Sparks in Cosmic Dust

by Robert Appleton

  He swung the axe furiously. The blade wedged a third of the way through the turquoise trunk. Soft wood. It bled an oozy clear sap which hardened like wax in the stifling heat. Two more gigantic hacks and the entire tree toppled across the glade, its own sapphire foliage catching its fall with a springy bounce.

  “Nice work, sunshine.” Grace ran over, scrutinized him for a moment. “You sure you’re not a lumberjack?”

  “Once or twice. Only to help out. It’s not my forte.”

  “What is?”

  “Rigging derricks, low-g mining. I’m a pretty good long distance runner, too.”

  “Well, well…” She set about pruning the larger, boomerang-shaped leaves from the upper branches. “You’ll be running this show in no time. Between you and me, the only picking the others have ever done is from their bodily orifices.”

  “Sick, Grace. Sick.”

  “It’ll be fun watching them get their hands dirty. Lyssa has done manual work before but not since she found crime. She’s not a bad sort really, not as bad sorts go. Who knows, maybe we’ll all settle down and turn philanthropist after we cash this lot in.”

  Solomon grabbed a knife and helped her shear off the leaves. “How much is pyrofluvium worth…per kilo?”

  “Good question. I’ve never even seen a kilo of pyro. No, it takes a little refining. It’s generally used in tiny amounts in medicine. But the industrial stuff, from the pure veins we’ll be mining, that’s serious pay dirt. Let’s see, a vial of chemical pyrofluvial, the undiluted form, sells for about a hundred clips on prescription. Hmm, tertiary cost…” She totted up a few figures in her head. “I’d guess at somewhere close to a million-five credits a kilo.”

  He sprang up, mid-slice. “A million-five?”

  “Give or take. You’ll be surprised how little pure pyro we can get from a chunk of rock. It’s like gold that way. You have to tickle her so she comes out laughing. A mite demoralizing at first, but once you get the hang of it, and the piles of pyro start to rise, it’ll be like manna from heaven.” With that she got up, her arms full of squidgy leaves, and left him. “I’m gonna prep the net, find the best way to fix these leaves for the camouflage. I’ll be an hour or so. Oh, and if you spot any creature bigger than a lap cat, come get me immediately. Meantime, you go chop a few more trees. ’Kay?”

  “’Kay,” he answered blankly, his mind still reeling from the weight of promised riches.

  Two felled trees later, he leaned back, exhausted, against a tepid upright bough. He might be in the shade but the air was so humid, so utterly still, sweat streamed down his bare skin. He wondered where Varinia might be right now. The others better take good care of her. He’d come close to insisting she not take the trip without him, but Grace had a point. It was no use mollycoddling anyone these first few days—better they all got acclimated to hard work and the environment as soon as possible.

  Yet…what if they came across hostile creatures? The journal had mentioned a variety of alien species. The forest might be teeming with savage life. Hell, maybe there’d been a territorial dispute, or even a full-on war, since the old man had left. He stood straight, shaking with the heat and now a surge of adrenaline. Christ! The thought of…Varinia…walking into an ambush. How long had they been gone? Would he even be able to track them if he wanted? If he could, indigenous predators surely could. God, how long would it take him to catch her? Which weapon should he…?

  His terrified red face reflected in the axe head. It looked insane, sickly. Was he overreacting?

  Okay, get a grip. As he lowered the axe, the reflection warped and elongated stupidly. He sucked in a mammoth breath, held it, then let it out so slowly it left him lightheaded.

  Crack.

  The spine of a leaf snapped right beside him. Alarmed, he jolted to one side and swung the axe at a dark threatening shape slouching toward him. Crunch. The creature flopped, lifeless, the axe having cleaved what appeared to be its skull.

  Solomon darted this way, spun that way, his paranoia feeding every sense until he was sure there were either a thousand enemies hiding by exactly the same method—behind a tree—or he was alone. He backed off, checked to see if Grace had witnessed it. No sign of her. What now?

  The dead creature couldn’t be more than four feet tall. Its eyeless head, half elephant’s trunk, half fried-egg-shaped skull, appeared to have partially retreated into its shell-like body. For protection? Hmm. There, it had eyes after all, rows of them sunken into the sides of its head. What he first mistook for exposed ribs were not fully attached—they might be the reinforced tubes of some kind of external nervous system, able to plug and unplug upon command, depending on which action the body required. Like those creatures on Hoarfrost. Or maybe they were advanced organs, above and beyond all known survival functions. Three or four pipes still twitched. Orifices all across the torso seemed the perfect size to fit them.

  The creature had several spindly legs, each with a single sharp claw. Its two long, multi-jointed arms sprouted up from its shoulders and tucked into its sides like tankard handles. Perhaps they plugged and unplugged as well. They were thick and fleshy. The right arm held an item in the folds of its central joint. Oddly familiar. Solomon leaned in to inspect, held his nose at the putrid acidic smell. The item was colorful, metallic. There was writing on it.

  Benson’s Travel Size…Shaving Cream.

  He clasped his hands behind his head and tried to squeeze his elbows together. He mashed his eyes shut. What the fuck had he just done? The poor thing had tried to greet him with a peace offering? An item belonging to the previous party? And he’d gone and…

  Panic swarmed and bit. It vowed to overwhelm him. If the creature’s kin found out about this, things could turn dire. He couldn’t let that happen. Not ever.

  A quick burial seemed the only option. If he made a semi-decent job of it, covered the grave with foliage, no one need ever know. He hacked into the soft soil as though his life depended on it, scanning the trees after every few swings. Christ, he had to dig faster. He could hardly breathe and the axe handle kept slipping in his sweaty hands, but the hole needed to be bigger, deeper. The soil churned easily. He sank to his hands and knees and scrabbled the dirt out like his old collie used to do in the churchyard.

  Luckily the body had a slender profile and its legs folded without much effort. Solomon checked the forest one last time, then dropped the creature into its grave. He shoveled armfuls of dirt over it so quickly the entire burial operation seemed to have taken a matter of minutes. How long it had really taken…he would never know.

  After trampling the ground flat with his boots and camouflaging it with several big leaves he sheared from a felled tree, Solomon staggered as far away from the grave as he could before he collapsed, babbling nonsense, on a cushion of mushy soil. The image emblazoned on his heat-stroked mind was a bittersweet one. It recalled his dad, standing confidently on his pulpit, snapping his Bible shut to emphasize the moral of the passage he’d just read. Then he looked straight at Solomon, and Solomon shrank…from a seven-year-old boy’s unfiltered dread.

  Chapter Eleven

  Beach Property

  “You bought that thing so it didn’t have to work?” Lyssa’s absurd chuckle at least lifted her puzzled scowl. The mare resumed its cautious walk behind them before Varinia could tug the tether. Intuitive. Danai was learning. Her stubbornness would not avail her of this alien world any more than it would find her food. Varinia flashed another apple to keep the horse on track.

  “Where you gonna keep her while we dig?” Lyssa was relentless. “If I was you I’d strap a harness on her here and now, get her used to pulling her weight.”

  “Mind your own business,” Varinia snapped back.

  “Hey, we need all the help we can get. That animal can pull ten times what we can pull. This ain’t no summer holiday at the beach.”

  “You pull your weight, Lyssa, and I’ll pull mine. That’s all you need to worry about. Just pretend like she isn’t here
.”

  “But—”

  “Lay a finger on her and you won’t know what hit you.”

  Lyssa whipped round and glared, before leaving Varinia with a respectful shrug. “Touchy, touchy.”

  Throughout the return journey to the ship, Lyssa had probed Varinia’s past, her character, her motivations, with unpleasant diligence. Unsubtle, accusatory questions like, “So you’ve had a lot of practice teasing money out of guys? Getting them to do what you want? What about married guys? How did you get to be so good at Cydonia Face without cheating? If you never had to spread rug for a client, who did you screw for pleasure? How come you’re not rich after all that? Are those tits real? Why work for a shack-sheik when you could make gazillions modeling cosmic couture and all that shit?”

  Varinia tucked her thin cotton blouse into her belt. She’d had just about enough of the vamp’s interrogation. Varinia’s latest redrafting of her past—the one she now had to stand by on Zopyrus—involved an orphanage, an interplanetary circus in which she’d performed show-jumping feats on horseback, and a lecherous toff whose spurned advances had forced her to flee farther and farther into deep space. Those lies she could handle. But the mare was off-limits. To everyone. Danai could have her own corral, gallop through the surf at her leisure, and no one ever need say another word about it.

  Lyssa expertly guided the last two trolleys down the stream, through the tall grass and onto the beach before sunlight began to wane. It was the last supply convoy of the day. A few more trolleys’ worth remained in the ship’s hold, but Grace had made sure everything vital was now at the beach camp. They would fetch the rest tomorrow.

  Dozens of parallel wheel and hoof tracks arced across the sand, disappeared into the cliff wall shortly before a chalky sea mist. As they approached the inlet, light from a campfire lolled over glassy mineral veins in the seaside rocks lining the opening. It gave the appearance of a border or boundary to their new domain.

  “Who gets to dig first?” Varinia broke the tension.

  Lyssa spat onto the sand. “Why? You volunteering?”

  “Could be.”

  “Ever swung a pick before?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re Jill-on-the-spot ’til you graduate. No offense, princess.”

  “None taken. But stop calling me that.”

  “Prove me wrong and I’ll stop.”

  Varinia muttered, “Bitch,” then waved to the others who were busy cooking supper around the campfire—no, make that bonfire, the pale blue flames from three or four Zopyrus tree trunks burned twenty feet high.

  Grace, Clay and Solomon had been busy. Across the rivulet lengthways, bisecting the inlet, they had fashioned a makeshift pen for the donkeys using three lengths of rope fastened at different heights, diagonally from wall to wall. The roly-poly had his own tent, or tarp shelter, about ten meters away.

  The rest of the supplies were already separated and sorted along the left-hand wall. It didn’t appear enough for five people and four animals but Grace seemed to know her business. The three hurricane tents were already up, pegged to the rock and deep into the sand, reinforced in both frame and canvas to withstand incredible winds. Surplus military sleeping bags and plenty of Magadan blankets adorned each inviting interior. Varinia wanted nothing more than to flake out on her own comfy bed. After supper that was. She was famished.

  “All this for ten thousand clips?” she puzzled aloud. The pop of a bottle cork to her right spooked Danai. The mare reared and almost kicked Varinia in the face. Then she bucked loose, taking her tether with her as she fled seaward into the dim moonlight. “Danai. Come back. Where are you…? Ah, shit.” The thought of her venturing near unknown alien creatures and their territories slapped with dread. “Danai, get back here.”

  “She won’t go too far.” Grace offered Varinia a mug of something steamy. “She knows where the apples are.”

  Despite glancing seaward every few seconds, Varinia settled beside the old woman and sipped her McKendrick’s, a concoction of licorice and cocoa that recalled her long and lonely deep-space shuttle trip away from the inner colonies. Risky. Fearful. A journey into darkness and hiding. The only way to reinvent herself. Then she ripped into a sachet, devoured the syntho-pork in gravy. Next, a bowl of baked beans with berighold sauce. Delicious. Bound to grow old fast—Grace had brought crates of the stuff.

  Danai didn’t return that night, but Solomon came and huddled beside Varinia, too tired to talk. Instead they watched the flaming wood warp and shrink, listened to it crack and fizz and spit blue sparks onto the sand. Later, they retired to the outermost tent and, after fumbling to zip the door shut, not bothering to undress, both sank onto the same sleeping bag.

  Morning’s lilac light flooded the tent. Varinia blinked, rubbed her eyes to adjust. Solomon, already washed and combed and wearing his orange mining jacket, poked his head through the door. “You’ve got a visitor.” He stepped aside. She sat up. There at the mouth of the inlet stood Danai, still as a stuffed trophy but whinnying, watchful.

  Relief tingled through Varinia. “Good morning, gorgeous.” She stumbled out of the tent. “And good morning to you, Bodine.”

  “Morning, um, Wilcox.”

  “Where’s breakfast?” she asked.

  “Ready and waiting for Your Highness.”

  “Where’s everybody else?”

  “In the mine, getting richer than us.”

  “Seriously?” She spun and sprinted around the tent. The mine entrance, a scar in the black-gray rock some thirty feet high and ten wide, seemed deeper and more secretive than it had the day before. Clank, clank went the picks inside. Red flashes shot out in reply. Varinia couldn’t wait to get started.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hammer and Tongs

  Day 2, C0—Zero credits’ worth of pyrofluvium

  “No sprinter ever won a marathon. It’s about stamina and tactics.” Grace demonstrated the correct grip on the pick handle, and the downward arc required when swinging it in a confined space. “Use the tool’s weight. Don’t be afraid to work to its momentum. Remember, the most vital resource you have is your energy. Economize.” She waited until Varinia had her own pick cocked over her shoulder. “Now swing like a divorcee at a bachelor party.”

  Varinia let rip with a venomous blow. The pick head hit sweetly on the spot she’d aimed for. It shot a dull shockwave through her. A blazing red shard fizzed, zigzagged through the air, missed her leg by millimeters. When she checked the rock, it had only been scratched. She scowled at Grace.

  “’Til you’ve built your strength, try chipping at the edges.” Varinia missed the wall completely with her next two efforts and struck Grace’s pick midswing with another. “Easy, chick. Why not give yourself some room. We don’t want to be diggin’ graves on day one.”

  “’Kay.”

  After five minutes’ pinpoint picking, Varinia boasted a handful of rock shards. She showed them to Grace, who nodded and produced her own metal bucket full. “Right, here’s your homework,” the doctor said. “Follow me.”

  Their helmet lamps roved over puddles and slick moss on the passage’s lower rock. In these first fifty feet, pyrofluvium was scarce. The previous miners had exhausted a rich vein, and they must have calculated the mountain held vast deposits deeper in. They had dug their way into a cavern, where Lyssa, Solomon and Clay now worked. Grace promised to introduce it to Varinia shortly, after she’d taught her what she referred to as “Pyro Extraction 101.”

  Outside, three chemical vats, each about three feet high and less than two in diameter, stood on foldout but sturdy metal tripods against the cliff wall. Grace removed her oxygen mask. Varinia copied.

  “First, place the rock gently into the solution.” Grace demonstrated. “It’s water mixed with concentrated soropholic acid, so try not to splash any on you. It might take a minute or so, but the rock crust should break up and disintegrate, leaving a cloudy solution. Like so.” She pointed at three or four small, conker-shaped cri
mson globs floating on the surface. “You’ll notice the pyro shells not only have a low density, they don’t react with the diluted acid. That’s important. If you were to use pure soropholic acid right away, the pyro shells would dissolve along with the rock and you’d have a hard time filtering out the real pyrofluvium. So, next, use the fifty-centimeter tongs to lift the pyro shells out…and drop them into vat number two.”

  “Undiluted acid?” Varinia stepped aside.

  “Correct. The shell should quickly dissolve, leaving a viscous crimson layer.” Grace ran her tongs through the dark syrupy substance. “The stuff we want is inside the gunk. Only it’s practically the same color. Like dandruff in suntan cream. Separating it requires a delicate, hi-tech operation with a string of multi-syllabic chemical words.” Varinia blinked at her. “Hmm, let me try and translate into lay terms.” The old woman thought for a moment and then snorted. “It’s something like—” she skimmed the gunk from the surface with a suction syringe, emptied it onto a fine sieve to drain the excess acid, then tipped the sludge into the third vat, “—like picking your nose and flicking it into water.”

  “Nice.”

  “And that’s that. The third vat is full of cool water. When pyrofluvium contracts, it becomes heavy. So all you need to do is stir the gunk thoroughly, to loosen the fine pyro grains and let them sink to the bottom. The other stuff will float back to the surface if you leave it. Just let the pyro build on the bottom ’til the end of the day and leave it for me. Believe me, you don’t want to screw up the final gathering. I’ve seen throats cut in sleeping bags for less. Different minerals, but the stakes are the same no matter what you’re mining. Watching your day’s labor spill into the sand because some careless prick…that’s like someone cutting a steak from your stomach. No, I’ll extract it.”