Viking

by Daniel Hardman

  He needn’t have worried. When he arrived the spatter was coming even faster. He cupped his hands eagerly and trembled as they speckled and ran with the sweet-smelling liquid.

  Not fast enough. He sucked and licked his palms dry, ignoring the unwelcome grittiness from bits of loamy bark and moss, and groaned in frustration. If anything, his thirst was worse now. Somehow he had to catch the water better.

  He grabbed the open flaps of his upper biosuit and spread them over the wettest portion of the branch, twisting painfully to finish unzipping the top from the trouser portion. Faint pinpricks of moisture flicked his eyelashes and throat as precipitation plopped against the water-resistant weave and puddled in the center. Unwilling to wait for more accumulation, he lapped at it dog-fashion, disregarding the unpleasant saline flavor of sweat and rubber.

  How long he crouched impatiently to the precious moisture, Rafa didn’t know—but at length the raw, chalky urgency was slaked and his stomach began to slosh and gurgle. He unbent stiffly, suddenly and uncomfortably conscious of the resurgent ache in his side, the twinge in overworked back muscles, and the possible consequences of drinking unpurified water.

  There was no help for it now. Either he’d get sick or he wouldn’t. He could only hope that rain was free of the worst parasites—and that he hadn’t already gulped deadly contaminants in the swamp water.

  The thought of purification tablets sent him digging through the pockets of his suit. Soon he’d retrieved the flaccid, empty water pouch and was filling it in little splashes that spilled largely over the mouth of the container and down to the blackness below. It was slow work, and before he was half finished the rain tapered off.

  That worried him.

  He would sweat away massive quantities of water with the daytime heat tomorrow. If he didn’t find another source of fresh water soon, dehydration would rear its ugly head again. Rafa added some purification tablets from another pouch and replaced the cap, refusing to linger on the anxiety. At least he had staved off the thirst for a time.

  The rapid descent of tropical night was nearly complete, and rain had cooled the atmosphere slightly. There was no breeze, but his bare shoulders and back almost felt comfortable now.

  Rafa wondered for a moment about traversing the forest in the dark. The temperature was certainly more bearable, and he’d probably save water. But he wasn’t equipped to deal with nocturnal predators. Of course, he wasn’t equipped to deal with any kind of threat from hostile fauna—but the thought of defending himself in impenetrable blackness was especially terrifying.

  The swampiness of the terrain was also a problem. He had no wish to mistake waterborne scum for earth and repeat his plunge into the stinking morass. And he was too exhausted for serious travel, anyway.

  He spent the night in the tree.

  Swarms of stinging and biting insects, surging busily in the post-diluvial stillness, quickly convinced Rafa to re-don the upper portion of his biosuit. That proved to be an agonizing task that continually aggravated his broken ribs, but eventually he managed it.

  As the slick material of the suit enclosed him, Rafa blinked wearily. Despite pain and gnawing hunger, he could feel the fog of sleep approaching. He was faintly surprised, given his long bout of unconsciousness, but he welcomed the reprieve from fear and discomfort.

  If he could really sleep.

  He was straddling the limb at a broad, gnarled fork that was approximately level. The twisting knobbiness was terribly uncomfortable, but he couldn’t think of a more likely spot. If he lay across the splayed branches he could support his back and neck and be reasonably confident of not falling from his perch in the random twitches of slumber.

  Slowly, gingerly he rotated into position. The one thing he absolutely had to change was the way his feet were dangling. His damaged foot throbbed mercilessly, and he felt as if all the blood in his body had pooled there, exacerbating the swelling. He battled for several minutes until his splinted leg was resting almost horizontal on a lumpy projection.

  There was an immediate relief from the worst of the pain, and Rafa sighed audibly and closed his eyes.

  Another yawn.

  Then nothing.

  40

  Agent Ray Gregory stared at the screen on his desk, his eyebrows raised in surprise. For at least the tenth time that morning, he set down the lukewarm cup of coffee that he was continually forgetting to drink.

  “What do you mean, his file’s sealed? Of course it is. That’s why I called you in the first place.”

  At the other end of the connection, his friend leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “I’m not talking about the little lock on his file that you ran across. That was pretty routine.”

  “Well, what other kind of protection would there be?”

  “That is an excellent question.” He drummed his fingers on his desktop meditatively. “An excellent question.”

  “Well, don’t hold out on me. What did you find out?” Gregory absently picked up his mug again and leaned back in his chair. The hinges creaked in protest.

  “I can give you what I know so far. You’ve got the clearance for it. But you’ll need to sign a release. He’s connected to an on-going investigation, and the division that’s in charge wants everything kept under wraps.”

  Gregory nodded impatiently. “Fine. Send the form over.”

  In a moment the screen filled with a few lines of bureaucratic text. He scanned it quickly, then pressed his thumb to the scanner on his desktop. There was a beep.

  “Okay, whatcha got?”

  The man shuffled some papers. “Rafael David Orosco. Age 33. Professor in the health department at UCLA. Cross-country coach. Convicted of murder one in the death of Samantha Oberling, an FBI agent. Sentenced about two months ago.”

  “I had to sign a release for that? It’s all public knowledge.”

  “Hold on, I’m just getting started. Apparently Orosco didn’t like prison. He signed up for viking service after only a few days in the pen.”

  “Who with?”

  “Company by the name of MEEGO, Inc. They’re based out of Houston. Do quite a tidy profit in the exploration business.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Anyway, it seems that they’re flirting with the law. Filing planetary claims that exaggerate their investments and underestimate the value of natural resource, mistreating their crews, running risky jump routes. Things like that. The exo division started watching them almost a year ago. But they’re a slippery bunch. There hasn’t been much that could be pinned on them—just minor infractions that would hardly raise an eyebrow with a sympathetic judge.

  “Then, about the time Orosco signed up, there was a sudden flurry of internal memos, a shuffle of assignments within their science teams, and a big push to get one particular mission on the fast track. It looked like they were up to something, and this time it was something pretty big. Orosco got assigned to the mission.”

  “But I still don’t get it. How does that lead to a protective order on his file?”

  “Well, Orosco had a set of implants before he signed up.”

  Gregory put down his coffee yet again, a look of astonishment on his face. “He did?”

  “Yep. Nice ones, too.”

  “How’d he get them?”

  “That’s a mystery. Aside from law enforcement, the only common uses are for vikings and entertainment. It does say that he’s a certified scuba diver here—maybe he did vicarious dives for the vids or something.”

  “Somehow he never struck me as the Hollywood type.”

  “Well, I don’t see how else he could have got them. He certainly wouldn’t have paid for them himself.”

  “A druggie, maybe? They say a vicarious high is better than the real thing because you don’t have any side effects.”

  “And it costs three times as much. No way could he afford that kind of habit on his salary. Besides, the guy was a happily married family man, not a bum.”

  Gregory’s face darkened
angrily. “So he claimed. And then he blew away Oberling in cold blood.”

  The man sighed and shook his head. “The more I delve into this guy’s background, the weirder his crime seems to me. He had a wife and little kids who loved him. Good job, good education. No known vices. No criminal record. Not even a traffic ticket. Yet he clearly did it. You got him dead to rights. And the offshore bank account you traced had more than enough to pay for the sort of double life that he must have been living.”

  “We never did clarify his motive very well. It’s always bothered me. Maybe the implants are part of it; I wish we’d known that before. It makes the drug angle a lot more likely—especially since we didn’t turn them up in our investigation. He must have got them on the black market.”

  “Well, anyway, his implants were noted when he got his intake physical with MEEGO. Orosco asked to have the existing circuits reactivated rather than getting a whole new set, and the company was happy to oblige. It probably saved them a bundle.”

  Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “Let me guess. It saved us a bundle, too. Uncle Sam recruited the surgeon and we got a free spy with nobody the wiser.”

  His friend smiled. “Give that man a prize.”

  “So his file’s locked to prevent a leak to MEEGO?” There was a note of puzzlement and disbelief in Gregory’s voice.

  “Actually, that’s a moot point now. Orosco is missing and presumed dead.”

  “How do you lose somebody who’s got a transmitter and a GPS in their head?”

  “How do they always lose their crews? Every mission there’s something. In this case, Orosco was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A bunch of herd animals stampeded. His implants went dead while he was running for his life, and when the dust cleared he was nowhere to be found.”

  “Trampled to death?”

  “Must have been.”

  “Any chance the stampede was a fake? Think MEEGO was onto Orosco and pulled the plug?”

  “The stampede was real, all right. You don’t choreograph something like that. But it certainly could have been provoked. I’ll send you the dump and let you see it from Orosco’s perspective. See what you think.”

  “So what’s the status of the investigation of MEEGO?”

  “It’s still open, but I don’t see what else we’re likely to accomplish. They kept their nose relatively clean up until the time Orosco vanished, and now we have no way to monitor what they’re doing.”

  Gregory sighed and leaned forward, finally releasing the strain on the groaning hinges of his chair.

  “Too bad. Orosco’s wife thought MEEGO was up to something, and she wanted to nail them for it and get her husband back. Back to a local prison, anyway... Well, I guess that answers my original question. I know why I couldn’t get access to any of Orosco’s records. I’m still mystified about this other lock, though. You say you can’t get around it?”

  “It’s a blank wall, Ray. Nobody has the kind of clearance it would take to unlock his records completely. It’d take an act of Congress.”

  “I don’t get it. His fingerprints ran through the database clean when we picked him up. He couldn’t have much of a past... Who put the other seal on?”

  “That’s also privileged information.”

  “How about a date? How far back can you go before the lock kicks in?”

  “About six years.” His friend frowned meditatively. “Actually, now that I think about it, I have seen a block like this once before.”

  “When?”

  “A few years back a hacker got into some personnel records. Not really top-secret stuff, just the home addresses of a few hires and fires. But you should have seen the stink it caused. They had a team of computer experts flown out the next day to assess the damage. They transferred everyone whose records had been breached, purged a bunch of information, and set up special blocks on their files. Same sort of thing.”

  “You think the bureau’s protecting Orosco? Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all just a shot in the dark. But whoever created that seal wanted to be sure nobody outside or inside the agency could see Orosco’s past. And you don’t get that kind of security unless you need it.”

  41

  A flickering shadow and the sound of flapping woke Rafa. He opened his good eye in time to see a vague shape glide away and sink toward the forest floor at his left.

  Unlike his last return from the nether reaches, his mind was instantly clear, though his body burned and ached in more places than he would have thought possible.

  He sat up stiffly, careful to maintain his balance on the slick bark of the branch, wincing as abdominal muscles compressed his ribs. It was not bright enough to be full day yet, but clearly the sun was above the horizon. The air was cool and somewhat misty, softening the view both above and below. It gave the treescape an eerie stillness that felt solemn but not entirely peaceful.

  An owl-like hooting echoed faintly from overhead, followed by a harsh caw and a resounding, pervasive chorus of clicks that gradually faded away.

  Somehow he had to get out of the tree and make it to the openness of the beach. He couldn’t stay here.

  Rafa took a conservative swig of the rainwater he’d managed to collect the night before, his worry about dehydration quick to reassert itself. The water tasted clean and unbelievably sweet—but he’d go through it in five minutes unless he rationed rigidly.

  The sudden flow of moisture to his belly activated a latent, twisting hunger that was physically painful. How many days since he’d had a decent meal? He recalled the jellied fruit back at the module—once repulsively sweet and devoid of texture—with a fierce longing. Even a ration bar sounded ambrosial at the moment. Rafa dug through his pockets but only confirmed what he’d hoped wasn’t true: he had forgotten to restock his suit back at the module. If he didn’t find the crew again soon, he was going to get weak and sick from malnutrition, or else take an active part in the local food chain.

  What was Julie having for breakfast?

  It did no good to speculate, and after a moment Rafa shook his head and began scooting back down the limb. He had come farther in his adrenaline-impelled scrabbling than he realized, and it was nearly half an hour before his unsplinted boot touched the bed of leaves and sandy soil at the base of the tree.

  Lowering himself the final half meter and easing his weight onto the good foot was a painful transition. The branch was not much more than waist high where it met the massive bole of the tree, but it was slippery and covered with moss, and he could not jump lightly down.

  In the end he flopped around like a drowning victim over a barrel and dug his fingernails into the muddy corrugations for traction, while he explored blindly for a place to set his good foot. The fire in his ribs was excruciating.

  Once he could stand again, he gingerly placed some weight on the damaged ankle. He had deliberately extended the splint beyond his heel for protection. On a hard surface it might have worked well, but here the bluntly torn branches sank into the loamy soil until the bones in his heel were taking most of the weight.

  He paled and sucked in his breath, a sheen of sweat springing to his brow. No way was he going to go anywhere on two feet.

  He would crawl, then.

  Later, Rafa could not remember much about his progress through the boggy forest. The ordeal of pumping shoulders and knees, the stink of mud on his fingers, the sting of nettle, the blend of floral and mold scent from enormous growths of fungus, the detours around water and tree trunks—they all merged into a sort of waking dream that seemed to go on and on and on.

  He crawled until his forearms were trembling and sweat was dripping in his eyes and the heat of the day had stoked the jungle to an oven and every cell cried out for water. He drank with unsteady hands and studied his GPS and despaired to find a scant two hundred meters of linear progress.

  Then when he was strong enough, he raised a slimy fist at the indifferent jungle and started all over again.

 
; More delirium. More bugs and lizards and clicking things that spat at him and scurried away. A fat snake twice his length that studied him unblinkingly from the comfort of an algae-covered pool. He was beyond fear and crawled on without a backward glance.

  More sand in the soil. More sunlight. More heat.

  When he couldn’t go another meter, he finished off the water.

  After the gurgle of liquid in his throat died away and his harsh breathing quieted, he heard a steady, rhythmic rushing. For a moment it conjured up the roaring of a crowd in a stadium, the chant of a million spectators to the gladiator’s duel between man and nature. Rafa felt panic at the onset of madness.

  Then his auditory catalog clicked.

  The sea.

  The music of the cradle, endlessly rocking. It sounded so earthly, so familiar that he wanted to shout for joy.

  He was back on his knees with a renewed strength, pushing through the undergrowth, heedless of the startled fauna. More dark foliage jolted by in unpitying unrelief. He was gasping for breath and bathed in perspiration, his lips parched and cracked.

  But the song of the surf was getting louder. He crawled on in a frenzy.

  Then he felt the first glow of direct sunlight on his shoulders, and in a matter of moments he emerged to a different world.

  After his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he saw a scene lifted directly from a tourist’s brochure—a strip of creamy sand slanting into the parabola of cobalt ocean, overhung like an umbrella by a thatch of greenery. The beach was deserted except for a handful of trilobite-like crustaceans that scuttled lazily at water’s edge. The action of the breakers was mild—doubtless moderated by protective braces of land that formed the cove—but he had never heard more welcome music. He had grown up in the lap of the Pacific, dived and snorkeled since grade school, proposed to Julie ankle-deep in lacey foam. This was as close to home as he had felt since planetfall.