Penumbra

by Eric Brown

  They exchanged handshakes, and the Council of Elders bowed and left the dome.

  The guard, Miriam James, appeared at Bennett’s side. ‘If you’d like to return to the lodge . . .’

  They followed her back up the twisting path, attracting the attention of colonists who paused in their work in the fields and watched them pass. Bennett looked into their faces and saw only expressions of wariness and suspicion.

  James remained outside on the lawn, rifle braced across her chest, while Bennett followed Mackendrick and Ten Lee into the kitchen. They found the table set for lunch, a tureen of steaming soup awaiting them, alongside plates of bread and cheese. Bennett sat down and helped himself to a cup of the coffee substitute.

  ‘So . . .’ he said. ‘What did you make of that?’

  Ten Lee sat on the window seat and hugged her shins. ‘If we didn’t know they were keeping something from us,’ she said, ‘I’d say they couldn’t have been friendlier.’

  Bennett grunted. ‘The friendship of necessity, Ten. I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could spit.’

  Mackendrick looked up from his coffee. ‘But do you think they believed us?’

  ‘About the ship?’ Bennett shrugged. ‘Going on what I heard last night, they wouldn’t take any chances. I can’t imagine they’d sit back and quietly accept that we crash-landed. They’ll be scouring the area for the Cobra right now.’

  ‘And the terrorists?’ Mackendrick said. ‘De Channay seemed pretty reluctant to fill us in on that front.’

  Bennett said, ‘I’d like to know what they’re trying to keep from us.’

  They stared at each other in silence.

  ‘All we can be certain of,’ Mackendrick said, ‘is that they want to keep us here, and that they want to keep the rest of the Expansion out.’

  ‘What about Quineau?’ Ten Lee asked. ‘They said they sent him to make contact, but last night you thought that they sent someone called Klien to stop him?’

  ‘They’re lying,’ Bennett replied. ‘They obviously want us to think they sent Quineau, that they want to be found.’

  Ten Lee smiled to herself. ‘I’m sure my Rimpoche didn’t send me all the way out here to play detective,’ she said. ‘But now that I am here, I admit I’m intrigued.’

  ‘You’re becoming too involved in this illusion, Ten,’ Bennett warned.

  Ten Lee gave him a pleasant scowl.

  ‘So we sit tight and see what happens,’ Mackendrick said.

  Bennett nodded. ‘As you said earlier, there’s little else we can do. At least,’ he added, ‘the coffee substitute is drinkable.’

  After lunch Miriam James collected them for their journey to the coastal settlement. ‘We’ll be travelling in a convoy of crawlers,’ she said as they left the lodge and climbed the hillside to the track.

  Tenebrae hung overhead, gales swirling the bands of its gaseous fleece. The day was humid, an electric charge in the air filling the valley with an atmosphere of pre-storm expectancy.

  Three balloon-tyred crawlers were waiting on the track above the lodge, the first and last vehicle swarming with green-uniformed guards. De Channay was standing beside the middle crawler.

  Ten Lee climbed on to the flat-bed with Miriam James and another armed guard, while Bennett and Mackendrick occupied the front seat next to De Channay.

  ‘We’re going to the settlement of New Marseilles on the coast,’ he said. ‘A journey of some twenty kilometres.’

  De Channay started the motor and the crawler purred into life and accelerated down the rough track. Instead of descending into the valley, they took a turning through a high pass. On the crest of the rise, Bennett stared at the revealed scene. The mountainside fell away steeply, the incline striped with cultivated terraces. Ahead and far below, between an embrasure of headlands, the sea shimmered like silver lame made liquid. The first balloon-tyred vehicle bounced ahead of them, the half dozen guards staring up the mountainside, rifles at the ready.

  ‘Three years after the crash-landing,’ De Channay was saying, ‘our forefathers moved to the valley. The land was fertile and sheltered from the frequent storms. Over a period of years, as we expanded and developed our manufacturing industries, we settled the coast. Now New Marseilles is Homefall’s largest centre of population, home to some ten thousand citizens.’

  ‘Are you anywhere near building further starships?’ Mackendrick asked.

  De Channay glanced at him, shaking his head. ‘Sadly, no. Perhaps in twenty, thirty years . . .’

  ‘And yet you repaired a shuttle twenty years ago?’

  De Channay nodded, staring ahead. ‘Unfortunately, we don’t possess the mining capabilities to extract the necessary materials to produce more ships.’

  ‘About the power structure of Homefall,’ Mackendrick said. ‘You said you were an elected Council of Elders?’

  ‘I used the term “elected”, I must admit, only loosely. We are not a democracy as such. The population doesn’t have a free vote in anything other than the equivalent of local council affairs. The Council of Elders is a self-elected body of members of the Church of Phobos and Deimos—’

  ‘A meritocracy?’ Mackendrick suggested. Bennett detected a certain irony in his tone.

  De Channay pursed his lips. ‘More of a theocracy. The power structure is based on the system of rank that maintained among the church officials who crewed the liner before the crash-landing. It was only ever meant to be a temporary affair, until such time as the colony found its footing, but as things turned out it proved successful and we’ve never seen any reason to change to another form of government.’

  ‘Convenient for the self-elected members,’ Mackendrick commented.

  De Channay shifted uncomfortably. ‘The population is happy with the system,’ he said. ‘They’ve had no complaints.’

  Bennett refrained from mentioning the terrorists.

  So, whatever it was that Homefall did not want known to the Expansion at large, the duplicity was sustained by the system of self-electing its ruling members. The Council of Elders of the Church of Phobos and Deimos, quite apart from running the affairs of the colony, was also in a position to ensure that the colony remained isolated.

  No wonder, Bennett thought, that they had overreacted when we arrived on Homefall.

  They edged around the flank of the mountain on a track barely wide enough to take the crawlers. Bennett glanced down to his left, saw the vertiginous drop, then looked away and kept his eyes fixed ahead.

  Perhaps one hour later, still clinging to the high track like tiny insects, the first balloon-tyred vehicle came to a halt. De Channay braked, muttering with impatience. One of the guards on the first vehicle jumped down and examined the battery beneath the hood. A minute later he stood and waved his arms over his head to De Channay.

  Something in the posture of the guard and the attentiveness of the others on the back of the vehicle filled Bennett with a sense of foreboding. He was aware of movement behind him. He glanced back and saw Miriam James on the flat-bed. As he watched, she lifted her rifle.

  De Channay sighed and made to climb from his seat. Oddly, Bennett wanted to say something to stop the elder, delay him from whatever was about to happen. He said nothing, and watched with appalled fascination as De Channay climbed from the crawler and walked towards the stalled vehicle.

  He was halfway between the crawlers when the firing began.

  Miriam James fired the shot that hit De Channay between the shoulder blades. Bennett ducked, the blue light of the laser blinding him. He heard James grunt with satisfaction, and when his eyes adjusted he saw the elder’s body fall in slow motion. A silence stretched and no one moved, as if the players of the drama were too stunned or disbelieving to take in the consequences of what had happened - and then all hell broke loose.

  The guards on the first truck sprinted towards Bennett’s crawler and, using it as cover, began firing at the third balloon-tyred vehicle. Fire was returned, lasers and conventional projectile shots
which narrowly missed the crawler. Bennett was aware of fire from above; he saw dark shapes in the mountain appear and disappear as they fired down on the third crawler.

  He tried to make sense of what was happening. Obviously some of the guards were in on the ambush; the figures on the mountainside were terrorists; and the guards in the third crawler? They were evidently militia loyal to the elders.

  Miriam James screamed, ‘Out! Climb down!’ her face transformed into something ugly, an adrenalin-charged mask of terror and delight.

  She almost dragged Mackendrick from the crawler. Bennett dived after him and followed as they staggered across the track and behind the cover of a rock. The air sang with the sound of the fire-fight - the burn of laser charges and the ricocheting whine of bullets. Bennett looked around for Ten Lee. A guard was pushing her from the back of the crawler. She landed nimbly, crouched to gain her bearings, and then launched herself across the track towards the cover of the rock.

  The bullet hit her with a spectacular force, all the more dramatic for being unseen. One second she was sprinting from the crawler, the next she was sprawling across the track. She hit the ground hard and lay very still, a small red shape on the sandy ground, bullets chipping spurts of dust all around her.

  Bennett screamed and ran from the cover of the rock, ignoring shouts from Mackendrick and Miriam James exhorting him to get back. He reached Ten Lee and scooped her up, aware only of the pumping of his heart, the rattle of bullets against the nearby vehicle. He hugged her to him like a child and staggered back to the rock, James dragging him to safety amid the din of the fire-fight.

  He scanned Ten Lee in panic, trying to assess the extent of her injuries and fearing the worst. Her torso was fine - no blood! - and her head ... no blood there either. Then he saw the stain spreading through the fabric of her flight-suit. She had been hit in the upper leg. He felt a wave of relief, followed by panic at the amount of blood she was losing. The material of the legging had been ripped by the bullet. He tore it the rest of the way and used it as a tourniquet to staunch the flow of blood. It seemed, though he was no expert, to be only a flesh wound. Ten Lee was staring up at him, childish disbelief in her big eyes. Bennett stroked her cheek. ‘You’ll be fine, Ten. Stay calm. Chant a mantra or something.’

  He looked up, praying for an end to this hell.

  The guards from the third truck were being picked off by the terrorists high above. Their bodies littered the track, blood soaking into the dust. Still the survivors exchanged fire, bobbing up from behind the truck to loose off more laser fire.

  Miriam James jumped up to fire at the third truck, and then slid down behind the rock again. Her eyes found Mackendrick. She said something to him, and at first Bennett failed to register the words. They seemed divorced from the fact of the battle raging around them.

  ‘So Quineau got through?’ she said.

  Bennett heard the words, but had difficulty understanding their significance. Only slowly did he begin to comprehend what James was talking about.

  ‘We met,’ Mackendrick replied, glancing at Bennett. ‘He told me.’

  James grabbed Mackendrick’s arm. The old man winced at the force of the gesture. ‘But did he give you the softscreen? Have you got it with you?’ There was something close to desperation in her voice.

  ‘He gave me the softscreen. But’ - and here Mackendrick looked up at Bennett again, as if apologising for his deception - ‘it was stolen from me.’

  ‘Jesus! You haven’t got it? Christ!’ She hit the rock with the palm of her hand, tears streaming down her face.

  Bennett looked at Mackendrick. ‘Mack . . .’ He shook his head. ‘What’s going on? Why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘Josh, I couldn’t. Please believe me. I’ll tell you later, explain everything, okay?’

  Bennett closed his eyes. He wanted to believe Mackendrick, but at the same time could not quell the sour feeling of betrayal rising in his throat like bile.

  * * * *

  17

  The muffled crump of an explosion shattered Bennett’s thoughts. He looked back along the road. The third crawler was a twisted mass of metal and rubber engulfed in roaring flames. He saw militia-men running, human torches cavorting in pain, and looked away.

  Miriam James kicked him. ‘Get up! Back to the crawler. It won’t be long before they send out a patrol.’

  ‘What about Ten? She’s injured!’

  ‘We have medics where we’re going,’ James said. ‘She’ll be well looked after.’

  Bennett stood, lifting Ten Lee. She was no weight at all as he carried her at a run to the crawler and eased her on to the flat-bed. He climbed up after her, holding her head in his lap as the crawler started up and tore off down the track, Mackendrick in front with James. Other green-uniformed guards had started the first vehicle and it accelerated ahead, away from the scene of death and conflagration.

  Ten minutes later they slowed. Bennett peered ahead. The first truck was turning off the track, seemingly into the very face of the mountain itself. Their crawler followed and plunged into darkness. They were passing through a tunnel bored into the mountainside. Bennett closed his eyes and sat back in the padded seat, holding Ten’s head. Her small hand found his fingers and squeezed.

  They seemed to travel through the pitch black of the mountain’s heart for long, uncomfortable hours. Bennett nodded off, but came awake often when the crawler jolted over uneven rock. He lost all sense of duration. Ten Lee’s fingers were still clutching his, and from time to time he heard her soft moans of pain.

  Ahead, at last, he made out a source of faint light. They emerged from the mountain, into the pale opal glow of the setting gas giant. They trundled along another narrow track, the land falling away precipitously to the right. All around, rearing craggy rock filled Bennett with a sense of lifeless hostility. They seemed to be moving ever higher, climbing through an endless series of sweeping tracks carved laboriously from the side of sheer cliff faces. Bennett closed his eyes and considered the terrible irony of surviving the fire-fight only to die when the transporter plunged into a ravine.

  They came to yet another bend in the track, but beyond this Bennett made out the purple sweep of a small vale dotted with habitat domes and A-frames. The crawler slowed, skirting a road that hugged the face of the mountain.

  Beneath a great sheltering overhang Bennett saw a ragged collection of old vehicles, antique transporters and automobiles. Other vehicles were drawing up beneath the crag, armed men and women jumping down and embracing each other.

  The crawler passed into the shadow of the rock, slowed and came to a halt. Wearily, Bennett lifted Ten Lee from the flat-bed and, carrying her in his arms with Mackendrick beside him, walked out of the shadow of the overhang towards a group of men and women climbing the incline of the valley to meet them.

  ‘Mack,’ he said. ‘What the hell’s going on? Who are all these people?’

  Before Mackendrick could reply, a tall, bearded man stepped forward with outstretched arms. He embraced Mackendrick, touched Bennett on the shoulder and called for assistance for Ten Lee.

  ‘Welcome to Sanctuary,’ he said. ‘Hupcka. Hans Hupcka. Please, come this way.’

  Bennett followed Hupcka down the sloping sward of purple grass, Ten Lee in his arms. Something in her eyes as she stared up at him, her lips pursed to fight the pain, reminded Bennett of a child’s trusting gaze.

  ‘Where are we, Josh?’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Wish I knew, Ten. They must be terrorists.’

  But what Bennett could not work out was the nature of Mackendrick’s involvement with them.

  They came to a large A-frame and Bennett climbed the steps into a spartanly furnished lounge. Mackendrick and Hupcka crossed the room and stepped out on to a veranda overlooking the slope of the plain, the two men deep in conversation. Bennett laid Ten Lee on a foam-form and within seconds a medic was in attendance, peeling away the makeshift bandage of her flight-suit legging and cleaning th
e wound. Bennett knelt beside her, holding her hand and smiling encouragement rather than view the bloody gash.

  ‘You’re lucky, girl,’ the medic said. ‘The bullet went straight through. An inch to the right and it would’ve hit a major artery. We’ll have this fixed up in no time.’

  He gave her an injection in the thigh and stitched the gaping hole. Bennett had expected the medic to use a plasti-skin sealant, but they were not on Earth, now. An antiseptic needle and thread was about as good as they could expect.