Wasteland of Flint

by Thomas Harlan

  Hummingbird's eyes flew open.

  "Do you see anything?" Gretchen jerked her head sharply toward his side of the Gagarin.

  The nauallis blinked, then turned, staring out at the ebon sky. "Nothing ... there's only ... wait—there's something shining!"

  Gretchen rapped the radar display sharply and though the mechanism ignored her, a spark suddenly flared at the edge of the Midge's detection range. Something was approaching at tremendous speed. "Oh thank the Sister, the Mother and the Son of God! Hang on!"

  "I am..." Hummingbird's cry was drowned by a roaring hiss as Gretchen blew the last of their fuel and twisted the Gagarin away from the oncoming object. Surviving the next sixty seconds required reducing their intercept differential as much as possible. She slapped a control and the Midge trembled as the skyhook ratcheted out of the roof.

  "Wings away!" Gretchen threw a lever and explosive bolts banged sharply. The cockpit shuddered as both broad, shining wings spurted away from the sides of the cabin. "Brace!"

  For a moment, the Gagarin rushed forward, racing across the world below. The hissing stopped and the engines went dead. A light flared on the panel, indicating they'd switched to battery power with the loss of the solar panels and fuel cells. Gretchen felt cold pour into the cabin around her feet and did not look down. Instead, she forced her head back into the headrest of the seat and braced her arms.

  Something flashed overhead, glowing red-hot and the entire world jerked away in a blinding jolt of pain. A flood of white sparks roared across her vision. A massive wave of sound slammed into her, battering her eardrums. Someone's scream was lost in a dragon-throated roar. Metal squealed, stressed beyond all expectation of design and manufacture. Gretchen caught a glimpse of the planet rolling past, then Hummingbird's face slack in unconsciousness.

  The windows shattered as the airframe deformed, spraying glassite into the cabin. What little air remained was wicked away into a supersonic slipstream. Waves of heat boiled in, raging against her face. Blinded, Gretchen gritted her teeth and hung on. Somewhere above and behind her, there was a shrieking whine as cable spooled in at tremendous speed.

  The blazing red shape—superheated air flaring around the Komodo in a brilliant corona—swelled over her head. For a single instant, a black maw gaped before her, limned with fire.

  Everything slammed to a halt, flinging her violently against the seat restraints. She choked, feeling bone and muscle tear. The world outside went black, even the stars blotted out by a roaring, twisting storm of abused atmosphere. She was still bouncing back into the seat, a shattered retaining ring spinning free to fly out through the window, when the side door tore away.

  A pair of hands reached in, seizing the centerline join on her suit. Something blazed blue-white at her back and shoulder, then she was free of the restraints and being dragged from the shattered wreck of the Midge. A combat-suited figure—broad, well-muscled—wrapped her in powerful arms and leapt back as a workline reeled in. They hit the wall of the shuttle's cargo bay together and his hand wrapped around a support brace.

  "Clear to eject," shouted a tense male voice on the comm. Every other sound was overwhelmed by the shriek of air whipping around the hold doors.

  Gretchen squirmed around—so slowly, time stretching like taffy—and saw, in a brief, perfect image: the crumpled cabin of the Gagarin sprawled on the deck of the cargo hold. The clamshell doors stood wide, Hummingbird in the arms of another man in a combat suit on the far wall of the hold, the launching pad rushing back, slamming into the broken, twisted metal of the Midge.

  No!

  The ultralight punched out into the darkness, spewing glassite and metal and bits of plastic. The Gagarin hit the shuttle's slipstream and blew apart, vanishing in the blink of an eye. Nothing remained, even the debris was already dozens of k behind, falling toward the planet in an expanding, jumbled cloud. The clamshell doors swung inexorably closed, blocking out even a momentary glimpse of the white arc of the planet.

  Gretchen slumped into the man's arms, feeling their strength holding her up. Poor little plane. After all you did for us, for me.

  "Pressure doors secure," Fitzsimmons shouted into his comm. "Kick it."

  The shuttle engines lit momentarily, pitching the Komodo up into a higher angle of exit from the gravity of Ephesus Three. Somewhere ahead, the Palenque was waiting, swinging through its own wide orbit, gathering speed from the planet's gravitational pull. Glowing wings turned, catching a glint of the distant sun, and they sped on into the sea of night.

  ABOARD THE CORNUELLE

  Gretchen became aware of a peculiar, antiseptic smell. Feeling strangely unencumbered, she opened her eyes and blinked in pain. Everything was so bright! A pale gray ceiling inset with soft white lights shone down on her. Walls of pale green. Chrome fixtures and subdued paintings in black, gray and brown on wrinkled rice paper. She looked down at her body and found a fuzzy cotton quilt laid across her.

  "My suit..." Some kind of flannel pajamas had replaced her z-suit and Gretchen felt horribly, dangerously naked. Her arms clenched reflexively across her breasts. The sight of her hands was a surprise. The grungy, stained bandages were gone. Instead, patches of new skin shone pink in the clear white light. She flexed her fingers and found they moved without pain. The welts and ridges left by the jeweled chains were only faint reddish lines on her skin.

  "No scars," said a tired male voice from her left side. Gretchen rolled her head sideways.

  Captain Hadeishi was lying in an adjoining bed. He too was under a quilt decorated with oak leaves and cherry blossoms, wiry arms lying across his stomach. Seeing him without his uniform struck Anderssen as being particularly indecent, a feeling made more so by the sight of his muscular bare arms. Despite a lingering air of exhaustion, he struck Gretchen as being as clean, trim and at-attention as ever. Even on his back in a hospital bed.

  "Our medical team does good work," he said, allowing her a small, warm smile. "Our esteemed judge is already up and about, though he did not suffer nearly so much damage as either of us."

  "What..." Gretchen coughed, clearing her throat, and realized the crushing pain in her chest was gone as well. "... happened to you?"

  Hadeishi turned back the quilts, revealing a huge patch of dermaseal covering his left chest, shoulder and arm. "Depleted uranium flechette burst at close range," he said, considering the repaired wound with a pensive, sad expression. "Very foolish. My death would have precipitated even more violence."

  "Why ..." Gretchen stopped, wondering if she were allowed to question a Fleet captain on his own ship—for this was most obviously the Cornuelle. Even before being gutted, the Palenque had never boasted such a clean, efficient, advanced medical bay as this.

  "Did I put myself in front of a gun?" Hadeishi shook his head, amused with himself. "Because my father used to tell me stories about the samurai in their days of glory, before the Empire and the treaties of Unity and gunpowder. They would have ridden alone into the enemy fortress and challenged the rival lord to single combat. There could have been a great deal of bushido in what I did. As I said, very foolish."

  "You lived." Gretchen wondered if she could ask for more blankets. Her bare skin felt cold and exposed without the snug, warm embrace of her z-suit. She tried to take a drink from the water tube, but found her mouth closing on empty air.

  "There is water." Hadeishi pointed at a table beside her. There was a cup—plastic, half-full—and a little sick-shrine of offerings. Origami animals and paper flowers, Grandpa Carl's battered old multitool, a bar of "Ek Chuah"-brand chocolate and a fresh, shining 3v of three little children smiling up from a watery-green pool.

  "Where did this come from?" Gretchen felt her heart lurch, knowing the original had been blasted away into nothingness with the Gagarin.

  "Your exec sent the xocoatl and the picture over from the Palenque." Hadeishi's expression had become composed and polite again, but his eyes were shining. "The origami is from Gunso Fitzsimmons, though I did not
know he had learned to make such fine examples himself. I suspect—" he visibly suppressed a merry grin "—he begged them from communications technician Tiss-tzin, who is noted among the crew for her nimble fingers."

  "That is very sweet." Gretchen ran her hand across the surface of the 3v. The electropaper was fresh and thick and carrying a full charge. Pressing her lips together and blinking back tears, she pressed the upper right corner of the picture.

  Mom! Mom! We 're mermaids! Mermaids!

  Am not, I'm a merman!

  She moved her finger away and the bouncing, splashing figures stilled. I'll see you soon, she promised them. I'm coming home.

  "What about you?" Gretchen lifted her head, trying to see if the captain had anything on his side table. It was bare, save for a matching half-full glass of water. "Nothing?"

  "I believe there were cupcakes," Hadeishi said, rather solemnly. "From Marine Heicho Felix, in apology for getting me shot while we were aboard the Turan. But I was asleep when she brought them by. I think," his eyebrows narrowed in suspicion, "Fitzsimmons ate them."

  "Oh." Gretchen pressed the 3v against her breast. For a wonder, she didn't feel at all tired or sleepy. "That was rude. He's in the brig then?"

  The passage leading into the number one boat bay was cold in comparison to the medical pod. Gretchen shivered a little, rubbing her arms. Fitzsimmons had tried to loan her a heavy leather pilot's jacket for the trip across to the Palenque, but she'd refused. The Marine spent enough time loitering around, all charming and friendly, without her borrowing his clothes. I've been down that road before, she thought, stepping over the sill into the cavernous, echoing space of the bay itself. Next it's audiotracks and 3v recordings and before you know it, they're snoring in your ear late on Sunday mornings.

  One husband was enough, she thought, patting the sidebag filled with her paltry collection of personal effects. Most of the things in the bag had accumulated while she was recuperating in medical. Some photos, including a new one of the Gagarin and a dupe of the Rossiyan icon Russovsky had left behind, presents from the Company scientists: an ink-brush drawing of Magdalena on rice paper from Sho-sa Koshō: and instructions from the Cornuelle's doctor.

  The crewman guiding her through the maze of the ship turned. "This is your shuttle, ma'am. Have a safe flight."

  "Thank you." Gretchen nodded and walked across the open expanse of the deck, following a painted walkway. The military shuttle loomed up before her, backswept wings sleek and dark, the tail fins glossy and shining with the snake-eagle-arrow glyph of the Fleet. A raptor where our Company shuttles are fat brown hens.

  "Anderssen -tzin."

  Hummingbird stepped out from beneath the wing. Gretchen slowed to a halt, surprised and pleased to see him. "Hello, Crow! How are you doing? They said you'd been released from medical early."

  The nauallis did not respond to her light tone, his face a chiseled mask. Instead he looked from side to side as if making sure none of the crewmen working in the bay were near enough to overhear. "You will have to file a report," he said in a stiff, rather cool tone. "I suggest you mention as few details about our foray to the surface as possible. Any scientific data you wish to relate is, of course, up to you. I would restrain any speculation about the life-forms on the planet to that which can be proven."

  Gretchen felt her good humor—and living instead of dying usually made her very cheerful—fade in the face of this cold reception. Her eyes narrowed and she looked him up and down very slowly. He seemed larger in a cream-colored mantlelike shirt, pleated dark trousers and civilian shoes. In the z-suit he'd seemed small and wiry, lean enough to survive in the desert. Now he looks like a Company lawyer, she decided and the last of her cheerfulness disappeared.

  "I guess I'm not a copy," she said in a dry tone. He nodded very slightly in answer.

  Long absent from her thoughts, a memory of the cylinder-book surfaced. Considering the prize in retrospect, she weighed, judged and decided the secrets inside the ancient device would not be unlocked by her. The decision—made in an instant—left her oddly peaceful. The kids will still have shoes, even if they're not imported leather.

  "The matter of your life aside, I understand," she said in an equally formal tone. "My report will reflect the professionalism and excellence of all Fleet and government personnel involved in the operation. I will take equal care with any conclusions which may affect the security of the Empire."

  Hummingbird nodded, unfazed by the withering glare she'd turned on him.

  "Is there anything else you wanted to know?"

  He shook his head, hands clasped behind his back.

  "I have one question for you, Huitziloxoctic-tzin." Gretchen matched his formal posture, realizing with a tiny bite of delight she was noticeably taller than he was. She tilted her head a little to the side, pinning him with a considering expression. "My medband has been taken away. When I get a new one on the Palenque or on Ctesiphon Station or at my next dig, will I find there is some kind of exotic drug in my system?"

  The nauallis's expression did not change, but there was a dark flicker in his eyes.

  "I've not experienced any unusual effects of sight since I woke up." Her lips parted slightly, showing white teeth. "Even when I settle my mind and let my thoughts become calm. Now, my memory has been damaged, but I haven't forgotten everything that happened down on the planet. Did you really think I was so untrustworthy you needed to drug me? Did you really think I would tell anyone you'd broken tradition to show me this tiny, paltry bit of your precious knowledge?"

  Hummingbird did not respond, his face becoming even more still, more masklike. Disgusted, Gretchen turned away and climbed the steps into the shuttle. A crewman inside the door directed her forward and the pressure door levered up with a hiss to close with a solid, heavy thud.

  Settling into her seat for the thirty-minute flight to the Palenque, Gretchen rolled her shoulders and let out a long, angry hiss. Against all expectation, she'd thought Hummingbird might trust her just a little. Stupid old fool. Did he think I'd blab to everyone what I saw, what I did? I work for a bureaucracy too.

  And that thought crushed the rest of her lightheartedness. She rubbed her left eye, feeling an incipient twinge. Reports. Oh, the reports I will have to file. Company property, loss of—one Temple-class starship gutted, one completely equipped base camp abandoned, two Midge-class ultralights destroyed, two Komodo-class shuttles severely damaged, ten Company staff dead in the line of duty—data recovered, minimal. Artifacts recovered—none. Opportunities for follow-up research—none, system sealed by Imperial interdict. Chances for staff to publish data and gain tenure, university position or even a publication byline—none, data sealed by order, Imperial Office of the Tlachialoni—the Mirror-Which-Reveals.

  Sullenly, she stared out the window, though the sight of the Palenque drawing closer did not lift the gloom weighing on her. Maybe I should tell someone what happened... not the Company, maybe a 3v'zine like Temple of Truth or the Xonocatl. Then I'd have a few quills to shake in my hand.

  CTESIPHON STATION, JUST WITHIN IMPERIAL MÉXICA SPACE

  This time they had docked in the Fleet section of the docking ring of the enormous station. Everything was clean and shipshape, with deckhands and loading trucks to help them haul their gear from the Palenque. Even the air was quiet and cool, without the humid cattle mob of the commercial landing. Parker, Magdalena and Bandao were waiting at the end of the lock tunnel. The pilot was puffing on a tabac with a blissful expression on his face.

  "Pack-leader! You look cheerful for a change." Magdalena grinned, showing only the tiniest points of sharp white teeth. The Hesht had a truly enormous travel bag slung over her shoulder. Anderssen had not asked what was inside, but suspected some equipment listed on the Palenque manifest as "destroyed" had actually survived. Her own tool belt and z-suit gear had been replaced in the same way. The Company was notoriously bad at honoring requests for replacing equipment lost on dig or survey—which resulted in endem
ic pilfering by all the dig crews.

  "I'm off that tub, my initial reports are done," Gretchen said, waving a cloud of tabac smoke away from her face, "and we can go someplace on station where I can buy us all real food for dinner at a real restaurant."

  "Damn." Parker stubbed out his tabac. "Do you think they have steaks here? Like, real ones? I mean—you know—Maggie's probably missing food that bleeds."

  He ducked away, laughing, though the Hesht's claws were only half-extended in a cub's strike.

  "Maybe." Gretchen put her arm around the man's shoulder and raised her eyes to the bulkhead arching overhead, stretching out her hand toward some glorious, unimaginable future. "Maybe we can even get mashed potatoes made from... potatoes!"

  "Aw, boss, you're going to make me cry." Parker rubbed his eyes. Gretchen squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. "Next you'll say something crazy like they have real butter."

  "Everyone have their gear?" Gretchen looked around out of habit, making sure no one had been left behind and everyone had their baggage and shoes and hats. As she did, Bandao caught her eye and pointed down the curving platform.

  Anderssen turned and a smile lit her face. Sho-sa Koshō approached, sword blade straight in a spotless white Fleet uniform. Gretchen bowed very politely as she came up. "Konnichi-wa, Koshō-sana."

  "Good morning, Doctor Anderssen." The officer returned her bow. "I am glad to see you and your team together again."

  Everyone else bowed politely, and even Parker had the sense to remain silent while their oyabun spoke to the Imperial officer.

  "Thanks to the generous hospitality of the Fleet, Sho-sa, we are all in excellent health and spirits."

  "Good." Koshō nodded to the others, then stepped aside, hand on Gretchen's elbow. With a meter of polite space between them and her subordinates, the Sho-sa's expression changed. "Chu-sa Hadeishi requests a favor," Koshō said, watching her intently. "A common acquaintance is waiting, a little ways away, and would like to speak to you again."