Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 4

  “Already?” Thompson nearly shouts.

  “It showed up twenty minutes ago.” The Brick searches the brightening sky above. “Probably imaging this whole place from orbit.”

  “Any sign of Beckert?”

  Argo swivels and points far down the next valley. A scar in the trees cuts all the way to a turbulent race of thrashing water at the bottom.

  Thompson pulls his rifle tight and squints through the scope, searching downstream for a trace of Beckert. He finds none.

  “Move out!”

  Thompson leaps from the tree. Argo drops beside him with a heavy thud, and the leaning tree snaps back, launching branches and leaves like a catapult.

  The operators dash down the slope. Branches and brambles snatch at them, catching in their joints or under overlapped plates, until the trees thin near the river’s edge. Across the whitewater, a long path of broken trees leads down the opposite slope. Past the tree line it becomes a wide trail of ploughed soil and gravel, carving straight into the frothing river. The width of the river cancels any thought in Thompson of trying to cross.

  Argo leans forward to run downstream when Thompson grabs his shoulder.

  “Hang on…”

  The Brick goes still and the men wait in silence. Turning toward his leader, the big man scrunches his brow. Before he can ask why they paused, a low, fast craft rockets over the valley. Its supersonic boom trails delinquently, jarring the men where they stand. Crackling echoes bounce through the valleys.

  Thompson whirls about and breaks into a run. Argo follows, carving great divots of earth with each stride. The two keep just inside the line of foliage, dodging trees and leaping rocks while searching for any trace of their companion. Argo watches the sky through the thin canopy of leaves, lowering his gaze in time to avoid a jutting root or low branch.

  The men run for kilometers without sign of their missing comrade. Thompson abruptly halts in his tracks, and Argo nearly bowls him over. The Gun looks into the river, imagining Beckert trapped under the churning waters, pinned by rock or debris.

  Could we have run by him?

  As Thompson stares, Argo notices a new sound—heavy and constant like the noise of the river but deeper, coming from downstream.

  “You hear that?” the Brick asks.

  Thompson stirs from his horrible thought and listens.

  “What is that?”

  Argo jogs ahead. The terrain takes a steeper grade and the river fans out over a broad area of sloping rock. Shallow water splashes and sprays over slick stone.

  Glinting metal grabs Thompson’s eye, and he hurls himself without caution across the matted green rocks. He skids and slips through the shallows until he holds the metal in his hand. The color and composition give it away as a part of, Beckert’s pod, from the interior.

  Thompson turns and searches over the watery slope. Near the middle, an angular rock divides the stream. Fresh scrapes mar one side of it. Just past the rock, the stream dives out of sight with a deep roar far below.

  Thompson hops nimbly to the scuffed rock, and he skids to a stop at the edge of a thirty meter cliff. From the edge, he surveys a great kidney-shaped bowl, suggesting what once must have been a reservoir. The eastern wall bears a deep notch where it failed. Now, only the floor of the reservoir still holds water, the overflow draining through the eastern notch.

  He kneels and looks over the cliff edge, watching the river water cascade in swirling mists. Morning sunlight refracts magnificently, throwing up arcs of prismatic color.

  The mists part and Thompson sees a pool at the waterfall’s base. The faintest hint of metal shines from the bottom. Without another thought, he cradles his rifle and leaps off the cliff.

  Argo watches his friend drop from sight and he hustles down the slick rocks in full alarm.

  “Thompson!”

  Bracing himself on the angular rock, the big man leans over the edge and peers through the mists. In the pool below, concentric waves spread from Thompson’s splashdown.

  Hugging his cannon to his chest, Argo steps back from the edge and sprints forward, propelling himself off the cliff. Time seems to slow as fat drops of water hang lazily in the air around him. With a tremendous crash, he plunges into the pool, sinking fast to the bottom. Beckert’s pod lies directly ahead of him, caved in on all sides. Thompson is at one side of it, straining to widen a large fracture.

  Argo surges through the aerated currents and takes hold of the open fracture. Wedging his foot on the lower edge, he grips the upper edge and strains mightily. Adrenaline pours into his bloodstream as he screams inside his helmet with effort. Reluctantly, the seam flexes then unzips, yielding to his phenomenal strength.

  Thompson slips inside to find Beckert pinned beneath his recliner, his console, and the pod’s interior bracing. The Gun switches on his helmet lights and the young Geek’s eyes open, showing great discomfort.

  Thompson tears at the crushing pile, clearing the heaviest obstructions. Beckert gasps like a fish, drawing his first full breaths since the crash. Oxygen restores vitality to his numbed limbs, and he pushes free of the remaining debris. Thompson wraps an arm around the Geek’s chest and drags him from the would-be tomb.

  Argo releases the seam once his teammates are clear and the pod frame snaps together like toothless jaws. The Brick takes Beckert’s arm, helping Thompson pull the Geek from the pool; and the three operators slosh from the water, rushing through the mists to the cover of trees. Argo leans on Beckert, pressing the Geek firmly to the ground.

  “I’m ok, I’m ok!” Beckert protests.

  “Lie still,” Argo orders. He reaches behind himself and takes a large case from his back rack, plunking it down beside him. With a touch, the case opens and spreads like a flower. Various medical tools extend in all directions.

  “I’m getting his gear,” Thompson announces. He props his rifle and dashes back to the pool, diving into the clear water.

  Beckert tries to sit up, but Argo puts his large hand on his chest. “I said, lie still!” The Brick looks sternly into Beckert’s eyes, noticing one of them has a blotch of red in the sclera. He pulls a small light from his kit and shines it at his patient, noting how the pupils constrict.

  “Your left eye is damaged. Can you see through it?”

  Beckert blinks, unaware. “Works fine.”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  The Geek thinks for a moment. “I don’t remember hitting the ground. Just a lot of rolling and bashing…”

  Argo gently pushes Beckert’s face to one side. Deep scrapes mark the side of his helmet. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous at all?”

  “A little, but I’ll be fine.”

  Argo leans back. “Go ahead and sit up.”

  The Geek sits up and drags a foot under him. He pitches to the side, just catching himself.

  “Whoa…”

  Argo rushes to steady him, but Beckert puts his hand up.

  “I got it, I got it! I’ll be fine.”

  “All right. Just sit down and take a moment.”

  Beckert settles onto the soil, crossing his legs. Water trickles from the overlapping plates of his armor.

  “I want you to increase your O2 mixture one percent for the next thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Beckert’s goggles pulse once.

  Argo drops the light into its slot in the med kit and closes it. He snaps the kit into his back rack, swapping for his labset. While Beckert meditates, Argo runs tests on air, soil, and water.

  Thompson emerges from the pool, dragging a fully assembled rack with one hand and clutching Beckert’s pistols with the other. He hustles to his comrades and sets the rack down. Taking up his rifle, he looks to the sky.

  “Any contacts?” the Gun asks.

  “No, sir,” Argo answers.

  Thompson tosses the pistols into Beckert’s lap. “Gear up. We’re leaving.”

  Beckert grabs his pistols and checks all of the actions. Satisfied, he twirls them around his fingers and
clips them onto his lower back. The Geek rises carefully, steadies himself, and slides the rack of gear onto his armor.

  Thompson leans close to Argo. “How is he?”

  “Took a knock to the head. May be concussed.”

  The Gun looks past Argo’s shoulder. “Sergeant, can you run?”

  “Affirmative, Major!”

  Thompson opens multiple locks on his rifle, partially dismantling it and shaking water from it.

  “Clear your weapons. Then we run southeast for six hours. When the shadows are long enough, we’ll get some high-ground recon. Copy?”

  “Yes, sir!” Beckert and Argo reply in unison. Beckert pulls a bulb-shaped device from his belt and arms it. He cocks his arm to throw it into the pool.

  “No!” Thompson counters.

  Beckert lowers his arm, confused.

  “The enemy is close,” the Gun explains. “That’ll attract them.”

  Beckert nods and repeatedly mashes the bulb end to disarm it. He hooks the device to his belt and pulls a case full of pistol magazines from his back rack. Taking a fistful of the caseless ammunition, he clips a row to each thigh. The last two, he slaps into the grips of his pistols.

  “Argo, are you ready?”

  Argo latches the last catch on his cannon. “Yes, sir!”

  “Maiella, are you ready?”

  “Sir?”

  Thompson stamps to the Geek. “I said, are you ready, Sergeant?”

  Beckert straightens nervously. “Yes, Sir!”

  “All right. Follow me.” Thompson bounds off into the brush.

  Beckert looks at Argo, bewildered, and the Brick reassures him silently. Shrugging, Beckert tears off after his leader. Argo takes rear guard.

  The team lopes to a halt near a natural clearing. Late afternoon sun shines in long angles past green leaves tinged with yellow, orange, and red.

  “We’ll take a short break here.” Thompson leans against the gray bark of a broadleaf tree. Beckert props himself with one arm and bows his head as he pants. Argo slings his cannon and takes out his labset.

  Thompson watches Argo fiddling with the quirky device. “Do we have results yet?”

  “We do,” the big man replies without looking up. “Air quality is good. Microbial content is high… but I can do something about that.” His thumbs trigger a sequence and the labset fills a ported phial. The Brick removes the phial and presses it into a port in his neck armor. The fluid is sucked in with a hiss.

  “This will boost our immune systems for a few hours.” He repeats the process for Thompson and Beckert, plugging the phial into each of their necks. “But give it a moment to circulate.”

  As the Geek and Gun catch their breath, they stand straighter. With some anxiety, they reach for the release lever on their face plates.

  “It’s ok,” Argo advises. “Go ahead.”

  Thompson zips the lever open. Warm, dry air sweeps over his sweaty face and he takes a tentative sniff. Rich, unprocessed air flows into his nostrils, full of arboreal aromas. He fills his lungs again and again.

  Beckert retracts his mask to the top of his helmet, leaving his goggles in place. His eyes bulge with the new sensations of raw, planetary atmosphere. He grins at the wonder of it, enjoying the smell and subtle taste.

  Stoic Argo raises his mask, scarcely marking any difference. He continues thumbing his labset.

  “Nutrition interval,” Thompson declares. He takes a box from his rack and opens it, distributing the contents with a wrist snap. Argo catches his with one hand, still working on his portable lab. Beckert catches his portion between pistols and rips the plasticine package with his teeth. Argo finally stows his labset, and all three take a knee as they masticate the doughy, bland, amino/protein bars.

  “It’s amazing to me…” Argo states to no one in particular. “The scale of this environment…and no processors to regulate it. Completely self-sustaining, continually renewed. A perfect machine.”

  He takes a big bite.

  “Makes the old air-regs at Cadre One seem…foolish.”

  “Do you think this was all engineered?” Beckert asks through a mouthful.

  Argo takes a long look up, brow cinching together, lower lip jutting.

  “I don’t know…maybe.”

  A heat source appears in Beckert’s goggles. The Geek’s pistol flashes out instantly, aiming deep into the woods. When his eyes catch up to his hand, he locks gazes with terrified brown eyes. A shiny, black nose quivers at the end of an elongated, slender face. Short brown fur covers the creature from its long receiver-like ears down to its four narrow legs, and on its head are planted sharp branches of bone.

  The creature spins around and dashes away, its white tail bouncing along until it disappears into the woods.

  Thompson’s rifle is poised and ready. Argo hefts his cannon to the rear, the protein bar crammed in his mouth.

  “Contact?” Thompson whispers urgently.

  Beckert clips his pistol. “Sorry, Major, false alarm. Indigenous life form.”

  The Brick’s nostrils are flared, his eyes are sharp and intense, ready to kill. Thompson lowers his rifle and gives Argo an all-clear hand signal. The big man snorts and resets the safety on his weapon, biting off another chunk of protein.

  “Well that should remind us to keep moving.” Thompson claps Beckert on the shoulder. “Good eyes.”

  The Gun picks up the ration box and collects the wrappers. Argo takes the box and, when Thompson turns, he snaps the box onto his leader’s rack.

  “Let’s go,” Thompson orders. “Geek, take rear.”

  Thompson and Argo jog into the brush, but Beckert lingers. He looks out where the animal was, thinking about every feature. He saw one in the Colonist archives before, but…this one was alive. A pleased smile crosses the young man’s face, and he dashes after his team.

  The Dead Place

  Thompson crouches on a high outcropping of rock, looking west over the wide plain they have crossed. Dusky shadows blend his charcoal armor into the darkened stone, still damp from late-day rain. The sun has dipped below the distant mountain ridges of their landing, and long rays of light shine up toward rosy clouds.

  He struggles to comprehend the arching sky above as it shimmers with ribbons of green, blue, and violet light. Behind the ribbons, millions of stars twinkle. The Gun is no stranger to the stars, having lived and traveled among them his whole life but here, with no ship or ceiling, the context is all wrong. For a moment, he feels adrift and reeling as though he might fall upwards into the bottomless expanse.

  He crushes the distraction and returns his eyes to the horizon where hundreds of illuminated specks hover and swarm.

  “Hey.”

  Thompson turns to see Argo’s faint outline. The big man hands over a canteen.

  “What do you make of it?”

  “They’re clustered tight.” Thompson takes a long draught of water and passes the canteen back. “Must’ve found something.”

  Argo hunkers down on the outcropping and squints into the distance. “Beckert’s pod?”

  “Fair guess.” At mention of Beckert, Thompson looks toward the young Geek stashed in the trees. “How is he?”

  “He’s concussed, but he won’t admit it. It doesn’t seem to have affected his HDI or synaptic bridges. Still...”

  “Can he function?”

  Argo looks away thoughtfully. “He can, but he shouldn’t. What he needs is rest.”

  “You know we can’t…”

  “I know, Thompson.”

  The two men stare in silence at the horizon.

  “Can you do anything for him?” Thompson asks.

  “I’m watching his brain chemistry and blood flow. This kind of injury, it… It takes time.”

  Thompson nods with reluctant acceptance and looks up at the shimmering ribbons above. “What’s wrong with the sky?”

  “Colonists call them, ‘Aurora’. Charged particles from the local star get caught by the magnetic field. When they hit at
mosphere, it glows.” The Brick’s face wrinkles. “Only supposed to happen near the poles, though.”