Mortal Remains

by Christopher Evans

  She went across and clambered into the seat behind them. The shorter of the two grunted at her, and that was the extent of the greeting. She didn’t know either of them.

  “Remember what I said!” Vargo called as they moved off.

  The caterpillar accelerated gradually, raising a low dust cloud as they descended the escarpment to the plain. Periodically Marea wiped her gloved hand across her oculars to clear them, and then her cloak would raise its snout from her throat to peer out. On the riddled umber slopes to the west the mining teams were marshalling the dragons, driving the flightless oreburrowers into the tunnels to excavate the mineral-rich rocks for export to fabricatories throughout the Solar System. At this distance, the creatures looked like lizards with vestigial wings, their herders even more diminutive. All the workers were criminals, most serving sentences of between one and ten years. Some—the murderers—were here for life.

  The two men in front continued to ignore her, driving the caterpillar onwards, one of them swearing constantly under his breath, saying what a shit-hole the moon was, what a fucking outrage it was that they had been consigned to it. The shorter man, who was steering, chewed gum under his mask, popping bubbles occasionally as if to punctuate his companion’s invective. Around them stretched a broken tan and olive plain fragmented with jutting saffron rhombs of sulphur and ruddy patches of thiolichens. Distant geysers jetted sulphur dioxide crystals high into the black sky; the crystals refracted the light so that the hazy sun was bracketed by spectral crescent mock suns.

  Within an hour they were approaching Cinnabar Ridge, an outcrop of vermilion rocks rising from thinly crusted terrain which Marea knew was treacherous. They had seen nothing along the way apart from a monitor bird, drifting high on vapour plumes. It tracked them, swooping down from time to time to radio its overview, reporting no sightings of the beast.

  They pulled up on the shore of a lava lake, a tract of liquid sulphur the colour of old gold, crusted here and there with solid patches like floating islands. Elsewhere the lake was simmering, boiling into the near vacuum.

  Her cloak was restless, shuffling about her shoulders and peeking out through the visor.

  “You want to go walkabout?” she asked it.

  “What?” said the voice of the taller man across the suitcom. She had left the channel open.

  “Nothing. I was talking to my cloak.”

  “Fucking cons and their pets,” she heard him mutter.

  The monitor bird came in from a long circuit of the ridge.

  “Nothing,” it screeched, jetting pale exhaust from its ragged black wings then swooping down over the lake.

  “You sure?” shouted the taller man after it.

  The bird, its optics linked to monitors back at the base, continued its flight without replying.

  She manoeuvred the cloak around, then swiftly unzipped the shoulder flaps of her mask. The cloak slithered out with a puff of misty air and ran across to the lake shore.

  Marea sealed her mask before the chill penetrated, enjoying the brief thrill of exposure. Sniffing around, the cloak found a stunted brown patch of lavaflowers and began to crop them. It could survive outside for an hour or so, and the exercise and grazing would do it good.

  “Well,” came the taller man’s voice, “you just going to stand there?”

  He and his companion were unloading the paddler from the trailer.

  “Are we going out on the lake?” Marea said.

  “Why the hell else do you think we brought this bowl of blubber along?”

  In fact, he stood back and let Marea and the shorter man do the lifting. The paddler was oval, dimpled, the bulbous mouth-engine at the rear. They turned it over and dropped it in the shallows. Immediately it began sucking lake liquid—it was hard not to think of it as “water”—into its maw, inflating the bladders around its edges. The taller man hoisted a harpoon gun and clambered delicately on board while the shorter man held the paddler still in the shallows.

  “Get aboard,” he said to her. “Think we got all day?”

  Her cloak was now stalking the monitor bird, which had settled nearby; the bird flew away as it pounced. When it saw Marea getting on board, it scampered across and leapt in just as the shorter man kick-started the boat by stamping his heel sharply into one of its ribs. Marea was hurled back as it shot out across the lake, fins furiously pumping.

  Both men were suitably amused at her fall.

  “You steer,” the taller man told her, leaving Marea in the stern seat while he and his companion climbed into the prow.

  They headed straight out across the lake, the paddler settling down to a steady pace, jetting liquid from gills below the engine sacs, flippers moving in an effortless rhythm. The taller man had his harpoon gun at the ready, while his companion had produced a long-bladed knife. Marea wondered where it had come from, since it was not the type of weapon which would have been issued for the job. But then these two were hardly a reputable pair, even by the standards of Io.

  Around them, the lake seethed and bubbled, vapours rising like shreds of mist. Marea negotiated the ragged islands where the sulphur had crystallized by using the pressure of her palm on the paddler’s Eustachian ridge. At first they bumped a few islands, to the annoyance of the men, but she soon got used to it.

  On some of the floating islands there were patches of withered vegetation, and on one of them she thought she glimpsed a pale creature darting through a smear of feathery scrub. Like all the Settled Worlds, Io had been liberally seeded with a variety of organisms to assist the exploitation of its mineralogy, but those that survived the hostile conditions rarely bred true so that mutations were the norm rather than the exception. Most were sickly or useless specimens that did not survive long, but occasionally the moon threw up something unpredictable and dangerous. The ore-burrowers were a terrestrial modification of trans-Gallilean fliers, their wings deliberately stunted and their propulsion systems diverted through the lungs so that the creatures could mine ore by heatblasting. They were bred to be docile and obedient; they were also supposed to be unable to fly.

  The taller man continued an intermittent tirade about their status, conditions of work and general treatment as enforced labourers; Marea fingered the volume on the suitcom down to minimum, wondering what crimes the two of them had originally committed. Her cloak crawled up into her lap as she steered the paddler into the shadows of the ridge. Banded deposits rose up in shades of orange and brown; on zoom they were a kaleidoscope of scintillations.

  There was no sign of anything. The sun gilded the vaporous lake, giving an illusion of tranquillity. She offered her cloak a lungful of air from her back-up sac; it gulped at the nozzle like a feeding infant. She heard the monitor bird saying “All clear”, but the second word was cut short even as a big shadow passed fleetingly over them.

  Her cloak darted under the seat, but when Marea looked up there was nothing in the sky.

  “What the hell was that?” the taller man said.

  Both of them were standing, peering around. The shadow had vanished over the water towards the ridge. Marea scanned the sky, but nothing appeared. Nothing at all.

  Presently the two men settled back. Marea wondered if she should say something. Maybe it had been a vapour plume, temporarily blotting out the sun. Maybe the monitor bird had flown off to scout beyond the ridge.

  Despite her urging, her cloak refused to come out from under the seat.

  “Something frightened it,” she said. “I think we should head back to shore.”

  But then the shorter man was standing again, pointing.

  “Look at that. Is it me, or is it a nest?”

  On an island directly ahead of them was a pile of dried vegetation. And at its centre was a smooth mound.

  “It’s an egg,” the taller man shouted in triumph. “It’s a fucking dragon’s egg.”

  “I think we should get out of here,” Marea said.

  “You kidding? You a moron or something? Any idea how much th
ose things fetch on the open market? Get this tub over there.”

  She didn’t move. “Who’s the moron? This is a prison world, in case you’ve forgotten. You planning on selling it to Andreas, maybe?”

  He stuck the explosive end of the harpoon gun in her face. “You listen to me. We’re taking it, got that? What we do with it is our business.”

  She pushed the barrel aside. “This is stupid. If there’s an egg, then the dragon’s around here somewhere.”

  “All the more reason not to waste time arguing. Now get this tub to the island.”

  She looked at the other man. “What do you say?”

  He chomped on his gum, melodramatically fingering the blade of his knife. “I think you’d better do exactly what he tells you.”

  She told the paddler to slow, then brought it alongside the shore of the island.

  “Right,” the taller man said. “Metin, go get it.”

  The shorter man looked nonplussed. “Me? Why me?”

  “Think I’d trust her?” He had levelled the harpoon gun at her chest. “Be quick about it.”

  Not without reluctance, the shorter man clambered uncertainly out of the boat, gingerly testing his feet on the thin surface of the island. When he was sure it would support his weight, he hurried across to the nest.

  “Hell’s teeth,” Marea heard him say as he peered inside. “It’s a big one.”

  And then he was hoisting it out, cradling it against his chest. It filled his arms, mottled green and crimson, a wrinkled leathery thing. Marea’s cloak scuttled up her leg, vibrating in alarm.

  Marea could tell that he was grinning under his mask as he hurried towards the paddler. Then the shadow descended again, and something huge loomed over them. There was a bronze blur, and as it lifted she saw the man’s head had gone. Blood was fountaining from his neck, vaporizing into a dark cloud.

  The egg fell from his arms and rolled away. The dragon soared up, and Marea was certain the head was clutched in its claws. The paddler, already panicked, began to flee across the lake as the headless body crumpled.

  Both she and the other man were flung headlong. The creature was huge, no mere adolescent but a fully grown mother who would protect its unborn infant with all the ferocity it could muster. Marea glimpsed it veering over the ridge. It was at least twenty times the length of the paddler, fully developed wings sprouting from its leathery gold-green hide, exhaust pluming from their web sacs.

  The paddler was furiously weaving past the islands in its fright. Marea clung on hard to her seat. Then the dragon swooped down again, heading not towards them but the island where it had made its nest. It landed, was lost from sight behind a swirl of lake vapour.

  The other man was crouched in the prow, still gripping the harpoon gun.

  “Did you see it?” he said. “Did you fucking see the size of it?”

  Marea resisted the temptation to say she had warned him; she was too frightened and nauseated to speak.

  “Think it’ll come after us?” he said. There was a quaver in his voice. When she made no reply, he said, “I’m talking to you!”

  She stroked her cloak, trying to calm it. “Maybe it’ll be satisfied if it’s got the egg.”

  He stared at her, eyes black with fear behind his oculars. Then he turned towards the ridge.

  Shortly afterwards the lake vapour cleared momentarily, and they could see the nest island.

  The dragon was gone.

  They both scanned the skies, but there was no sign of it. The paddler continued hurrying towards the distant shore. It was a far better navigator, even in panic, when left to itself.

  Now that they were away from the ridge, they had a clearer field of vision. All that could be seen were distant vapour plumes, the sun shining smudgily in the blackness, a dusting of brighter stars. Her cloak twitched in her lap, claws scratching at her knees.

  The man was standing, harpoon gun raised. “I can’t believe the size of it. A fucking monster. Took his head clean off.”

  She was revolted by the memory. She had never known death until she found the womb and brought about the destruction of both her husbands. Now it seemed to stalk her.

  The man pivoted around, watching the sky.

  “What’s your name?” she asked him, because suddenly it seemed important to know.

  “What the hell difference does it make?”

  She practically screamed at him: “Tell me!”

  “Pavel.” He had to swallow to say it. He didn’t ask her hers.

  The shore was approaching rapidly. Marea began to think that perhaps they would make it to dry land. Then the lake erupted in front of them.

  The dragon reared out of it.

  Its wedge-shaped head coiled up from the lake until it was looming over them, drooling dark slime from the lake bottom. It began venting smoky hydrocarbon gases from its nostrils while its wings broke surface, sweeping out to hold it in position. Very slowly the lids on its triangular eyes opened. It stared down at them with a gaze the colour of fire.

  The man had turned and frozen at the sight; the harpoon gun slipped from his hands and fell to the bottom of the boat. Marea managed to retrieve her stun-rod, but she knew it would be useless against a creature of this size.

  Slowly the dragon’s jaw opened wider and wider. She saw the jagged arrays of flinty teeth, the cavern of its huge throat. It was almost as if it was yawning, could dispose of them so effortlessly that even their killing bored it.

  The man leapt from the boat, diving into the lake. Furiously he began to try to swim away, sinking and rising, sinking and rising, as if he had never swum before but was propelled on by sheer terror.

  Languidly the dragon turned its head in his direction. Its jaws snapped together, and two jets of flame roared from its nostrils. The lake liquid exploded, boiling even more furiously, buffeting the paddler. But the vapours cleared quickly, the lake subsiding to its usual simmer. If anything remained of the man, it did not surface.

  The dragon swung its head back towards Marea, bringing its snout so close she might have smelt its swamp breath had she not been masked. The slitted pupils of the eyes began to dilate as its jaws yawned open. Marea saw its marbled tongue quivering in its maw. She was certain it intended to eat her.

  She felt a scrabbling movement along her body, and then the cloak leapt on to the dragon’s snout and clung on. Marea managed to react immediately, activating the stun-rod and ramming it into the creature’s mouth.

  The dragon reared back in surprise. Marea saw her cloak scramble along its nose ridge to claw at its eye. She dived for the harpoon gun, snatching it up. The dragon reared again, flicking its head wildly and finally dislodging the cloak, which went spiralling into the lake. She was positive she could hear it roaring as the head came veering towards her again, jaws opening wide.

  She fired. The explosive dart went straight down the creature’s gullet.

  It kept coming. Then its eyes burst apart an instant before its entire head exploded.

  The blast flung her over the edge of the paddler. She clung on to one of the bladders as the boat pitched and swayed. The debris of the beast began to fall down around her like clotted rain.

  Summoning all her strength, she finally managed to clamber back into the paddler. The last few fragments of the beast were sinking towards the bottom of the lake. Purple patches of blood frothed on its surface.

  Had she been able to, Marea might have vomited, but she was limp with exhaustion and fright. She sat there for a long while, trembling inside her suit. Then something crawled over the side of the boat. It was her cloak, and it slithered into her lap, shaking lake sulphur from its pelt, splattering her oculars.

  She cradled and stroked it, feeding it air, crying and laughing at the same time. Only gradually did its quivering subside.

  “My hero,” she told it. “What a wonder you are!”

  The paddler was in shock and would not move at her command. She prodded one of its ribs with her toe, gave it a gentle k
ick, then kicked harder. Suddenly it shot across the lake, moving at a furious pace, crashing straight through any crusts in its path until they hit the shallows. And even then it kept going, though it was not designed for movement on dry land, careering up the shore until finally it stumbled, catapulting Marea into a drift of sulphur dioxide snow.

  She sat up, unhurt inside her suit, the cloak clutched around her neck.

  Vargo was sitting on his trike nearby. He held a rifle in his hands.

  “We lost the monitor bird,” he told her. “I thought I’d better come and investigate.”

  “You’re too late. It’s over.”

  He holstered the rifle, then clambered off the trike and walked over to her. Gently he lifted her up.

  “You OK?”

  Marea began to sob.

  Vargo held her, letting her cry until eventually she stopped.

  “The other two,” she said. “It took them. They’re both dead.”

  She told him the whole story, sparing no details. Then she cried again.

  Vargo took something from one of his suit pouches and pressed it into her hand. It looked like a small cube of bark.

  “In your mouth,” he ordered. “Chew on it slowly.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’ll make you feel better.”

  She did as he instructed, opening the mouthpiece on her mask and pushing the cube inside.

  It was fibrous, grainy, bitter-tasting. But within seconds she felt a great liberating tide of calm washing through her, blunting her terror.

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  “Somalin.”

  Somalin was a psycosmetic drug used as a tranquillizer and mood-enhancer. It was rare, costly. Unheard of on Io.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Emergency rations,” he said, straight-voiced.

  She turned the pulpy mass around in her mouth. Her mind was lucid, but the calmness was like a delirium.

  “Will you collect their bodies?” she asked. Tears were running down her face again.

  “Listen.” He was holding her firmly by the arms. “If it’s any consolation, they wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway.”