He smirked. “You don’t trust me?”
“Two words for that—exploding heads!”
Clay blurted an infectious laugh as he retrieved their rifles. Offering her his arm, he seemed more relaxed and carefree than she’d ever seen him. She snuggled close, held him while they crept back onto the silt. For a minute, she forgot all about the hidden threats they might soon have to face on Zopyrus.
Despite the occasional glimpses of solitary tree-hugging creatures—blue salamanders with elongated, suckered limbs and one bulbous eye raised on a spindly antenna—the forest was lifeless. The night’s downpour had sponged the tree trunks so they now felt supple to the touch, and the upper fronds burst now and then with a pop, releasing frothy rainwater which the salamanders appeared to drink through their suckers.
By now the air was muggy and a vaporous mist lined the forest floor, making it tough to see the ground more than a few steps ahead. Clay went shirtless, and seemed to be reveling in his role as protector—his dramatic body movements whenever he heard a noise or sensed something untoward were probably more for her benefit. It was cute and it made her feel safe. Having a powerful rifle apiece didn’t hurt either.
She finally spied the Taras through the foliage of two tall trees. Its metallic nose glistened like a rain-minted sky-cab in the hot sun. As Clay had said, Grace’s camouflage appeared unaffected by the storm and, if anything, the winds had swept even more loose foliage onto the giant net covering the shuttle.
They stepped out into the glade. Clay turned and gave her a shrug. She repeated the gesture.
“Well we’re here. Might as well rest for a bit inside the ship,” she said.
A loud hoot ripped their attentions to the far side of the glade, behind the Taras. Clay raised his rifle and began to stalk alongside the craft. He motioned for Varinia to follow him.
Check.
Another hoot, even louder, made her jump and set her pulse to a rapid thump. What the hell was it? One of the amphibians that had killed Lyssa? Surely not this far inland. What then? Her boots squelched through the top layer of mud. She rammed the padded butt-stock of her rifle against her shoulder, careful to aim the muzzle away from Clay. God forbid she should hit the trigger if something spooked her. She’d fired assault weapons before on the ranch—her father had insisted on it, for possible self-defense—but never in a life-or-death scenario.
He stopped at the aft wing thruster, then peered around it.
“What is it?” she whispered.
No reply.
Clickety-click. A shadow dashed over the ground in front of Clay. She sidestepped to gain a better view, her rifle trained in the direction she guessed the thing was heading. All she saw was the hideous rear form of a lobster-like creature as it scurried away to the tree line.
She gasped.
The entire tree line was alive with similar creatures. Hundreds of them, just…watching the Taras. Exactly as Clay had described the amphibians, these aliens were about four feet tall, standing on six sharp legs, and had two muscular arms that folded into their sides. The head resembled an elephant’s trunk with a bony hood similar to a triceratops’. Disgusting to look at, they also appeared tough and dangerous.
For some reason they weren’t attacking. Grace had harped on about indigenous forest dwellers who’d traded with the previous prospectors. Could these be—
Another hoot sounded from somewhere to the right.
The entire horde vanished into the woods in a heartbeat.
“Clay?” She crept to his side and gave him a nudge. “Everything—”
“Strange.” He ducked under the thruster to pick an object up from the mud.
“Something they left?”
He stepped back, showed her what he’d retrieved. “Something they left all right. The last humans to visit Zopyrus.”
“A book?”
He slung his rifle strap over his shoulder and flicked through the worn paper pages. His eyes danced with wonder. “An actual paperback book. Decent condition, too. I haven’t seen one of these since, let me see…the museum on Phiniac.”
“We had a library at home,” Varinia said. “No paperbacks, though. They were all bound in hardcover. Which book is it?”
The front cover was badly discolored, the picture and lettering faded. He flicked to the opening page instead.
“Chessmen of Mars,” they both read at the same time.
“You heard of Edgar Rice Burroughs?” Clay asked.
“Yes, he was early twentieth century. Wrote Tarzan, I think. Never heard of this one, though.”
“Me either.”
“How shameful is that?” she said. “Alien lobsters on Zopyrus have read more Burroughs than us.”
He laughed, then wrapped the book in his shirt. “Come on, I think we’d better get back. The good doctor will want to know about this. And I don’t fancy staying here for any more surprises.”
“Copy that.” But slithering through miles of riverbank muck didn’t hold much appeal either. She had an idea. “Wait here one minute.”
“Varinia?” He cast her a worried glance.
“One minute.”
The craft’s tail stuttered open at her lifting of a lever. She rushed inside and was struck by the lucid sensation of being back inside a manmade machine. Solid. Comforting. The smell of horse manure still lingered, months after Danai had left.
Varinia dragged two empty cargo crates to the tail. “Here. Grab one of these.”
Clay looked puzzled but obeyed nonetheless. She pulled her crate onto the mud, then closed the tailgate behind her.
“Okay, we’re carrying empty boxes,” he said. “This is a good idea why?”
“You’ll see.”
She dragged hers to the emerald river and slid it into the water. Not exactly steady, but it floated well enough. After dropping her rifle inside, she climbed in after it. The crate rocked and almost capsized, but she managed to keep it steady by kneeling low in the center. The strong current whisked her away.
“Jump in, navigator,” she shouted back. “This is the best ride in the park.”
An undercurrent spun her twice round. She winced as her new lover slipped while lurching into his crate. His privates landed on the rim, and he flopped inside as his boat took off downstream. Ouch! Poor guy.
He knelt upright a minute later, ashen-faced, assuring her he was okay.
Whatever.
A flush of glee curled her lips. She would have to nurse him later…whether he required it or not.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Malady
“Successful trip?” Grace’s hawk eyes narrowed to a squint as she inspected Clay and Varinia from a distance. “You’re soon back.”
Clay strode ahead, eager to keep their affair a secret. Varinia was right. Preserving the status quo was essential if they wanted to stay here several more weeks. “Well, there’s good news and…strange news. Which do you—”
“Solomon?” Varinia dropped her rifle and stole a few steps toward her old tent. “Solomon!”
The big guy, pallid and dripping with sweat, was curled up on a blanket outside his tent. He tossed and turned. Shivered. Despite his eyes being closed, he kicked out as Varinia knelt beside him.
“Delirious?” Clay asked Grace, keeping his distance from the tent.
“To put it mildly.” The old doctor walked round the back of him, sniffed him discreetly as she passed.
What a bloody odd thing to do.
He spun to face her. “We’re not that short on food, I hope?”
Her wrinkly grin and gentle wink gave him the chills. “Don’t worry, sunshine. If I had to eat anyone, I’d start with little Miss Temptress over there. Those curves, huh?” She gave him a nudge. “Taste as good as they look, I’m betting.”
“Grace, you’re smogged good ’n’ proper.”
“I’m not the only one,” she whispered. “You two couldn’t be more obvious if you wore each others’ underwear.”
“But we�
��re not wearing un—” He ghosted and his chin dropped. He shook his head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Don’t sweat it, sunshine. You can hide a lot of things by not bathing. A lover’s scent isn’t one of them. Best bury it for a while, though—least ’til the sickly green-eyed dragon over there learns to grow up a bit. He worked nonstop in the mine from the minute you left ’til about half an hour ago. I found him collapsed and in a fever. He was spewing treason a mile-a-minute. Insanity talking, obviously, but it’s funny what the unconscious pukes up when you remove that filter, the truths it unearths. My guess is he’s been spouting off to himself this whole time. Got something in his craw, that’s for sure.”
“No need to guess what.”
“Uh-huh. Like I said, you and the curves better keep things under wraps. His fever might last hours or days. When he wakes, it’d be better if he could give himself a fresh start. For that, he’ll need no antagonisms.”
Fuck his sensitive nature. Best man wins. Why should I apologize for being that man? If he can’t take it, he shouldn’t dish it. “You and Varinia both, huh? Intent on petting a mad dog?”
She glared at him and her pruned, sun-kissed face tightened into a scowl. “Yeah. Got a problem with it?”
“You fucking bet I do.” Daft old— He was sick of everyone fawning over that tool-push prick who’d quietly antagonized him ever since they’d met. “He’s done nothing but eyeball me from day one, the big-eared piece of shit. He started that fight last night, not me. Couldn’t keep his jealous balls from rolling around his pinball fucking head. And I’m the one who’s antagonizing him?”
Grace downturned her mouth, bobbed her head a little from side to side. Conceding his point perhaps? Even partially? At all? “Okay, you’re dumber than I thought, Barry. Remember what I said about treating this dig as a professional contract? Professional being the operative word? Well, the three of you are so goddamn amateur right now I’ll be lucky to leave here with my babysitting dues, let alone my fortune. So I won’t tell you again. Be professional. Don’t dick around on my dime.
“Now, what news have you got?”
An indescribable urge to hurl his fists at something left him breathless and burning inside. Why couldn’t they all just let him and Varinia enjoy each other? Christ, he’d bottled Clayton Barry, the real Clay, for so long now, he’d forgotten how liberating it was to share his deepest passions, his desires—hell, his nightmares—with someone he could trust, someone who wanted his trust. And no sooner had he uncorked that genie than everyone was driving it back inside? What the hell?
Grace snatched his rifle and led him into camp, away from Varinia, who was dabbing Solomon’s brow with a wet cloth. When they reached the acid baths, the doctor asked again, “What happened, sunshine?”
He puffed. “Camouflage is intact. No sign of damage at all. That’s the good news.”
“And the strange?” She plopped three pyro-rich rocks into the first bath. They quickly began to fizz.
“The forest dwellers made contact.” He retrieved the book wrapped in his shirt that he’d stuffed down the front of his shorts, glad he’d managed to keep it dry from the river, even after the risky leap moments before the crate had been washed out to sea. “Surprised the hell out of us.”
Grace unwrapped the gift, opened it to the title page and grinned.
“You know it?” Clay asked, more curious than ever. The old woman seemed less surprised, more tickled, by the paperback.
“I’ll explain later.” She inspected the front and back covers, running her fingertips over every millimeter, clearly searching for something. But what? Neither he nor Varinia had suspected for a second that The Chessmen of Mars had any more significance as a present than if the lobsters had left a toothbrush instead. It was a human object. They’d returned it to humans. Simple.
But Grace was scrutinizing the pages as a diamond trader might scour the minutiae of a precious stone for blemishes or marks of ownership.
“Doc? Grace? Flight control to Grace? You wanna fill me in on—”
“Gotcha.” She peeled away a tiny black dot about the size of a beauty spot from the top of a dog-eared page marked, in scrawled black lettering, R. P.
“The old man’s initials?”
Grace pinched the microdot securely between her forefinger and thumb. “The old man’s, yes.” She snapped the book shut and tossed it back to Clay. “Rex Peters. My husband.”
Another grueling day in the mine, another three million clips’ worth of red dust to share between them. Varinia opened her coarse galadskin pouch and Grace poured in the day’s quarter measure of fine pyro granules. The bag, her umpteenth, now weighed at least a couple of kilos, and pretty soon she’d have to start filling another. Having apportioned Lyssa’s share equally between them—no wonder Clay was introverted tonight—Grace reckoned they now had a little over thirty-seven million each. A hundred-and-fifty million total—more wealth than Varinia had ever seen in her life, let alone handled.
She tightened the cord on her pouch and nestled her goods safely on her lap. For the time being. She’d sneak away to her hiding place when the others were all asleep. It was a tacit understanding they shared. Ever since Solomon had insisted they divide the wealth every night, they’d taken turns leaving the inlet after lights out to deposit their bounties. Varinia was pretty sure no one knew her hiding place—a nook in the seafront cliff, about ten feet off the ground. It was tough to see unless you looked up standing flat against the cliff, and impossible to reach unless you climbed onto a narrow shelf.
Where did the others hide theirs?
Brazen as ever, Grace poured her own share, tied her pouch and left it in a waterproof carrier attached to her tent tether. No attempt to hide it whatsoever. The only thing she did differently now was place the carrier inside her tent, fearing another sudden, violent downpour.
Clay chucked more wood onto the fire. Still damp after the rainfall, the log chunks smoked heavily before they dried enough to catch fire.
“So, Grace.” Varinia tossed the old woman a piece of saccharine blue Valerian fruit. “How about a little—what’s the word—elucidation? What was on the microdot? And what’s the story with—”
“My husband, you mean?” Shadow from the jiving flames lapped at the old woman’s grizzled features, accentuating her toughness, as though her weather-beaten skin had survived eons, not decades. She neither eyed anyone nor broke her weary, monotone delivery. “Most of what I told you was true, chick. He came to Zopyrus on a hunch, after viewing the official ISPA orbital terrain scans. Corborilium on its own is worthless, but he’d dug before under huge deposits of that stuff, and he’d found light traces of pyro. One of his colleagues admitted something similar. That was long before pyrofluvium became such a going concern. So when the market value hiked, he and his colleague, Wingate, along with two other men, Bester and Cordonner, pooled together and funded a low-tech expedition to this officially red-flagged moon. Much like our own slap-dash venture.
“But things went terribly wrong here, despite them striking it rich. Rex was barely alive when he reached me on Solstice Seven. He was the only one who made it off Zopyrus alive, and he was delirious with his wounds, as well as his advanced fragmentia. I nursed him for as long as I could. The colony doctors did their level best. But in the end he was in so much pain, I had no choice but to help him. It was…what he wanted.”
She paused, shrugged to herself, then tightened her brow. Varinia gazed hard, trying to penetrate the old woman’s stoicism, but she couldn’t decide if it was anger or sadness working at Grace from inside. All she knew was if she had gone through that, God forbid with Clay, she would never have returned to Zopyrus, to the very place where it had all gone pear-shaped.
“I never did find out what happened here,” Grace went on. “Not fully anyway. Not until last night.” She retrieved her handheld digital interface from her rucksack and switched it on. “All the information we had was from Wingate’s jour
nal. My husband didn’t manage to save his own diary before he left. But he always kept a backup in his copy of Burroughs.” She grinned and nodded, with a touch of pride, it seemed to Varinia. “The forest creatures apparently recovered what he left behind and kept it safe for him, waiting for him to return. Here, let me read you an entry from Rex’s diary.”
She sighed, snatching glimpses of her two listeners.
“Day twenty-three. Have successfully traded again with the natives, this time for a week’s worth of their delicious forest fruit. Cordonner donated his beaver-skin hat for a new light-metal pick they fashioned for him. It cuts fantastically well, and we haven’t a clue how they made it or from what metal. These creatures are highly advanced, no question. Their architecture atop the plateau appears to be astounding. Bester and Cordonner are keen to take the shuttle up for a closer look, but from what I discerned from the creatures today—their crude attempts at English, drawn in the sand—the plateau is off-limits. Woe betide anyone who gets on the wrong side of this benign but enigmatic species. My intuition tells me they’ve hidden far more knowledge than mankind will boast in a thousand years’ time.
“They mastered our digital encyclopedia in a little over a week. I don’t know where they’re up to in the alphabet but it’s given them sufficient knowledge of English for them to write at a basic level. Not much grasp of grammar yet—yet—but they used a startling vocabulary when we conversed in the sand today.
“It seems their species populated the city in the mountains long ago, until a great civil war erupted, and the two sides both abandoned that megalopolis. I couldn’t grasp the reason why. Maybe creatures on Zopyrus have radically different logic than ours. What is clear, though, is what happened to the two sides, or castes, as they became. One side migrated to the forest, where they preserved much of their former way of life, except they abandoned technology. They live a peaceful, sedentary life deep in the trees. They are our friends.
“The other creatures moved to the coast, where they seem to have evolved into a volatile amphibian caste, living in the sea. We haven’t seen them yet, but the massive energy bursts that emanated from the city a few days ago are their doing. At some point, they violated the ancient pact and re-entered the city, where they tampered with the city’s mysterious power supply, re-routing it toward their new home beneath the sea. The physics of it are beyond me, and definitely beyond the grasp of aliens still learning their ABCs to explain. It makes sense, though. The energy bursts converged on the horizon, and if that is the amphibians’ new civilization, they could literally be up to anything out there, under the waves. What technology have they developed in secret over…however long they’ve been exiled? Thousands, millions of years? It boggles the mind.”
Sparks in Cosmic Dust Page 22
