by Rob Rowntree
Ahead Kiki rounded the ship’s aft corner. Alan ran to catch up. “Kiki get them to put the stuff on the ground where they stand, we don’t have time to make the trees and get back for more.”
Kiki waved the gun, “You lot, drop the stuff and get back here. Fetch more gear.”
Alan looked for confirmation from Kiki, “Is that it then? Are you done?”
For a moment she just stared at him. Slowly she raised her arm and handed over the gun. “It’s over.”
He wasn’t too surprised, but he couldn’t say exactly why. Taking the gas-gun he thrust it into his pocket, “Stay close. I don’t think the others are going to be warm towards you. Come to think of it, nor am I. You’ve screwed us good and proper.”
“I know,” Kiki said. “But I’ve achieved my objective and ultimately I’ve got to be happy with that. Whatever happens now is of no consequence.”
Woodland’s punch took Kiki off her feet, her body spinning away like a wind-blown doll. “You are a dead woman, Bech.”
Alan, paralyzed by the suddenness of the attack, watched as Woodland advanced on Kiki. Kiki scrambled away, hands and feet propelling her backwards across the damp purple ground. Several small crustaceans scuttled out of her path and Alan wondered at his ability to notice their intricate bifurcated-shells as he watched the ensuing fight. Part of him wanted to hit Kiki as well, part of him raged against her wanton act of kidnapping, but now wasn’t the time. Shaking himself, he reached for Woodland’s shoulder.
“Keep out of this Alan,” Woodland threatened.
“Woodland, you don’t want to do this.”
“I don’t? What makes you think any of us are going to cooperate with one another? This is it man, survival of the fittest.”
“No.” Alan grabbed Woodland’s arm.” Listen, you’ll just be lowering yourself to her level. This isn’t the way to behave and you know it. Anarchy is not an option right now and even though you want revenge, we will need everyone’s skills. I do mean everyone.”
Woodland stopped. Alan felt him relax.
“Yeah, okay. Guess you’re right. I... Oh shit.” Woodland stormed back into the ship taking a kick at Kiki on the way by.
Turning about Alan saw that the others hadn’t stopped retrieving gear from the shuttle. Looking down at Kiki he said, “You stay there. I’m just going to fetch the weapons and then I’ll collect you and we’ll head over to those trees back there.” Alan waved his hands in the general direction he wanted to go. Glancing back towards the settlement he noticed several figures moving towards them. They were a good four hundred meters away but they’d be here before too long. God help us now, he said to himself.
A low fog drifted across the shuttle-cabin’s deck. Retrieving four pulse rifles from their secure locker, Alan marvelled at their coldness, an artefact of their power packs. Always fond of shooting ranges and target practise he’d only ever had the opportunity to use pulse rifles twice before. The coldness elicited a sense of precision, of clinical perfection. Perhaps something about their latent power triggered the response, but Alan found guilty pleasure in handling the weapons. Something he wouldn’t share with the others.
Back outside he met with a now bruised yet standing Kiki. “Come on; let’s catch up before our new landlords’ arrive.” Over his shoulder he saw silhouetted figures moving with slow deliberate purpose.
He shivered as he hurried on.
Chapter Eighteen
Fires and Frustrations.
Alan sighed and dropped the last of the supply crates next to the group’s stockpile. Around him, the others were breathing hard.
He called Woodland over, “Gibson and I will erect the survival tent.” He paused, looking for something. Snatching up a pulse rifle he tossed it to Woodland, “While we are doing that, you take watch.” He pointed at the slow moving figures that approached. “I don’t want to have to deal with them until we’re ready. I guess you’re probably the most proficient here with a rifle.”
“Sure,” Woodland said. “You want me to fry a couple of them to make my point, or just shoot above their heads?”
Alan hoped Woodland’s sense of humour was odd, rather than nonexistent. He felt reassured when he caught the grin on Woodland’s face. “And Woodland, don’t fry Kiki either. We are going to need her.”
Woodland looked humbled. “Listen, I know I lost it, but I have to say there’s never going to be a moment that I don’t want to teach that bitch a lesson. For the foreseeable, trust me, I will hold it together...for the group. She can wait.”
“Not the most reassuring speech, but I’ll take it.” Alan wanted to say more and did, “Woodland, this trip has been one problem upon another and I know we’ve ended up on opposing sides of several decisions. Right now we’re here and in deep shit, so let me say I’m willing to let those issues slide. You and I are the only ones here who have experienced... Well, any of this, training or otherwise.”
“Yeah, agreed.” Woodland quickly surveyed the barren scene. “Tell you something else, for the life of me I can’t see how we are ever going to get off this rock. Just trying to figure that out is—”
“Good, we’ll get started.” Alan moved away, not wanting to continue in a futile discussion. Woodland and the rest of them could, before he mentioned the message he’d had Gibson send.
Bent over Conway’s raised leg Pickering used antiseptic pads to bathe and soothed the wound inflicted by Kiki. Alan, nearer to them, overheard Conway say, “Don’t worry about that now. If we get off this mudball, we can search again. The cargo won’t be going anywhere.”
Pickering said, “If we get off? God you’re optimistic, I’ll give you that Conway. I’m saying we’ll be lucky to survive the night let alone get off. Was it worth it?”
“My dear friend,” Conway said, “If we find what we seek, it will change everything.”
Alan adopted what he hoped was a concerned look. Close enough to them he said, “Pickering, how’s it look?”
“Knee’s shattered and full of ceramic darts. What else can I say?”
“I want you to give me an update on his condition. Can we move him easily? I have this and a hundred other things to deal with... information is paramount. Let’s leave aside the personal squabbles. Do I make myself clear?”
Pickering didn’t look up, Alan guessed he quietly seethed. “Once you have the tent up,” Pickering did say, “and I can work in a more serviceable environment, I expect to be able to remove the darts and repair the damaged tissue as best I can. He’ll have a frozen knee and a permanent limp, but he’ll survive.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. I’ll get Gibson and we’ll have that tent up for you soon.”
Conway said, “Alan. If you can find a way off this mudball, I’ll triple your salary.”
Shaking his head, Alan said, “Sometimes Mr Conway, I really don’t think you have a grasp of what makes people tick. The money is a nice incentive and god knows there’s never enough. But...” Alan was annoyed at Conway’s presumption.
Bollocks. Taking the easy route Alan said, “That’s a fine offer Mr Conway, I accept. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Making for the piled up belongings, Alan took a look towards the settlement. Its myriad windmills were turning briskly, and Alan was momentarily mesmerised by the multitude of different sized sails. He thought the view strangely captivating. The figures seen earlier were now motionless some three hundred meters away. They swayed slowly, reminiscent of bull rushes by a lake he knew back on Earth.
Turning from the figures he yelled, “Hey, you three,” to Gibson, Stowe and Kiki. “Come and help me with this.”
Together they retrieved the survival tent’s crate and after selecting a raised mound, Alan and Gibson hauled it over.
The survival building had an ingenious structure and deployment mechanism. Placing the crate in the centre of the area where the tent would sit, Alan had Gibson programme its release. Calling it a tent robbed the dwelling of any dignity and indeed, belied t
he clever adaptations it had.
Standing well away from the crate, Alan noticed Gibson jump when inflation cylinders began to push the structure up, out and around the crate. It hissed and creaked, slapped and groaned, and slowly grew into an elongated prefabricated hut, complete with arched roof.
Inflation complete, Alan watched a shiny layer form on the outer surface as a special polymer reacted with the oxygen in the air, to eventually harden to a glass like finish.
Automated securing spikes fired and fixed the building to the ground.
Access was through two sets of zipped up doors. Ready for use just twenty minutes after release, Alan found that he couldn’t wait to get everybody inside. Rapping his knuckles on the hardened exterior as he entered, he wondered about the illusion that safety walls brought.
Quickly organising the group, Alan made sure that everybody had work to do, confident they would have no time to worry if he kept them busy. Gibson and Kiki complained a little when he quietly pointed out that they needed to dig out a latrine. Once he’d convinced them of the unpleasantness of the alternative, it didn’t take them long. No way would bucketing slops from the shelter suit their dispositions.
A small heater warmed the shelter. With added body heat it kept the interior at a bearable temperature. As the sun began to set, Alan brought everybody inside for a quick chat and some rations - dried biscuits and energy sweets, some nano-engineered appetite suppressants. Not the best of diets but they didn’t know if they’d be able to stomach any local flora or fauna and so care was needed.
Woodland, the last to ease into the hut, reported that the natives were still swaying and not moving towards them.
Alan nodded, “That’s good. Might be best if we try to communicate in the morning after we’ve rested.”
Pickering grumbled, “Sleep. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for some time.”
Kiki sat in a corner, knees drawn up to her chin. She laughed at Pickering’s comment, “You’ll sleep, we’ll all sleep.”
“Who asked you to comment?” Pickering centred on the others for support. “I doubt that your opinion on anything is valid anymore. Fact is, I’ve a good mind to throw you out there, leave you to the mercy of those savages.”
To Alan’s, in fact all their surprise, Conway interjected, “Pickering, leave it. It’s over. We’re here now. Let us all remain focused and supportive of each other, time for recrimination later.”
Silence greeted Conway’s remark. Alan took the initiative, “We’ll have to take watches; Woodland you’ve done your stint. How about you Pickering? Take the next watch, then rouse me and I’ll do four hours. After that, if needs be, it’ll be your turn Gibson. It should take us through to the morning though we don’t know how night-time is here; how energetic, how dark and so on. But we do need to be vigilant. That okay, Pickering?”
Pickering appeared edgy. “I...I’ve never handled a gun before. Is it easy to use?”
Alan smiled, “There’s nothing to it. Point and shoot. Safety’s off as soon as you grab the trigger-grip.” He grinned again, “Yeah, I know not much of a safety, but you’ll do all right.”
Conway chortled, the action made him cough, the exertions clearly paining his knee. At last he got his breath and said sternly, “Stop prevaricating, man, and take the gun. Oh, and try not to shoot your foot off.” Conway laughed some more. An embarrassed Pickering moved towards the door.
With Pickering out of ear-shot Alan said, “You really shouldn’t rile him Conway. He’s way out of his depth here and possibly close to breaking point.”
“I don’t think so Alan. Not by a long shot.”
“How do you reckon?”
“He may come across as a bit of a buffoon, but he’s a wily old soak and he’s been around; maybe not as much as you, but around. Pickering, for all his faults, can look after himself.”
“As long as he doesn’t fall asleep, I’ll be happy.”
Conway’s voice became quiet and steady, “He won’t do that Alan, I’ve given him instructions not to.”
“Well now, that’s great.” Alan moved away wondering what Conway had tried to imply. Reaching the bunks he turned and said, “Has anybody got any further suggestions? Woodland? Do we need to beef up the watch? Double up maybe?”
Woodland shrugged, “I can’t really get a handle on the threat issues here; we have no intelligence, no knowledge of what’s out there. Although, I do feel that we are relatively safe. The natives have kept their distance and don’t appear to be a threat at this point.”
Alan felt disappointed at Woodland’s obvious, somewhat trite comments. Woodland was being blasé. Sounding exasperated he said, “Anybody else? Anything?”
The others looked beat, exhaustion hung heavily on their faces and frames. Alan pondered over what really lay ahead. Peterson’s crew hadn’t survived here and now... If it’s humanly possible Jimmy, I’ll get home. I promise.
***
Somewhere his name drifted on the breeze. Alan, Alan. There, again. Someone. He rocked, buffeted by the sound of his name, by the nature of the word.
“Alan, wake up. It’s your shift.”
Coming around slowly Alan sat up on his makeshift bed, which creaked a little as he moved to pick up his boots. Bending to pull them on he winced as a pain shot through his lower back. Definitely he needed his own bed, and if that wasn’t incentive enough to find a way home, nothing ever would be. Smiling at the thought and rubbing his tousled hair neat, he moved towards the door.
Pickering said, “You are not going to believe your eyes.”
“The natives?”
Pickering shook his head, “No, the sky.”
Donning his jacket, Alan followed Pickering into the small porch, where he took the offered gun. Pickering grinned like a demented fool. Alan said, “You’re happy.”
“It’s magnificent, uplifting.”
“Better open the door and let me take a peek then. I wouldn’t want to miss out.”
Pickering slipped the zip-lock and stepped out, as he went, he said, “Those old garish pulp covers never did space justice.”
Outside Alan hesitated to allow his eyes to adapt to the dark.
Expecting the darkness of an unlit world, Alan doubted his senses. Bright as a winter’s day, the ground sparkled and shone. The settlement in the distance resonated with a faint but distinguishable shimmer, certain buildings rippling with halos of auroral-light.
Dragging his gaze away, he looked up. For the first time in a while it felt good to be alive.
Through the crystal clear air the night sky bombarded him with images.
The gas giant hung over the south-eastern horizon, a full half of its mass consuming the darkness. Alan watched the banded streaks of churning gas and imagined he could see them moving. Lightning flickered about the cloud-deck as some huge electrical storm played out its violent dance.
Impressive as the lightning was, it distracted Alan for mere moments. Towering overhead, the arc of the nearest ring painted a wide band of twinkling light across the heavens. It shone with reflected sunlight, apart from one small segment which the little world eclipsed into shadow. In the centre of the visible section, pinpricks of light danced and aurora spread concentric sheets of blue/green radiance across the night sky. Could the ring be intersecting with the world already? Alan knew from earlier measurements that this little world would intersect with the gas-torus. How safe would they be now? A meteorite streaked across the sky.
As he gazed into the heavens Pickering said, “The natives like it too.”
Alan looked at Pickering, and saw him gesture towards the settlement. Only then did Alan become aware of a subdued rasping - a disturbingly continuous grating sound, that set his teeth on edge. Mesmerised, Pickering’s continued enlightenment finally dragged Alan away from the sound: “As soon as the sun sank below the horizon they lay down. From here I couldn’t quite see what they were up to, thought they were bedding down for the night at first, but as it grew darker,
I saw them raise their arms towards the sky.”
In the unusual brightness Alan could make out several figures lying prone. Not easy to spot at three hundred meters or so, after a few seconds he saw the waving limbs. “That sound? Is it them?”
Pickering nodded, “Started pretty much the same time they lay down. Irritating, isn’t it.”
“Get’s under your skin for sure.” Alan hoped the sound would stop before the world’s day returned. Several of the group, he knew, were close to their breaking point and this aggravating noise coupled with another day of doubt and fear wouldn’t help. Perhaps he’d announce that he’d managed to get a message out in the hope it would allay some of the fears brewing. “You’d better get some shut-eye Pickering. My bet is that our friends over there will come calling once the sun is up.”
“Guess you’re right,” Pickering seemed reluctant to leave. “Abrams, is it always like this? This different?”
“No, not at all. Fact is the majority of worlds I’ve touched down on contain dull, simple life-forms, in under-developed environments. Once you’ve seen one...”
Pickering gazed around, eyes wide. “This is exactly what I was after. All those failed interviews for the service, all those tests and yet here I am. It’s overwhelming.”
Alan couldn’t quite read Pickering. Where had the barracking doctor from the shuttle gone? The sycophantic yes-man? An irrepressible thought welled up and before he thought about it, Alan blurted, “I thought all of that, all of the longing and wishing came down to your desire to find the Peterson, or more specifically, its cargo.”
Pickering froze. In the encompassing brightness his skin took on a milky pallor. Alan waited for a response, and guided by the unexpected increase in Pickering’s breathing expected at least an outburst.
However, Pickering abruptly turned away and entered the tent.
Why had he allowed his mouth to shoot off a statement like that, and now? Hadn’t he realised just how much damage the last few hours had wrought? Physically he felt okay. His spore-ports itched a little but his internal power source felt fine, and contained enough energy for several weeks. There’d be problems when it ran out, but worrying about it too soon would only distract him from the current situation.
