“Dafoe. . . . I can see Quill. They’re—My God, they’re everywhere.”
Grant surged to his feet, but his tone stayed calm. “Krenshaw, switch to Dafoe’s vid.”
The screen changed to show Dafoe’s line of sight. At first, Gail didn’t see what the FD was talking about—she was apparently looking at the nearest grass, bent flat by the edge of the pod’s ramp. Then Krenshaw stepped up the magnification slightly.
The grass itself was subtly iridescent. The play of color stopped halfway up the plant, as though each of its stalks had been dipped in a fine oil. Even as they watched, the color detached itself, first from one stalk and then several, falling like thin ribbons through the tangle of crushed grass.
“Dafoe’s heart rate’s up to 130, Commander.”
Before Grant could reply to this advisement, Dafoe’s voice came through the comm: “As if yours wouldn’t be, Sensun.”
“Keep it professional, people,” Grant ordered dryly, but the break in tension was palpable.
“Did you expect so many, Dr. Smith?” Aaron asked. Without being told, Krenshaw changed to the ’bot’s perspective, so they once again saw both figures and the Athena.
Sitting in her field of Quill, Gail told herself, stunned as she tried to estimate how many Quill there could be, if every blade of grass hid a filament, and grass covered this world.
“We wanted to find them,” she said out loud. “Congratulations, everyone. Proceed with Trial Number One when ready.” Gail saw Grant stiffening slightly and changed her mind. “Wait. Before you do, let’s see if you can catch some filaments from on the ramp.”
“Copy that, Dr. Smith. Setting up to retrieve filaments.”
While Aaron waited on the ramp, as if entranced by the view, Dafoe went back inside the Athena, returning shortly with a stasis box she passed to the ’sider, and a portable remote handling arm. They watched as she used the arm to gently grasp some of the grass that was still coated in Quill, then pull.
The Quill slipped off and disappeared. Not just the filaments Dafoe tried to grab, but the telltale iridescence vanished in the blink of an eye from every blade in sight.
“You said they couldn’t move,” Aaron commented.
“They dropped to the ground,” Dafoe argued. “That’s not moving. Sorry, Dr. Smith. I may have knocked them loose. I’ll try scooping up some of the underlying soil and roots.”
“Bring samples of the plants, too,” Gail ordered. “There may well be changes in the biota we should examine at the same time.”
This task took a few more minutes. The root mass was thick and healthy, matted beneath decades of old growth. They’d known what type of vegetative cover to expect, since all terraformers started with self-pollinating perennial grasses to develop soil layers. The Athena contained tools to slice through the sod. It still took time for Dafoe and Aaron to obtain the samples. During the process, they stayed on the ramp and used the remote arm, the ’sider being careful, as always, to avoid touching his companion.
Gail had Krenshaw move the ’bot outward, slowly. Now that they knew what to look for, they could see the area of Quill-free grass made a perfect circle around the Athena, approximately ten paces in radius. Gail made notes to herself on a pad. Was this how Jer and Gabby Pardell had been able to land safely and move about at first? Had the Quill been temporarily driven underground by the arrival of their shuttle?
“These suits could use some air conditioning, Dr. Smith,” their son observed.
“Take it up with the complaints department,” Gail retorted, but made a note. Second design flaw. There’d better not be any more.
“My own suit’s worse,” he replied with a short laugh. “I’ll start with that one when I’m back.”
“Dafoe. . . . Samples collected and sealed, Dr. Smith. What next?”
What indeed? Gail asked herself She was almost certain there’d be no Quill tissue in the samples—she’d ordered them because she wanted every scrap of information possible.
“Proceed with Trial Number One, Specialist Dafoe, Aaron,” Gail said, keeping her reluctance from her voice. “Just take your time. At the first hint of any—trouble—I want you back in the Athena. Understood?”
“Dafoe. . . . Copy that.”
“No arguments from me, boss,” from Aaron.
Gail stood involuntarily as the screen showed the two figures walking slowly and carefully down the ramp, umbilicals trailing behind. She held her breath as they stepped off, boots landing on the neatly folded grass in unison.
“Dafoe. . . . Nominal.”
Ludicrous, Gail decided, forcing herself back into her seat, aware she of all people couldn’t show tension now, not with everything riding on these footsteps. At this moment, she couldn’t want to be right—she had to be.
“Any reaction from the Quill?” Gail asked.
There were three on the bridge, including Grant’s Krenshaw, whose sole duty was to watch all the available incoming vids. “The perimeter is unchanged, Dr. Smith,” one offered. Choi, Gail remembered. Eric Choi—the best of his graduating class on Callisto in remote sensing interpretation. One of the assets she’d insisted on having with her. “Thank you, Choi. Krenshaw, widen the field, please,” she said quietly.
The screen’s towering image shifted until they were looking at Aaron and Dafoe, but backed enough so that the abandoned monitoring station and the Athena were both in view. “I believe I can enhance to show the extent of the Quill, Dr. Smith,” Choi offered.
“Do so.”
All of the grass, with the exception of the circle encompassing the two humans, became stained with red. Gail controlled a shudder. “Very helpful,” she said dryly. “Commander Grant? A word.”
Grant moved quickly, coming to stand beside Gail so he could keep his eye on the screen. “Yes, Dr. Smith.”
Gail lowered her voice. “There has to be physical contact for Trial Number One.”
His dark eyes met hers. “At your command, Dr. Smith.” Calmly, confidently, as if they discussed plans for dinner rather than lives.
“Have them move outward, slowly, until they reach the Quill. At no time are they to exceed the limits of their umbilicals. Make it clear to Dafoe—no unnecessary risk. Understood?”
Grant nodded, and returned to his station. Gail listened to him relay the order. Heard Dafoe’s curt acknowledgment. Aaron was uncharacteristically silent. Perhaps, she thought, he was busy experiencing his first encounter with plant life. Or first footsteps on his homeworld.
A few more steps, and they’d reached the unflattened grass. Here, on the top of the hill, it rose well over their waists, but fortunately no higher. Closer to the creek, Gail estimated the occasional clumps of bluegrass would top Pardell’s head for sure, possibly Dafoe’s. No animal life hid among the stalks—unless Witts’ meticulous records lied about that detail. There was no reason to suspect there would be. The mix of species used to kickstart a terraforming project began with botanicals and their microbial partners; other life—including human—was to be added later.
Was. But had never been, thanks to the Quill. So Dafoe and Aaron were making the first-ever trails in the grass of Pardell’s World, their feet cracking stalks down no matter how cautiously they stepped.
“We’ve movement from the Quill.”
I thought you said they couldn’t move, flashed through Gail’s mind. “Show me.”
The ’bot’s viewpoint pulled them down to the area directly in the path of Dafoe and Aaron. The red stain was slowly moving closer to them. Krenshaw upped the magnification, reestablishing normal color ranges so they could see how filaments were slipping up more and more stalks.
“Dafoe, Aaron—stay where you are,” Gail ordered immediately.
On one level, Gail was fascinated. Rather than climbing back up on the grass they’d abandoned moments before, shrinking the entire circle around the humans and their ship, the area being reclaimed by the Quill was small and coordinated, the result like the tip of some giant’s
tongue slowly reaching out for a taste.
Grant returned to her side. “Dr. Smith, shall I have them withdraw?” he asked quietly, covering the pickup on his headset with one hand.
“No.”
“This could be an attack—Trial Number One was to be a passive encounter.”
“They stay,” Gail bit off the words, not bothering to look at him. “If it’s an attack, Commander, then it’s the best possible test of the suits, wouldn’t you say?”
“In which case, you’re authorizing a jump to Trial Number Three.”
Now she did look at him. “They stay, Commander Grant. My authorization. There’s no predicting biological systems to the nth degree—we have an opportunity here and I don’t intend to back away from it.”
“Da-Dafoe here. . . . We have contact, Dr. Smith.”
Gail and Grant turned to the screen. Against the dark blue fabric of the suits, the Quill filaments showed clearly, slipping up each leg, halting just below the thigh, as if the humans were merely thicker stalks of grass.
The Quill were beautiful in the sunlight, like rainbows made real.
The voice coming through the speakers startled them all. “Dafoe here . . . repeating . . . we have contact, Dr. Smith. No negative effects. The suits are working.”
“Congratulations, Gail,” Tobo said heartily, rushing up to shake her hand. Suddenly, Gail was surrounded by well-wishers from the crew, some pounding her back, others standing nearby and smiling widely. Most stayed at their stations, but cheered. She looked for Grant.
The commander had gone to the station monitoring the pair’s life signs. Perhaps, like her, he believed celebrating might be premature. Gail pushed her way to his side, smiling and nodding politely. “How are they?” she demanded, keeping her voice down.
“Dafoe’s vitals are a little shaky. Pardell’s rock solid. You’d think he stepped out on a planet every day.”
No surprise. “He has a way of taking the extraordinary in stride,” she commented. “Let’s have Dafoe get one or more filaments into a stasis box.”
Grant relayed the request. On the screen, they could see Dafoe nod even as she said aloud: “Copy that, Cornmander. Dr. Smith, do you want each filament in a separate box?”
“That’s ideal, Specialist Dafoe, but if you have any difficulty, together is better than none at all.”
Another nod. “Let’s get these back to the pod, Pardell,” they heard her say.
Aaron didn’t respond.
Gail froze, staring at the screen. What was he doing? As far as they could see, the ’sider was looking down at the Quill on his legs. His hands were limp at his sides. She remembered the dining lounge—she’d seen for herself how Aaron’s mind could fade from reality. Damn, this was no time for him to become disconnected.
“Pardell,” Dafoe repeated. “Are you all right?” Detectable uneasiness in her voice now. Did she fear the ’sider was succumbing to some attack?
Or, Gail thought suddenly, did Dafoe fear Pardell was about to become the enemy?
Chapter 63
THIS was the enemy?
Pardell gazed down at the slime on Gail’s brand-new suit and fought the urge to simply wipe it off with his glove. Malley had it right, he thought with disgust. People shouldn’t have died—shouldn’t have had to live as they did—because of something you couldn’t grapple with, that you couldn’t rip apart with your hands.
Despite his rage, Pardell was helpless to hold his mind to the here and now. As his thoughts detached, expanded, grew distant, he could hear Dafoe’s voice and sensed the change in it from caution to alarm, but it was as if the words became air, air that pushed and grabbed him as if it had fingers.
His awareness encompassed this world, his world, a planet coated in Quill. There wasn’t one, or a nest, or a favored place—they were the world, contaminating everything that lived, even he and Dafoe. His thoughts spun outward, helpless to resist perception and analysis, toying with concepts like ecosystems and dependencies, balance and evolution—finding nothing to encompass this obscenity.
Just like this . . . that filaments must have slithered over his newborn flesh, found entry points, contaminated him as well as this planet. They were under his skin even now.
Hopeless . . . hopeless . . . how to destroy the Quill without destroying all else? Pardell understood, finally, the danger should the Quill reach the warm, living world that birthed humanity. The blockade, the deaths, the struggle to exist—all faded against the absolute imperative of species survival.
How to destroy the Quill inside him? He wanted to live, too.
“Hey, Aaron! Not the time, friend.” Malley’s deep and unexpected rumble jarred Pardell back into synchrony with the moment.
“So when did they let you have a comm?” Pardell asked, tearing his eyes from the Quill riding his suit and straightening.
“I’m not sure ‘let’ is the right word—these Earthers get kinda tense about their toys.” The laugh filling his helmet was close to normal, if not quite. Malley was watching this, Pardell reminded himself, wondering at the cost to his friend of facing an open sky. “You okay? Not very considerate of your date, Aaron, going spacey like that. Cathy’s going to think you don’t care.”
Cathy? Was there anyone on the Seeker Malley didn’t know on a first-name basis after a week? Pardell turned to look for Dafoe. She was standing, as he was, in the Quill-grass. He had another complaint about the suits—it would have been much better if they could see one another’s faces, instead of reflections of themselves in the headgear.
“Specialist Dafoe—my apologies. I was distracted. I’m not suffering any effects or sensations out of the ordinary—”
Malley snorted rudely in his ear.
“Thank you, Malley.” Gail’s voice. All business. It had to be, Pardell knew.
“Glad you’re all right, Pardell,” Dafoe told him, relief plain and sharp. “Dr. Smith wants us to put our ‘friends’ into a box to bring back up to the ship. I’ll go first.”
Pardell nodded his understanding. He watched closely as Dafoe walked back to the ramp. The Quill stayed on her legs, one on the outside of each calf. “I’d keep them separated, Dafoe,” he called out.
“Why?” Gail again.
Pardell kept forgetting this was an open comm—something no ’sider would ever risk. “Only one climbed up each leg,” he ventured, “even though there’s room for more. Maybe they can’t tolerate physical contact with one another. A guess.” Albeit an educated one, Pardell thought somewhat wildly.
“One per box, it is,” Gail responded. “Thank you.”
Her voice lingered in his ears. Not like music, Pardell decided. Something more intimate than sound alone, filled with the past, present, and—future. He’d promised her he’d come back.
Pardell looked out at the horizon, tracing the lines of distant mountains with his eyes. Were they real if he couldn’t touch them? Another breeze shoved against his back. Was it air, if he didn’t breathe it?
“It’s not going to work.”
He whirled to see Dafoe rubbing her blue-only legs. “Dr. Smith. The things slipped through my fingers when I tried to handle them,” she said. “Pardell? Any suggestions?”
“Toss me a box,” he said. “I’ll try from here.”
The stasis boxes were small but heavy, a consequence of the technology meant to contain a biohazard of unknown potency. Pardell made the catch easily enough, but put the box down on the grass. He resisted the temptation to run his gloved fingers along the stalks and investigate their strange, living textures.
“Gail?” Pardell said lightly, steeling himself
“I’m here.”
“This should work—but if it doesn’t, I want you to know—I need to—” Pardell swallowed. “I’m glad you came to Thromberg. Okay? It’s all been worth it.”
“Wait!” nothing businesslike or calm in her sudden cry in his ears. “Aaron! Dafoe—stop him!”
Before Dafoe could do more than turn his way,
Pardell had pulled off his headgear. He smiled, he hoped reassuringly, at the FD specialist, before stripping the gloves from his hands. He put the gear down, carefully, on a flattened patch of grass. Old habits, new place.
The first thing Pardell noticed was the way the air whistled and roared past his ears, even as it tossed hair to tickle his forehead. Then he felt the sun—warm and soothing on his face, overbright until his eyes adjusted, a prickling irritation on his gold-veined hands. “I think they stay on the lower parts of the grass to avoid the direct sunlight,” he said, knowing every word would be recorded. The comm was built into the neck of the suit, not the headgear. Pardell drew a long, deep breath in through his nostrils. There was so much flavor to this air, it was like taking a drink of some exotic wine. If he’d ever had doubts this was a world built by humans, for humans, they were erased by the way his lungs welcomed this blend of gases, his blood soaked up its oxygen. Pardell’s World.
Complete with a threat.
Pardell swallowed again, hard, then reached down and gently, but firmly, grasped the filament clinging to his right leg.
... Recognition.
He let go immediately, feeling himself shake.
“Aaron—what is it? Your vitals went off the scale.”
“I don’t know. Nothing.” Nothing, Pardell reassured himself, not needing the suit’s monitors to feel how his heart still pounded. Nothing. Just the unexpectedness of the filament’s dry, almost powdery surface under his fingers. The thing looked like slime.
“You aren’t feeling anything from the Quill—there’s no effect at all?” Was the relief in her voice for him—or the experiment?
“All systems nominal,” he quipped, winking at Dafoe. “I’ll see if I can get this thing into the box.” Cautiously, Pardell bent over and reached for the filament again.
“Pardell!” Dafoe warned. “Look!”
The ’sider followed the direction of Dafoe’s pointing—and shaking—hand. All around them, the grass was vibrating, as if each stalk was being moved independently of the others. “The wind?” he asked hopefully.
“Get back in the Athena before I haul you in!” Gail ordered. “Hurry!
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