by Thomas Stone
Thanapolous turned and saw her. "Sorry, I didn't hear you enter. Lost in my thoughts, I suppose." He looked back out through the window.
"I'm sure you've been able to pick up some scuttlebutt about what's going on?"
Kathleen realized the man expected an answer. "I've heard a few things," she admitted.
"I'm sure." Thanapolous continued to stare out the window. "You know," he said, "the Braithwaite Corporation has been responsible for mapping and exploring a full sixty per cent of local space. By local space I mean practically everything we can see from this window. And the things we've found out there, the things you've found, Kathleen, what wonders!"
"Remember the spinning disks you and Commander Irons found in the atmosphere of Krylon? We were able to synthesize chemicals found in their immune systems. As a result, we've been able to cure most forms of cancer. That was a big find. If you recall, at the time, we didn't think so. We've found other races of intelligent life and in so doing, we've had to redefine what it means to be human. On your first mission, you uncovered a wealth of material, including the first race of beings who are more technically advanced than humans."
Thanapolous chuckled and shook his head. "The True Ones, they call themselves. What egos they must have."
Kathleen listened attentively. She knew that sooner or later Thanapolous would get around to his point.
He waved a hand. "All that may soon be over. I don't know exactly what you've heard, but I can tell you that the news is very bad. Our scientists tell me that the wormhole is closing. Well, closing is not exactly the right word as they explain it, but it amounts to the same thing. In a few weeks, possibly even days, our access to that space beyond the capability of our craft will be permanently removed. Once again, the human race will be isolated from the rest of the universe. Oh, we'll continue our mining enterprises within the solar system and support the forward observation posts, but as far as deep space exploration..." Thanapolous spread his hands. "It's over."
Kathleen was shocked. The rumors were true. "What about the survey missions currently in progress?"
"We hope they will all return before the final collapse."
"And the established colonies?"
"We are in the process of informing all the colonies. It will be their decision to return or stay where they are."
"What about Harry?"
He sighed. "Yes. What about Commander Irons? From the beginning, we were very concerned about his mission. With the turn in affairs, that concern has increased. It is now considered vital that Commander Irons be successful in completing his mission. Of course, we were interested in the usual survey data about the Bedoran system and in the lifeforms that have been found there, but the opportunity to trace and find Edward Fagen and a spaceship capable of interstellar fight is the most important item on the Corporation's agenda. With the technology aboard the alien craft, we don't need the wormhole. It's as simple as that."
No one had told Kathleen directly, but she had assumed the capture of Fagen's ship was the true purpose of Harry's survey mission. "What do you want me to do, Mr. Thanapolous?"
"I want you to take your new crew and go after Harry. Give him support, if he needs it. If you find the alien ship, bring it back. Fagen's capture is inconsequential. It would be a coup for public relations, but the ship is what's important. I can't stress this enough. You can, if you choose, turn this assignment down. No one would blame you and I'm certain I could find another crew who would take the risk."
"I'll take it," said Kathleen.
"Don't speak so quickly, you may want to think this over. As I've explained, there are risks involved."
"I don't care. I want to go."
Thanapolous thoughtfully nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. I knew I could count on you. I will make arrangements for you and your crew to depart as soon as possible." He extended his hand. "Good luck. Humanity is counting on you."
Kathleen shook the man's hand and left the room. There was much to do before departure.
Chapter 22
Fagen grew impatient with the three Malaaz warriors. They were fat, slow, and dull. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd had to stop and wait for them to catch up. At the moment, that's what he was doing: waiting for the Malaaz.
He sat at the edge of a clearing in the shade of something that looked like a big, leafy mushroom. A breeze lifted and blew past, momentarily bringing a few soothing seconds of cool air, then all was still and hot again. Fagen felt a rivulet of sweat course its way down the side of his nose, down his stubbled cheek, and finally come to rest at the corner of his mouth. Soon, the sun would set and give some relief from the heat.
As far as he could see, the jungle was no different from other jungles he'd seen on a dozen other planets. They all had the same characteristics. Located in a tropical zone, straddling the equator, high amounts of seasonal rainfall, and lots of crawlers of varying sizes.
He took off his hat and wiped his brow as the breeze picked up again. No more than an hour until sunset. It looked like a good spot to make camp. By his calculations, they should arrive at their destination by mid-morning the next day. It was then he glanced down and noticed a footprint. It was vaguely humanoid, definitely a foot but sans toes. There was only the one print.
Fagen pulled a bottle of water from his pack and took a drink as he studied the print. As he kneeled, his motion sensor began to beep. My rotund companions, Fagen thought. He replaced the bottle and pulled the instrument from his utility belt. It registered a man-sized lifeform traveling directly toward him from the jungle. Whatever it was, it couldn't be the guards. They were in the opposite direction
Fagen regarded the readout and surmised that the unknown was an animal walking upright. Abruptly, it stopped, then started up again in a direction that took it away from him. It was odd, because it was most likely another Malaaz. But what was it doing out there?
The motion sensor started beeping again. Fagen studied it for a moment while the display changed rapidly from one set of numbers to another, indicating static interference, most likely from the microwaves generated by the ghlowstone. Perhaps the prior reading had been a phantom. The display settled and showed three forms moving slowly toward him. It was the three guards. Finally.
A moment later, they burst from the bush. Ignoring Fagen, they let their packs drop and immediately broke out their considerable store of rations and began to eat like pigs at a banquet. Disgusted, Fagen turned away and decided it was time to call Minerva. He held the small transceiver to his mouth.
"Minerva? This is Edward."
Static filled the receiver. He tried again, but there was no reply. He'd expected it sooner or later. The ghlowstone put out too much interference. When he'd started, he knew he'd reach a point where most of his electronics would fail. Apparently, he had reached that point.
The guards continued to eat like it was their last meal. Fagen marveled at their ability to consume so much food and commented that, at that rate, they would finish their rations long before their journey was over.
"It is not your concern," grunted one.
"I'm afraid it is," replied Fagen. "Finish what you've got and decide which of you will stand watch first."
"It won't be me," said the first guard. He turned up his bowl and gulped down the last of his gruel. The other two followed suit, but one was slower than the other.
The victor turned to his losing companion and said, "You have first watch," then slapped his belly in amusement.
The loser shrugged and helped himself to another bowel as his comrades trudged off to their beds. The remaining guard sat and ate. He was still eating when Fagen climbed into his hammock. Fagen watched for awhile, then turned over and went to sleep.
Sometime later, Fagen awoke. The jungle was still and quiet as if it were held down by a heavy hand. Because of the humidity, mist had formed and blanketed the ground. Fagen wondered what had roused him and glanced at his wristwatch. Nobody had bothered to wake him for his turn at w
atch. The Malaaz' incompetence made him angry and he jumped from the hammock. Pulling on his boots, he walked to the middle of camp before he realized there was no guard posted. He'd at least expected to see one of them slouched over asleep.
Fagen swiveled and looked at the surrounding jungle, but there was no sign of the guard who had taken the first watch. The other two were fast asleep, breathing heavily, lost in their dreams of banquets.
Fagen shook his head. The Malaaz warriors were useless. Except for their personal items, of which there were few, they even refused to help carry supplies. They didn't play cards, they didn't converse, and they copped out on camp duties. Fagen knew he should have expected it. The Malaaz' reputation as a lazy, shiftless race was proving to be true. Oh well, the guard had probably waddled off in search of a place to relieve himself.
Fagen sat down and waited.
Two slivered moons hung in the sky, shedding a ghostly light over the jungle. It was too quiet. There should have been more noise and they should have seen more animals than they had. Perhaps the radiation emitted by the ghlowstone had driven them all away.
Where was the guard? Why had he wandered off and left the camp unguarded? The longer Fagen waited, the more uneasy he became. He checked the motion sensor, but it was useless. The readings it displayed were fully scrambled.
A rustling in the brush drew Fagen's attention and he looked expectantly for the missing warrior. When the creature didn't appear, Fagen pulled the stunner from his belt and checked the charge. The rustling stopped. He had the feeling something in the darkness watched him.
He slipped on his headset and pulled the visor down over his eyes. Instantly, the dark turned to light and the forms of bushes and trees sprang to focus. Other than that, there was nothing else to see. Nothing moved and no other sounds emerged.
All the same, Fagen was certain something was out there. The absence of the guard became increasingly more alarming with each passing minute.
Finally, he had enough and went to the Malaaz' tent. Neither was easy to wake. The first finally opened his eyes and stared stupidly at Fagen. He said something Fagen didn't understand and tried to lie back down. Fagen placed a boot on his backside and rocked the warrior until he became irritated and unleashed a stream of words which Fagen also did not understand. However, the commotion did succeed in waking the second warrior. The two Malaaz males exchanged angry words first at one another, then at Fagen.
Fagen asked about their companion, but they knew nothing. As Fagen had learned, the Malaaz woke slowly and practically any attempt at communication within the first half hour was useless. They stood in the moonlight, sleepily staring at Fagen, still unaware that one of them was missing.
Nearby, the brush rustled again. Fagen spun about and flipped his night visor down. He saw branches and leaves move but nothing more. There was no breeze and it was as though an invisible presence strolled around the perimeter of the camp. Fagen crouched and drew his stunner. The two guards sighed and looked at one another.
A rock flew through the air and fell at Fagen's feet. Soon it was followed by another, then another, until a veritable shower rained down upon them. The two guards retreated back into their tent, but when it collapsed under the assault, they were forced back out.
Fagen ran under one of the mushroom trees and tried to see where the rocks came from. A group of bushes hid whoever was intent on bombarding them, but it gave Fagen a target to shoot and he began squeezing beams of light from his weapon. Abruptly, the rock-throwing stopped. The brush shook and Fagen took another shot, then waited.
From somewhere in the jungle a loud crack sounded. Fagen glanced at the guards and saw that one was bleeding from the head. Apparently a rock had found its mark. The other warrior was now fully alert and looked as though his head was attached to the top of a swivel. In vain, he looked first one direction, then another for his assailants. The injured Malaaz sat on the ground holding his head, unabashedly moaning.
Fagen stepped from the tree to where the rocks had come from. Moving through the brush, he nearly tripped over the body of the missing Malaaz warrior. At a glance, Fagen could see his back was broken. He laid at an impossible angle, bent backward like a hairpin, his filmy, bloodshot eyes staring at nothing.
Holding his stunner at the ready, Fagen scanned the brush for a sign of the killer. As before, there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. Whatever had killed the guard was undoubtedly strong, strong enough to break the warrior's back. An animal? Most likely, but yet he couldn't be sure. It was an alien environment and there was no way for him to be certain what forms danger would take.
He stepped back through the brush and motioned for the uninjured warrior to come. The guard stood next to his moaning comrade and refused. Rocks littered the ground. The way the warrior crouched, Fagen knew it was afraid to move for fear it would instigate another round of rock-throwing.
Alone, Fagen returned to the dead warrior, grabbed it by its thick ankles and dragged the corpse into camp. The other two Malaaz stared dumbfounded at their dead companion.
The rocks started again. One hit the injured warrior on the side of its head with a sickening sound of shattering flesh and bone. The warrior let out his last breath and slumped over. The remaining guard turned and ran into the jungle, back in the direction they had come.
Fagen fired bursts from his gun and ran under the tree again. Immediately, the rocks stopped and all was quiet. He watched the jungle through his night visor and wondered why he couldn't see what had attacked. If anything was there, he should have been able to see it, but nothing showed.
He waited and watched for the remainder of the night. Whatever had attacked didn't come back. Neither did the surviving Malaaz warrior.
At morning light, Fagen gathered what equipment he could and stuffed it into two large packs. A beetle had survived and Fagen strapped more supplies and equipment to its back. As long as he stroked the creature's antennae once in a while, it would follow him anywhere.
Through the morning hours, he slowly hacked his way through brush, vines, creepers, trees, and cane shoots. He saw plenty of insects, snakes, and various other reptiles, but nothing large and nothing formidable. Traveling alone, he made good time and soon he began looking for signs of the lost city.
It had to be close, but the thickness of the jungle cut his vision severely. The beetle waited behind as he cut through the brush and at last stepped into a large, open area. It was longer than it was wide, with both ends girdled by what at first glance appeared to be vine-covered cliffs, thirty feet tall. Its shape was too regular to be coincidental. Farther on, over the tops of the trees, he spotted a crumbling column. He knew then he'd found the lost city.
Chapter 23
Blane wasn't quite himself. Of course, he was starving, but he still had water. Harry decided that the lack of cerebral stimulation had taken a toll on the man. However the years may have changed him, Bart was still a wirehead, a man addicted to direct neural stimulation. Without the stimulation, like any other addict, he was going through withdrawal.
On Earth, implants were not exactly outlawed, but they were highly regulated. Harry counted five new implants in Bart's shaved skull. He pointed.
"Minerva been drilling for oil?"
"Ah, those," Bart fingered one of the sockets behind his ear, "enhancements to the old hardware. New data buffers for I/O, extended range for my transceiver — unfortunately, Minerva's in a non-radiating mode."
Harry noticed Bart's shaking hands as the man's voice trailed off.
The door to the jail opened and three warriors pushed inside. They spoke to the jailer who, in turn, unlocked the cells and motioned for Blane, Harry, and Tringl to exit. Blane, weak and sick, was jerked to his feet by two of the guards and pushed out ahead of Harry and Tringl.
Outside, they faced the midday sun and an unruly crowd of Malaaz. In the middle of the compound, a Malaaz male hung between two sturdy wooden posts.
"Another execution," Tringl pointed o
ut to Harry.
"Why?"
"Who knows? He's offended the Tetrarch somehow."
"How often does this kind of thing happen?"
"Nearly every day. That's why I don't come here very often. It's too depressing."
One of the guards told them to shut up and pushed Tringl in the back. Harry took a step toward him. The guard reacted by taking a step backward and raising the point of his spear. Harry helped Tringl to his feet.
Surrounded by warriors, the three faced the condemned Malaaz male. Bart shivered and leaned on Harry as the execution ceremony began.
Amid a flurry of pomp, the Tetrarch and his entourage emerged from the throne building. They moved to a row of stools and took their places. At the Tetrarch's signal, a male stepped forward and announced the condemned man's crimes, which amounted to little more than pilfering through the royal trash.
"For these crimes," he continued, "the sentence is death by suffocation."
A low whine came from Tringl's throat.
The crowd began to shout and Harry noticed more than one Malaaz taking bets. Harry leaned toward Tringl. "What's that all about?"
"They're betting on how long it takes for him to die."
The condemned was taken from the wooden posts. His hands and feet were bound and a rag was unceremoniously stuffed into his mouth. A Malaaz boy came forward, holding a bowl of freshly melted wax. He handed the bowl to a guard while another guard inserted a double-holed funnel into the condemned man's nostrils.
The condemned struggled as the hot wax was poured into his nose. His struggling increased as his air supply was cut. When his nose was completely filled, the guards stepped back and allowed him to futilely squirm on the ground.
The crowd shouted at the man, some encouraging him to hold on just a little longer, and others telling him to die quickly. But he didn't die quickly. Instead, he rolled on the ground, chest heaving, vainly trying to gasp another breath. In seconds, he was fully covered with dust. After a full minute, he stopped struggling. His chest spasmed twice more and he died. From the winners, a great shout went up, filling the compound. From the losers, scattered hissing testified as to their displeasure.