of a Marswolf pack, somewhere off in the night, a rising chorus of sound. It might even have been the same one they had heard earlier.
Slater wondered later on how Lang could have known that the beasts were on their track. Certainly the pack was not close. The ability was, he decided eventually, one of those little things that made you one of the True People. You just knew. Again the cry came, welling through the frosty air. The very faintest shade of gray was lifting some of night's shroud. Dawn was not far away.
Muller made a signal and they all began to run, ignoring noise and going as hard as they were able. Strung out on the narrow path, they could not come up with a defense that had any chance of success. To make use of their weapons, they needed room. Behind them, about a half kilometer off, were the oncoming wolves. Slater's heart began to pound, but there was no sign of a slow-up from the leaders. Self-discipline was the only answer to Slater's pain. If you had a leader, he was the man to give the orders. Without warning, the cover broke and they ran into the open, automatically spreading out to give each one a field of fire. It was lighter now, and visibility was spreading as one watched.
Lang had found the
m another round clearing, larger than the one where the dead warmen had been hung up to rot. The floor of this one was stone or sand, and little grew there but long, gray moss. When Slater saw Muller and the old Rucker wheel and fall, he did the same, rifle at the ready. Lang had not left them much time, but just enough.
Fog was already beginning to rise from the ground in patches. The cold, heavy fog of a summer morning would not burn off until 10 a.m. or so. Through it now, hungry and lean, came the Marswolves.
In two hundred years, the inexorable rules of natural selection had produced a new canid, far removed from the beloved pets of human beings. Lighter gravity had given the wolves longer legs and the cruel winters of Mars—minus 40°C. in places, despite the warming ability of the new atmosphere—had given them really thick fur. The stupid and the weak were gone, rigorously pruned by the harsh conditions. What remained were big-chested, hundred-pound demons with mottled pelts all the colors of a brown-gray-black spectrum, able to run down and devour just about anything that moved. A dozen of these burst into the clearing at a dead run and fanned out as had the humans whom they were hunting.
Slater switched the rifle lever past NARCOTIC and EXPLOSIVE, to POISON. He quickly shot two wolves and saw one die in midair, so quick was the action of the hybrid cyanide mixture in the needles. A metallic sound made him look to the right and he saw Danna wrestling with her rifle. A jam! And a yellow-fanged, mostly black monster was charging her from the side. Slater fired as Danna disappeared under the weight of the brute.
Totally unconscious that the seconds-long battle was over, he ran over to her, stumbling as he ran, and frantically tore at the heavy carcass. Suddenly the wolf's body seemed to heave of its own volition, and Danna pushed it away, sat up, and glared at him. He reached down to help her up but she angrily struck his hand away. She said nothing because the wind had been knocked out of her. Feeble though she might be for the moment, it was plain she wanted no assistance from Slater. He turned away, not angry, simply relieved that she was all right. He caught Breen watching him with a curious expression and wondered if the young warman was jealous. Without a word, Slater reloaded the rifle from his belt pouch.
Menace Under Marswood Page 7