The faces of everyone pushing the vehicle were mostly hidden by mufflers, but their eyes showed the strain. In Mal’s case, they showed pain as well.
They shoved the Slugger around on its own axis so that it was facing away from the building. Zoë and Jayne hauled out the trailer and hitched its towing arm to the hook at the Slugger’s rear. Then Jayne closed the door behind them.
A bright full moon shone down, making the snowy landscape glow. Stars glittered icily. The world was bicolored, black and silvery-white, with every detail picked out clearly by the moonlight like the finest filigree.
The four crewmembers and Meadowlark rested a moment, gathering their strength before setting off.
Pushing the Slugger all the way to the forest, with its fuel- and food-laden trailer sliding behind, was not just hard work, as Mal had predicted. It was an ordeal, a Herculean labor.
Admittedly, it wasn’t so bad to start with. At first they were following the grooves the Slugger had carved between the correctional unit and the depot. The packed snow was firm enough not to provide too much resistance.
Beyond, however, in the fluffier virgin snow, the machine kept getting bogged down, and when brute force wouldn’t move it, the group had to dig its segmented treads free using the pair of short-handled shovels that were fastened to its bodywork by clips. Soon they were sweating profusely inside their thermal gear, and their breath was coming in short gasps, little plumes of vapor billowing out through the mufflers.
The forest lay a good half-mile distant and didn’t seem to be getting closer in a hurry.
They toiled onward beneath the moon’s pitiless gaze, shunting the Slugger along with their backs, their arms, their shoulders. They took short breaks to rest, which became more and more frequent, the intervals between briefer. All in all, it took them an hour and a half to get from CU #23 to the forest, a distance they could have covered in fifteen minutes at a brisk walking pace.
When they reached the treeline they were near collapse. They pushed the Slugger just inside the forest, then halted and, as one, sank to their knees.
“Five minutes,” Mal panted. “Catch your breath. Grab a bite of a protein bar. Then we carry on.”
Another hour of strenuous shoving, and the Slugger was deep in the woods. Deep enough, they hoped, that they could at last start the vehicle. Pines and spruces clustered around them, their boughs thickly furred with snow. They could no longer see Correctional Unit #23.
“All right, Meadowlark,” Mal said. “Time to step up and prove yourself.”
Meadowlark clambered into the driver’s seat. She flicked a couple of heavy-duty toggle switches. “Battery on. Have to warm up the converter coil first, get it to exactly the right temperature. Too cold, no ignition. Too hot, it’ll trip and disconnect. You can hear when it’s ready. Makes a high-pitched whine, like a mosquito.” She patted the dashboard with a gloved hand. “Come on, champ. You can do this.”
Jayne nudged Simon. “Girl talking to a machine like it’s alive?” he said in an undertone. “That put you in mind of anyone?”
“No,” Simon said, guiltily.
“You sure? ’Cause to me, she’s acting a hell of a lot like Kaylee. Looks a bit like her, too. Could be that’s why you find her so beguilin’.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Meadowlark, oblivious to this exchange, now depressed a rubber sealed button with her forefinger. The Slugger coughed. Spluttered. Fumes blurted from its tailpipe. The engine churned into life.
Then rattled bronchitically and died.
“Usually takes a couple of goes,” Meadowlark said.
Mal folded his arms, his expression skeptical.
Meadowlark went through the steps of the ignition process again, and this time, when the engine caught, it stayed running.
She looked pleased. And relieved.
“All yours,” she said, giving up the driver’s seat to Mal.
There was room on the trailer for two, and the engine cowl on the back of the Slugger could seat another two, albeit not in great comfort.
“Zoë, Meadowlark,” Mal said, “trailer’s yours. It’s heavy enough as it is, what with all that food and fuel, but someone’s got to go on it, and you two weigh less than Simon and Jayne. The lighter the load, the less likely it is the trailer’s skis’ll get bogged down.”
Accordingly, the two women stepped aboard the trailer while Jayne and Simon climbed up on the Slugger itself, behind Mal.
Mal eased the dual throttle sticks forward. The Slugger dug its tracks into the snow and lumbered off.
He threaded a course between the tree trunks, gentling the vehicle along. The thing was as easy to drive as a cinderblock. Rather like steering a boat, you had to anticipate each turn well in advance. Mal figured this out after a couple of near-misses with trees.
There was, however, a compass inset into the dashboard, and thanks to this Mal was able to keep them on a roughly northward bearing.
The Slugger crawled through the forest at an average speed of six miles per hour, and miles ahead, unseen, the Great White Mountains loomed.
40
The white hare burrowed down through the snow and found what it was looking for: a patch of sorrel. It nibbled at the plant’s tiny leaves, popping its head up every so often to keep a watch for predators. The sun was coming up, dawn light spreading across the landscape like honey. The trees around the forest clearing where the white hare sat were growing pale blue shadows.
Suddenly a sound caught its attention. The hare went up on its hindlegs, peering around, its black-tipped ears pricked. Its nose twitched inquisitively.
The sound grew in volume. It was unnatural, a low growl, monstrous and menacing, and it was accompanied by a vibration like an earth tremor. The louder the sound became, the harder the ground shook beneath the hare.
Though thoroughly unnerved, the hare stayed put. This was its habit when alarmed. Its dense white fur was perfect camouflage against a snowy background. If it kept stock still, whatever was making the noise might not see it. It might pass right by the hare, unaware.
Now the thing came into view, emerging into the clearing. It was an animal like none the hare had ever seen—huge and black as a bear, but much longer and broader, and jointed in the middle, as though it had a tail almost as large as its body. Its roar was constant and terrible. It stank of bitterness and smoke.
And it was coming straight for the hare.
The hare at last broke into a run, darting for the safety of the trees. Huddled behind a fallen branch, it peered out as the black beast battered its way back into the forest on the far side of the clearing. The hare spied other, smaller animals on its back. It wondered, in its little lagomorph brain, why the beast was doing this. Were they its young? Did beasts of this kind help their leverets get around by carrying them?
Then, promptly, the hare forgot about it. As the beast’s roar faded, the hare’s thoughts returned to the patch of sorrel. Keeping itself fed was all-important. Spring was on the way, the mating season. The hare needed to be at full strength for that, after which it could enjoy the few brief, glorious days of summer when the snows thawed and greenery was plentiful and its belly was always full. At present, there was precious little food available—moss and lichen, mostly—and the hare had to scrounge for every last scrap.
It lolloped back out into the clearing, when all at once there was a scuffling of paws to its right. The hare felt a sudden sharp pain in its haunch. There was the sensation of being lifted into the air, a crunch…
And then nothing.
* * *
The wolves divided the dead hare between them. The dominant male, who had made the kill, got the best bits—the hindlegs with their plump, juicy muscle—sharing them with his mate, the dominant female. These two were patriarch and matriarch of the pack. The rest, consisting of their half-dozen offspring, made do with the leftovers—bones, brains, innards, skin. The younger wolves snapped and snarled at one another, each vying with its siblings for
a larger portion.
They were wolves, yes, but Atata’s failed terraforming had lent them unusual size, so that even the smallest of them stood four feet high at the shoulder, while the largest was nearer five. They had the lean, arched hindquarters of a greyhound, too, and the speed to match, while their jaws were broad and powerfully chunky like a bulldog’s. Their pelts were the gray-white of woodsmoke, and their eyes were so deep orange they were practically red.
When the meal was done—and a single hare was slim pickings for eight ordinary full-grown wolves, let alone eight as large as these—the pack settled down to lick the blood off their muzzles.
The patriarch was restless, however. The acrid, alien smell of the large creature that had crossed the clearing a few moments earlier still hung in the air. And there were other odors mixed in with that smell: the scent of living beings, things of flesh, blood and bone. The patriarch had seen the five creatures accompanying the beast. He knew they would be a good meal, if caught. Plenty of food for all.
With a couple of sharp yips, he brought the pack to their feet. One among them, the youngest of the litter, did not get up as quickly as his father would have liked, and received an incentivizing nip on the hindquarters.
The patriarch circled twice on the spot, in a show of urgency, then set off in the wake of the clanking, roaring beast. The matriarch was at his side. The other wolves fell in behind.
The pack loped along at a cautious, rhythmic pace. Long, lithe leaps propelled them gracefully through the underbelly-scraping snow. The beast’s spoor was not in the least bit difficult to follow, nor its smell.
Soon it was in sight. The patriarch and matriarch slowed, and the other wolves, following their parents’ lead as ever, did likewise.
Now they were matching the beast’s speed but holding back just far enough so that it, and the lesser creatures on it, would not see them.
Like this, steadily and stealthily, the terrafreak wolves pursued their prey. They could maintain the pace for hour upon hour. It was nothing to them. The beast would surely tire before they did.
And then, when it did start to flag, the pack would seize their opportunity and pounce.
41
“Boss? Boss!”
Otis shook Mr. O’Bannon gently. The dying man’s eyelids fluttered open.
“Hate to wake you up,” Otis said. It was mid-morning, and Mr. O’Bannon often slept late. The rule was don’t disturb him unless absolutely necessary.
“What is it, Otis?” said Mr. O’Bannon, thickly. “Whatever it is, it better be damn important. Otherwise I’ll have someone remove that other ear of yours.”
Otis touched his remaining ear, a reflex action, like someone checking their wallet was still in their pocket.
“It is important, Mr. O’Bannon,” he said. “It’s gone, you see.”
“Gone? What’s gone?”
“The Slugger. Somebody’s taken it.”
“Has a supply delivery just come in? Because if it has and this is a false alarm…”
“No, boss. And that’s not all. The new guys, the ones from CU #22…”
“What about them?”
“They’re gone too.”
Had Mr. O’Bannon been any less sick, he would have sat bolt upright. As it was, he craned his head up off the pillow, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a rictus of effort.
“Say that again, Otis. The people from #22…?”
“All four of ’em. Ain’t in their cells. Ain’t nowhere to be seen. We’ve looked. Chances are it’s them as took the Slugger.”
“You reckon?” Mr. O’Bannon drawled. “Listen to me. Get everyone together. Cleavon, Annie, Pops, all the Regulators. Run a full search of the place, then report back here. Now.”
* * *
The Regulators were assembled in his cell—the full complement, all seven of them—and Mr. O’Bannon had managed to maneuver himself into a sitting position. Holding himself up like this was clearly a strain. His chin kept lolling onto his breastbone, as though his head was too heavy for his neck muscles to support.
The Regulators shuffled their feet nervously. Whether or not it was their fault, something bad had occurred at Hellfreeze and Mr. O’Bannon was displeased. One or more of them might pay the penalty for that.
“Just so’s we’re clear,” Mr. O’Bannon said, “the four who came to us yesterday from the Big Cube aren’t here any longer. That’s a fact, right?”
Answer: a few mumbled yeses.
“And they’ve made off with our gorramn Slugger.”
Again, mumbled yeses.
“Slugger tracks lead off away from the building, towards the forest,” said Pops. He was only in his forties, not nearly as old as his name might suggest, but with his prematurely craggy face and hoary white hair he looked like someone’s grandfather. Not, however, the kind of grandfather whose lap a small grandchild might happily sit on. More the kind nobody in the family really wanted to visit. “Can’t help but think they’ve jacked it, maybe to go back to #22.”
“Some thermal outfits are missing,” another of the Regulators chimed in. This was Michael Pale Horse, a man with a blunt nose, small dark eyes and long black hair that formed a sharp widow’s peak at the front and was swept into a ponytail at the back, tied with a leather thong. “Five of them.”
“How many did you say?” Mr. O’Bannon said.
“Five of the hooks where we hang the thermal outfits up are empty, boss.”
“So somebody else has left with those four.”
Pale Horse looked back at him placidly. His facial default setting was deadpan. “Seems so. Or they took a spare outfit, for some reason.”
“It could be,” Otis added slowly, “that they’ve helped themselves to some of our food as well. Kitchen guys reckon there’s a bunch of stuff missing. Cans, protein bars.”
Mr. O’Bannon digested this information. Then he turned his yellowed eyes on Ornery Annie.
“Annie, you brought that #22 woman to me last night. The one who used to be a Dust Devil. What was her name?”
“Zoë.” Annie’s voice sounded a little hoarse, and her eyes were bleary.
“That’s her. You seemed quite taken with her. Thought she might make a good Regulator.”
Unconsciously or not, all of the other Regulators edged a half step away from Annie, putting a slight distance between them and her.
“Mr. O’Bannon, I had no idea any of this was going to happen,” Annie said. If she was quivering inside, her voice did not betray it. “You must believe me.”
“Of course you didn’t. You’d have come to me and said something if you had.”
“I most assuredly would have.”
“But tell me, is there anything Zoë said to you that might give us some indication why she and her pals have made off with our Slugger? Or where they might have gone with it? Anything at all?”
Annie scratched the shaven side of her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Search your memory, Annie. Take your time.”
“Well,” Annie said eventually, “we did talk awhile, her and me, after she’d visited with you. Friendly-like. Getting to know each other better, type of thing. And…”
“And?” Mr. O’Bannon prompted.
“A name came up. A name we… we don’t like to use anymore.”
“Don’t be squeamish, Annie. Even if it’s the name I think it is, you can say it.”
She hesitated. “Esau Weng.”
Mr. O’Bannon was quiet for a moment. The Regulators tensed. It was as though Ornery Annie had blasphemed in church.
“I see,” said Mr. O’Bannon. “Knows him, does she?”
Before Annie could reply, Otis cut in. “Kinda funny, ’cause a coupla people mentioned to me that the strangers were askin’ ’em about doctors.”
“One doctor specifically?” said Mr. O’Bannon.
“Not so far as I know, but…”
“I heard they did ask about him,” said Pops. “About Weng.”
“Huh,” said Mr. O’Bannon. “Anybody here think any of this is a coincidence?”
Heads were shaken.
“That’s good, because neither do I.” Mr. O’Bannon looked thoughtful. “Those four ain’t from the Big Cube, that’s pretty much a given. Ask me, they’re on Atata for one thing only, and that’s Dr. Weng. They want him, and they’ve discovered he isn’t in Hellfreeze so they’ve gone to look for him outside. Sound likely to you guys?”
Heads were nodded.
“They won’t find him,” said Pale Horse. “He’s got to be dead.”
“Sure,” said Mr. O’Bannon with a ruminative air. “Sure, sure, sure. But… just suppose he isn’t.”
“Sir?” said Pops.
“Just suppose they know he’s alive and they’ve got a lead on him. Or maybe they haven’t but they’re chasing after him anyway, hoping against hope. Seems to me if they’re desperate enough to get ahold of him that they’d land on a prison planet, then they’d be desperate enough to go searching for him through an icy gorramn wilderness.”
“So, uh, what do you want us to do about it, Mr. O’Bannon?” asked Otis.
“Otis, you and Beau went after Weng when he left. Didn’t work out so well for either of you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t say it often enough, sir.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s in the past. I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself, though. I want you out there. You, Pops, Pale Horse, the whole damn lot of you. Even you, Cleavon.”
Cleavon nodded, as if pleased to be included even though he wasn’t clear why Mr. O’Bannon had singled him out for a special mention.
“All of us?” said Pops.
“Did I misspeak?” said Mr. O’Bannon.
“No, sir.
“Did I stutter?”
“No, sir.”
“You got both your ears, unlike Otis?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Then you heard me aright.”
“It’s just… who’s gonna keep an eye out for you while we ain’t here?”
“Rope in a few of the regular inmates,” said Mr. O’Bannon. “There’s plenty want to get in my good books. Tell ’em it’s a dry run for becoming actual Regulators. That’ll keep them keen, thinking they’ve got a shot at earning themselves a star.”
Firefly--Life Signs Page 17
