by Stuart Clark
* * * * *
Byron and Par reached Wyatt and both grabbed hold of an arm; fortunately they were still in their depth and could touch bottom. “You can’t rest yet,” Par said quickly to him. “Run!” His words were echoed by Chris up on the bank.
“Move, god dammit! Move! Move!” he shouted as he fidgeted on the spot. Powerless to do anything.
Behind them Byron heard a splash and took a brief look over his shoulder. His eyes widened in horror. A bow wave had started to form behind them. Something large and indiscernible was surging through the water towards them.
The three men pumped their legs furiously, each step fractionally easier than its predecessor.
“Run!” Kate screamed at them.
Kit unholstered his weapon and brought it up to take aim.
There was a whoosh as something exploded out of the water behind them and Wyatt, Par and Byron launched themselves onto the bank, diving the last few feet to safety.
Wyatt brought his hands up to protect his head, expecting to be covered in a spattering of blood as Kit emptied his weapon into whatever had chased them out of the water. Kit very rarely needed an excuse to cause some kind of suffering to someone or something, but the sound of shots never came. He peered from the ground to see Kit lowering his weapon, a look of complete astonishment on his face.
Wondering what it was that so nearly ended his life. Wyatt rolled over onto his back to take a look at it. Stranded on the mud, not four feet away from him, all he could see was a massive head. It must have been about six feet across and the whole front of it seemed to comprise a huge mouth which gaped open to reveal large, crude, pointed teeth. Alarmed by its proximity, he pushed himself away from it until he was standing about ten feet away. He walked around the side of it to take a better look at it. It was a mottled white color, like marble, except for two pinpricks of black, one on either side of its head, which must have been all that was left of its eyes. The head went back to a bony crest which fanned out over the neck region and behind that a long cylindrical body tapered off into the water. The start of a dorsal fin, which Wyatt suspected, ran all the way down its back and formed part of the concealed tail, was just visible out of the water. On either side of the animal’s abdomen were a row of appendages, all about a foot long, all looking like large webbed three-fingered hands, each finger being tipped by a tiny black nail. It was both grotesque and yet somehow beautiful.
As they examined it, the creature gasped for air making a strange squeaking noise. It seemed an unbecoming sound for something so large. The animal was wriggling, slowly sliding its way back down the mud. The tiny limbs all worked together to push it backwards and back into the safety of the water. When all that remained visible was its head, it swung itself around and struggled back into the lake, marking its departure by slapping its monstrous tail against the surface and showering the four men with the dirty water.
Wyatt collapsed in a heap.
CHAPTER
11
The young co-pilot reached behind him and pulled the two straps over his shoulders, clipping them into the buckle at his waist. He had started to feel the turbulence.
He looked across to his colleague and saw only himself reflected in miniature in the other’s visor. “Suggest you do the same, sir,” he said. “We’re entering the upper atmosphere.”
The pilot nodded his comprehension. “You have control,” he stated, and released the joystick that jutted up from the console between his legs.
The pilot turned to locate the harness and caught sight of one of the two more comfortable-looking seats located directly behind him and his younger counterpart. Soft, and clad in white leather; it was a much better deal being a passenger than a pilot, he thought. When he was strapped in he took control of the tiny craft once more.
He was piloting a skimmer. A small four-seat exploratory craft dropped from the belly of a larger ship which remained in a stationary orbit ten miles above the planet’s surface. He loved piloting these smaller ships. Even when fully loaded they were agile, maneuverable and responded to your every touch. At times he could even believe that the tiny craft was alive.
But they would not be flying to capacity today. They were here to pick up one man.
Strange, he thought, as he guided the small ship down through the turbulent air, blinded by the purple cloud. Strange that they should only be picking up an individual. The IZP would never send a lone man away on a mission, and there was no way that they were responding to a distress call. It had taken them weeks in hyperdrive to get here. There had to have been ships that were closer to this location than Earth’s moon. It was absurd!
No, this definitely had been arranged and he had suspected as much even before their journey had started. Not only that, the whole mission was shrouded in secrecy. When he had inquired about the task he had been assigned, asking the same questions that dogged him now, he had been told that the mission was classified, that the details were strictly on a need-to-know basis and he, as always, didn’t need to know. The truth was veiled from all but a privileged few. But what was truth these days, anyway? In the end, a healthy financial bonus and his curiosity had put paid to his original suspicion. All the same, he was intrigued about whom they would be meeting.
His thoughts were interrupted as the purple cloud parted before him like a curtain and he looked down the ship’s nose to the patchwork of emerald and brown far below. “We’re through,” he affirmed to himself as much as to anyone. “Set a course for the pickup point,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
Chris left Kate to tend to Bobby while he went over to check on Wyatt, who was coherent and lucid, just completely exhausted. His collapse was due solely to the fact that his legs simply could not hold him up any longer. With two people, including the team leader, needing medical attention, Chris found himself in the unusual position of being in charge.
“Par, can you stay here with Wyatt? Just keep an eye on him, he should be fine.” The Swede nodded his understanding. “Byron, I’m going to need you to give me a hand with Bobby. We’re going to need a stretcher, she’s not walking anywhere.”
“Okay, I’ll get to it.”
Chris turned to speak to Kit and was relieved to see that he had already taken up a position near the trees, his gun held close to his chest, clasped tightly in his hands. Good, Chris thought. One less conversation. One less confrontation.
Byron and Chris unfolded the fabric and assembled the poles that would make Bobby’s makeshift stretcher. At the pull of a cord, four small canisters injected liquid foam between the fabric layers which hardened quickly and set rigid. Within seconds the stretcher was ready. Gingerly, they picked Bobby up and lowered her onto it, Chris then strapping her down with straps across her chest, stomach, thighs and ankles.
“Is it safe to move her?” Byron asked.
Chris pulled a face. “I think so, but then, we don’t have much choice, do we?”
Kate surveyed the tree line that Kit patrolled like a caged animal, pacing backwards and forwards, retracing his steps over and over. It was a wall of vegetation for as far as she could see in either direction, a legion of trees whose advance had only been halted by the inhospitable surface of mud, the consistency of which would not support such giants.
“How do we know which way to go?” she murmured.
She started as Wyatt came up swiftly behind her. “That way,” he said confidently, pointing slightly to their right.
“But how do you know? The craft finder was lost in the crash.”
He tapped his wristwatch. “It’s not the craft finder that’s important. It’s what it told us.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“I programmed in the coordinates,” he beamed, expecting some recognition for his stroke of genius. He received the same, puzzled, vacant look. His smile dropped. “It’s not just a watch, you see,” he confessed, “More like a miniature computer. I programmed in the coordinates of the o
ther ships we found here before we took off. It will also tell us exactly where we are. If you have the two, after that it’s just simple math.”
“Oh,” she said, clearly not impressed.
Wyatt’s face dropped.
“What? What is it?”
“I just had a horrible thought. I hope they make these things water resistant.” He brought the gadget up close for scrutiny, tapped it once and then held it against his ear, a look of concentration on his face. Then the frown became a smile again. “Just kidding.”
Kate’s face hardened. “That wasn’t funny!” She turned away from him and stormed off towards the trees, Furball chittering and bouncing along beside her ankles.
“Hey! What did I do?” he shouted after her, but she carried on, stopping only to wrestle her pack off the ground and onto her shoulders. She glanced back at him. “I thought you were supposed to be sick,” she called to him.
“No, just fatigued. I’m a lot better now.”
“Oh,” she said with disappointment. “Shame.” The sarcasm was sharp.
Following Kate’s lead the others began hoisting their gear up onto their shoulders and traipsing up the bank after her. Kit, Wyatt could see, was already tracing a course to intercept Kate, to prevent her reaching and entering the tree line and perhaps being lost to them all. Kit’s actions might sometimes be questionable, but he wasn’t stupid.
They assembled again at the tree line, Byron and Chris gently placing the stretcher back on the ground while Wyatt spoke to them.
“We seem to have been lucky. By my calculations, the shuttle lies about seventy miles to the northeast of us. I anticipate a two- or three-day walk,” he broke off and looked at the nearby trees, “…depending on the terrain,” he added. “Any questions?” There were none. “Okay, stay sharp. We’re not the hunters any more…” he tailed off. There was no need to finish the sentence; he could see from their eyes that the others had all filled in the blank for themselves. With a nod, he turned and disappeared into the trees. One by one they followed him, with Chris and Byron bringing Bobby along at the rear. Suddenly Chris stopped, forcing Byron to come to an unexpected halt behind him. Chris was looking back at the lake.
“Alex,” he said quietly, almost questioningly. A pang of guilt struck the youngster. How could he have forgotten his friend, betrayed his memory so soon? But Alex was gone, along with the Santa Maria, taken to a watery grave somewhere far below the once-again still waters of the murky lake.
Byron dipped his head in sorrow. “It’s probably the best place for him, kid,” he said. “Nothing will touch him down there.”
Chris looked at the older man and found genuine compassion in his eyes. A deep understanding of what it was to lose, and to grieve. He nodded and managed a smile that the other struggled to return. Without another word they turned and were gone.
The only traces of the small outfit were footprints in the mud.
* * * * *
The skimmer banked sharply, dropping quickly to pass some hundred feet over the treetops. Substantial, now they looked like real trees, not the carpet of tiny green needles they had seen when they had first burst through the cloud. The small craft circled, slowed and then stopped, hovering above the forest.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” the co-pilot answered, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “We’re right where we should be, ten clicks due south of the Santa Maria’s position.”
“And there’s nothing?”
“No, sir. We’re not picking up any incoming transmissions.”
“But he should be here,” the pilot muttered.
“We could land…scout around a bit.”
“No!” The answer was sharp. “We’re under strict instructions not to put down unless we make contact.” The pilot looked at his watch. “He’s got a half-hour window. That’s how long we can stay here. In the meantime, scan the area.”
“Radius?”
“One mile. He should be that close at least.”
After tapping the console in front of him, the younger man let out a whistle of amazement.
“Anything?”
“Yeah,” he laughed, amused at the absurdity of the question. “Plenty. But nothing that resembles a human life form.” He looked at his colleague. “So what do we do now?”
“We give him his thirty minutes.”
* * * * *
The minutes slipped by inexorably slowly and by the time twenty-five had passed, the two men’s small talk had all but evaporated.
“You still scanning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“Nothing, sir. He’s not within a mile of us, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t think he’s going to show.”
“So what does that mean?”
The pilot sighed. “We leave. Simple as that.”
“But sir, if we leave, this man, well…sir, we’re the only pick-up, sir.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“But, sir…” pleaded the other.
“That’s it, flight-hand! He could be dead, for all we know. What would you have us do? Wait around for a dead man? We have our orders and they are to be followed, not questioned. There is nothing to discuss!”
The co-pilot made as if to say something, to argue further and then decided against it and slumped back into his chair. It was pointless. The decision had already been made.
After a minute of difficult silence, where each man could sense the other’s frustration, the pilot spoke. “Okay, then. A compromise.” It seemed he had regretted his outburst.
“Ten clicks, you say? That’s what? About six, six and a half miles?”
The other nodded.
“Well then, scan ahead seven miles for the Santa Maria. If we are in the right place, then she, at least, will be there.”
Unsure how to react to this abrupt about-turn, the younger man reluctantly set up the scan. It was a compromise of sorts, after all, they weren’t going to leave just yet. But scanning for the Santa Maria? It only served to show that the man seated alongside him still doubted his ability as navigator. “We’re in the right place,” he muttered insistently under his breath.
When the preliminary results of the scan came in, the co-pilot could barely contain his surprise. His superior caught it in his expression. “What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t understand…this just can’t be.”
“Not there, is it?” the pilot stated rather than asked, an air of smugness in his voice.
“But this is the right place. I’m sure of it,” the younger man protested, choosing to ignore the question but answering it all the same with his reply. “There’s no mistake.”
“Let’s check it out, shall we? We’ve got a few minutes to spare. If we find we’re in the wrong location, we can go back, get more power, then come back down again. Now where exactly is the Santa Maria?”
“Well,” the navigator said, doubt in his voice. “It should be ten kilometers north of here. Stay on this heading. She’s…she should be…right in front of you.”
The pilot took the skimmer out of its hover and then engaged the drives. They made the short flight in relative silence, the landscape passing swiftly below them in a collage of green, brown, yellow and the occasional spot of blue. Apart from the quiet hum of the drives the only other sound in the cockpit was the co-pilot muttering something about the coordinates being correct.
Abruptly, he sat up. “Slow down,” he said. “We’re close.” The pair exchanged a glance. “You know what I mean,” he added.
They slowed to cruising speed and shortly afterwards passed swiftly over a small clearing. A glimpse revealed a large area of crushed and shattered trees and not far away, two small cabins. As quickly as they came into view they were gone, and the skimmer was once more rushing over treetops. The pilot wrestled with the joystick and brought it around in a tight but perfectly executed turn. He slowed, then stopped, and surveyed the scen
e in front of him.
Apart from the rocky crag on which the cabins stood, most of the clearing had been made artificially. Something big had landed here, and what concerned him more was that that something had also taken off from here as well. Three black rings scorched indelibly into the ground paid testimony to that. The Santa Maria had definitely been here.
“No signs of human life, Sir. Not even faint heat traces. They’ve been gone from here for a long time.”
“Oh, boy,” the pilot said. “They’re not going to like this. They’re not going to like this at all.”
“Who, sir?”
“You don’t want to know,” came the reply, “And if anyone asks, you were never here.”
* * * * *
Bobby got heavier with time. At least that’s how it seemed to whoever carried her, so they decided to take stretcher-bearing in shifts. Originally Byron, Chris, Par and Kit had shared the task at Wyatt’s instruction but then Kate had stepped up and demanded she be included in the work, arguing that she could never be recognized as part of the team if Wyatt continually denied her responsibilities. He was looking out for her, of course, but when he tried to point this out she had looked at him as if he had wounded her and told him that while chivalry need not be dead, machoism should be; that he could hold back a vine, a twig, or branch to prevent it swinging back and swatting her in the face and the gesture would be appreciated, but he was not to forget that she was very capable of pushing it aside herself were he not there. The logic was fuzzy and he was not sure he completely understood it, but he could see the point she was making. Women, he thought. He was sure they would remain a mystery to him.
Regardless, he found himself warming to her. She had balls, if that was the correct phrase to use, which it probably wasn’t, he thought with a chuckle. She’d probably be mortified should the thought be given voice. If not balls, what then? What was he using the term as a metaphor for? In an instant it came to him. Pride. She was proud. She had a strong sense of who she was and what she was about, and it was an admirable quality. He could see a lot of Bobby in her and that would probably account for the friendship he had seen growing daily between the two women.