Fairchild

by Blaze Ward

  “Excellent, Hadley,” Giles voice contained all the excitement of a six–year–old on Christmas morning, even through the static. “We’ll be counting on you to take point on this one. And probably headline the study we’ll need to publish when we get home.”

  Chike had to bite his tongue not to laugh out loud at the look of pure glee that came over the young scientist’s face. Ann–Marta squeezed his deltoid muscle almost enough to hurt to keep him from making any response.

  Yes, that would make Hadley Swain a household name in the small field of galactic studies.

  Now they just had to go find Fairchild, once everything calmed down to the point that nobody else would be at risk, trying to get to wherever she was.

  Fairchild

  Early morning. Mid–southern latitudes.

  Dani opened her eyes, squinted at the brightness that had crept over the far, eastern horizon, and groaned loudly to herself.

  “Pain is an indication that you aren’t dead, dear,” Eleanor sang out with that extra–bright and positively happy voice she usually reserved for especially–bad–hangover mornings. “Time to rise and shine and take on all that a strange, alien world has to offer, Ms. Crusoe. Or should that be Madame Dantes?”

  Dani refused to be drawn into whatever game Eleanor was playing this morning. She presumed the names were literary references of some sort. Eleanor was very much a reader of old books.

  The thought of spending hours with her nose tucked into a book filled Dani with an existential dread so great she decided to immediately add another tattoo to the collection of icons and sayings liberally distributed under her flight suit, just as soon as she got back to civilization and could find a passable dive with a needle artist.

  However, instead of grumbling, or going back to sleep, Dani sat up and popped her back and neck. The ground was hard and uncomfortable, but at least she was dry and warm.

  “You sound like my mother,” Dani grumbled, mostly to herself.

  “That might explain why you never listen to me,” Eleanor retorted. “Perhaps I should have your father reprogram me to look like one of your sim stars when we return to Panamuer Nuevo? Some beefcake stud with long, flowing hair and a six pack. You might pay attention when he tells you that you are about to do something stupid.”

  Dani picked up the Aide box from where Eleanor had been sitting on a handy outcropping of stone, just so she could stare into the woman’s eyes.

  “Do you really think that would help?” she asked acidly.

  “After this many years with you?” Eleanor smiled back, just as tartly. “No. Not really.”

  “Good,” Dani smiled and tucked Eleanor into her pocket as she stood up and stretched to loosen everything. The sky was amazingly bright this morning. “What’s first?”

  “You need energy and water, dear.”

  Eleanor even sounded like a Governess this morning.

  Having a rambunctious eight–year–old charge in a thirty–one–year–old body probably contributed.

  Dani sighed. Qunsahr Industries Emergency Pack, it was.

  She always tried to pretend that the emergency survival pack she wore on her back didn’t exist. Today, reality refused to comply. She reached back and unsnapped the fabric pouch from her kidneys and pulled it around front where she could see inside.

  One quick zip to open it and she nearly dumped the entire contents on the side of the mountain, so Dani crossed her legs and dropped in place, holding the little, ballistic nylon purse in her lap so she could root around inside.

  There. Ugly square lumps, hooked together, small enough to fit in her palm and about half as thick as a deck of cards. Three of them. Blueberry Scone, Strawberry Shortcake, Oatmeal Raisin. Compact energy bars made by the lowest bidder and routinely thrown out uneaten and replaced at the end of a twenty–five–year shelf–life.

  This set still had eight to go.

  Yummy.

  Dani pulled the Blueberry Scone loose and noisily tore its wrapper free from the other two. She said a small, personal prayer to whatever gods of birds and sailors might save her from having to try one of the other two tomorrow. She might consider human sacrifice to avoid eating them.

  She popped up her face plate and took a bite. The smells of this planet were odd, and hard to identify, but the bar overrode everything with a taste like wet cement.

  Industrial, flour–based cardboard populated by the occasional colored nugget of chewy, manufactured as cheaply as possible in response to regulations. At least it wasn’t completely desiccated. Dani chewed like her mother, her flesh mother, was watching a recalcitrant five–year–old at the dinner table with Brussels Sprouts.

  The first bite was unmitigated hell. The second was chewing nettles and barbed wire.

  Somewhere around the third bite, her taste buds apparently decided to commit mass hari–kari. She stopped tasting anything and only registered the texture, and was able to chew through the bite and swallow past a barely–resisting throat.

  Dani heaved a heavy, put–upon sigh.

  “At least you have the ability to experience true sensory input, dear,” Eleanor observed tartly.

  That brought Dani back to herself. The AI did have a point.

  Water next. Her suit had about two liters of fresh water in pouches along her ribs, below her breasts, and would slowly process sweat and urine and everything else into more, given time, but she would need to add to the equation, especially if she had jarred her helmet enough to kill the radio. There might be a slow leak up there bleeding moisture.

  The gadget in her hand looked like a gray hat, rolled into a tube, with the word Water written on the outside in fourteen different languages. Dani unrolled it flat down her thigh and located the friendly ‘Pull here’ tab located near the suddenly–exposed nipple. It came free and revealed a nifty, little ideogrammic explanation.

  Pulling the strip exposed a battery lead to complete a circuit inside. Over the next twelve hours, a small osmotic generator thingee would pull water vapor out of the air and force it through some filters and into the canteen, like the belly of the small, brown narwhal, if you looked at the nipple like a horn.

  Once live, it would continue to automatically refill the pouch until the battery drained, somewhere in a month or two, depending on use.

  It wouldn’t be enough to sustain her in a climate like this for all that long, but her life–support system would keep moisture in just as well as air, so she wouldn’t dry out nearly as fast, and her helmet had the right plug interface to use the narwhal’s horn, if she turned her head just right.

  Good enough for the rule of threes. You could go three minutes without air in space, but she was on a habitable planet. Three hours without heat, but this was a warm planet, even at night. Three days without water, but she should be good for months at this point. And three weeks without food. Dani was tempted to try, given how nasty the protein bars tasted.

  What else?

  Some purification tablets she could drop into uncertain water, if she ever found any, and some energy drink mix she could add to the canteen for flavor.

  Another small, vacuum–sealed pouch had survival clothing: floppy hat, blanket, spare socks, leggings, shirt, and rain poncho. Opening the air seal would cause them all to undergo some strange, chemical expansion that made them stop being doll clothes and fit her, but she wasn’t in a hurry.

  The small medkit got her attention, but she didn’t crack it open yet. It would just be the usual stuff: disinfectant, bandages, staple gun, and sanitary wipes.

  Next to that was the tiny, green bag she was dreading the most. Maybe even more than eating another energy bar. It had her name printed on the side in big, pink letters and a date when she had last stocked it.

  Dani was one of the three percent of women allergic to the drug Velomear and all of its close copies. Every single one of them. Almost every other woman she knew got a shot once a year that completely suppressed her menstrual cycle so they didn’t have to go through it
until they were ready for children.

  For Dani, every month felt like a return to barbarism.

  There would be the drop in neuro–chemistry as her body prepared to host an egg. Then the day that the egg passed. Two days later, the craziness of the pre–menstrual cycle, only tempered by the joys of modern medicine, but still causing her to drop into a soft case of OCD behavior for a day or so. And then several days of leaking blood.

  In Dani’s case, the custom free–glider suit had been specifically designed and built by two women in the University of Palomar’s bio–engineering department. It could handle all the excess drainage, with a modification to the normal pee cup to handle fluid overload.

  The suit also had a device in the crotch that she thought of as a harpoon gun, specifically built in so she could deploy an absorbent cotton tampon without getting naked first, and then later retrieve it, even in the vacuum of space.

  Her egg had passed yesterday. The clock had started.

  If she wasn’t back to civilization in four days, Dani would probably have to break open that bag and enjoy all the dread pleasures of hunting the great, red whale.

  She needed to find something to take her mind off the messy, bodily activities coming up.

  Ah, there you are.

  Down at the bottom of the little satchel were the two things she really wanted to play with. One was a survival knife with a hollow handle filled with all sorts of neat things, but she would never get them packed again if she unscrewed the pommel with the compass and dumped it all out right now.

  We’ll just leave well enough alone, thank you.

  The other one was more fun, anyway.

  The Tomya Manufacturing, Ltd. Survival Tool looked like a nifty, slate–gray, beam pistol because it was easier to hold and point that way. Inside the body were four micro–flares. The grip held enough fire extinguisher for about ten seconds. There was a can opener and a bottle opener on opposite sides of the barrel.

  But the best part was the signal laser.

  You could twist a nob and set it to a super–powerful flashlight, or a short–range cutting beam, or a medium–distance fire–starting laser. Not that she had any wood, but pyromaniacal tendencies wormed their way deep into your soul and never really get exorcised, no matter what lies you told your shrink.

  Dani pulled the Survival gun out, pointed it at some rocks, and made sure she could set things on fire if she needed.

  Or if ennui set in.

  The holster had a tape backing, so she peeled it and stuck it to her thigh where it would be out of the way but still accessible. The survival knife scabbard went on the other leg.

  She would look kinda silly, if she had to fly, and it would mess up her aeronautics a little, but nothing would come loose and she could adjust.

  And it made her feel like an action hero from a vid–sim, all set to take on space pirates or something.

  Dani pulled out the last item at the bottom of the pouch with a tablespoon of dread. She had been putting this part off, mostly unconsciously, hoping that the world would get magically better before she got to this point. But it had not.

  One small box, about the size and weight of a deck of playing cards, themselves a unit of measure older than space flight.

  Qunsahr Industries Emergency Radio.

  Ultra–high tech, bleeding–edge sophisticated, radio–satellite pocket comm. Rugged and water–proof. Reliable, dependable, reassuring. Supposedly indestructible.

  Whoever had originally designed it had not taken into account Escudra VI. Or, at least, this part.

  She didn’t even bother trying to turn it on once she pulled it out. The smell had already given things away. Her radio reeked of smoke and strange, organic chemicals.

  Dani guessed, from what little engineering know–how she had picked up, that the storm had caused the device to ground internally and overcharge the battery. That had been the sweet, sickly smell she had picked up when she first opened the emergency bag. Some kind of battery acid leaking.

  The side of the radio was already discolored and bulging slightly. Dani didn’t think that was even possible until now.

  She sat the little device down on the same rock that Eleanor had kept watch from all night and stepped back, just in case the damned thing exploded in the next few seconds.

  “Oh, dear,” Eleanor observed. “The radio would appear to be somewhat less than operational, wouldn’t it?”

  Dani did a double–take and looked down down at where Eleanor could peek out from the pocket. She could never tell when the Aide was being serious or extra sarcastic, even after all this time.

  Dani settled for a noncommittal grunt.

  Morning. Halfway down a mountain.

  Dani knew where east was.

  She had been north of Beta when all hell broke loose, although there was no chance she could manage to walk there from here, even if she knew where there was. It was probably at least one hundred kilometers from here, and she had no idea where it was without all her electronics.

  Good enough.

  Dani picked out a spot to her south and memorized the landscape around it, so she could zero down on that as she walked. It was green, a bit. Not much, but better than the various hues of rock and gravel and mountain available at this elevation. Maybe fifteen kilometers over, and several hundred meters down, once you accounted for all the wrinkles and bubbles between here and there.

  On a regular planet, downslope would be where you found water, and plant life, and civilized people. Hopefully, Escudra VI would be no exception.

  Dani could not, for the life of her, remember anything about the briefings on local fauna or flora. Probably doodling at the time.

  That meant that none of it was that dangerous, right?

  Whatever. She had the survival gun set to fire–starting mode. That would do in a pinch.

  Dani took her first step when Eleanor spoke.

  “Dear?”

  That was it. Nothing else. Not much more was needed. They knew each other too well.

  “Downhill. South. Hopefully home,” Dani replied.

  “I see.”

  Eleanor was usually not one for such pithy brevity. But Dani agreed.

  Not much to say at this point.

  “Might I suggest an arrow in the dirt?” Eleanor said.

  “A what?”

  “Scuff your feet in the dirt to effect a discoloration,” Eleanor explained. “Shape it like an arrow, pointing in the direction of travel, large enough to be seen from an overflight.”

  Right. Survival school 101.

  Dani could tell she was rattled that she needed to be reminded of things that should have been automatic.

  But then, she had never been shot down over enemy territory before, either.

  Dani eyed the ground and began to shuffle.

  She really needed to pull herself together.

  Chike

  He wouldn’t have believed it, not without incontrovertible proof.

  Chike continued to walk around what had been a clean camp three hours ago. Now it looked like the morning after a frat party that had been busted by the cops at the wrong moment. And he had been at a few of those.

  The tents had all held their structure, in spite of the electrical surge that had overloaded equipment, but the Convention Center had a nearly meter–tall drift of sand piled against the windward side, like the aftermath of a blizzard. All the other tents were in various states of disarray as well.

  Three of the personal tents had collapsed, but otherwise held, so he was dealing with panic and shock rather than burns and broken bones.

  At least the rest of everything was relatively clean. The winds had scoured every loose piece of paper and biodegradable food wrapper and carried them away, never to be seen again. Archaeology for future generations to uncover.

  Everyone was outside, picking up overturned tripods and righting communication and sensor masts.

  Hadley had claimed a portable picnic table and sat with a hand
ful of undergrads around her, heads together with a lot of gesturing and pointing at slabs.

  Ann–Marta approached now with a look of rueful disbelief on her normally–composed face. Only the twinkle in her warm, brown eyes gave it away.

  “There will need to be new procedures implemented, tomorrow,” she commanded in a low voice as she walked close and turned to face downwind with him.

  “Oh?” Chike inquired carefully.

  Serious Ann–Marta was dangerous Ann–Marta. Dragon Ann–Marta.

  “Somewhere between one–sixth and one–quarter of all the electronic gear we had set out beforehand is gone.”

  “Gone?” Chike asked, aghast.

  “Gone,” she repeated, gesturing at the long meadow that lead down from this plateau. “Picked up by the genie and carried away. I presume we’ll find most of it out there over the next few days. Lord only knows how much has survived.”

  “Wow.” Chike let that sum it all up. Even the storm on Riggel III hadn’t done nearly that much damage.

  Stakes would be set deeper tomorrow.

  Ann–Marta was a stickler for those sorts of details. If her strict Camp setup procedures had failed, he could only imagine what the normal scientific camp would have looked like right now. Nobody else he had ever worked with was this careful.

  Probably anywhere else would be a warzone.

  “Mostly, deeper mast–poles and secondary cable–loops,” she continued. “I’ll chalk some of it up to haste in pulling everything out so you folks could go mass–science mode on the fly. But still.”

  Chike let the silence hang for a moment as he considered the probable debris field.

  As a xeno–geologist, there was nothing for him to do as part of the overall cleanup. He was really just in charge right now, at least as much as Ann–Marta would let him be. There were other experts, like Hadley, who would dig into the operational details and equipment logs for answers. His job was to provide direction, guidance, and arbitration.

  “Search and Rescue time?” he asked finally.

  “Yes,” Ann–Marta agreed. “But first, we need to thoroughly check out the wingsuits to make sure they have not suffered any malfunctions or degradations from the storm. I’m not about to send Fahmida or Juan–Marco out there and then need to turn around and rescue them as well. Plus, the sun will set in another ninety minutes. I’ll send them up at first light.”