There was no place to knock, so Trace lifted a corner of the weighted flap and called, “May I come in?”
Cole coughed and looked up. How withered he seemed, as if something were sucking the marrow from his bones.
“Did you find your friend?” Cole asked.
“Yes. I found her.” Trace took a breath to tell him about Impani and his father, but suddenly it seemed trivial. He cocked his head. “Are you all right?”
“Tired.” Cole nodded. “That was quite a trek.”
All for nothing. “Can I leave my backpack here?”
“Sure.” Cole coughed again.
Trace released the harness and lowered the case. It felt lighter than it might have on a typical drop—the fifteen skinsuits within it were less bulky than the supplies normally carried by a team leader. He stowed both the pack and Impani’s mask beneath a table. He would tell her where to find it later.
“I’ll let you get some rest.” Trace snapped his own mask in place and walked out of Cole’s residence.
Daylight waned. Mist fogged his faceplate. Trace gazed up the long slope of the valley toward the encroaching jungle. He imagined moss men watching from beneath the mushroom trees and gave an involuntary shudder.
He should check on Natica and Anselmi. They had gone back to the warehouse district to get a better feel for the gellasene issue. Maybe they could help him puzzle out why the creatures took Farley. But Natica was so distraught that they hadn’t found the woman. He didn’t want to upset her further by asking questions.
Suddenly, Robert Wilde came to mind. He was always quick to understand alien environments. Would he still be in the hospital? Would he agree to see Trace? They weren’t on friendly terms.
He threw back his shoulders. He was team leader. It was logical that he should check on an injured team member.
Filled with new purpose, he walked along the outskirts of camp. Silhouettes moved within the tubes, but no one crossed the grounds. He passed the group of Quonset huts where he had seen the flash of Natica’s gun. If he’d responded right away, he might have saved Farley. But that would have left Impani in danger.
The thought dredged up the sight of her with his father. A pang of betrayal twisted inside. He never expected her to take sides. Not against him.
With a scowl, he entered the hospital dome. Everything was white or chrome, which had a calming effect after the garish planet. A dozen patient rooms lined the circumference. Between them, Trace noticed smaller hatches labeled QUARANTINE 1, QUARANTINE 2… There were four. Why did they need so many?
Medical staff hovered around a central desk. He slid his mask to the top of his head and strode toward them.
“May I help you?” a woman asked. “Oh, you’re Mr. Hanson’s son.”
“Yes.” Unfortunately.
“I’m glad you’re here.” She picked up a notepad. “I need to speak to you about your employee, Mr. Wilde. I’m afraid he’s not being cooperative.”
Trace wanted to tell her that Wilde wasn’t his employee. Instead, he said, “What’s the problem?”
“He has a concussion, and Dr. Abrams would like to keep him overnight for observation. If you could sign this authorization form…” She handed him the screen.
He wondered if being team leader gave him that authority. With a smirk, he affixed his signature. “Where is Mr. Wilde?”
“Room ten.” She pointed.
Trace took a step forward, but turned back. “Have you found that man, yet? The one who was in quarantine?”
“Jack Barnes.” She lowered her voice. “No, we haven’t. Mr. Hanson says to continue the search, but, honestly, we’ve looked everywhere. I almost hope one of those monsters took him. I hate to think of an untreatable disease loose in the compound.”
“Is anyone else in quarantine?”
“Currently seven people. Upper respiratory infections.”
“Like Jack Barnes.”
“That’s right.”
Trace nodded then walked to room ten. He knocked and entered.
Wilde lay propped on pillows. He wore a hospital gown ribbed with warming sensors. A purple welt encircled one ear. Above his eye, an instrument patch blinked red and yellow.
Trace took an uneasy step forward. “How are you doing?”
Wilde turned his head stiffly. “I’m ready to get back to work.”
“The doctor wants to keep you overnight.”
He struggled to sit. “That’s crazy.”
“I’ve already authorized it.”
Just then, a pretty, blonde nurse peeked through the open door. “I’ll come back.” She smiled and left.
Wilde blew out his breath and nodded at Trace. “Well, if you insist.”
Trace grinned.
“Did you find the missing woman?” Wilde asked.
“No.” He pulled up a chair. “And the colonists haven’t found that man from quarantine, either.”
“People don’t vanish.”
“And plants don’t run.”
“All plants move,” Wilde said. “These are just better at it than most.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd, though? The original reports didn’t mention walking fungus. I know Scouts can be wrong, but—”
“More than likely, they didn’t see them.” Wilde waved a hand. “Those plant things blend right in. And they had no reason to show themselves to the Scouts. Then this group arrives. They irradiate valleys, slash and burn fields. No wonder the vegetables are miffed.”
“Impani thinks she can talk to them.”
Wilde laughed. “You know Impani. We aren’t here to butcher the locals.”
“What if we can communicate?”
“They’re plants. Plants don’t talk. But I’ll tell you this. It doesn’t make sense that they would kidnap someone just to kill them in private.”
Trace felt a crawling sensation in his gut. “You think the missing colonists are alive somewhere?”
Wilde looked at him. “I don’t know what the things are doing with them, but, yeah, I think they’re alive.”
CHAPTER 12
Impani sat alone in the cafeteria and stared at the dregs of her soup. She didn’t like Aldus Hanson. He was calculating and overbearing—and he made her think about things she didn’t want to consider.
Like the way he said she didn’t love his son, that she put her position in the Scouts before him. It wasn’t that simple. She cared about Trace, but she also cared about her job. Couldn’t she have both?
With a sigh, she crossed the room and set her mug on a rack with the other dirty dishes. She did love Trace. Okay, there was tension between them, but most of it was due to him being named team leader. She had been passed over and had a right to be irate.
But did she have the right to be angry at him?
She folded her arms and gazed at the domed ceiling. She didn’t want to lose Trace. She liked the way he made her feel about herself, that she was smart and capable and independent. Maybe the answer was to put as much enthusiasm into their relationship as she did into scouting. Then if they broke up, no one could blame her.
With a nod, she left the main dome. It was pitch black outside. She hadn’t realized it was so late. She gazed at the night sky. Rain drizzled over her face and tapped a rhythm upon the disposable mask. On the hillside, lights twinkled like stars. Was the jungle bioluminescent? Such a marvelous planet.
She walked toward the residential area. The camp was unlit. People rushed in darkness from one dome to the next or sprinted toward the warehouses. They seemed intent on getting as much work done as they could during the five-hour night. An ATV rumbled down the road. Treads clanked and headlights bobbed as it lurched over the hard-packed ground. It disappeared behind a Quonset hut.
Familiar voices caught her attention. Trace, Natica, and Anselmi climbed out of the tubes.
Buoyed by her newfound insight into relationships, she bounced toward them. “Hey, what’s the latest?”
Trace glanced up. “I’m goin
g with Cole to send a message to Central. We’ll piggyback our reports.”
Natica raised her voice. “And to do this, he has to walk through the jungle to the camp where we were before.”
Impani smiled. “When do we leave?”
“I’m leaving now. You stay with them and help protect the colonists.”
“But I want to go with you.”
“No.”
“It’s going to be dangerous. You might need back up. Please don’t push me away.”
He gave a resigned sigh. “I left your mask in Cole’s quarters.”
“I’ll get it and be right back.” She hurried toward the tubes.
“It’s under a table,” Trace called after her.
With a grin, she pushed through the barrier of wind and into the passageway. This would be good. They could spend time together. Get rid of the strain between them. She wouldn’t say anything about who should be team leader.
Should she mention her conversation with his father? Better not. How did you tell someone their dad was an arrogant old raffer?
When she reached Cole’s tent, she peered beneath the flap. Shadows filled the living area.
“Anyone home?”
She crossed the sparse room and stepped around a divider marking the bedroom. Cole wasn’t there. A lantern shone from a trunk beside his cot.
Back in the living area, she found her mask and Trace’s backpack beneath a table. She stripped off the rain-sodden mask that Mr. Hanson had given her, snapped her faceplate in place, and stood to leave.
But her gaze drew back to Trace’s backpack. What sort of supplies had he thought to bring? The choice of items reflected upon the leader. Besides, she always hid a holo of Trace in her pack.
She opened the case and pulled out the sealed pouch of a skinsuit. For a moment, she stared at it, uncomprehending. Then she dumped the lot.
Fifteen skinsuits. No extra med-pacs, no camping gear. And he didn’t carry her holo.
She jammed the suits back into the case, her ire growing with each one. Clearly, there was more going on than she was aware—and Trace was keeping that information from her.
She left the tent, retraced the tube, and stepped again into the humid, reeking night. Cole stood with Trace and her teammates.
Trace handed her a flamethrower. “Ready?”
She nodded.
“Be careful,” Natica told her.
With a flip of her nonexistent hair, Impani walked away from camp.
Trace and Cole caught up to her. They climbed from the valley. The ground cover thickened the higher they went, turning slippery with the light rain. Luminous frills lined many of the toadstools. Moisture glistened on them like milky pearls.
They reached the tree line. Beneath the heavy mushroom caps, the darkness felt cloying, suffocating. Mist gathered and fell in fat drops, sounding like footsteps all around. Only a few glowing toadstools marked their way.
Impani squinted with the effort to see. The meager pilot lights of their flamethrowers were worthless. She reached for the flashlight on her belt.
“Put that away,” Cole whispered.
“I can’t see where I’m going.”
“Think about it.” Trace stepped beside Cole. “You know plants are attracted to light.”
Her cheeks heated as if he’d slapped her. She pulled in behind them and walked in silence. Why would Trace side against her? Why was he being such a stunkard’s ass?
And why would he bring fifteen skinsuits? More to the point, why hadn’t he told her about them? She was his girlfriend.
Trace and Cole continued walking as if she wasn’t stumbling in the dark behind them. They discussed their reports. Trace’s account of the situation was flimsy at best. Would Central recall them? Her team hadn’t accomplished anything. The premiere mission of Scouts to the Rescue was failing before her eyes.
Just then, she stepped in something that made a wet, sucking sound. Impani groaned and lifted her foot.
“Try not to step in that,” Cole said. “It’s slime mold. It will eat through your boots.”
Anger flared as if she were on the wrong end of a bad joke. “Forget this drel.” She flicked on her lamp.
Shadows leaped back as light defined the trees. Plants stirred sleepily. With a mutinous glare at Trace, she strapped the lamp to her wrist.
Something moved beside her. Impani turned just as a moss creature ran off.
“There it goes!” she cried. If she followed it, she might find out where they took Farley. She could still come out a hero. With her flamethrower tucked beneath her arm, she sped after the creature.
“Not that way!” Cole yelled. “The snake pit!”
But his voice broke into a wracking cough, and she was certain she’d heard him wrong. There were no snakes on this world.
The moss creature sprinted ahead of her. Impani ran as fast as she could but she couldn’t catch it. The light from her wrist lamp darted about the mushroom trunks. Mist coated her facemask.
Suddenly, her feet flew out from beneath her. She hit the ground hard and skidded downward. Something like rope looped over her leg.
“Drel!” She tore at the vine. “Get off me!”
Several more arced over her body. With a muffled scream, she beat them away—but there were too many. They pinned her to the ground.
Impani squirmed, unable to break free. Vines slithered over her like snakes. They bound her chest so tightly she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Ohgodohgod. She couldn’t call for help.
She lay spread-eagled, her wrist lamp turned to the dirt, her flamethrower lost somewhere in the fall. Vines slapped her mask and crisscrossed her face. Her head filled with black cotton.
CHAPTER 13
Trace gasped as Impani’s wrist lamp snuffed out. He keyed his com. “Impani, where are you? What’s your position?” Silence rattled his nerves. “Impani, respond!” Eyes wide, he stared in the direction she’d gone.
Cole exchanged a look with him then sprinted after her. His heavy boots smashed through the undergrowth.
Trace followed. He weaved in and out of mushroom trunks, all the while imagining a steep cliff and a gorge of writhing pythons and Impani’s unconscious form—
“Hold on.” Cole stopped suddenly. “The pit is somewhere around here.”
Trace strained against Cole’s outstretched arm. “Impani!” he called into the com. “Can you hear me?” Against his own command, he switched on his flashlight.
They stood near a black hollow, seven or eight meters wide. Trace approached, and vines reared into the air as if reaching for his light. They reminded him of the orange cords that had pinned his arm to the ground—only these were thick and coarse.
Cole rushed forward. “There she is!”
Trace sidestepped along the bank. Impani lay motionless on the downward slope. Vegetation covered her so thickly he could barely make out her form. Rage roared through him. He wanted to leap at the plants, tear them away with his bare hands.
Cole ignited his gun. He swept bright flame before him as he climbed into the pit. The ropy growth blackened and curled. Trace skidded down the steep grade then directed a jet of fire over Impani’s body, trusting her skinsuit to protect her. Vines coiled and squirmed like snakes. He made another pass with the roaring flame and heard a loud intake of breath over his com. Impani arched her back.
She was alive!
Throwing down the gun, he leaped beside her and ripped away the remaining vines. With his arms about her chest, he dragged her up the slope. Impani moaned.
He held her tightly. His heart hammered his chest. “Impani. Oh, God.”
“I heard you call me,” she whispered. “I thought you were a dream.”
“I’m here.” He closed his eyes and cherished her weight in his arms.
Cole’s flamethrower continued to roar. Trace turned to tell him that Impani was safe—but Cole seemed determined to clean out the hollow, as if he were taking revenge. Vines reduced to twisting, glowing lines
amid mounds of black ash.
Impani sniffled. “I dropped my gun.”
He glanced about and spotted the fallen weapon amid the undergrowth. “I’ll get it.”
Reluctantly, he released her and walked to the gun. He held it toward the flickering light of Cole’s fire and checked it for damage.
Cole climbed the bank and leaned over, wracked by coughs. Trace slung Impani’s gun onto his back and hurried to him. He held his friend’s shoulder.
“Smoke,” Cole said in answer.
Trace looked at the smoldering hole. As the flames diminished, the ash glowed like banked embers—and in the red light, he saw several moss men on the other side.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
Cole lowered his voice. “We can’t outrun them.”
Trace nodded. The moss man in camp moved so fast it seemed to have materialized. He remembered how much flame it took to chase the thing away. Could the three of them take on a whole group? Or would they run out of gellasene?
Then he realized his gun was still down where he’d dropped it when he found Impani. Oh, drel.
Impani appeared at his side. “What should we do?”
Trace’s thoughts raced. They needed something to burn, something that would cause a great blaze. He glanced about at gnarled toadstools, at tall, mushrooming trees. When he’d first arrived onworld, he’d taken a sample of one of the huge trunks—and colorless oil bled out. Was that oil flammable?
The night grew darker by moments as the smoldering ash died. Trace glanced down at his flamethrower. The moss men inched forward as if the dimming light were a signal. Cole raised his gun.
Trace pulled out his stat-gun.
“That won’t work,” Impani told him.
“Be ready to run,” he said.
With his eyes on the advancing horde, he leaped sideways to a mushroom tree, pulled the trunk forward, and sliced the base with the narrow beam of his stat-gun. The huge mushroom toppled and fell into the pit. The cap struck the ground and snapped off. Trace stepped to the bank, aimed his stat-gun at the flamethrower, and fired.
The resulting explosion knocked him on his butt. Fire erupted into the air, engulfing the fallen trunk as well as two moss creatures that had advanced to the bank. They fled with their flaming arms over their heads.
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