"No." They'd reached the lightness of atmosphere. The sun's glare was dazzling off the form-fitting silver material of her enviro suit. She closed her eyes again. Wishful thinking. There was nothing down below with a voice for her to hear.
And she was airsick, dammit. She clenched her teeth tighter as the shuttle spun downward.
Reynolds' alto voice. "What are you doing, sir?"
"Conserving as much fuel as I can. This isn't going to be a one-way trip if I can help it." Marshall's thick, rich tones, filled with quiet determination.
Dusty smiled in spite of herself.
Thunder boomed. Ketchum moved away from the small campfire he'd been nursing. He looked up. "No clouds," he said. "No rain."
But the dean was grabbing for his binoculars. "Fool," he said, unthinkingly. "That's not thunder. That's a sonic boom. She's coming!"
Ketchum squinted. He could see nothing angling in over the hills, but the dean was striding across the parched earth, hand up, pointing, his voice rising louder.
"She's coming in! There she is! Look at her!"
A low rumbling could be heard and then even Ketchum could see the white form in the sky, like a bird on the glide. It came lower and lower and then, as the rumbling could be felt in his bones as much as in his ears, the thing touched down.
The dean let out a whoop. Streamers of dust burst from the earth like flame and the object roared down on them, bigger, ever bigger.
Ketchum got to his feet and wiped his damp palms on his trousers. The dean had finally done something that impressed him and it was roaring down on them like a vengeful god from the past.
The dean paced back. "Slow 'er down," he cried. "Slow 'er down!"
The chant seemed to help as the great winged object began to slow. Still it came head on, and Ketchum swore he could feel the sun's heat off its body, dancing in shimmering waves.
Then the object slowed rapidly, and when it came to a halt it was a good six or seven hundred yards away.
The dean dropped his binoculars to his chest. He turned slowly on one heel. He gave Ketchum a thoughtful look.
"In the next few hours," the big man said, "you will see and hear a great many things you will not understand. It's best if you simply keep your peace."
Ketchum nodded, wordlessly. He felt as if his voice had been ripped from his chest. Perhaps the Shastra had been right to bring the dean into their lives after all.
The object's flank opened up like a smaller wing rising. There was a flash of metal. People began to descend, people dressed in brilliant colors of silver and bronze and pewter. Their heads were engulfed. Ketchum felt his knees and bladder turn to water in his fear. They came out of the belly of the object and faced them.
The dean began to walk toward them. Ketchum felt another strange emotion for the dean who was not afraid. He trailed in the man's wake.
They approached until they were close enough to see faces within those helmets. Women's faces, men's, bare of beard like the Countians, young and old—they stared at the two of them. They carried mechanicals, some of them did, with hoses and flashing lights, casting them about in the air. The woman to the front—young woman-tore her helmet off, thick red hair bouncing to her shoulders.
"Welcome," the dean said. "Welcome home."
"Dammit," Kerry got out in her lightly accented voice (still Southern, after all these years, passed on by her family as diligently as any ship's skill). "Git yoah helmet back on!''
Dusty answered, "This air's better than what I was born into! Hold your water, Kerry."
Palchek muttered, his voice thinned by the helmet comra, "Lots of molds, though. That wind packs quite
a kick."
Remembering, she said, "Santa Anas used to drive everyone crazy. Anyone with bad sinuses could expect migraines."
Klegg remarked, "Let's hope that's all these molds can do," seconding Palchek's worry. He swung his computer pack about, picking up readings.
All the bickering came to a stop as the two lone figures came near and the tall one, in a black caftan wildly decorated reminiscent of Africa, threw open his arms crying welcome. Dusty heard Marshall say, "Get a look at him."
"Him, hell," said Goldstone. "What's that standing next to him? Retro-human?"
And tall, muscular Reynolds took a step closer, muttering, "I wouldn't want to meet either of them in a dark
corridor.''
Marshall came to Dusty's elbow. He hesitated, then took off his enviro helmet, too. "Commander Willem Marshall, of the U.S.S. Challenger:"
The berobed man bowed. "Gerald Cor.klin, dean emeritus, the College Vaults, Claremont, California." He looked up, intently, and Dusty was struck by the intensity of his dark eyes, despite their hooded lids. "I've waited my whole life for you to return."
The man's tent was scarcely more hospitable than the outdoors. All of them could fit if they crouched elbow to elbow, but Reynolds and Dubois elected to rest outside, an informal guard, giving up some room. They did so, keeping an eye on the dean's scruffy companion, as he did on them.
The dean passed out water as if it were fine wine. He did not seem to care that his guests were cautious about drinking it. He said, "Go ahead, test it, please. I pride myself on the quality of my water. Southern California no longer blooms like the rose in the desert as it once did, but there is water if one knows where to find it. We have much heavier rains than we used to, but the runoff is tremendous. And as for the air quality," the man gave a bleak smile. "I think we're finally getting rid of the smog."
Marshall took a stiff drink. His cocoa hands showed pink around the knuckles as he gripped the glass. "I thank you for your hospitality. This . . . isn't exactly what we were expecting."
"If you scoped out the planet coming in, I imagine you expected the worst. And it is bad, I won't spare you that. But we survive, in pockets here and there." The dean leaned forward conspiratorially. "That's why I'm here. That's why the Vaults were created, sunk in a mountain's roots. We were intended to maintain a civilization no matter what happened."
The dean had not brought an entourage of civilization with him. Dusty cradled her water uneasily. Perhaps it was his hawk's eyes, always looking through her as well as at her, as though his primary vision was some sort of . . . prey . . . miles off.
Marshall set down his goblet. "It was you who set off the recall beacon, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yes. Once your signal activated it." The dean pushed forward the compact and battered box, flashing lights gone, replaced by a steady green line. The box was silent now.
"How is it that you knew what to do?"
The dean spread his hands. "Given the vast civilization around us?" He chuckled dryly. "Please let me explain,
Commander. You see, the longship mission predates ___ ,,
me—
Dusty shifted on her hips. The ground was hard. She looked about the tent restlessly. Goldstone caught her eyes. There was amusement in the harsh lines about his mouth, hidden amusement at what the dean was saying.
The dean swung about suddenly, his attention gone from Marshall, nailing Goldstone with those predatory eyes. "Am I boring you, sir?"
The zoologist rocked back on his heels, embarrassment lighting up his craggy features. "Well, no, ah, not at all."
"Good. Because the technology that endowed the Vaults was about four decades more advanced than that of the longships, and we were making very rapid strides in that time period. I was barely old enough to be aware of the ships' launching—four of them, weren't there?"— he did not bother to look to Marshall for confirmation— "and I spent my life's work in education readying for the position which I held up until a few years ago when the Vaults were destroyed. You were born on ship. I was born here."
Dusty stirred. "So was I."
The dean's keen look flickered over her. "One of the first crew?"
"The only one on board this ship. My sister and I were experimenters in long-range telepathy and self-induced suspension."
"Ah." The ma
n said nothing for a long moment. Then, "We have much in common, except perhaps that you are the original flesh, and I am flesh of flesh, so to
speak."
"Come on," challenged Dubois. "You'd have to be— what, nearly three hundred years old."
"This incarnation is about fifty-three years old, but I am the Dean of the College Vaults. Surely cloning was not unknown when the ships launched."
Kerry and Goldstone both flushed, and the medic said, "Cloning was perfected in the early part of that century, but ethically it was shunned."
"It was deemed necessary for the continuation of our purpose. My great-grandfather was extremely fond of sourdough bread. Are you familiar with it? A dough is made. It leavens, a loaf is broken away from it to be baked, more ingredients are added to the remainder, it leavens once again—never entirely consumed, a sourdough starter can last for decades. The first dean was a "starter," if you will. I am flesh of his flesh, imprinted with all his memories as well as the complete life memories of each incarnation after that. I have forgotten nothing."
The fetishes and loose decorations on the dean's dark robes rattled with the intensity of his speech and emotion. Dusty found she could not bear to look at him.
Marshall said softly, "What happened to the Vaults?"
"I lived underground for over two hundred years," said the dean. His intense gaze swung back to the team commander. ' 'It was difficult, knowing the struggle those above engaged in, but we had been given our mandate and we were determined to fill it."
"There was more than one of you?"
"There was an entire city. All but myself perished when the fascist members of a survivor community cracked us open like an eggshell, determined to suck out all we had fought to preserve." The dean's voice went bitter.
"Like him?" Klegg said, jerking his head toward the tent's exterior.
"Him? Oh, Ketchum. No, Ketchum is an independent man, a member of a clan nation commonly called nesters. They've been outcast because of their refusal to kowtow to the dictatorial authority of the others. But all . . . all suffer genetic aberrations that render some scarcely more human than a brown lizard. Extensive genetic engineering had been done for the space program, in hopes of making colonization more effective on Mars and in other longship laur ches. Some of those aberrations made it possible for survival even after the disasters hit. Now . . . they mutate at an incredible rate. There is a virus that attacks the transposable genes in the DNA structure. They never know what can occur. The plague surfaces about every decade or so. If humanity has survived, it's paid an incredible price to do so." The dean stirred, as if aware of the sorrow his words had laid over the group. "It's gotten quite dark. I propose that we have a hearty dinner, then retire. I'll have Ketchum strike another canopy. I'm anxious to hear your stories and to know the whereabouts of the other longships, and what your plans are. You've brought vehicles with you, I'm sure, that are far quicker than horseback. To prove my veracity, I would like to take you on a tour of what is left of my College Vaults and to look over the L.A. basin in general. There's a lot of work to be done once we clean out the scourge of the Seven Counties. I bear the blame for much of the destruction, you know. When they first came to me, it was my decision to open up the Vaults. I thought perhaps the last two hundred years had purged away certain . . . tendencies. They had discovered our water source. I hoped to ally with them . . . and was betrayed for my trust." The dean looked up. "You have the weapons to prevent a similar tragedy. I have the numbers. It will be a fortuitous alliance this time."
Dusty became aware that there was the crackle of a fire outside, and she could smell meat roasting over it. The dean's companion must have gone hunting, and quite successfully.
Marshall stood, his dark face reflecting no expression. He had to hunch a bit in the tent's interior. "Dinner would be most welcome, but we'll spend the night aboard the shuttle, thank you."
"Ah. I'm most anxious to see what you have—"
Kerry put her hand up. "I'm sorry, Dean Conklin. Because of quarantine, we can't bring you aboard just yet."
Anger lightninged across the man's face. Just as quickly, it was erased. He inclined his head. "I see. And please, just call me Dean. It's all I answer to."
Dusty rocked forward and got to one knee. Perhaps she was still uneasy about the man or maybe it was just her weariness, but she felt as though he'd just asked them all to refer to him as a king rather than a simple college administrator. There are layers here, she thought, that might well be fatal to strip away. But they would have to. Before bringing down the Challenger and the Mayflower, they would have to know what kind of world it was they were returning to.
Dusty climbed on board the shuttle, aching in every bone from sitting on the hard, unforgiving surface of the dry lakes. Reynolds stumbled on the ramp behind her. She reached out and caught up the mechanic's hand. In the boarding light spilling out into the night, she could see quite clearly the pinched lines about Reynolds' strongly handsome face and the beads of sweat on her forehead and upper lip.
"What is it?"
The mechanic stifled a groan and swung aboard. She shuddered and rubbed her arms gratefully. "I never thought I'd be glad to be pent up." She looked about the shuttle's interior.
Kerry came up, her braid swinging with the motion of her lithe body. She laughed. "Rey, honey, you've got agoraphobia.''
"Ah what?"
"Fear of wide open spaces. You're ship born. You're used to finite borders, except through windows."
Dusty looked from the petite medic to the Amazonian mechanic. She grinned. "You're afraid of wide, open spaces, Reynolds!"
The woman passed a hand over her still pale brow. "Shit," was all she answered before turning and making her way into the bowels of the shuttle.
Kerry watched her go. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "if we come down, that's a problem a lot of us are going to have to face." She disappeared after Reynolds.
Dusty stayed in the passageway as Dubois and Klegg, Polchek and Marshall did some surveying about the shuttle's immediate exterior. The medic's words troubled her, just as Dakin's had. If Options.
This was her home. It was obviously not that of the others. She had to face the possibility that neither of the longships would opt to land and settle. She was a member of the Away Team. Not the Home Team.
Marshall spoke to them briefly before they retired. He said, in a quiet, tired voice, "Every answer brings up new questions. I've just talked with Dakin who's advised us again of the need for neutrality. The ship's library has no record of a College Vaults project, so we can only speculate on whether the man is lying or not."
Colby spoke up, the young woman usually reticent and deferring to her more outspoken partner Goldstone. "He seems well-educated. And the other man . . . Ketchum . . . would appear to be the throwback the dean indicates he is."
Before Marshall could answer, Dusty said, "I don't trust him."
The commander turned to her. One of his soft-knit, graying eyebrows went up. "Senior officer. Relying on hunches again?"
"It's my job."
"Umm. Well, I'd say the morning light is going to reveal a lot. We'll get information from the dean, offload the hover, and take a look-see ourselves. In the meantime, I suggest you all get a good night's sleep. Reynolds, get an NL-program from Kerry to help you deal with your reaction to being out in the open. We need all team members at their optimum." He clapped his hands together softly. "Good night, one and all."
Dusty woke early. She used the refresher sparingly and dressed quickly, anxious to get another look at the landing site. But Marshall and Dubois had beaten her to the observation deck.
Dubois had just let out a low whistle and Marshall's forehead was heavily creased.
"What is it?" she asked, drawing near.
"We're surrounded," said the communications officer. "As far as the eye can see. It's like a damn cowboy and Indians video."
She looked out the window. The vista outside was dotted with te
epees and canopy tents and slow, smoking campfires everywhere she looked. "My God," she said.
"I think," Marshall commented, "the dean has decided on a show of strength."
The moment he stepped onto the ghost road, Thomas was afraid. Reality bled away slowly, like a draining carcass, until all colors but a sepia overtone were gone. He was not in the barracks' tiny room and yet he was, poised before a vault of nothingness. He stood for a moment, clutching the finger bones in his left hand, right hand near the knife on his belt. By taking the bones from Lady and using them himself, he did not know if he'd severed her road or even put himself on the same one. Or was there always only one road? Could he go forward or she back?
He could no longer see Drakkar or the body he'd left behind. He didn't like traveling the road this way—he much preferred to go in the flesh—but he had no choice if he was to follow Lady. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. . . .
He took another step more solidly into the road and found himself in a void, suspended over thin, black air, his sight as good as gone, his ears deafened, his voice mute—he gripped the bones tighter.
"Gillander!" He expended all his tension in a singular eruption of sound.
A cloud of sickly green and blue began to coalesce near him. Thomas backed up half a step. The cloud stopped its formation. A mocking voice said, "Back on my turf again, eh, boy? If you want to catch your lady, you'd best hurry up!"
He could see, then, a cable stretching ahead of him, like the tracings children made with sparkler fireworks in the evening air. Three cables actually, although one was so faint as to be nonexistent and the other followed it rapidly into nothingness. But Lady's cable—he knew it had to be hers, silver-blue entwined with sable—stretched out vibrantly before him.
"Go on, Gill," he said. "I've got this one."
The emanation dissolved. Ghostly, mocking laughter followed him.
Blade swallowed tightly. He began to draw on the only energy he knew that could fuel the road. He gathered the hatred and death of the millions who had once lived in this area. The hours of their death and despair filled him, gave fuel to his effort and substance to the span which supported him. He sucked in the bitterness until he could taste its bile. He was death, oh, yes, he knew that well, Protector and executioner, yes. He was death in his own land, but the ones he held himself responsible for had been clean ones. This spew that he took in from the ghost road sickened him. He breathed out and in again, deeply, trying to cleanse the ache from his lungs. This was a discipline Lady had begged him to master, yet every time he used it, he left a piece of his humanity behind. She had never understood his reluctance. Now he had no choice. Thomas began to run after the cables, taking a pace he knew he could hold for hours. He did not like astral realities. Life was tough enough.
Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall Page 24
