by Thomas Stone
Since the Corporation ships had stopped coming, he didn’t work anymore. What he required was provided by the people working for him, now little more than community thugs. Officially, he was the chief administrator and had been ever since the real colonists began to arrive. To his mind, those pilgrims were too tender a lot for such a place, with their laws and their co-ops and land deals. They were mostly farmers and cattle-herders with a few merchants scattered in. Nonetheless, they had prospered and life was peachy until the supply ships abruptly stopped. That’s when the trouble with the kitzloc began. Now, the frightened colonists grouped together and scratched out a meager living however they could, mostly through tending community gardens and bartering for services. None were independent ranchers anymore, but then again, Jennings wasn’t a miner anymore either. His life was winding down on a backwater planet.
A cautious footstep sounded from the outside corridor followed by a timid knock. The bed groaned as Jennings rolled over and looked at the clock: 7:00 am. He fell back into place and once again stared at the ceiling. One of the water stains looked like a map of Africa. “What do you want?”
Outside the door shuffling feet, a barking cough followed by, “It’s me.”
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
“Something’s happened. There’s news.”
“There’s always something happening somewhere.” Jennings rolled upright, stood, pulled his suspenders over his shoulders and stretched his back with vertebrae popping like released bolts. “Just a minute.”
As he pulled on his boots, the voice came from the door again, “Thought you’d want to know… you always told me to let you know.”
“Know what?” Jennings opened the door. Red-headed Ted Johnson stood before him, tattered hat in fidgeting hands. “A ship’s come in. I saw the lights. Must’ve landed at the field.”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Ah, yes he had, it had roused him from his sleep, a sound like distant thunder.
“Well, it came in, I saw it,” Ted said.
Jennings narrowed his gaze at his man. “You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Went down in the direction of the airfield.”
As Jennings hastily donned a utility belt and jacket, Ted remained in the open door. “There’s something else.”
Jennings sighed and shook his head as he checked his pockets for extra shell magazines. “What is it?”
“S-somebody got into the garage last night. Your truck’s gone.”
“Which truck?”
“The fancy one with the whatchamacallits…”
“The simulcons?”
“Yeh, that’s the one.”
Jennings felt like striking Ted. “You’re telling me someone broke inside the garage and stole a wilderness tractor-truck, along with everything inside?”
“Yeh, I’m afraid that’s about the extent of it.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Who was it?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Damn it, Ted, the truck’s as big as a house. They can’t hide it! Whoever doesn’t show his face this morning is who did it. Get out of my way.” As Jennings brushed by, Ted blinked. “Where you going?”
“Where the hell you think? I’m driving out to the airfield. You stay here. I’ll take Brobow and Jimbo with me.”
Jennings was nearly out the door when Ted shouted after him. “What should we do?”
“Find out who took it. Look for their tracks.”
Jennings walked through the hotel he had built and occupied for the last nine years until he entered the lobby where several of his men were already gathered. He pointed at two as he walked to the front door. “Get your gear,” he said, “we’re driving out to the airfield.”
“When?” one asked.
“Right now, let’s go. Bring the car around.”
Minutes later, Jennings squinted through a cracked windshield on a beat-to-tears Land Rover as it barreled down a black duracrete highway strewn with sand and brush.
The thought that someone had taken his prized tractor-truck made him sick. Not that he was up to a kitzloc hunt just yet, but that truck was one of the items he’d been gathering for just such an expedition. Richest man in town wasn’t immune to common theft. Oh well, a ship had arrived – much larger news. It had been years since the last boat had come in with much-needed supplies and then taken a load of mineral with it. It would be good to speak with new faces and get some news about what was happening back home. Something had happened years ago, something big enough to stop the flow of trade between Corporation worlds. Was it the wormhole? Had something gone wrong? More than likely. Whatever it was, it had stranded Jennings and every other soul on Mirabel for nearly seven years. Finally, he would have some answers.
Two men sat in the SUV with him, both armed with old but adequate projectile weapons. Brobow and Jimbo weren’t the smartest of his men, but they could handle themselves and better yet, they would readily take orders.
The airfield was nearly thirty kilometers from the Jennings Bank settlement so there was plenty of time to muse about whatever might lay ahead.
Jimbo had never been one for small talk but Brobow couldn’t contain himself. Shouting over the engine noise and wind, he said, “What do you think, Gary? You know, about the ship? You think they’re here to take us back? Supplies maybe? We got ore; do you think they’ll want to load it up?”
Jennings had no idea what the visitors wanted. It had been years since the last ship so there was no way to know.
“You’ll know when I tell you,” he growled. “Just keep an eye out.” Jennings glanced at the rearview mirror to make sure Jimbo watched the sides of the road. They didn’t speak of it, but Jennings knew they were terrified of the kitzloc.
Years before anyone knew about the creatures, the miners went about their work, stripping mineral-rich portions of land, loading the ore aboard Corporation ships, enjoying the freedom of a pristine Earthlike world, and getting rich in the process. Things changed when the colonists began to establish themselves. It started with the disappearance of the Gordon family.
The Gordons had been decent people, keeping to their own on a ten thousand acre tract bordering the desert. They kept livestock and grew their own food. Just ordinary folks looking to make a better life among the Corporation’s newly discovered planets.
Charles Gordon was married to Nelda. They had three children, not of the test tube variety, but, as was the fashion of many colonists, from the tried and true organ-to-organ method of procreation. The Gordons were traditionalists, throwbacks casting aside technology to live their lives closer to the biological rhythms of the universe, or so they claimed.
To their credit, the Gordons proved themselves to be self-sufficient. In fact, Jennings and the other miners didn’t see much of them after they settled at their ranch. There was the occasional visit to Jennings Bank to pick up provisions or repair some piece of gear that was beyond their maintenance skills, but those times were rare.
One afternoon nearly six years prior, Nelda was found on the outskirts of the great strip-mining fields clutching a child’s stuffed animal. The teddy bear was smeared with a peculiar, sweet-smelling substance that changed sheen in the light from a dark green to blue. Dehydrated, wild-eyed, and babbling nonsense, she allowed them to take her to the infirmary where she was sedated. A day later, she came out of it for awhile. That’s when she told her story to Jennings.
She said things had begun happening three weeks earlier when Charles noticed the cattle acting peculiarly. They’d stopped grazing and had moved into the desert on their own volition. With a great deal of effort, Charles managed to drive the herd back to the pens adjacent to the ranch buildings. Still, the animals refused to eat and one by one they started to drop dead. The oddest thing, Nelda said, when Charles brought them back from the desert, they came marching in, practically in lockstep as if with one mind.
Nelda told Jennings the first night the cattle returned, there was a strange feel to the
air, a subtle scent on the breeze. It was nothing, she’d assumed, just a portent of the changing season on a still foreign world. They’d gone to bed early and slept soundly until dawn only to awake simultaneously. With an uncanny sense something was amiss, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon ran from their room to find all three children missing from their beds. They searched all that day well into the night and found nary a sign of their children, not even a single footprint leading from the house. When Nelda tired, Charles brought her back where he deposited her upon the porch before turning around and heading out again. Instead of retiring to bed, she sat on the porch rocker waiting for his return and, she hoped, the children. She sat that way all night and by morning she was still alone. She never saw her husband or children again.
Jennings distinctly remembered that was when Mrs. Gordon’s story got a little fuzzy, in fact, she stopped making sense altogether. One word came through though and it was the one word he didn’t understand: “Kitzloc,” she said. Jennings turned to the doctor and asked him what it meant. The doctor shrugged and gave her another injection that put her to sleep.
She lasted several weeks but in the end, like the cattle she owned, she quit eating and finally succumbed to starvation as well as her own madness. Long before the end, they resorted to restraints because, despite the sedatives, she attacked anyone who came near. The mysterious substance on the stuffed animal turned out to have beneficial effects on the health of the people who handled it. Jennings had the oil analyzed but there was only so much their limited labs could unravel. They referred to it as essence.
Similar incidents began to play out among other outlying farmsteads. One day, Freddy MacKenzie was spotted wandering up the road toward the miner’s compound. Blood flowed from the bare patches on his head where he’d pulled out tufts of his own bushy blonde hair. His ranting could be heard a hundred yards away. “Stay out of the outlands,” he shouted. “They’ll get you just like they got me.”
By the time his wife showed up in a horse-drawn wagon, Jennings’ men had tied Freddy to a bed in the infirmary, coincidentally the same bed in which Mrs. Gordon died. Freddy’s wife told them she’d seen something in the dark. She hadn’t been able to make out details but it had a peculiar odor. She swore her husband had been talking to it. Freddy died later that evening from swallowing his own tongue and choking to death.
By then the bolder men began organizing hunting trips to the desert. They found an underground cavern and within more of the oily substance smeared on the walls but they returned without finding anything else. They did say they felt as though they were watched but Jennings wrote it off as native paranoia.
The ships stopped coming shortly after. Settlers got scared and began abandoning farms and ranches as they moved into town. Banding together, they constructed tall, thick walls around the settlement even though none had seen a kitzloc.
As Jennings and his two men barreled down the highway in the rattling Land Rover, Jennings looked to the west where the edge of the desert outlands began. The sand stretched for thousands of kilometers in dunes and long, flat stretches, a landscape haphazardly littered with random rock formations and the occasional scrub brush. Miserably hot during the day and uncomfortably cold at night, it was no place fit to live, therefore few were interested in exploring its interior.
Early surveys showed nothing of interest to Jennings. Mineral content was scarce; along with a sparseness of precious metals, nothing to entice even an exploratory mining operation although a salt and gypsum enterprise had once taken hold deep in the desert. The surveys did show caverns of underground water sources, but because plenty of water was found in more hospitable areas, they were of little interest.
The incidents with the Gordons and MacKenzies piqued Jennings’ interest however, and so he did nothing to dissuade hunters from infrequent forays into the outlands. On two occasions, men returned with more of the essence, scraped from the walls of caverns. Sometimes, the men never returned.
*
Harry was processing sensory data to a degree unknown to the human experience. Alien images emerged from his mind like random memory dumps. Along with these episodes of heightened senses; thoughts and impressions collided, mingling in color and form. Yet, it seemed the closer they got to their destination, the better he was able to sort out his bewildering thoughts. With help from Minerva’s sedative cocktails, he achieved an equilibrium of sorts between the encroaching alien consciousness and his own mind. Within hours after Kathleen’s visit and upon the final approach to Mirabel, a visible transformation took place. His normal skin color returned, the fever disappeared, and the accompanying physical discomfort vanished. The hallucinations which had toyed with his sanity disappeared. He requested food and ate heartily, afterwards washing and dressing in clean clothes.
In his quarters, Harry leaned toward the mirror, studying his face. No bloodshot eyes, a normal skin pallor, no headache, although his eyes were still slightly dilated. He still felt the infection’s influence but it was cooperating with him now.
“Minerva?”
“Yes, Harry?”
“I’d like to speak with Edward.”
“I’ll get him for you.”
Within moments, holographic images of Fagen and Blane appeared before Harry. “Well, Harry,” said Fagen, “you’re looking considerably better.”
“Thanks. I’m feeling better. Think I’ve turned a corner.”
“To where?” murmured Bart.
Fagen shot Bart a warning glance. “That’s good to hear,” Fagen said to Harry.
“I’m certain I’ll be able to control myself now.”
Fagen again glanced at Blane, then back to Harry.
“I’d like to rejoin the team,” Harry said. “I want to get out of here and help.”
“Harry, I’d like nothing more, but…” Fagen shook his head, “it’s too much of a risk to yourself and everyone else.”
“I have to get out of here sometime. I can help locate the kitzloc. You’ll need me. Beyond that, I’m asking you to allow me to help myself.”
“I don’t know, Harry. Just a moment please.”
There was a pause as Fagen conferred with the rest of the team. After a moment, Fagen’s image returned. Harry was pleasantly surprised when Fagen agreed to allow Harry to join the team on the bridge as Minerva entered orbit around Mirabel.
*
Bobbi and Bart nodded as Harry entered the control room. Practically in unison, they said, “Hello, how are you feeling?”
Harry nodded, “Much better.” He noted the stun batons that lay at arm’s reach. Kathleen crossed the space and hugged Harry, kissing his cheek. “You look so good,” she said, tears in her eyes.
Bart, arms crossed atop his ample stomach, eyed him with suspicion. “Yeh, you look pretty good.”
Minerva nodded. “Amazing recovery...”
Kathleen was nudged away by Arai who hadn’t seen Harry the entire trip. Arai put his long arms around Harry’s legs and hugged. Harry placed a hand atop the primate’s head and scratched his furry skull. Tringl took Harry’s other hand and shook it, like he’d learned from the Earthmen.
An animated discussion ensued about whether or not Harry would be allowed to disembark once on Mirabel’s surface. All opposed the idea, although Harry repeatedly assured Fagen he was under control, that the worst had passed, and that he would be of benefit to the team. When Minerva was asked for her opinion, she pointed out that Harry had made amazing progress in a relatively short time.
“He’s not going to run off as far as I can tell,” she said. “His current brain activity, although abnormally high, is within healthy parameters. I wouldn’t have allowed him into the control room otherwise. He’s still infected but no longer showing a deteriorating condition. If he maintains his equilibrium, he could be invaluable in searching out his own cure.”
Reluctantly, Fagen agreed and when Minerva descended through the Mirabelian atmosphere, Harry was once again part of the team. Bart grumbled about it, b
ut a part of him was relieved he would not be left aboard with Harry.
*
The abandoned Mirabelian spaceport was kilometers from the nearest settlement. Its homing beacon no longer worked but, using maps stored in her data banks, Minerva was able to locate it and set down on a sand-strewn tarmac just beyond its dilapidated terminal. Beneath the broken and vacant windows, Harry stepped down the ramp with the others. While they looked for any sign of movement, Harry sniffed the air. “Nothing’s here,” he said, “at least for the moment.”
Fagen dismissed the comment. In his mind, whatever came out of Harry’s mouth was subject to question. Besides being sick from the infection, Harry was shot full of medications to slow him down and hopefully suppress his delusions. Fagen paused long enough to check his motion sensor. As Harry had said, nothing large enough to register was in their immediate area. He motioned for everyone to move toward the battered terminal.
“Things have gone to pot around here,” commented Kathleen.
They filed into the building and listened to the wind blowing past the jagged windows.
“What are we doing here?” asked Harry, “We’re wasting time.”
“It’s a big planet, we’ve got to start looking somewhere.”
“I know exactly where to go and it isn’t here.”
Fagen walked to a rear door and peered into the next room before turning and striding to the next open door. “We need help. Local help. If any of the colonists are still alive, somebody is likely to show up and I’ll wager it’ll be somebody with authority.”
