Glory Main (6 page)

“They talked to you, though.”

“Hey, you move enough gurneys for them and they forget you're a headshrinker. Besides, I think they felt sorry for me. All that training and no job.”

“Huh?”

She gave off a short, helpless laugh. “The only cases I ever got to handle were mandatory referrals or the ones who'd actually cracked up. Oh, I did get to listen to a ­couple of higher-­highers complain about how lonely they were and that their subordinates didn't like them, but all that did was piss me off. Every one of them spent years chasing that rank, some of them did really shitty things to get ahead, and now that they finally had what they'd been after so long, they had the nerve to say they didn't like it. Boo fuckin' hoo.”

They exchanged fraternal smiles, Mortas wondering if his own father might sometimes feel the way Trent was describing.

“Anyway, most ­people know that everything they tell me gets reported. So there's not a lot of walk-­in traffic. Heck, I was originally assigned to triage so I could comfort the dying, but then they changed the regs because the psychoanalysts were supposedly upsetting the wounded. But that was a lie; they just didn't want anyone getting into the Waiting Room who didn't absolutely have to be there.”

“Waiting Room?”

“Another one of those phrases. More like the Waiting To Die Room, but it's not as bad as it sounds. They've got attendants and plenty of painkillers, but once you go in you're not coming out.”

A dark rumor from Officer Basic tiptoed into his head. A former enlisted man, veteran of numerous fights, promising them that if they made it back to a ship their chances of living were better than fifty-­fifty no matter how badly banged up they were. And that even if they couldn't be saved they'd never know it.

Mortas was so engrossed in the memory that he didn't realize Cranther had moved until the scout was standing next to him. The skull cap was in his hand, and he was scratching the stubble on his head. Yawning, he murmured, “Now you know why my ‘type' always wants to know where the hot chow is. You gotta be crazy to hang around the sick bay.”

 

CHAPTER 4

T
hey were approaching the mountain when the ration bag blew by. The dark edifice had grown massive with all the hours of walking, even when seen from inside the chasms. They got lucky with the timing, as Cranther had climbed up to check the surface when the bag appeared. One moment he'd been crouched on a small ledge near the top of the ravine and the next he was gone, as abruptly as if a giant bird had plucked him from their midst.

Mortas, robbed of energy by the constant ache in his stomach, had been sitting with the others when the scout scrambled away. He'd looked up in a daze, telling himself that he really should climb up there to see what was going on, when Trent beat him to it. She hopped up onto the spot vacated by Cranther, squatting while in the air so that only her head was visible when she landed. Mortas shook his head, not sure that he'd actually seen the display of acrobatics, but he didn't get any more time to consider it. Cranther rolled over the side and dropped into the gully with a thud, his arms wrapped around his torso.

Mortas and Gorman both pulled him to his feet, confused by the theatrics until they saw that he was clutching the dull yellow rectangle of a combat ration. The rubberized pouch had been torn open at the top, and the scout upended it to show it was empty. Even so, its effect was explosive.

“Is it real?”

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Are there any more? Did you see any more?”

The words spewed from their mouths while the four of them passed the object from hand to hand like a priceless artifact. Mortas simply stood there, one hand on Cranther's shoulder and the other on Gorman's, swaying with fatigue and hunger and staring at the empty bag. He finally found the words.

“How old is it? Can you tell?”

Cranther spit a few flecks of dirt from his lips before smiling up at him. “We may not have to find that cliff after all, El-­tee. That bag hasn't been blowing around here more than a few days.”

“W
e need to get up on that mountain, Lieutenant.”

“How?” Mortas's patience had finally worn thin. It had taken a remarkably short time for the elation caused by the ration bag to erode. They'd walked for two more hours, finally reaching the base of the new ridge and also discovering that it ended only a short distance from where they now huddled. His head throbbed from dehydration, and his hands were shaking from hunger. Gorman's feet were obviously torturing him even though he hadn't said a word in complaint, and even Trent was showing signs of exhaustion.

“We won't have to climb it. If we just skirt around the end there I'm sure we'll have a nice, easy walk up.”

“Why? We need water, and I guarantee there's none up there.”

“What we need is to find whoever left that ration bag. If the Force put a survey team down here, they'll be cruising around in some kind of vehicle. And the only way to see where they are, or where they went, is to get up high.”

“What if they're not a survey team?” Gorman was holding the metal pole now, his hands gripping it tightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “What if they're a recon outfit? What if they're Spartacans?”

“They're not Spartacans. If they were, we'd never have seen that ration bag. But if they're some other kind of recon, they'll be up on the high ground.”

“The water's not up on that mountain. Look around you; the vegetation's actually got some color to it, there are roots right here”—­Mortas reached out and gave a tug at the tiny brown shoots protruding from the wall—­“and we're out of water. You said it yourself, we die if we don't find more.”

“We die anyway if we don't find whoever dropped that bag.”

“What if we're wrong?” Gorman's voice was a thin rasp. “Wrong about who dropped that thing? What if it's the Sims?”

“The Sims. Come on, Gorman, even a shipboard type has to know they can't eat our food and we can't eat theirs.”

“I do. But that doesn't mean it couldn't have been dropped by them instead of us. You never picked up something the enemy left behind, Corporal? Just out of curiosity?”

“Looking for intelligence is more like it. But this planet was listed as uninhabited when we went into the tubes, and now we found a human ration bag on it. What are you saying? Both sides landed here while we were being shit out the back end of that transport?”

“Actually, the Inserts are launched from the sides.”

“You know what I mean.” Cranther turned away in disgust. “Listen, Lieutenant, let me go up there alone. I can be up and back in no time.”

Mortas's brain bucked against him weakly. So tired. So sick of walking. So hungry. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to let Cranther go and check it out . . .

“We shouldn't split up.” Trent spoke with her eyes on the ground.

“What's wrong, Captain? Afraid I'm gonna run off?”

“Right now nothing would please me more.”

“Okay, enough of that.” Mortas struggled to his feet. For an instant he envisioned himself running off instead of Cranther, finally free of the advice and the complaints and the bickering. “Cranther and I will go up on the ridge while you two—­”

“Lieutenant.” Gorman's voice was a hiss, and for a moment Mortas expected him to protest that he was fit enough to make the climb. He looked over sharply, but the mapmaker was pointing at something in the distance, his arm fully extended. Standing there leaning on the pipe, he looked like some ancient sage guiding his ­people through the wilderness.

They all looked, and a moment later got to see what was so important. A large bird had flown between the two ridges, less than a mile from where they stood. It descended gracefully, as if coming in to land, and just before it disappeared below the level of the underbrush it unfurled an appendage from its beak.

“What was that? Its tongue?”

“Wait.” Cranther had stepped among them, his finger pointed as if imitating Gorman. His arm kept moving, though, tracing the bird's flight behind the bushes. Judging the location of the ground, he gently brought the same arm up in a low trajectory, as if predicting where the bird would reemerge. He was only off by a second or two, as the creature rose into view again with a loud flap of its huge wings. Mortas didn't want to say it, fearing it was in his mind, but he could have sworn he saw drops of water trailing from the bird's tail feathers.

“It wasn't a tongue. It was some kind of a straw. There's standing water right over there.”

“H
ow much longer are we going to wait?” Gorman's voice was barely audible, but from lack of water more than caution. The group was huddled back-­to-­back in a bed of tall yellow grass on the edge of the most beautiful creek Mortas had ever seen.

“It's like I told you. The predators always stake out the water source.” Cranther's eyes were in constant motion, roving along the opposite bank. He'd guided them to a spot where the stream took a sharp turn and then had them hunker down in the grass near its edge. The plastic bucket was now tied to the end of the pipe they'd carried for so long, but the scout still insisted they wait.

The stream was probably only fifty yards wide, but the current was fast and the sound of the running water was driving Mortas mad. All twelve of the empty hoses were stacked in the center of their tiny perimeter, waiting to be filled. The dust of the long journey had turned them a dull red, and when he spared a glance at the others he saw the same color on faces, clothes, and hands.

“Okay.” Cranther slowly shifted from a squatting position to his stomach in the weeds. He gently spread the brush directly in front of him and then, instead of extending the pole, began handing back some of the stones that obviously formed the stream's bed. He whispered without turning, his eyes fixed on the water. “Be ready to start heaving these things if something tries to grab me.”

“Just get the water, will you?” Mortas hissed.

The scout turned his head long enough to give that ghostly smile again, just before taking the pole and sliding the plastic container toward the water. He extended it to almost its entire length before gently easing it into the flow. It filled quickly, and he had difficulty lifting the weight as he retracted it. The laden bucket scraped against the stones and then it was in his hands. The short man rolled over into a sitting position, holding the precious container like a baby.

All four of them were now staring at it, gummed tongues playing across pasty lips. Cranther looked up, and for the first time Mortas saw indecision in his eyes.

“Remember: Just because this place is a Hab doesn't mean all the water's drinkable. With no colonies here, maybe none of it is.”

“It has to be.” Croaked Gorman. “The bird drank it.”

“Bird comes from here. We don't.”

“So what do we do? Stare at it?” Mortas could feel his throat constricting, begging for the liquid.

“Somebody has to try it.”

Shuffling forward, Gorman took the container by the sides and raised it to his lips, the pole still attached. One small sip. He stopped, licking his lips and blinking quickly as if trying to identify the taste. Then another one, longer. He slowly sat back, still clutching the bucket and looking thoughtful.

“It's definitely water. Not sure if anything else is in it.” He drank again, long, slow swallows.

“So now what?” Mortas was finding it hard not to reach for the receptacle.

“By the book, we should wait a full day and see how he's doing once it's gone all the way through his system.” Trent spoke as if in a trance, not accepting her own words. “But even then if there's a bug in this stuff we might not know it.”

“And we've got to get moving again.” Cranther. “We've got to get back up on the high ground if there's any chance of finding whoever left that ration bag.”

Mortas could feel the three pairs of eyes boring into him even though he was still fixated on the bucket. So many decisions. Couldn't
one
of them be easy?

“Everybody drink some. After that we fill up the hoses and get moving.”

Cranther nodded and took the bucket from Gorman, raising it to his mouth. His eyes shut as he drank, ecstatic, but he left enough for both Mortas and Trent. When Trent had emptied the vessel she fed the pole over Cranther's shoulder where he once again lay in the brush. He started extending it again, and was about to ease it into the water, when he whispered, “Everybody keep your eyes open.”

It was as if he'd recited a summoning spell. One moment Mortas was greedily watching the container dipping toward the surface, and then everything was motion and terror and noise. The rippling water bursting upward like a geyser, its center a black-­green tube the width of a man's thigh. Open jaws and teeth, snapping madly. Hurtling toward the group even as Mortas dived backward, panic-­stricken, a choked cry of insane prehistoric fear springing from within.

Seeing, even in his panic, the jaws smashing down on the plastic bucket. The pole bending as Cranther tried to ward off the beast, hollering, “Hit it! Hit it! Hit it!” before desperately scuttling backward. Gorman grabbing the short man by the collar, yanking him away, into the brush.

Trent kneeling, snatching up the forgotten stones and heaving them at the beast with incredible speed. Gorman bouncing off of her when his hand slipped from Cranther's shirt and he fell over. Cranther flipping onto his stomach and crashing through the brush in a frenzied crawl. Trent throwing one of the rocks perfectly, smacking the awful maw with a wet, meaty thud. Mortas grabbing her arm as he scrambled past, his eyes darting back over his shoulder. The nightmare thing dropping onto the mashed grass where Cranther had been, already wriggling in retreat toward its element. In a moment it was gone, but that didn't stop him from pushing Trent in front of him, running hard after the other two.

They might have fled for quite a distance had Cranther not managed to get his feet tangled up in the pipe that he miraculously still carried. It sent him sprawling in the grass, and Gorman was so close behind that he went down too. Trent almost managed to stop before running them over, but Mortas barreled into her so hard that they both ended up in the pile.

All tangled arms, legs, and weeds, Mortas found himself face to face with Cranther. The scout's eyes were huge and his mouth opened and shut more than once before he finally got the words out.

“What . . . was . . . that?”

“T
hey're coming, Corporal.”

Gorman gave the warning in a flat, low voice. Cranther was prone on a narrow rock that jutted out over the stream, the pole down in the water. They'd lost the bucket in the first attack, but the current was strong enough to fill the water tubes if they were dangled in just the right way. Filling, they swished back and forth and took on an eerie resemblance to the serpents that had tried to kill them.

And that was what they were: Serpents. The riverine monsters varied in size, the largest ones twenty feet long and as big around as a man's waist. After composing themselves from their earlier flight, the group had traveled upstream in search of a safer spot to try and get more water. They'd been left alone briefly, but disturbing the current with the hoses had alerted the serpents to their presence no matter how many times they'd moved. Although these predators weren't amphibian, they hadn't hesitated to launch themselves up onto the bank a short distance once they'd noticed that a possible meal was near.

Perhaps the worst part was seeing just how many of them had gathered over time. The presence of food and the thrashing of the earliest arrivals had drawn quite a crowd. The humans had been driven from two different spots before finding the overhanging rock, and even though they knew it wasn't out of range for the leaping predators, it at least provided some protection.