The colony was well on its way to advancing from dependent to transitional autonomous status, with its own independent world government, when the Glistener entered into orbit above Weald. A small, compact deep-space vessel engaged in scientific exploration, it stopped to pay its respects to the inhabitants of the new human colony world before continuing on its planned course through the upper Orion Arm in the general direction of the galactic center.
Visitors from the ship were greeted with full courtesy and formalities, if not warmly. Though naturally suspicious of outsiders, the settlers could not very well refuse to welcome representatives of a race with which humankind enjoyed officially cordial relations. The thranx were granted permission to visit several communities. Each group was accompanied by experienced members of the planetary government who saw to it that the visitors' plans and itineraries were well publicized in advance. The majority of colonists had never seen a thranx, and it would not do to have children or susceptible individuals panic at the sight of them. That would have been discourteous.
There was little need to worry. The thranx intended a short visit at best. A species that favored 100 percent humidity and air temperature to match, they were not at all comfortable in the brisk, wintry atmosphere of Treetrunk. Despite their personal discomfort, their inborn concern and curiosity caused them to persevere, if only for the brief duration of their stay.
Dutifully, they admired the energy exhibited by the human settlers and gestured approvingly at the skill with which the colony had been laid out and was being developed. Their hosts thanked them when appropriate while privately wishing to be rid of the inquisitive, talkative, pleasantly odiferous bugs so they could get back to the business of building the colony.
Unlike her fellows, there was one senior thranx who seemed, in spite of the unkind climate, reluctant to leave. Every question her hosts answered sparked another two or three. Interested in everything, she was satisfied by nothing. While her hosts despaired of satisfying her, she continued blithely on her way, inquiring endlessly about the most inconsequential matters.
"The local population is approaching six hundred thousand," her weary guide informed her. "Of these, some two hundred thousand plus are concentrated in and around Weald, with another ninety-five thousand at Chagos Downs. Allowing for geological constraints, the rest are scattered in small communities and outlying camps that follow the equator."
"You are not expanding to north and south as well?" Cocooned within cold-weather gear that exceeded in insulating properties anything a human would wear except at the poles, the thranx's face was barely visible. Twin antennae peeped hesitantly from beneath the brim of the headgear.
The guide sighed tiredly. "Of course we will, but for right now there's no reason to do so. The most amenable zone is being promoted first. When our settlements meet on the other side of the planet, that will be the time to expand into the colder forests."
The senior thranx nodded, a gesture they had developed the habit of using among themselves as well as in the presence of humans. "Then you are doing well here?"
"Extremely well." The guide could not help but add, "In addition to the regular runs from Earth and the occasional visit from New Riviera or Proycon, the Pitar have been really supportive. Not just with verbal encouragement, but with material assistance as well. Especially during the first two years of settlement, the help they provided was invaluable."
If the thranx understood this observation to be a dig at her kind for not offering more, she did not acknowledge its tone. "We are glad that you received the aid that you needed. You are fortunate. The expanding colonization efforts in our own sphere of exploration require our full attention, as no species has offered to assist our efforts. In addition, we have a long-running, ongoing disputation with the race you know as the AAnn, which complicates and inhibits our efforts."
"The AAnn don't bother us here." Unwittingly, the guide had assumed a marginally superior air.
"Chur!kk, the AAnn are very shrewd." A truhand encased in insulating fabric waved at the much taller guide, who comprehended nothing of the meaning behind the gesture. "Thinking oneself safe from them, bound by alliances and agreements, secure behind a thin barrier of treaties and covenants, is the most dangerous attitude a people can have."
"Well, I'm not a diplomat, but all I can say is that they haven't given us any trouble."
"Have they paid you a visit?"
The guide blinked. "Several times, I believe. I only settled here last year myself. But yes, ships of the Empire have called at Treetrunk. If I remember correctly they had a look around, extended their hopes for a successful enterprise on the part of the colonial government, took some straightforward and innocuous scientific readings, and left. I understand that their visits were very brief." He couldn't keep from smiling. "No doubt they found it a bit nippy for their liking."
Once more the thranx gestured. "The AAnn require an ambient temperature similar to ours, but infinitely drier than even your kind prefers." A pair of hands wagged in his direction. "Ensure that those who monitor your scanning instrumentation are well trained and remain alert. Nothing is more dangerous than a well-wishing AAnn."
"We'll have a care," the guide replied with polite nonchalance.
Whether the thranx detected something in her host's voice or if she simply decided to have a further say in the matter the man never knew, but the heavily bundled insectoid turned to him with an effort and met his eyes with hers. Leastwise, he thought she did. When gazing at compound eyes, it is difficult to tell for certain exactly where they are focused.
"We are always astonished at the confidence you humans display in the face of a lethal and indifferent universe. Have a care that your confidence does not exceed your ability to sustain it."
"Thank you for that solicitous homily," he replied tartly. "We know what we're doing here."
"Does anyone know what they're doing anywhere? Individual or species, it does not seem to matter. We are all of us sapients adrift together in a cosmos in which the largest single constituent of matter seems to be composed of unanswered questions." Turning away, she started up along the path that would lead them back to the terminus where the ground skimmer would pick them up. "I have seen enough. I'm cold, and ready to return to my cubicle on board the Glistener.
I'm ready for you to do so too, he murmured silently. Most of us here on Treetrunk have better things to do than escort garrulous bugs around, answering their inane questions while trying to ponder their cryptic aphorisms. Even if, he reflected, one or two did smell like attar of frangipani.
Chapter 8
Trohanov was relaxing in his cabin with one of the few tridee recordings he hadn't already watched on the run out from Earth. It was some trifle about a genetically engineered lone avenger on an endless voyage of self-discovery whose ultimate denouement the creators of the entertainment had left purposely obscure. The protagonist struck him as shallow and his paramour devoid of depth, but they were both pleasant to look upon.
Presently, their beguiling three-dimensional forms were occupied in an activity that, while not in any wise significant to the advancement of the plot, was nonetheless engaging. So it was with some ire that he acknowledged the insistent hail from the bridge.
"Hollis, I'm off duty!" he barked, knowing that the omnidirectional pickup would convey his tone as well as his words to the ship's second-in-command. "Maybe that doesn't mean much to you, but when you reach my age you learn to treasure every little -"
The second officer interrupted him, which while not unprecedented, was unusual. She also sounded worried, but that was normal for Hollis. "Captain, you'd better come up here."
"Why?" Even as he objected, he was swinging his legs out of the bed. "We made the transition from space-plus without incident, and this system holds no surprises. What's wrong with the ship?"
"It's not the ship, sir. At least, Kharall says it's not."
"All right, all right!" Grumbling to himself as he slipped into his one
-piece duty suit, he damned the regulations that required a vessel's captain and senior officers to always be available for consultation.
No one confronted him as he made his way via lift and corridor to the bridge. Whatever had upset Hollis, it had not caused any panic on the ship. He encountered no frightened faces, no individuals racing to and fro in panic. This had better be a real problem, he thought irritably, or he was going to have serious words with his second.
Nor did there appear to be any reason for distress on the bridge itself. There was Kharall, bent toward his console as if by bringing his face a few millimeters closer to the readouts he could discern details that would not otherwise be evident. Everyone else assigned to the second shift was in position and to all intents and purposes engrossed in their work. A few chatted softly, their attitudes anything but indicative of imminent disaster. No voices were raised, though the expressions on several faces as he entered were expectant.
Expectant of what? He had no idea yet what was going on, or why Hollis had thought it necessary to summon him from the middle of his rest period. Only one thing was he certain of: He would have some answers very quickly.
Turning slightly to his right, he strode purposefully over to where Hollis was conferring with Meeker, the ship's communications specialist. Both looked up at his approach. Hollis didn't wait for the captain to speak.
"We're a fraction of an au out from Treetrunk, just cutting the orbit of Argus Six, and there's still no response."
He replied instantly. "So their beacon's down."
"All of them?" She met his gaze unflinchingly. "All three?"
"It's possible," he shot back, though internally he was already beginning to argue with himself.
Meeker joined in. She was a small woman with big ears, ragged black hair cropped short in what Trohanov had always thought a very unflattering cut, and she had a surprisingly large voice that was the aural equivalent of her occasional opinions.
"One okay. Two maybe. Three never."
"Never say never." Trohanov was not ready to concede, though if professionally challenged he would have been compelled to agree with his communications officer. "Treetrunk's still a new world, only been settled for a few years."
"Four," Meeker corrected him.
"Okay, four, dammit." Ahead, through the narrow, curved port, could be seen only stars and the still distant dot of Argus V, their destination. "A multiple beacon failure is still possible, especially on a world as recently colonized as this one."
"There's no response from the shuttleport at Weald, either." Meeker was conciliatory but insistent.
"So their communications are down also. It means they're having some problems, that's all." As he spoke he leaned closer to the communications console, studying the readouts closely.
Meeker turned her child-troll's face up to his. "There's no background noise. No tridee, no chat, nothing. Not even a hiss. From a communications standpoint, the planet's dead."
Her choice of words upset Trohanov, but he didn't let it show. "Okay, that's bad. Maybe real bad. Let's not anybody jump to any conclusions. I've known several people who jumped to conclusions and they invariably came to a bad end."
"What happened to them?" Hollis asked softly.
He flicked deep-set cinnamon eyes at her. "They landed in holes. Maintain preset course for orbital insertion. There's nothing to suggest we should do otherwise. Keep everyone on alert."
"What about the rest of the crew?"
"Leave'em alone. There's no reason to tell them anything until we have something definite to tell. Those who are sleeping might need all they can get." Reaching down, he put a strong hand on Meeker's shoulder. "Keep monitoring everything that sputters and let me know the instant you hear anything, even if it's just bad language." She nodded once. In charge of words, Meeker was not one to waste them.
Hollis regarded the captain speculatively. "I suppose there's no reason for you to stay here, sir. You might as well go back to bed. We'll call you when we know something."
He glanced sideways at the starship's silent, flickering instrumentation, his expression set. "Like hell," he growled softly.
They settled into orbit without incident. As expected, they were the only vessel present. Treetrunk was an outpost, a comparatively new settlement far from Earth and the other colonies. KK-drive ships called infrequently, and only on official business. In the ellipsoidal cargo compartment that comprised the bulk of the vessel's superstructure was a consignment of goods from New Riviera. Subsequent to delivery, the space-plus transport would move on to Proycon. Everything about the run, from its payload to its course, was conventional.
On the chill world below, however, something was not.
Meeker had been at it for another six hours straight when Trohanov finally lost patience. By now all three shifts were awake, with rumor and controversy rampant among the crew. It was time to resolve ignorance.
"Run the check on shuttle number two. I'm going down. Hollis, as per procedure you're in charge until I get back." He turned to leave.
"What about the cargo, sir? We have three full loads. The company will scream if we have to make an extra drop."
"Let'em howl. There's some kind of trouble down below, and until we know the nature, extent, and degree of the local emergency it's more prudent to hold onto the shipment than to start delivering it. As soon as we know what's going on we'll start shifting containers. Until then, ship is to remain on alert and everyone is to stand by. I'll field complaints from those who are supposed to be on downtime later. Right now the first thing we need to do is find out why this place is electronically comatose."
Nothing untoward materialized to interfere with the shuttle's descent. The view out the small, thick ports was uneventful, the surface a watercolor wash of white, brown, and green. Trohanov and the half dozen crew he'd chosen to accompany him spoke little as the shuttle struck atmosphere and began to vibrate. At such times each man and woman had thoughts enough to occupy their minds. At the captain's direction, all wore sidearms. Procedure, he thought. In the absence of knowledge it was always reassuring to be able to fall back on procedure.
Nothing in the literature, or the regulations, or his experience prepared him for what they found, however.
As the shuttle dropped beneath the thick clouds and into calm air the pilot reported the absence of any signal from the capital's port. There was heavy overcast but no rain or snow, the atmosphere being as eerily silent as the surface. In the absence of the usual datastream to take control of the shuttle's instruments and guide it in, the pilots were forced to locate the landing strip themselves. "On final approach," one of the pilots said, and Trohanov and his people scrunched a little deeper back into their seats. Down, down...
The shuttle accelerated violently and without warning. He found himself wrenched sideways, then pressed back into the seat. Several of the crew gasped, but no one screamed and there was no panic. They were still airborne, and the shuttle's engines throbbed with restored power. Moments later the voice of the pilot echoed through the passenger compartment.
"Sorry about that, everyone. Obviously, we made a last-second pull-up. We're going to have to try and find a field or something to set down in. We can't use either of the two landing strips at Weald shuttleport." There was a short pause while the atmospheric craft began to bend around in a tight curve, though the arc it executed was no more constricted than the pilot's voice. "They've been destroyed."
It took some time for the pilots to locate a suitable site. Relying on the shuttle's landing skids, they made a bumpy, jolting, but successful touchdown. Before the craft had slid to a stop Trohanov was out of his seat and harness and racing forward.
The view out the cockpit's wide double port was maddeningly uninformative: tall evergreens, distant tree-swathed hills, a nearby pond whose inhabitants were only now starting to return following the shuttle's noisy landing. Everything appeared peaceful and serene.
"Where are we?"
Solnh
ofen, the copilot, pointed to a readout. "About two kilometers southwest of the southern runway. This appears to be a natural meadow."
Bending over to peer out the port, Trohanov nodded once. "I don't see any signs of catastrophe. You said the landing strips were destroyed?"
"Yes, sir." The pilot's face was ashen. "We didn't get a good look at the city itself - too busy with the descent. Neither Lillie nor I have had to do a manual landing since flight school."
"Forget it. You both did great. Could you tell what caused the damage?"
The two pilots exchanged a glance. "No, Captain," a regretful Solnhofen told him. "It was as Dik said. We were too busy just trying to get down in one piece."
"Right." Turning, a couple of steps brought Trohanov back into the passenger compartment. Everyone was out of harness, fidgety and anticipative. "We're going for a walk. Check your sidearms and make sure they're not just decorative. I want everyone's weapon and communications gear fully powered up." They stared at him expectantly, and he realized they were waiting for an explanation. In the absence of one, he improvised as best he could.
"Something bad has happened here. We don't know what yet, but we're going to find out."
"That's not our job, Captain," someone pointed out. "We're a class three KK-drive deep-space cargo carrier, and that's all we are."
"You can file a formal complaint about being forced to function outside your job classification with the company later. Right now everybody here comes with me. I've been in Weald twice before, once as recently as last year, so I'm at least sort of familiar with the municipal layout. Stick close and don't wander off. No matter what we find, we'll be back here before dark." He looked over his shoulder, toward the cockpit.
"You two stay on board. I don't want you going outside, not even to smell the tree sap. If anything real disturbing should start to show itself, you lift off and return to ship."
Dirge Page 11
