by Dave Duncan
“No.” Hanna pushed out of the chair and floated over to the door. “Come to supper…”
He caught her arm. “First tell me what he does have hidden in there.”
“Porn,” she said, turning away to hide her blush. “And stiffener.”
* * *
There was plenty of chili left. Seth took the whole pot plus a spoon and went into the control room. Everyone else was there, gathered around the console table. Above their dirty dishes floated Cacafuego, ballooned to about two meters. Half lit, half dark.
He was greeted with welcoming smiles from all except Reese, who despised people who ate out of cooking pots, which was probably why Seth was doing it.
“Hanna tells us you can land on the planet!” JC boomed.
Seth nodded with his mouth full and sat down. He didn’t mention how risky it would be. Maria filled up her empty glass with red wine and pushed it over to him.
Between mouthfuls of chili he said, “What’s new?”
“It’s mid-July in the northern hemisphere,” she said. “Roughly, it is. We’re calling that side north; it’s pretty arbitrary in this system. But the axis is still pointing almost directly at the star, so the other hemisphere is in darkness.”
“Overall it’s a hot world,” Jordan said. “Permanent ice on most equatorial landmasses; a lot more ice in the southern hemisphere, but that’s seasonal. That big island near the north pole—JC’s named it Greenland—is reading more than fifty degrees Celsius in the shade.”
Reese next: “And the only shade is under trees, if there are any trees. Unending sunshine for about half the year; humidity close to a hundred percent. Oh, the biota that baby must have!”
Jordan called for a map. The globe projection became cartographic, with green, brown, or white lands in a uniform blue ocean, names in black. Clouds and the day-night distinction vanished. About a third of the southern hemisphere had not yet been visible to Golden Hind’s sensors, and remained blank. Most of the world was ocean, more than Seth would have expected—he would have to ask Maria about that. Small equatorial ice caps were starkly obvious.
Voices began arguing about landing sites, gloating over the prospect like children in a toy store. They were all assuming that the shuttle could meet its design parameters, going downside twice, visiting four sites each time. Seth knew otherwise.
He must catch some sleep before he was due on watch. He finished the last of the chili, drained the wine, and began collecting plates. When he tried to take Reese’s glass, the astrobiologist grabbed it away from him and pulled the bottle to safety too.
“This happens to be a perfect Feigned 2223 Chateau Lavoir classic Bordeaux! It cost hours of simulation. It is to be sipped and savored, not swigged like some ghastly cola.” Even Reese was rarely so bitchy. The knowledge that he might have to go downside on an allegedly killer planet must be working on his nerves.
Seth shrugged. “It all comes out of the recycler. I pissed it four days ago.” He was letting the sneers get to him, but in his case that was due to excitement, not fear. The difference was quite obvious, at least to him.
Day 404
Prospectors are the wildcatters’ heroes, but prospectors’ heroes are the first-footers, the select few who have been first to step out on a new world and stake it. I once met the legendary Gabriel Leigh Sullivan, who did that six times and lived to a ripe old age. I asked him how it felt.
He said, “Addictive.”
Fonatelles, op. cit.
The next few days flashed by in a fog of too little sleep and far too much work: simulated landings, high-gravity exercise, and cleaning out hydroponic tanks to ensure that the system would survive his absence—provided that his absence was brief. If he did not survive, then dear Reese would have to take over the gardening. Seth also had to haul biological supplies up to the shuttle from refrigeration on the storage deck. Nobody offered to relieve him of any of his regular duties.
That evening, ship time, Jordan called yet another conference. The captain had completed their change, and was now back to being the slim golden-haired young man with blue eyes and a big friendly grin whom Seth had first met in La Paz. Their exceptional good looks were more noticeable when they were male, verging on the angelic, but it was impossible to dislike Jordan in either gender.
“Meeting come to order, please. In about three hours Control will stage a micro-jump to shed velocity and enter orbit, unless we decide that this world is hopeless. In which case we set course for Armada instead.” He shot an amused glance along the table to Seth. “Prospector, you have not reported on the results of your landing simulations. Not a peep.”
“No, sir. I lost track. Control has a better memory than I have.”
“Control, report.”
—Landing simulations directed by Prospector Broderick: twenty-four, with three, or twelve percent, successful. Simulations without human input, two hundred and five, with thirty-one successful, fifteen percent.
“Shit!” The vulgarity came from JC, predictably.
“I second that motion,” Jordan said. “Or do I mean movement? When does courage become insanity, Seth?”
“Somewhere between a barrel shop and Niagara Falls,” suggested Reese, looking relieved. To Seth’s astonishment, they were now female. Even sharing a cabin with them, he had been too exhausted to notice the switch. Was this just because they thought Jordan would consider it unchivalrous to order a mere woman to go downside? As a herm themself, Reese ought to know the captain better than that. So why?
“I will not allow Prospector Broderick to attempt a landing on this planet,” Jordan announced. He glanced at JC’s thunderous frown and then ignored it. “Under the circumstances, I see no need to continue radio silence. Control, have you found any evidence of Galactic’s fleet, or of any other ship in the vicinity of this planet?”
—None except the beacon, Captain. Its timer indicates it was activated eight terrestrial days ago.
That had been only four days before Golden Hind’s last jump. Activating the beacon would likely have been the last thing the Galactic fleet did before departing the system, so Golden Hind had probably not lost the race to Cacafuego by more than two or three weeks, and their time slips must have been roughly equal.
“Is the Galactic beacon emitting any verbal or visual message?”
—No, Captain, but its signal indicates that it will do so if queried.
Both hands on the table. “Overriding previous orders, break radio silence. Query the beacon for us.”
A man of lined face and graying hair appeared in head-and-shoulders holograph. He wore a blue shirt and a raddled expression. He looked steadily into Seth’s eyes, and into everyone else’s too.
“I am Madison Duddridge, commodore of Galactic Inc. expedition GH796 and captain of exploration vessel Bolivar.”
People called Madison were usually herms, but he had a bass-baritone voice and shaggy eyebrows.
“We are posting a warning beacon on this planet, ISLA reference GK79986B, provisionally named Hesperides by us. It is our sad experience that this world is too dangerous to explore. Surface temperature varies from above 50º Celsius to below minus 90. The weather is violent and beyond the ability of our computers to predict on the data presently available. We sent down many unmanned drones and all of them crashed in less than an hour.”
Golden Hind carried no atmospheric drones, only deep-space probes.
Duddridge still looked earnestly into Seth’s eyes: See how honest I am?
“In the belief that a larger craft would have a better chance of surviving, three very brave people agreed to go down for a brief reconnaissance. They were Prospector Meredith Tsukuba as master, Prospector Dylan Guinizelli, and Astrobiologist Mariko Seidel. Their chosen destination was a site we called Apple, on an island we named Sombrero, at latitude thirty-one north, counting north as magnetic north, in the approximate direction of the blue giant Bellatrix. The climate there appeared to be relatively benign.
�
�They landed safely. The two prospectors made a brief excursion, collecting preliminary samples in case they had to depart in a hurry. In the brief time they were absent, a stray gust of wind damaged their shuttle. Both Meredith and Dylan, caught out in the open, were thrown down and he broke his arm. Meredith helped him back to the shuttle, where Mariko tended him in quarantine, in case his suit had been compromised by the fall.
“Within hours, Dylan developed a high fever. He subsequently went into coma and died. Later the two women became sick, suffering fever, hallucinations, and intermittent coma. The unknown pathogen must be extremely virulent. Moreover, the women insisted that Dylan’s EVA suit had not been compromised, and he was kept in strict quarantine until Mariko also succumbed. The infective agent is thus capable of penetrating the best biosafety barriers modern science can provide.
“As soon as weather permitted, we sent down a second shuttle, unmanned. Again the weather foiled us, and it crashed about a kilometer away from the first.”
The speaker paused as an indication that the news was about to get worse.
“You certainly spotted the tiger in that jungle, Seth,” JC muttered, being unusually gracious.
“The first shuttle suffered additional damage by winds of major hurricane force, which rolled it. After that, no further signals were received from the ground party. I regretfully concluded that they had perished. Prospector Tony Violaceus, from the aptly named Courageous, very gallantly volunteered to take down a third shuttle in a rescue attempt. I refused his offer.
“We are therefore mourning all three of our comrades as lost, and posting this warning beacon. We expect that ISLA will declare Planet GK79986B off-limits, and you will find it so listed in the catalog. Of course, if this message is less than twenty years old when you receive it, we may not have returned to Earth in real time prior to your departure, and I can only urge you to heed our warning and learn by our tragic example.
“Again I honor the names of Dylan Guinizelli, Mariko Seidel, and Meredith Tsukuba.” The image disappeared.
The silence grew cold as everyone waited. Cue the violins.
At last JC said, “Tsukuba was our second choice for prospector after Broderick.”
Seth had not applied for the Galactic post. That would not have been him down there.
Jordan said, “Their story sounds pretty convincing to me, JC.”
Mr. Money was harder to convince. “Flaming pig shit, is what I’d call it, Captain. Galactic normally sends out a flotilla of three ships, which can hold twenty-four hour full-spectrum surveillance of any given location. Each ship carries at least one shuttle. Seth, lad, if you’d been there, would you have made the same offer that their Tony character made?”
“I hope I would, sir.” Seth kept his face dutifully serious, but he was amused. The campaign to win over the heart and mind of Prospector Broderick had begun.
“And would you have refused, Captain?”
Jordan pouted. “I am very glad that I didn’t have to make that decision.” He never would, because Golden Hind carried only one shuttle.
“But if you did?”
“I think I would have let him try, probably.”
“Course you would,” the commodore said. “But Galactic’s crews are paid wages. They’re not motivated to hazard their pretty necks the way we are, as shareholders.”
Some necks were motivated a lot more than others, in Seth’s opinion, but that had sounded like a faint offer to renegotiate a vertebra or two. It was also a flat contradiction of what JC had said a few days ago, when he had accused Galactic of recklessly risking the lives of its employees.
Reese said, “It’s a two-headed tiger now, sir. First the weather and now this mysterious poison or infection.”
“Don’t eat that stuff. Infection will be no problem as long as you observe standard rules, like over-pressuring, and maintain asepsis. The damage to the shuttle exposed them to infection.”
Maria said, “Sounds like they had no time to analyze anything. Even the drones brought back no samples.”
“Maybe not,” JC said. He was angry and defensive. “Or maybe. The downside lab could have reported more than we were told. A really deadly airborne poison would be a big seller back home. Governments—”
“No!” Jordan snapped. “Let’s not descend to peddling death.”
Surprise gave way to amusement at his returned assertiveness. JC’s shrug conveyed indifference. He knew, as they all did, that the contract did not distinguish between ethical and unethical discoveries. Only very rarely could wildcatters be sure what they had found until it had been analyzed in terrestrial laboratories. Almost anything could be turned into a weapon.
After a moment Reese said, “Galactic is rarely troubled by scruples. Even if they knew there was a bio-weapon there for the taking, they haven’t staked the planet.”
“They couldn’t! That’s obvious!” JC barked. “No footprint, no claim.”
“They scared off very easily,” Hanna said. “They may not have told us the whole story.”
“Of course they didn’t. Galactic never does. Well, Captain? So they lost three hands. Tragic. ISLA will review their records and hold an inquest. But who’s to say they don’t plan to build a tougher shuttle and come back? Technically it wouldn’t be difficult. Galactic can afford it.”
That made sense. Seth wondered how the story recorded on the beacon would relate to what was reported to ISLA. He even had a far-out idea of what might have killed off the Galactic people so rapidly, but it was a theory that ought to have occurred to either Reese or possibly Maria, and he wasn’t about to throw it out in public yet. They might be deliberately not mentioning it.
There had been some very odd things in Madison Duddridge’s story. The shuttle was damaged. De Soto sent down another. It crashed. A storm blew in … and that was that. How long did the storm last? Closer to hours than weeks, because those mothers were ripping around the planet like swallows in mosquito season. Galactic must have instruments that could see through rain, that could certainly identify the shuttle and probably even individual people. So why not send down a second rescue mission? The storm might have wrecked the shuttle’s antennae, but why abandon two people who might still be alive? The thought made him boil.
Jordan called for more suggestions and no one spoke. “Very well. The question is whether we stay to explore this planet from orbit, with no obvious way to attempt a landing, or whether we proceed to Armada. By law, the final decision must be mine. I am strongly leaning to the Armada answer, but I invite comments.”
“I think the decision should be the prospector’s,” JC said. Eyebrows rose all around the table. “If he isn’t willing to go downside under any circumstances, we can do no more good here than Galactic has already done. If he thinks there’s a chance, then we owe it to ourselves and his courage to spend a week or two here.”
Seth also heard, And we might be willing to bribe him a little.
The captain looked along the table to Seth. “Prospector? At the least your voice must carry more weight than anyone’s.”
“Sir, I’m not quite ready to say it’s hopeless,” Seth said. “We’ve spent fourteen months getting here. Captain, I agree with Commodore Lecanard that another weekend won’t hurt.”
Jordan studied him suspiciously. “You’d make a landing against those odds you gave us?”
“No, but I think I can cut those odds now, sir. Control, report the results of the last thirty simulated landings.”
—Most recent thirty landing simulations, twenty-three successful, seventy-seven percent.
“Well that settles it!” Jordan said. “Those odds are not—”
Seth had raised a hand to stop him. “Control, report the results of the last twenty simulated landings.”
—Most recent twenty landing simulations, eighteen successful, or ninety percent.
JC was starting to smirk. Not much got by him.
“Report the results of the last ten simulated landings.”<
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—Last ten landing simulations, one hundred percent successful.
JC roared in triumph and beat his fists on the table.
Jordan’s eyes burned like blue lasers; he was angry at being tricked. “How did you manage that, Prospector?”
“I cheated, sir. I need more time to make sure the cheat will work in practice.”
“I’ll accept that. You’re due on watch in a few hours and you look like you haven’t slept in a week. The rest of us aren’t helping you enough.”
Seth just shrugged.
“From now on you are relieved of all scheduled duties. I’ll post a new roster for the rest of us. You concentrate on the prospector duties. Control, enter orbit as proposed. Reese, clear away the dishes, please. Seth, I want a word with you.”
* * *
Jordan strode down the corridor to his cabin. Seth followed him in and closed the door.
“Sit!” Jordan pointed to the only chair, vaulted backwards on to a bed, and crossed his legs. Seth sat and laid one ankle on the other. His eyelids weighed tons. He had been working fifteen hours a day and not sleeping well the other nine.
“I can guess what you’re up to,” the captain said, “but it won’t work unless you promise him you’ll try a landing.”
“That’s what I’m working on, sir.”
“Can you drop any hints?”
“No, sir. I won’t know until Control can tell us more about conditions downside.”
With obvious disapproval, Jordan said, “Ok. But I warn you, if I think a landing looks too risky, I won’t allow it, no matter how much JC screams and yells. Now, listen. What I want to talk about … I know you desperately need to go and exercise your snoring muscles, but what I really need to discuss is you and Reese. You’re snapping at each other again.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“No, it’s understandable. They call you dirty names and put you down every chance they get, whichever gender they are. It’s worse when you have to share a cabin. Do you know why they changed back to female again this time?”
