And recoiled: the riverside shallows were choked with orange lily-pads. Well, that answered why the gargantua had not returned to its natural environment after confronting the predators. It had probably been run ashore by this immense colony of lily-pads and its attendant swarms of pirhannows. Which also made it impossible to get enough river water to make mud. Walking back into the microecology under the canopy, and into what seemed like a growing mélange of sickly-sweet scents, Riordan looked for other sources of water.
The search was made easier by the bioluminescent clusters that were nestled in the high reaches of the under-canopy. One of the clusters, a helix of puff balls interlaced by tubules filled with a lighter-than-air gas, had detached from its bud and was descending in a slow spiral. As the glowing lavender and violet lei rotated and the play of light changed, Riordan noticed a glistening, sloped root that ran in under the canopy from outside.
As Caine guessed, the root emanated from the cone tree’s invariable botanical partner, an adjacent bumbershoot. Early evening condensation was accumulating on its bole, which sent the runoff trickling down microgrooves that ran onto this angled root. It’s a tiny natural aqueduct, Caine realized, tracing how the run-off spread slowly throughout the microecology huddled beneath the cone tree and was further distributed by the capillary actions of ground mosses and day-glo lichens. Along with a thick, mown-grass smell, the flow increased as he watched. With any luck, there would be enough water to make a mud plaster for the water-strider. But even if he was able to create a serviceable mass of the slop, he was still confronted by the initial, troublesome questions: where should he apply it? And was that really what the water-strider had been trying to accomplish? All of which begged the question: would the water-strider allow him to do so? One way to find out.
Riordan approached the behemoth carefully. After two complete orbits of its side-slumped form, he remained uncertain about where to treat it. Almost a quarter of the its body and legs were covered in bloody bore-holes, and no spot seemed any worse or better than another. Ultimately, Caine’s attempt at veterinary assessment yielded only one useful result: a better understanding of the water-strider’s physiology.
In addition to the four eyes that bracketed its wide mouth like corner-points on a rectangle, the creature was dotted with a vast array of light sensors that had no eyelids, no irises, no protective bone ridges. They were simple, possibly expendable, and probably essential to the animal’s safety. Whereas terrestrial herbivores tended toward opposed ocular arrangements—one eye on each side of the head, often furnished with fish-eyed lenses—to increase the total field of vision and hence watchfulness, this creature had evolved a different solution to the same challenge: more eyes. The quality of vision was probably vastly inferior, but the increased awareness was likely to be a good trade; the long-legged quadruped had a lot of potential blind spots. Audial sensing seemed to be more rudimentary, probably because the water-strider spent much of its time submerged: two small bony tufts at the front of its membranous backsails answered for ears.
Its four primary eyes still closed, the creature uttered a sharp, startled snort-hoot that sent Caine back upon his haunches. The water-strider was suddenly awake, its many eyes open and roving fitfully. It worked its mouth; the dried edges cracked anew and bled freely. Several of what looked like feelers split away, fell off in gory clumps. Ignoring Riordan, the strider worked its legs feebly against the ground, trying to push its body in the direction of the water running in from the neighboring bumbershoot’s root-aqueduct. After several heavy shoves, the creature gave up and seemed to deflate, a low, rolling groan coming out of its dorsal respiration ducts.
Caine rose, went over to where the run-off was now audibly trickling along the root: maybe not enough to make mud, but certainly enough to drink. Riordan harvested one of the cone-trees’ spatulate leaves, curved it into a crude basin, and pushed it against the current of water washing close along the surface of the bumbershoot’s root. Slowly, like holding a cup beneath a dripping faucet, the hollow of the leaf began to fill. As it did, Riordan noticed that, in addition to the cloying scents being emitted by the cone-tree, the run-off was strongly aromatic as well. Probably from airborne spores and pollens that stuck to the wet bumbershoot and were then carried along by the run-off, which apparently seeded as well as irrigated the area under the cone tree.
It took ten minutes for Riordan to collect the one-and-a-half liters of water he carried back to the water-strider, moving cautiously as he re-entered its field of vision. The creature’s eyes focused, swiveled towards him—it was unnerving to be the center of attention for four eyes—and the behemoth snuffled tentatively. Then eagerly. Its tongue—an immense, blue-grey anaconda covered with slowly waving polyps—slipped outward, moved toward the water like a blind man’s arm extending toward an expected door handle.
Caine brought the water closer, shielding it with his body so that the strider’s tongue wouldn’t slap at the leaf and inadvertently knock it apart. The strider’s tongue retracted, Riordan brought the water to the edge of its mouth and the animal drank, partly slurping at it, partly allowing the human pour it in.
When the water was done, the tongue explored the leaf carefully, being equally careful not to touch its human bearer. The strider sighed: a deep, bellows grumble of relief and comfort. Riordan almost reached out to pat the great stricken beast, thought the better of it, and instead returned to the root-aqueduct for another leaf-full of water.
Caine became quite adept at the process over the ensuing hour. Five more times he gathered the run-off; five more times the strider consumed it. By the end, they had it down to a cooperative pour-slurp-pour routine that wasted a minimal amount of water.
But when Caine returned with the seventh leaf-full, the water-strider closed its eyes and turned its body so that its wide face nestled into the soft mosses and lichens of the ground cover. It emitted a long sigh and was still. Well, if the poor critter can get some rest despite all those wounds— Caine crept away, trying to ignore the queasiness brought on by the growing riot of aromas under the cone tree. It was easy to imagine that he was locked in a closet with thousands of scented candles, each one different, each overpowering odor vying with all the others.
Resolved to get some sleep himself, Riordan found a soft, rootless patch of ground a few meters away from where the glowing puff-lantern had finally landed, near the edge of the canopy. As he watched, a small, scurrying creature edged under the leaves and tore it apart, devouring the tubules and puff balls before darting away again. Caine smiled: so that was how the cone trees’ oppressive canopies managed not to prevent their own repopulation. Their fragrant, glowing fruit baited in small raiders who also worked as seed dispersers. Keeping an equal distance from the edge of the canopy, and the hulking mass of the water-strider, Riordan lay down on the soft spot he had found. If he could just rest a bit—
Riordan awoke from a sound sleep, startled by the strider’s sounds of distress. The hoarse elephantine bleating increased, along with a thick odor that cut through the cone tree’s own olfactory chaos: it was the strider’s musk, but amplified. Caine moved quickly to where the creature’s head was still mostly embedded in the moss. Its eyes were roving blindly. It snuffled when he came closer: not an aggressive sound, but one of recognition, maybe need. Riordan jumped away to get more water, returned with less than a liter. The water-strider closed its eyes allowed him to pour a little in between the great grinding ridges that were its version of teeth, and then stopped, as if something was confusing it. It lifted its head slightly, quaking, and two of its eyes opened, focusing on Riordan as it inched toward him. Caine anticipated that it was going to vomit on him, but instead, it released a great, musk-reeking breath: a surprisingly sweet smell that was part grassland breeze and part old leather.
When the creature had finished that unusually long exhalation, it laid its head down close to Caine, who knew death signs, even alien ones, when he saw them. Taking a chance, he moved closer
to it, which the water-strider rewarded by shifting its head to rub three times against his knee. Then it breathed out and was still.
It was impossible to tell exactly when the water-strider died. There was no death rictus or dramatic eye-rolling or sudden gush of fluids. But sometime over the next half hour, the breathing became faint, then undetectable, and then was no more.
Caine stared at the great, gentle beast, wondered if their mutual accord had simply been the artifact of a mortally wounded animal’s desperate toleration, or whether it was indicative of a genuine congeniality intrinsic to water-striders. Whichever it had been, the rest of the night passed in melancholy silence, lit faintly by the violet and fuchsia puff-lanterns.
* * *
After having goggled wordlessly at the fallen water-strider, Veriden and Xue reclaimed Riordan and the group set out into the early morning mists. They made good time, but despite his filter mask, Caine found it slightly harder to breathe.
Just before mid-day, and just as Riordan was preparing to take his turn walking patrol on the left point, Dora Veriden pointed out into the river. “Could be more trouble.”
The group followed her gesture and saw three humps in the strong central current, paralleling them. Xue and Salunke raised their rifles—
“No,” said Caine. “Don’t fire. I don’t think they’ll harm us.” He walked down to the river’s edge, washed his hands, and then washed his arms. Behind him, the group stirred restively. They probably think I’ve gone nuts. But unless I’m much mistaken, I am truly a “marked” man.
“Er, Captain—?” began Gaspard.
“Let’s just wait a moment,” Riordan urged.
The group was already quiet, but became utterly silent when one of the humps rose out of the water: a smaller strider, only about seven meters in height. Its two back-faring bat-wings rose slightly and a soft bass tone stretched out over the rushing current toward them.
Caine stood. After a few moments, the other two humps rose up into similarly-sized striders and, together, they began approaching the shore. They waded forward slowly, cautiously, but also gently, their long, gangling legs moving through the currents with ease, barely raising any bubbles as they came.
As they entered the shallows, towering higher and higher over the group, Riordan heard Keith Macmillan swallow and mutter, “And now what do we do?”
“And now,” Caine answered, turning toward his fellow-IRIS operative with a smile, “we travel with an escort.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Close orbit; BD +02 4076 Two (“Disparity”)
Bannor Rulaine ate the last bite of his cold tilapia burger sans bun and wished they could heat food whenever they wanted to. But life on the stricken UCS Puller made unscheduled cooking a death sentence.
“Enjoying every last bit of faux beef, eh?” “Tygg” Robin asked as he entered their shared compartment.
“Am I ever.” Bannor chewed and decided several things: that raw fish was arguably better than cold cooked fish; that the beef stock in which they marinated the tilapia really didn’t work worth a damn as a flavoring agent; and that although none of them were going to starve to death as they tumbled ass-over-elbow around Disparity, gustatory boredom might do them in just as well. “Any news?”
“Yeh. Morgan’s ready to give the damage assessment.”
“Good. I’m coming.” What Bannor did not add is that he was not sure why, after yesterday’s eight man-hours of EVA hull survey, it had taken design whiz Morgan Lymbery a whole day to decide he was ready to report the obvious. Rulaine followed Tygg to the bridge.
When Bannor entered, there were respectful nods, but no salutes or stands to attention. Rulaine had followed Riordan’s example when maintaining discipline amongst this mixed crew: respect for the rank, yes, but no formalities. Hell, as it was, there were more officers—Bannor, Tygg, Wu, and ostensibly Karam—than there were enlisted personnel. And both of the enlisted men were high-ranked NCOs, one of whom had served longer than everyone but Bannor.
Rulaine turned to Morgan. “Mr. Lymbery, I hear you have the final word for us.”
“I do,” said the bantam Englishman. Following their current precaution of minimizing power use, Lymbery brought out hardcopy blue-prints of the Wolfe-class corvette. “We took two significant hits on the starboard side, both from rail gun submunitions. We took another hit from a laser on our stern, and another on our dorsal surface.
“The dorsal laser hit was at a wide angle of incidence and therefore, did nothing beyond leaving some heat-scoring on the hull. The second one seemed like it was going to be harmless at first: the beam itself did not breach the hull, but did generate internal heat spalling. The fragments narrowly missed the portside MAP thruster’s reactor.”
“Okay, but I worry when I hear about hits that ‘seem’ harmless,” Karam grumbled.
“I’ll come back to it,” Morgan promised glumly. “Moving on. One of the two penetrator hits was a non-event; it clipped off a secondary sensor mast. The other penetrator did the damage that Mssrs. Rulaine and Robin spent most of yesterday surveying. The submunition impacted us on a trajectory that was almost parallel with our keel, so it cut a short trough along our ventral hull before it penetrated and skewered all our portside fuel baffles. As it exited the hull, it sent some high speed debris forward into our ladar masts and our secondary avionics suite. We can trim the remaining stubs of the masts to normalize airflow, but those systems are now heavily compromised, meaning significant reductions in both range and acuity. And obviously, we’re going to have to make some hull repairs before this craft can conduct atmospheric reentry or flight.”
“Mr. Lymbery,” Peter Wu intruded.
“Yes?”
“We are very far from any repair facility, sir.”
“I didn’t say we needed a repair facility; I said we needed to make repairs. Not the same thing. I’ll explain later. Now, about that harmless-looking laser hit on our stern. The larger fragments from the spalling took out a control board and a coolant conduit. The former was redundant and we had spares to replace the latter. Even so, we had to shut down, and Mr. Friel would be dead if he hadn’t been wearing a duty suit with both a hazardous environment shell and armored liner: he was right on the edge of the spalling’s ejecta pattern.”
Phil Friel, leaning against the portside observation window, turned a little more pale than usual. “Damn it all, that’s twice now. Hardly fair, I’d say.”
“‘Twice now’?” Melissa Sleeman echoed.
Phil shrugged. “I was in the first echelon under Halifax at the Battle of Earth. I was on a corvette like this one, playing bait-the-battlewagon with the Arat Kur when one of their UV lasers opened us up like a rusty sardine can. Lost two friends that day because they were standing half a meter closer to the pre-heating cores that got vented. And the plasma that half-vaporized them gave me a good scare and a lasting scar.”
Lymbery waited to be sure that the exchange was over. “We were lucky in terms of our crew—Mr. Friel missed being hit by mere centimeters—but not in terms of the effects on our machinery. We did not initially detect the damage done by the smaller, needle-sized fragments. They riddled the coolant supply distributor adjacent to the conduit. Makeshift repairs are possible. It’s a simple job for the hand-welder in the ship’s locker, but since we do not dare bring the engines back on line, we have no way to test if the repairs will hold. Which I rather doubt.”
And so there it was again: more problems arising from the possibility that they were still being observed. In this case, because Puller had to keep her reactors and drives dark, there was no way to assess the durability of the repairs. “So let’s assume the repairs don’t hold. What happens?”
Lymbery held up one bird-thin hand. “That depends upon how and when the failure occurs. If the distributor goes completely pear-shaped, the thruster will shut down automatically. You could override, but in that case, you shall blow out the drive in minutes, perhaps seconds. It depends entirely upo
n your operating temperature and the amount of residual coolant in the system at the time. Luck of the draw, I’m afraid.
“If the line is compromised but still functioning, one might extend the operating time by pumping smaller amounts of coolant through it at lower pressure. The engine heat will build, but the decreased coolant flow reduces stress on the distributor and also reduces the rate of leakage, since the contents are not under as much pressure. You get a drip, not a spray, if you take my meaning. Finally, I have had a few ideas about how to best repair the hull damage.”
Bannor crossed his arms, leaned back. This was going to be very good, very insane, or both. Having spent a few weeks around Lymbery, he was willing to wager on “both.”
The Englishman steepled his fingers and began emitting a stream of non-grammatical phrases: he sounded more like a victim of adult aphasia than a genius. “We scout around for rusty bits throughout the hull. Or rig a catalyzer. To create ferrous oxide, of course. The hand grinder should work. And also Ms. Sleeman’s biosample centrifuge. But how much aluminum do we have on hand?”
Eight of the other nine persons aboard Puller stared blankly at each other. But Melissa Sleeman’s face was curving to accommodate a slow, crafty smile. “Thermite,” she said.
“Yes, of course,” Lymbery replied, looking about the group in as much confusion as they were looking at him. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
Bannor unfolded his arms, putting the pieces together now, but saw that most of the others were no closer to seeing where the mad genius Englishman was trying to lead them. “Maybe it’s not quite as obvious as it seems, Mr. Lymbery. Why don’t you break it down for us?”
While Lymbery was still frowning and blinking in consternation—Rulaine could almost see a thought bubble above his head that read, “surely I made it all perfectly clear”—Melissa launched into the explanation. “Thermite burns at twenty-five-hundred degrees centigrade and is a welding compound that doesn’t require an oxidizer. If we can rig a work cover over the damaged section of Puller’s belly, we can use thermite to repair the hull. It won’t be pretty or precise, but it will get the job done.”
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