by Rob Rowntree
Stowe shook her head, “Woodland, we know this already.” She sounded exasperated. “Didn’t you say to Alan and the others that you couldn’t figure out how the planet produces the energy to power such strong winds? Corri effect or something.”
Woodland launched into his speech, enjoying the moment. “Yes, basically there are a couple of ways winds are produced. I won’t bore you with precise detail. One is by the motion of a planet’s cold and hot air, for example its circulation to the poles and back; the other is something called pressure gradients. This world has its ordinary circulations and will undoubtedly have pressure gradients too. That said, neither of these would appear to fit the bill. So, where can more energy be dumped into the system, huh?
“Okay, look at last night and the night before. You saw the outer edges of the gas-giant’s nearest ring intersect with the upper atmosphere. Recall all those pastel colours and twinkling lights?” Woodland was being a tad flippant; he smiled. “That ring is a gas torus, and I don’t know how it’s kept in a gaseous state. I could speculate that some sort of interaction between the gas giant’s gravity, tidal effects and the closeness to the system’s goldilocks zone has managed to preserve the gaseous state. My guess is that somewhere along that gas torus you’ll find another moon spewing off atmosphere.”
He surveyed interested faces. “Hope you are with me so far. I’ll take it you are.” He shifted position. “Anyhow, that gas is drifting into this world’s atmosphere; billions of cubic meters of gas, in some places increasing the density of the air. Denser air creates pressure gradients, creates winds.”
Pickering said, “But surely that can’t account for that screaming monstrosity out there?” he gestured towards the cave entrance.
Woodland shrugged, “I don’t really know. I’m no meteorologist, but it’s my only working hypothesis. If you can find a better solution, say some data to refute my hastily rendered theory, then fire away.”
Alan saw it all then, the fit. “The Breath of Heaven.”
Woodland leaned towards Alan, “Speak up Alan. Didn’t get that.”
Alan looked up with a start, “The Breath of Heaven. It’s obvious when you join the dots.”
“I guess.” Woodland didn’t seem sure, but thoughtfully added, “Primitive cultures often worship natural forces; sun, rain, moon, wind. If this world passes through the gas torus regularly, and I think it must to explain the erosion we’ve seen, then it’s a fair bet the natives have it ingrained into their psyche.”
Pickering, who’d been staring out into the storm said, “It’s probably defined their whole culture. It’s so...so all encompassing. Irresistible.”
Outside wind screeched and sang; airborne dust and sand scoured the cliff-side with a loud rasp. Alan lost himself in the sound, dug into its lonely lamentable tones. For a moment he felt himself dragged towards a deeper state, the harmonics persuasive and redolent of hidden truths. No. He shook himself and fought off the noise with thoughts of flying aliens; how could flying beings survive such a brutal environment, and the Peterson, her cargo and Conway’s obsession?
Safely cocooned in thought, Alan’s mind became more organised. “Pickering, how’s Gibson doing? I thought I saw his eyes open earlier.”
Pickering rose from the floor and came over to join Alan. “He looks to be stable but when his eyes opened they refused to focus properly. I don’t know what more I can do for him.”
“So it’s a waiting game.” More a comment than a question.
“Not really. I think he’s going to remain incapacitated for the rest of his life. However short that may be.”
A trickle of sweat rolled down Alan’s cheek. Reaching up, Alan discovered a damp forehead. Thinking it strange because it wasn’t hot, Alan resumed the conversation and asked Pickering, “And Conway?”
“He’ll do just fine. Providing his wound doesn’t get infected.”
Suddenly, Alan felt a pit open in his gut. His world spun as sweat flowed freely from his skin and whatever lurked in his personal pit gnawed away at his composure. Not now. Not here. Breathing hard, he tried to calm himself, to control the pangs. His medication flew high in orbit aboard Haqiqa and now the spore enhancement addiction’s cravings were hitting hard. He recalled feeling dizzy the other day and a little nauseous, before his mind fell into a rapid fever-filled mess. Breathe.
Pickering was speaking; Alan found his words difficult to grasp. On the cave’s ceiling something writhed and curled. It crept from the entrance towards them, head upside down and lowered. Why didn’t the others see it? Can’t they see it?
Nearer it became more physical, more alive; leathery wings and clicking blades. It hung above Alan, saliva dripping from its razor filled mouth. The spittle struck Alan’s forehead and ran down his face into his mouth. Salty. A voice nearby said, “It’s just sweat, Alan. You’re burning up with withdrawal. It’ll pass. Breathe deeply, slowly.”
Alan concentrated on the voice, the sultry female voice and clung tightly to a proffered hand. Withdrawal... It’s only the craving.
The beast on the ceiling changed: drifted into an indistinct broil of smoke and then evaporated with the wind.
He heard Pickering say, “The cravings and withdrawal manifestations can appear rapidly and last for a couple of hours before leaving the sufferer exhausted. They often report hallucinatory dreams or visions.”
Stowe clasped his hand more firmly, “Will he be well enough to continue?”
“Oh, yes. He’ll be a little tired and eventually the cravings become permanent, but their intensity subsides. Sufferers normally function quite well with the correct suppressant medication. But...”
Alan’s experience of the symptoms bore out Pickering’s explanation, but it came down to – If you’ve had it you know what it’s like. If you haven’t there’s never any true understanding. Drifting towards sleep, Alan’s two remaining thoughts went with him. Let this episode be short-lived, but far better: How wonderful Stowe’s hand felt in his.
Smoke curled on the ceiling, dancing wildly for the wind.
***
Waking with a headache always annoyed Alan. The mere opening of his eye-lids sent nausea coursing through his body. No medication, tough it out. Those drugs were always a bitch to take anyway; holding onto the wash basin, hating the sound of the water pouring into the tumbler, the powdery feel of the tablets in his mucus lined mouth...
Rolling onto his back he noticed a dark blemish on the cavern’s ceiling. Soot from the fire? As he examined the stain concentration surmounted his pain, this brief respite allowing him to trace the filigree of sooty streaks created by the wind. Nature had a way with patterns; he applauded the simple elegance.
Sound, a discreet scratching drew him from his daydream. Turning his head he saw the native translator digging in the cave dirt several meters away. The creature stared at him as it dug, as it urinated. Finished the alien beat out a couple of signs with his hands almost as if it were annoyed before moving away.
Not trusting his reflexes right now, Alan rose gingerly, firmly pushing against the yielding ground. Twice he nearly lost his balance but persevered. Around him and the smouldering remains of the fire, the others lay sleeping. Low snores and the occasional mutterings floated. They looked peaceful, normal even. Would someone give him a clue as to how he was going to get these people out of here?
Outside the wind no longer thundered past. Dust caught in eddies tumbled lazily by, but thankfully the ferocity of the previous day’s weather had subsided. Time to move.
He found Woodland and gave him a nudge, “Morning,” Alan said, as he stumbled on towards Pickering.
Pickering grunted, “What’s for breakfast?”
“Whatever’s in our pockets. I guess we’ll go hungry. Would you mind waking the others, my head’s not too good.”
“Okay. Give me a minute to get moving, I’m kind of stiff myself.”
Rubbing at his itching spore-ports, Alan watched Pickering move amongst the group. The d
octor looked energised as he spent brief moments with each crew member, checking the state of their health. Fallen back on ingrained training, Alan surmised. The roll suited Pickering better than the git of an administrator he’d been before.
A commotion welled up amongst the natives. Turning, Alan saw the translator approach the hot embers of the fire with a bucket in his hand. Beside him, another native carried a large blackened piece of wood, with a hollowed out central depression.
With the wood placed across the embers, the translator brought the bucket up and over the depression, and tipped out the contents; water and small wriggling creatures in bright purple shells fell into the crude cooking bowl. Water splashed as the crustaceans scrambled to be free, their small awkwardly spread legs unable to gain purchase on the wood’s well-used surface.
Steam rose. Slowly the purple shells transformed, became blue.
Alan’s stomach rumbled.
Pickering’s native grabbed a still crustacean from the bowl, ripped its abdomen off and began scooping out the pink flesh inside. While eating, he beckoned his companions forward. They dove into the bowl, hungrily clasping small shell covered meals.
The bowl contained a large amount of crustaceans; Alan was not surprised when the translator picked one out and offered it to Pickering.
Pickering looked over at Alan, “Should I take it? Eat it?”
“If I had an analyser kit I’d tell you, but... Look it’s probably safe to eat; the biology here has no connection to us, no DNA matches, no bugs. If the thing has poison it probably won’t work on us. It will have been evolving here for millions of years specifically maturing to kill other local life forms.”
“I know that Alan. But still I don’t know.”
Alan grinned, “My stomach’s grumbling and I can hear yours from here. It’ll probably fill you up but won’t provide nutrition, or precious little.”
Without ceremony, Kiki burst to the front, dipped her hand into the bowl and pulled out a large fat one. Wrenching the crustacean apart as the native had she tucked into the flesh. “Tastes like chicken,” she said, before turning away preferring her own company.
Alan thought Kiki’s action foolish, yet it acted as a catalyst, for soon all crew members were tucking into some food. Begrudgingly, Alan joined them.
Satiated, and with his headache receding, Alan collected Pickering and the translator. “Pickering, I want to know how far it is to the graves and how long it might take us to get there. After that we’ll look at Gibson and Conway.”
A new flurry of gestures caused him to marvel at how much it resembled a verbal conversation, with all its attendant halts and interruptions. Of course he shouldn’t be surprised that it reflected verbal usage, conversations whether verbal or sign had similar elements, similar interactions.
Satisfied, Pickering turned to Alan. “About half a day’s walk.”
“That’s it? After all that arm and hand waving?”
“Afraid so.”
What had he expected? Kilometres and a timetable. Shaking his head, Alan took Pickering by the arm and steered him over to Gibson.
Kneeling by Gibson’s head, Pickering began to examine the cleft and bloodied hair. Alan held his gaze steady and refused to turn away even though memories of Jimmy surfaced; it had been pretty much like this, the doctors touching and probing, tutting and shaking their heads. He felt as he had then: a rush of guilt, threatened to overwhelm him. His responsibility, his blame.
Pickering stopped his examination of Gibson. “Take a look.”
Gibson’s eyes were open, turning.
Pickering shifted position to take a closer look at Gibson’s face and head.
The blue-space engineer stared out and then narrowed his eyes, “Pickering, what are you doing with my head?”
Taken aback, all Pickering could offer was, “Sorry.”
“You are holding my head. Why?”
Pickering removed his hands and knelt back. Holding out four fingers he inquired, “How many?”
“Four? And why are you two looking at me like I’ve grown a second head? No, don’t answer that. Can I sit up?”
Pickering and Alan moved around to help lift Gibson. His body seemed to be fine and resistant to their touch. Pickering said, “Can you feel all your limbs?”
Exaggerating, Gibson thrashed his legs and arms about.
“Okay,” Alan said. “Easy now. You have a nasty dent in your head.”
“I have? I don’t remember a thing.”
The translator came quietly to stand beside Pickering. Alan saw Gibson’s eyes widen, first in surprise and then horror. Gripped by terror at seeing the creature Gibson scuttled out of reach fast.
“Gibson, they are friendlies. Helpful,” Alan tried to explain as he moved after him, closely followed by Pickering. “Gibson,” Alan continued, “really there’s nothing to be afraid of. They helped us escape.”
Gibson continued his backward scuttle to the cave’s far wall.
Pickering neared, “Gibson, how many fingers am I holding up. Concentrate on my hand. How many?”
Gibson eyed Pickering as if the man were crazy then looked towards Pickering’s hand. “One, you bastard. And up yours too.”
Pickering crouched. “Come on Gibson. Look around, we all made it this far. We need you to be calm, centred.”
During Gibson’s miraculous recovery and his subsequent outburst, other crew members grew aware of what was happening. Woodland, Conway and Stowe came over, Kiki a reluctant last.
“Holy crap,” said Woodland. “I thought you were bird food pal. Nice to have you back.”
Nodding, pleased, the group closed in around Gibson, their general morale bolstered by Gibson’s return. Happy that the one-time patient appeared relatively unharmed, Alan stood and addressed everyone.
“Right we have around half a day’s travelling to endure. Take as much rest as you can, but keep moving. We have to see if we can find something useful at the graves, before we lose out to fatigue, or worse. So saddle up.”
Twenty minutes later they were on the road, if you could call it that. Rutted and cracked it added a slight rural edge to their journey. Bouncing around in the back of the wagon, Alan pictured Woodland riding shotgun alongside Pickering and his pet native: only fitting to let someone else look out on some countryside.
Hopefully the countryside would reveal their destination soon. The journey might have been pleasant had it not been for a distinct and unpleasant odour suffusing the air.
Woodland’s head peeked in through the flap. “Alan you’d better get up here.”
Rising slowly he said, “On my way.” What now? Why in hell couldn’t he have a few moments rest?
Woodland slid aside to accommodate Alan.
The ugly cows pulled on steadily, their rhythmic swaying bulk somehow hypnotic. The wagon travelled down a narrow cleft in between two parallel rising cliffs. Ahead the fissure opened out, revealing a gently falling slope that led into a dusty valley.
Nearing the lip of the rise, Alan said, “Pickering, ask your friend to halt the wagon. I want to take this in.”
The track angled sharply left before switching back on its descent of the steep slope. The valley floor, Alan estimated, lay a good five hundred meters below, hard packed and grey, an uninviting landscape. Near the base of the slope the road shot forth like a Nazca line etched into the loam. Alan noticed a couple of dust devils dancing across the plain. Elsewhere, only desolation and stillness.
The native translator waved his arms about excitedly. Pickering said, “He wants to show you something. Out there.” Pickering’s arm encompassed the valley desert.
Rising to its feet the alien peered into the valley, searching. Eventually satisfied, it also raised an arm and pointed. This time however, there was something interesting.
Far along the road, a small, regular patchwork of shadow and light sat like a bruise on greying skin.
“That’s it?” Alan asked.
Pickering looked o
ut over the valley and simply nodded. Alan felt that both of them wanted more.
Chapter Twenty four
Wings and Warriors
Winding down the switchback took time, the pebble-strewn track narrowed and several landslips forced the passengers to alight and walk behind.
Conway managed with Pickering’s help, and the women helped Gibson, who appeared almost recovered. Conflict of a more personal kind surfaced in Alan, who found the engineer’s recovery awkward, and was annoyed that Gibson apparently suffered nothing more than concussion, while his brother Jimmy endured a life time of torment. How is that fair? He let it slide. Unfortunately, you play the cards you’re dealt.
Drawing alongside Kiki, Gibson and Stowe, Alan addressed Gibson, “How’s the head?” He wanted to know. “Are you managing okay?”
Gibson shrugged himself free of the women’s supporting arms and said, “Look at me.” He jigged, “I couldn’t do a step before.”
“Gibson, this is no laughing matter. I want you to take it easy and not over-exert yourself. Got that?”
“But I’m much better than I was this morning. I feel great.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He tried to make it sound like a friendly dig. “You take it easy.”
Stowe butted in, “We’ll make sure he doesn’t come to any more harm. Won’t we Kiki?”
“Yeah,” Kiki said, “If he tries to overdo things we’ll club him over the head.”
Humour again, from Kiki of all people. Shaking his head Alan left them to go check on Conway. Behind he heard Stowe saying, “That’s really not funny Kiki. Not funny at all.” Obviously Stowe hadn’t seen it his way.
Conway hobbled alongside Pickering and the translator. Blood stained the knee of Conway’s flight suit. Through gaps in the fabric Alan detected fresh blood trickling down Conway’s shin to eventually drip onto his shoes.