Jack Mcdevitt - Engines of god

by David Geary

  Bushes swayed in the wind. She held the lamp up, played its beam across the top of the wall. Everything looked clear. She passed into the screening bushes and emerged in the glade.

  They were on the lower level.

  She glared down at them.

  They were pushing leaves and dirt toward the base of the wall. A chill worked its way up her spine.

  Hutch picked up a rock and threw it at them. Incredibly, it missed. But the work stopped momentarily, and eye-stalks swung toward her. Several peeled off and moved into the underbrush on either side of the wall. The others began to back away, and withdrew beyond a distance that George would have recognized.

  She opened a channel on her link. "Maggie."

  "Here."

  "They're out here at the end of the wall. Building a ramp."

  She heard a sharp intake of breath. Heard Maggie relay the warning to Carson. "Maybe we should try going down the staircase," Maggie said.

  "No," said Hutch. They would never make it. "You've got time yet. Just be ready to go when I get back."

  "Okay. Hutch?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm looking forward to that dinner."

  "Me, too."

  She retreated back through the shrubbery, and looked down. It was a healthy jump, about five meters. But she saw only one crab.

  She sat down, swung round, and hung by her hands. The thing below began to move. She pushed away from the wall, and let go. The fall took an ungodly long time. While she dropped, she held the lamp away from her body, where it was less likely to get broken or cause injury. She was aware of the wind, and the smell of the woods, and of filtered moonlight.

  She hit harder than she'd expected, rolled to her feet, and, without wasting time looking for the brachyid, took off.

  The route they had blazed was to her right, uphill, but she thought it wise to stay off it for a while. She chose a parallel course, and resolved to cut over when she was safely away from the area. She had decided she would give the little bastards full credit for military capabilities.

  There was no sound of pursuit.

  "I'm clear, Maggie," she said into her commlink. "And on my way."

  She did not run all out. Something had happened to Jake. Keep that in mind. But time pressed. She hurried on, and plunged through blinds and into vegetation that she might otherwise have avoided.

  Gradually, she angled uphill, expecting to find the trail.

  She didn't. She reached the top of the ridge without know­ing where she was. Son of a bitch.

  She'd missed it. Gone right past it.

  Don't panic. She called the wall. Pause. Give her a chance to regroup. "Maggie?"

  "Here. How's it going?"

  "Still moving. I'm okay."

  "Be careful."

  "I will. How are you doing with the tree?"

  "Slow. The range is a little long."

  "Stay with it. I'll keep you posted."

  Five minutes later, she stumbled across blackened shrub­bery. Okay. This was the way they had come. But the trail barely existed, and her notion that she could sprint back to the shuttle vanished. She realized how little attention she'd paid coming out. And they'd made no effort to mark their passage. No one had considered the possibility of a problem getting back; after all, at worst, it would only be necessary to home in on Jake's signal.

  She made several wrong turns. Each time, she retraced her steps and conducted a search. At one point, she came out of the woods and found herself looking across open, moonlit water. The collapsed bridge they'd seen from the air lay in the shallows like a sleeping dinosaur.

  The tree did not fall.

  Maggie had cut completely through the trunk, but it only leaned to one side, hopelessly tangled in the web of branches. Leaves and broken wood rained down on her, and some went over the side and took the long plunge to the forest floor.

  But the canopy was as solid as ever.

  "What now?" she asked Carson. She had exhausted her pulser. Only Hutch's weapon remained. She took it out of her belt.

  Carson surveyed the trees. "Over there," he said. Cut that one. It was the same width, but about four meters farther out. At the extreme limit of the weapon's range. "Get that one, and they might both come down."

  She looked at him unhappily.

  "It's all we've got, Maggie."

  She crept to the edge, and reached out. Get as close as possible. She pulled the trigger.

  Hutch had no idea where she was. There were no stars to guide her. No landmarks. Nothing. She saw no sign of their previous passage, no hill or tree that stirred memo­ry-She had triangulated on Maggie's link, which sent out a continuous signal. That told her where she was in relation to the wall, and allowed her to estimate generally where the shuttle should be. It was in this area somewhere. But where? She worried that she had already passed it, that it lay behind her.

  "Look out."

  The trunk tilted toward them. That shouldn't have hap­pened: Maggie had angled the cut away so it would fall in the other direction. But instead it came down slowly in a cacophony of splintering wood. She scrambled back from the edge. Twigs and leaves and vines came with it. The trunk slammed into the wall, and the entire structure shuddered. The general tangle fell across Maggie, a vast leafy net, knocking her off her feet. Branches cracked and the trunk kept rolling until it slipped clear and started a long, slow descent into the abyss. And Maggie reali/ed with horror that she was going with it.

  She was dragged relentlessly toward the edge of the wall. She tried to free herself. Find something to hold onto. But everything seemed to be going over the side.

  The world was filled with broad flat leaves and a ter­rible grinding sound. She heard Carson calling her name. And it occurred to her that she was not going to find out about Oz. Not ever. Nor why the Quraquat had identified the Monument-Makers with death.

  Made no sense.

  The tangle paused, balanced high over the forest floor, allowing her a final glance at the sliver of moon. Mercifully, it was too dark to see how high she was.

  Sorry, Hutch.

  "Hutch." The voice was frantic.

  "Go ahead, Frank."

  "Maggie's dead."

  The words hung on the night air. Her eyes slid shut. She had left the lake front, and was struggling through flowering plants and oversized ferns. Utterly lost.

  "Hutch? Did you hear me?"

  "Yes," she said. "How? What happened?" It did not seem possible. Maggie had been fine. Was too smart—

  Carson told her. His voice was thick with sorrow. "I found

  her pulser," he added. "She dropped it."

  "You're sure she couldn't have survived?"

  "Hutch, she went over the side." Pause. "Did you get to the shuttle yet?"

  "No, Frank. God help me, I have no idea where I am."

  "Okay." Carson's voice was gentle. "Do what you can. We've got a hole now. You can get in when you get here."

  In the dark, she stared straight ahead. "Out," she said quietly.

  Janet had slept through the disaster. Carson looked at her. She seemed unchanged, and her pulse was steady. He sat beside her, grief-stricken. Her eyes fluttered and she touched his wrist. He smiled. "We're doing fine," he said to her unspoken question.

  "Can I help?" He had to lean close to hear.

  "Not now. Later, maybe." She drifted back to sleep.

  Carson buried his head in his hands.

  Truscott was listening to several of her passengers outline the future assignments they were expecting when they got home, when Harvey, wearing an irritated frown, asked if he could speak with her in private.

  "We've lost contact with the landing party," he said.

  That should be no cause for concern. Commlinks failed. "How long?"

  "Last check was due forty minutes ago."

  She thought about it. "It's a little early to push the button. What do you think? Equipment failure?"

  "Unlikely. They would have to be aware of it, though. And the
shuttle has several communications methods available. Morris is worried."

  "Last status was—?"

  "Still on the ground. Carson and the Academy team went off somewhere to look at ruins. They left Jake with the shuttle."

  "When were they expected back?"

  "Before sunset. It's been dark there for over an hour."

  She leaned against the bulkhead. "What options do we have?"

  He looked at her. "I hoped you might be able to think of something."

  Hutch was back out on the shoreline, looking at the downed bridge. Here, at least, she had a decent idea which way she wanted to go. But once in the woods, there was no guide. No way to check her course. And she could pass within ten meters of the shuttle and fail to find it.

  West. It was toward the west.

  She started off, striving to remain within sight of the water.

  Earlier, nothing had seemed familiar. Now, she felt as if she'd been everywhere. She moved with frustrated abandon. The brachyids she had feared so much at the beginning of the odyssey had drifted to the back of her mind. Where was the shuttle?

  Carson's voice broke through the stillness. "Any luck, Hutch?"

  "No," she said. "I'm in the neighborhood—"

  "Okay. I think we're out of time up here. I can hear them coming."

  She did not know what to say.

  "I'm going to take Janet down the stairway."

  The stairway. It wouldn't work. Probably wouldn't even support their weight. "Don't do it, Frank," she said.

  "I'm open to suggestions. We've got maybe ten minutes. At best."

  Her lungs heaved. The forest went on forever, trunks and underbrush and roots pushing up through the soil and deep grass and rocks and cane plants.

  "Frank."

  "Yes?"

  "Say something to me. Loud."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Talk to me."

  "Hello."

  "Louder."

  "Hello."

  "Shout it, damn it."

  "HELLO!"

  "It might work." Jake could not have been attacked unless something got into the shuttle, or he went for a walk. In either case, a hatch, at least, had to be open. Most likely, the cockpit canopy. "Frank, switch to the shuttle's channel, and make as much noise as you can."

  She broke contact and listened.

  Nothing.

  But it was somewhere up ahead. Had to be.

  Frank Carson understood that once he left the wall they were dead. Even if he made it down that impossible stairway, they would have no chance. Hutch would not be able to get to them with the shuttle.

  Consequently, he bellowed into the commlink. Sometimes he called her name. Sometimes, "SHUTTLE, ONE TWO THREE." Sometimes, "GODDAM, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?"

  He had stationed himself ten meters in front of Janet. There was still life in the pulser, so they could put up a fight. Ahead, he heard the sound of crustacean claws on rock.

  "What's going on?" Janet's voice. She didn't try to move.

  Carson explained, in as few words as he could.

  "No way off?" she asked.

  "No."

  "Where's Maggie?"

  There was no way to soften it. "Dead," he said. He described how it had happened.

  He listened to her breathe. "Little bastards," she said. "Do we have another pulser?"

  "No."

  She struggled to her feet. Fresh blood welled out of the packing on her ankle. She sorted among broken branches, and picked up one that she could handle.

  Carson began talking to the shuttle again. "WE COULD REALLY USE HELP, HUTCH."

  Janet stationed herself directly below the opening in the overhang. "If they get here before she does," she said, "I'm going to follow Maggie."

  Hutch was fording a stream when she heard it. A whisper, far off, carried away on the wind. It sounded like: "—Bitch." She broke into a run.

  Carson understood the simple ferocity of a beast look­ing for its dinner. But there was something else at work here. They had expended too much to get him. He wondered

  at their singlemindedness. Almost as if they perceived the humans as a threat. Was it possible they had dim recollections of the city's former inhabitants, and had made some sort of connection?

  Whatever this was about, he was pleased to discover that they hesitated when he showed himself. And there was anoth­er piece of good fortune: the brachyids were no quicker on this battered surface than he was. He watched them come, climbing over broken concrete, sliding helplessly into cracks and crevices. One fell off the wall.

  He stood adjacent to the stairway. Parts of a handrail had survived. He heard wings, and a large dark-green bird settled on it. The handrail trembled. The bird watched the crabs with interest. Its head bobbed, in the manner of terrestrial avians. It had the wingspread of an eagle, and it leaned forward, made several threatening starts, and suddenly plunged among the creatures. It seized one in outstretched claws, holding it at an angle that prevented the scalpel-claw from doing any damage. The brachyid shrieked, and the bird cackled and rose into the night.

  "Where are your relatives?" asked Janet.

  Moments later they heard a sharp meaty crack from below.

  Last hope of retreat down the stairway was about to go by the boards. Janet looked at him. "You sure we want to let ourselves get cut off?"

  He didn't reply.

  "We could go sit on it. Climb to the upper level. They couldn't follow us up there."

  "The damned thing would collapse. Let's give Hutch more time."

  They waited. And eventually the crabs came.

  Carson stood with legs braced, the pain in his left ankle pushed into a corner of his mind. They covered the ground before him, a dark horde he could not hope to stop. Never­theless, they slowed, hesitated, somehow knowing what was coming. When the leading edge had drawn to within a meter, he pointed the weapon at them. They stopped.

  He watched.

  The moment drew itself out. And finally, as if a signal had been given, scalpels came erect and they swept forward.

  The pulser's warning lamp blinked on. He pulled the trig­ger and played the beam across them, knowing he could not

  take time to kill them individually. Hurt large numbers, he thought, hoping that would be enough to drive them back. They squealed and blackened and crashed together, like tiny vehicles.

  They fell back, and the weapon died.

  Janet moved close to the edge of the wall. "Okay," she said.

  "Hey." Hutch's voice.

  "Go ahead."

  "I need more noise. I can hear you. The shuttle's right here somewhere."

  Carson grunted. "It's a little late, Hutch."

  "Talk to me," she raged. "Come on, Carson."

  He roared her name to the stars. "It's too late," he cried. "It's too goddam late."

  "That's good," said Hutch. "Keep at it."

  Carson stayed where he was, hoping to intimidate the crea­tures. He followed Janet's example, and found a branch. He broke off the smaller limbs, and hefted it. When he was satisfied, he joined her. They stood close together.

  Carson liked to think of himself as a man of the world. He had taken sex where he could find it, had enjoyed his pas­sions, had been honest with his women. He was not given to sentimentality. Nevertheless some of those women lingered in his affections. Two or three, he might even have settled down with, had circumstances been different. But never in his life had he experienced so strong a rush of emotion, of love for another human being, as he did in those desperate moments, with Janet Allegri, atop the wall in the harbor city.

  Hutch's lamplight silhouetted the shuttle, silvered it for all the world to see. Its cold metal hull gleamed, and with desperate joy she thought how it sheltered power she had never appreciated. The cockpit canopy was up, and Carson's profanity spilled out of it in erratic bursts.

  "Okay, Frank," she said. "I've got it."

  "Good. Move your ass."

  It occurred to her tha
t if Jake had been taken inside the ship, it might still be inhabited. But she had no time to monkey with details. She sprinted across the glade, leaped onto the ladder, and was relieved to see that the cockpit, at least, was empty. "On my way," she said into the commlink.

  "Keep giving me a signal, turn on the lamps, and don't forget where you're supposed to stand."

  She ignited the engines, drew the canopy down, and slammed the door to the cargo section. Checklist. My God, it was hard to ignore old habits. But she had no time for a checklist.

  "Negative," said Carson. "All bets are off. The crabs are pushing us to the end of the wall. How far away are you?"

  She lifted into the air. "I'll be overhead in two minutes." She locked the DF on Carson's signal, swung around, and hit the burners. The landing gear warning lamp blinked at her: the treads were still down. Leave them that way. The shuttle rolled over a sea of silver-tinged foliage. Look for the hole.

  Maggie's hole.

  She reached behind her into the supply cabinet for a fresh pulser, and laid it on the seat beside her.

  Carson and Janet were defending themselves with sticks. Carson clubbed and jabbed the creatures until the wood shat­tered. Janet swept large numbers of them over the side. But it seemed hopeless, and they had already exchanged a final questioning glance, looking down the side of the wall, when lights blazed overhead.

  The shuttle crashed through the vault of the forest. It was wider than its landing surface. But it came down with treads extended and spotlights flashing.

  "I see you," said Hutch. "Can you disengage?"

  One of the creatures stabbed Carson's good ankle. But he had seen it coming, and he rolled away before the scalpel could penetrate deep.

  "Negative," said Janet.

  The black hull, ringed by running lights, was coming in directly on top of them. "Heads up," said Hutch.

  The top of the wall was alive with the creatures. How much of us, wondered Carson, do they think there is to go around? In that frightful moment, the notion of all those crabs after two people struck him as absurd. And he laughed.

  "Hit the deck," said Hutch. "Look out for the treads."

  They went down and one of the brachyids bit Carson's right thigh. Janet hit it with her stick. The agony was blind­ing.

  The treads came in over his head.

  Hutch pushed the stick forward. The top of the wall was ribbon-thin. Alive. The battle disappeared beneath her. The shuttle had visual capabilities below its treads, of course, but Hutch elected not to use them. Just one more distraction. She focused instead on the dimensions of her landing site. Keep level. Keep centered.