Fire with Fire, Second Edition

by Charles E Gannon

  He stopped at the base of the stairs, uncertain, noted that the hair along his brow had become more damp. Why so anxious? Look: nothing lives here, nothing has for thousands of years. And if the local wanted you dead, you’d have been led into a deadfall pit or some other trap an hour ago. You’re supposed to see this, which means you’re probably safer now than any time since you landed in this valley. So why the jitters? Caine looked at the outthrust arc of the broad stairs, each riser almost half a meter in width, and then up at the squat obelisks. Because it’s strange, alien-looking: not like the mini-Acropolis back at Site One. And because—he looked around again—because there are no weeds. None of the stones have fallen—or, if they have, they’ve been removed. Maybe the locals—caretake this place . . . ?

  The locals provisionally rose higher on Caine’s ad hoc scale of cultural complexity. Did they remember that these were the creations of their ancestors? Did they have a sense of history that strove to reach back into such a distant past? If they did, they were not so very different from some of the more remote tribes of Earth, only a century ago.

  Caine took out his photographic equipment slowly, as if a sudden movement would startle the stones, would scare the—well, what do I call this? The ruins? No; not the right word. The memorial? The historical preserve? Whatever it was, “ruin” was not the correct label: that term suggested the wear of ages and of neglect. This structure was, admittedly, time-worn—but there was no sign of neglect.

  He measured the steps, so strangely broad and low; each one was between fifty and fifty-one centimeters wide, but only ten centimeters high. And they were not “built”: like everything except the ring of low obelisks, they had been hewn from the native stone. Caine traversed the floor of the arena, hearing the whisper of his boots bounce back from the rock that rose up on either side, stopped in front of the rear galleries. Again, a strange architecture: the walls that faced out into the arena had been cut through, converted into openworks of intricate filigree patterns. The two doorways that led into the cavelike chamber beyond were ovate, narrowing up into a peak.

  Caine recorded and measured and inspected the site for ten minutes, checked his watch, and discovered his perceptual error: he had been here for almost an hour. He had ninety minutes—at most—before the sun started to set, and he still had the second, smaller trail to explore. He hastily stuffed his sensors and photographic gear into the top of his backpack and jogged away from the structure.

  Having been in all its chambers, he knew there was no one in the structure watching him as he left. But that didn’t diminish the sense that timeless eyes were fixed upon his spine as he disappeared back into the jungle.

  * * *

  After reaching the narrow, newer trail, he followed it for five hundred meters and then stopped: up ahead, there was a break in the canopy, large enough to let in a considerable volume of Delta Pavonis’ fading honey-colored rays. Caine took another dozen steps, glad for the opportunity to enjoy standing in some bright, unobstructed light. His day-end fantasies concocted a convenient shelf of rock, handy kindling, a campfire: all so real he could almost smell it—

  He could. He could smell it. Burned wood, or plants—like a grass fire.

  He unshouldered the rifle and moved off the trail, but kept it in sight, ten meters to his left. He edged forward, paralleling it as the canopy thinned and the light grew—and revealed a broad, open circle of dirt. What the hell—?

  Hell. Yes, hell would smell like that. It wasn’t just the odor of burnt grass: it was meat, too. But not cooked: incinerated. He did not sweat, but felt his temples pulsing hard and fast: it was a different species of terror than he had felt while facing down a charging pavonosaur. This was a sharp, cold wariness—because any bush could hide death, and any thicket could conceal the worst foe of all:

  Humans. They had been here. This was their—his—work, Caine realized as he crept to the edge of the circle of dirt, and pushed at it with his boot. Scorched rock underneath. He rose, rifle muzzle tracking along the brush-line as he moved into the center of the ring, the charnel smell rising around him. He probed with his boot; more burnt rock underfoot, but at the far edge, another smell: gasoline. Thick and pungent, like avgas.

  And something else, at the very edge of the circle: a footprint. But not human. Splay-footed, with the heel-print deeper than the front, it looked like a cross between a duck’s and a human’s foot. Four front toes—long and without any evidence of a strong metatarsal bridge—angled back into a wide, flat sole that flared out again where the heel erupted into a bifurcated back toe. But that rear digit had not left the kind of deep, crisp-edged imprint consistent with a sharp rear talon: it, too, was soft, flexible.

  He followed the footprint out of the circle—and stopped: three freshly broken tubers. Just five meters in front of him. All in a row. What could it mean?

  Then he looked down and he knew what it meant. End of the trail.

  To the right and the left were oval cocoons—or would that be coffin-garlands?—of the fuchsia and indigo flowers, propped up into tented arches by their jointed, stick-like vines. Inside each colorful shell was a single, usually charred, bone. More footprints were here—dozens, some older, some recent.

  He counted: there were thirty-seven of the memorials, stretching away into the brush in either direction. The northernmost end of the burial line was marked by a cluster of snapped tubers, and, looking down as the sun’s light faded from honey to amber, he saw a metallic glint. He knew what it was before he picked it up: a spent shotgun casing. The brass collar was twice as high as a commercial round, and its side was stamped with a single “0”: single-aught buckshot. A favorite with mass murderers of innocents—and a match for what Caine had seen winking at him from Bendixen’s bandoliers. Using a lens-wipe from his photo kit, he picked up the shell casing, wrapped it, put it in his other chest pocket. Bastards.

  As he emerged back into the small clearing, he saw movement in the bush, crouched, but knew—from the strange sideways rush and then stillness—that it wasn’t human. The local had followed—or waited for—him here.

  More motion on the other side, and a rush of air in the trees behind him. Scratch that: the locals are here. All around me.

  Caine held the gun away, knew what he had to do even while several million years of carefully-evolved self-preservation instincts roared negations so loud that he couldn’t think. So he acted.

  He crouched down, reached far forward, laid the rifle in the direct sunlight. Then he frog-walked a step back, waited another moment, and kneeled. He bowed his head.

  The only thing he heard was the blood pounding in his ears—and he listened to it for what seemed like a very long time. Then, from the left, came a shuddering whistle that slowly turned into what was clearly recognizable as a thin keening. Two more “voices” rose up from the right, then many from the higher branches of the canopy behind him. He lost count, knowing only that there were many—dozens, probably.

  And then nothing. As if someone had found the off-switch for their grieving, it was over. He looked up, heard a single, dwindling swooping noise in the trees behind him. And that was all. He was alone again.

  He rose slowly, picked up his weapon, looked at the sun. Where to sleep tonight? I need to find some flat rock, a good clear area—and he suddenly knew that he had seen only one suitable place since leaving the camp where he had killed the pavonosaur twenty years ago this morning. The mountainside amphitheater. He expected to feel fear, but didn’t. Not because he had become brave—he knew he hadn’t—but because he was too tired by the many successive shocks, fears, and enigmas of the day. He headed back up the trail.

  * * *

  So when he arrived at the head of the trail—where it met the western extension which led to the amphitheater, and the broad northern trail which led back toward the site of his encounter with the pavonosaur—he was beyond being surprised to discover the local waiting there for him. Caine stopped, realized he was still carrying his gun
in his hands, shouldered it. The local made a low noise—something like a buzzing purr—and set off on the northern trail. Caine, shrugging to no one but himself, followed without a word.

  Following behind the local, Caine noticed what he had not before: that the creature’s—no, the being’s—legs had a “reverse knee,” like a dog or a cat, but that it stood and walked in a plantigrade fashion: its full foot in contact with the ground. However, when the local used a bit more speed, he leaned forward into the motion and came up onto his toes, shifting into a typical digitigrade stance. Which produced the distinctive loping gait that Caine had seen in the thermal-imaging footage from the Navy recon VTOL.

  Four times within the first five or six kilometers, Mr. Local turned aside, led them into the brush for a few hundred yards. Each time their detour ended at another—albeit smaller—burnt dirt clearing. Caine was beyond outrage or even pity: that was for later, for a time and a place at which the responsible parties could be made—somehow—to pay for their deeds.

  The fifth time, Mr. Local did not even bother with a detour. He stopped, turned, pointed off into the bush, huddled down and drew a circle with his finger—which was actually one of four radially-arranged, prehensile digits. He pointed into the bush again. Caine just nodded and followed when Mr. Local resumed their northward course.

  The next time, Mr. Local just pointed off to one side of the trail and kept moving. After half a dozen such indications, Caine stopped counting.

  Night was falling when Mr. Local veered onto a small path to the left. It plunged into a narrow defile between the shoulders of two foothills which crowded against the trail from the west. Caine checked his watch: in thirty minutes, he was due to contact Site One so that they could relay his daily check-in call to CINCPAV COMCEN—but flanked by these steep granite escarpments, there was no way he was going to get that signal through. And then he realized that, tonight, he would not be checking in with Site One at all. He would be using Brill’s portable transmitter to send a three-digit recall code directly to Admiral Silverstein. Establishing contact with Mr. Local meant that Caine’s mission was over. It also meant that he had to be extracted posthaste, because now he was in a race to reach Earth before CoDevCo—and possibly others—could stop him from delivering the news of what he had found on Dee Pee Three.

  Mr. Local seemed to pick up the pace a bit when the defile opened out into another valley: much smaller, but—for all practical intents and purposes—inaccessible, except through the narrow passage they had just come. A refuge? Mr. Local’s hidden home?

  But Caine saw he was not to learn the answer to that, for Mr. Local selected yet another new trail. This one was a narrow switchback that ascended the rear of the hills, which sheltered this glen from the main valley. It was an easy climb and was mostly carpeted by the spongy weeds and low fronds that were Dee Pee Three’s equivalent of meadow grass.

  It was dark when they reached the summit of the hill and stood looking out across the valley and up toward the stars. Caine hazarded a closer approach to Mr. Local, who made no move away when the human came to stand beside him. Caine wondered if he would be so brave in the Pavonian’s place—and doubted it.

  For a long moment they looked at the stars together in silence. Then the Pavonian crouched down and patted the ground. Then he patted his own chest. He repeated the combination: he patted the ground and patted his chest.

  Yes. Your place. Your planet. I wish I could tell you how sorry—

  But then Mr. Local stood again, and pointed at Caine, the tendril-finger unfolding with slow, deliberate precision at the center of his chest. Then Mr. Local turned and pointed up, back across the valley.

  At the stars.

  Caine felt his scalp jump back reflexively. My God, he knows. He knows we’re from space. Good Christ— “Yes. Yes, yes. That’s right. We’re from there, from the stars—”

  The Pavonian made a rumbling noise in his chest—which was where his mouth seemed to be—and moved back a step. He pointed at Caine again.

  Who nodded. Okay. Me.

  Then Mr. Local slowly, cautiously, moved behind Caine, before extending his arm, then his hand, and then one tendril at the stars—again.

  Caine followed along the sightline of the alien arm, hand, finger—and noted, with surprise, that he was looking at something very familiar. Although appearing flattened, the Big Dipper was clearly visible about one-third of the way above the center of the western horizon. The cup of the dipper was a square box here, the handle now a straight bar with one kink in it.

  The surrounding stellar patterns similarly reprised those found in Earth’s own night sky. The Big Dipper was still discernibly part of the larger constellation of Ursa Majoris, which had retained much of its shape. However, here the Great Bear was somewhat thinner, leaner—more like a wolverine. Except, this one had grown bull’s horns—and had a very bright yellow eye.

  Caine stood silently for several long seconds, waiting. Okay: so I’m looking. He turned; Mr. Local was very close, and Caine finally saw his eyes—a triangle of lusterless mauve circles on each angled “side” of his face.

  Mr. Local withdrew his arm and waited a moment. Then with great, deliberate slowness—as if educating a child of unpromising perspicacity—he pointed at Caine. His finger recurled into his palm. He moved so that he was directly behind Caine and his arm stretched out above Caine’s shoulder. Once again the finger uncoiled—but this time, so sharply that it snapped out like a whip and quivered.

  Okay—I get it. Right—there: and Caine noted that the finger was pointing at Ursa Majoris’ new eye—or to the horn just above it: he couldn’t quite tell.

  Caine frowned: what was so important about this bright new star in Ursa Majoris? A new star—which meant it had to be a star that was between Delta Pavonis and Sol itself, a star that would therefore not appear in the constellation as seen from Earth. Indeed, back home, that new star would have to be on the opposite side of the sky from the Ursa Majoris constellation. And come to think of it, someone had mentioned Ursa Majoris when he arrived, someone at Downport—

  Brinkley. Brinkley had mentioned that, from Delta Pavonis, you could locate Alpha Centauri by finding it crowded into the head of Ursa Major. So the big yellow eye, just to the right of Epsilon Ursa Major, that was Alpha Centauri. But the more Caine looked, the more he realized that no, Mr. Local’s finger was stabbing urgently—almost trembling—at the tip of the wolverine’s most prominent horn. Located just a finger’s width above the new eye, the horn was capped by a smaller, dimmer yellow star that was also a newcomer to the constellation. That put the new star on an almost straight line that started at Delta Pavonis, went through Alpha Centauri, and then on toward—

  Caine felt his skin freeze and the hair on the back of his neck rise up. Trembling, he turned slowly to look at Mr. Local, who leaned back a little and emitted a long, low purr. He pointed outward yet again, clearly indicating the tip of Ursa Majoris’ horn.

  Caine turned back, his legs shaking, saw nothing but the little yellow star, heard nothing but Brinkley’s inane introductory chatter: “. . . as seen from this system, all the major green worlds are pretty much on a straight line: here, Alpha Centauri, Earth—”

  Earth. He’s pointing at Earth. He knows I’m from—

  Caine spun around: Mr. Local was gone. As if he had never been there. Caine swallowed, heard the great mechanical gulping noise it made in his throat, and turned back. Earth. Of course: Earth.

  And then, all the pieces started to fall into place—

  Chapter Ten

  ODYSSEUS

  Caine, alone on the observation deck of the interface liner Tyne, had to admit that there wasn’t any concrete evidence that the new second engineer was actually an assassin.

  Indeed, the image on Caine’s bug-linked palmtop showed the bridge crewman merely carrying out the same routine duties he had been performing for five days now. If anything, he sat his post more easily than ever, pitched back in a casual slouch, ch
ecking monitors, occasionally glancing toward the starboard viewport.

  Caine stole a starboard glance of his own: the Tyne’s gallery window framed a craft shaped like a cubist kraken of deep space. She was the shift carrier Commonwealth, her mile-long keel capped by a boxy sleeve that resembled the mantle of a giant squid. However, this mantle was rotating and comprised of four long panels: habitat nacelles. Less than fifty meters aft of the slowly spinning mantle, hundreds of cold-sleep modules—or “cryopods”—were clustered as tightly as the facets of an insect’s compound eye, staring at him with bone-white pupils: the pod doors.

  He forced himself to return their stare, and thought: there’s no way I’m going to use a cryopod again. Not now; not ever. Common sense countered: You may have to. If there is an assassin on this ship, a cryopod may be your only chance. So, you choose: pseudo-death—or the real thing?

  The rotation of the Commonwealth’s habitation nacelles was slowing: that meant the end of spin-gravity and the start of docking preparations. Soon Caine’s hab module would be transferred to the shift carrier and he’d be another step closer to Earth. Which is probably why I’m so nervous: because I’m almost home. So not only am I starting to see danger everywhere, but beginner’s paranoia is adding to the problem, spawning false threats. So calm down: the second engineer is just a second engineer. You can go back to your module, strap in, relax—

  The negation was swift: no, you can’t—not until you’re sure. And if Caine couldn’t be sure, then he might have to initiate an escape plan that bordered on lunacy, and depended entirely upon the contents of his shoulder-bag.

  He zipped open the bag: a big-handled aluminum Thermos, a multi-tool, a bottle of antidiarrheic tablets, and his shipboard transponder. He dug out the transponder: the silver-gray face of the metal card flashed at him, and he thought: If you bail out, you have to leave the transponder behind. If he didn’t, the second engineer would certainly use its signal to locate him, track him down. So don’t take any chances; drop it here, now.