Tropic of Creation (35 page)

Sergeant Ben Juric, no surprise. The other, from Vecchi’s description, must be Private Platis, of Marzano’s infantry.

The newcomers scrambled to the lip of the bunker, and the two groups faced each other.

Ben Juric’s left arm rested in a bloody sling. His clothes
were torn and filthy, his boots and ankles caked with layers of mud melting in the rain. One side of Juric’s face registered a notch of surprise. Pig Platis stared at Eli with round eyes in a round face. He wiped the rain from his eyes, leaving a new swath of mud there.

Whimpering behind Eli, Vecchi could contain himself no longer. “Sarge! Alpha Captain’s got a pock gun, and a bag full of food. Don’t trust what you see, could be a big surprise!”

“Captain,” Sergeant Juric said.

No salute. Everybody stood in a watery tableau.

Never one for amenities of conversation, Juric said, “Saw your flares.”

Vecchi was thrashing, trying to stand up with his hands tied behind his back. He managed to get into a crouch. “He won’t let us kill pocks! We saw one this morning, sneaking down the valley, Nazim had it in her sights, but he says, no, we’re not at war!” He giggled. “Guess we’re dyin’ on vacation, then!”

A flash of lightning froze the image, of Pig and Juric standing like gargoyles on the lip of the bunker. The moment stretched on; Juric opened his mouth, but the sky rumbled, garbling whatever answer he gave. Nazim adjusted her L-31 in the crook of her arm, her eyes lit up by lightning. Then Juric clambered into the bunker.

Eli spoke his first words to Juric. “Sergeant, this private here is confused about the chain of command. Give him the benefit of your correction.”

One-armed, the sergeant advanced on Vecchi with a look that could have frozen boiling water. If there was a moment when Juric would have taken control of the unit, it had just passed.

“Where’s your gear, Chi Chi?” he said, his voice barely audible.

“Gear?” Vecchi glanced at a mud-sodden pack at the edge of the bunker.

Juric stood his L-31 against the mud wall. Glancing at Eli, he said. “Out of ammo.” Then he knelt by Vecchi’s pack and started yanking out the few items stuffed inside it, muttering, “I find a lamp, Chi Chi, you’re a dead man.”

Pig watched as if he expected an execution at any moment.

Presently Juric said, “Well, now, you don’t have the lamp. Only thing is, you and her went missing at the same time. Gives me a funny feeling.”

“I never did anything to her, honest, Sarge.”

Juric said with elaborate sweetness, “I ain’t your mother, and I ain’t your
sarge”
He glanced up at Eli. “He needs correcting, you say?”

“Shutting him up is good enough for now.”

“Pig,” Juric said, “You know how to count?”

“Yes, sir.”

The sergeant nodded. “Figured you maybe did. Infantry’s got its standards.” He stood up, cradling his bad arm, a grimace jabbing at one corner of his mouth. “You count Chi Chi’s words. Every time we stop, he does that many push-ups.”

Pig knotted his forehead. “What if I lose count?”

“Estimate.”

Then Eli repeated for Juric and Pig as much as they needed to know of Down World, the presence of ahtra, both down and up. Juric listened, clearly not liking parts of what he heard. Eli wasn’t sure
which
parts. Pig blinked again and again, like an overload light flashing.

Rain clattered down in another volley, hitting the foliage like buckshot. It was time to put his command to the test. The bot was pivoting relentlessly, pointing at one invisible target after the next. This spot was relatively safe, but there was no future in it. Eventually a rescue ship would come—they’d make that effort for Cristin and Sascha, at least—but
eventually
they’d all be dead, and at the present rate it would be sooner rather than later.

Eli looked at Juric. “You got a reason to think anybody else survived out there?”

“No, sir.”

Eli had to admit to himself that these five were possibly the last of them. Two days of flares, and they had snared two people. It was time to leave. If what Tirinn had said about Nefer’s plans was true, CW Command needed to hear as soon as possible.

“We’re heading out to the
Lucia,”
Eli told them. “Looks from here like we’ve got some rivers to cross. The bot will build us bridges, I’m hoping. Like I said, this planet is a major underground habitat of the ahtra. Whether that breaks treaty or not isn’t for us to decide. They won’t shoot at us, I’m betting. And we won’t be shooting at them.” He let that sink in, like oil into the ground, leaving a stain. “We’ll be collecting food as we go. Nazim will show you how.” He nodded at her. “Untie Private Vecchi.”

Nazim looked reproachfully at Eli, hesitating.

“He’ll walk unarmed. Pig, you carry his loaded weapon. Under attack, he fights.”

Vecchi looked hopeful, but clamped his lips together.

Turning to Vecchi, Eli said, “You’re starting fresh, soldier. I don’t remember anything that’s happened up to now. But we won’t hear any more about ghouls.” He took everybody in with his glance. “You see something that looks half-human, kill it. That’s an order.”

Juric spoke low: “We should split into two units, split the ammo. They’re attracted to big groups. Sir.”

“That’s a good instinct, Sergeant, but we’ll stay together. The more local food we eat, the less we smell like dinner. There’s three of us who don’t smell”—he was going to say
human
, and thought better of it—“who don’t smell like a meal anymore. We’ll do better together.” He
held Juric’s gaze. The sergeant’s eyes were so radically different from each other, that the tendency was to look from one to the other. Eli held his gaze steady. “Nazim, hand out the ammo.”

“I’m with you, Sarge,” Vecchi whispered.

“Five,” Pig said.

“That was four!” Vecchi spat.

“Nine,” Pig intoned.

Juric growled at Vecchi, “Drop, soldier, and give Pig his due.” Vecchi obeyed, scowling.

To Juric, Eli said, “I figure we’ll follow the foot of the hills south, Sergeant, where the rivers don’t flow as broad. Any suggestions? ”

The answer came out more like a growl than words. “No, sir.”

As the others were packing up and handing around the last of the food, Eli spoke to Juric in a lower voice. “You have any questions, Sergeant?” He didn’t say
questions about me
. But left it open.

Juric spit to the side, looking down-valley at their planned course. “No, sir. No questions.”

Eli held back on saying more. Held back on saying,
I would have gladly died up here with everyone else
. It was too easy. He and Juric both knew there was no anchor for such words, no tether to the flesh.

Then they scrambled, each in turn, out of the bunker, heading down the steep slope into the folded gullies of the plain. It was a slipshod remnant of the crews of the
Lucia
and the
Fury:
a nineteen-year-old with the foul mouth of a master sergeant; an ox of a guy, none too bright; the meanest sergeant in Sixth Transport Division; and a mewling coward with a penchant for mutiny. Leading them, a captain who had sojourned with the enemy, and was now hopelessly compromised—in his soldiers’ eyes, and maybe his own.

*   *   *

Maret emerged from dormancy. In the dark, all she could tell was she lay curled into a tight ball. Around her hung a stench thick enough to shovel. She moved her aching limbs, trying to shake the lethargy that had settled over her like warm mud.

Her first thought was
,
A carrier. I’m in a carrier
.
The second was:
I’ve dreamed my way through Red Season
.

Backmind dredged up for the length of her dream period, and mercifully, it had been only a few spans. She rose into a crouch, staying well away from the rotting carcass near the door. Each lung full of superheated air felt like she was eating something foul.

A ping of sound needled into her awareness. Something outside had scraped the hull. Maret listened for the claws. It might have been the hot sun expanding the hull, or a seed pod exploding and hitting the carrier.

Despite the minimal rest, she felt strength flowing into her limbs. It would be enough to propel her to ronid. It had to be. She reached for the hatch-door mechanism, pausing. Perhaps the claws waited outside. She pushed the hatch mechanism, and swung the door wide.

Cool, bright air flowed over her, yanked on her vision. She sprang out of the hatchway, mav at the ready.

Pivoting, she scanned her surroundings. The live claws were gone. Dead ones lay nearby, hosting small creatures that made the most of the free meal. They looked up in alarm at her sudden appearance, springing away to the bushes. Blinking, Maret tried to orient herself. The primary sun pressed down on the land, suppressing all shadows, draining colors, leaving only a lashing heat. Her sweat-drenched clothes dried instantly. As the scavengers began to creep back out from their refuges, Maret headed out toward the wall of gray-green in the distance.

She ran between two streambeds—a clear, relatively dry way to the heart of her journey. Now, so close to her purpose, all else was forgotten: the vone on the bank of
the river, Firan, the attack of the claws. She ran until shooting pains coursed up her legs. And ran some more.

The OverWoods was farther than it looked. She had no reference for the distances of UpWorld. But eventually the gallery of trees loomed closer. She stopped to eat from her pouch, gathering her strength.

At last, and after a final push, she came up to the wall of the forest. It parted before her and she entered, seeking its cool shadows and her heart’s desire.

A matrix of sun and shade surrounded her. Amid the green-stained shadows, shafts of light created cisterns of dust and pollen. Her eyes lapped up every stray photon, so adapted was her sight to the dark ways of the hab, and its counterpart forest. From overhead, where the vines braided into a filigree canopy, a festoon of light fell upon her arm. It was in the exact shape of her arm markings, an oval defined by the coiling braid of creeping tendrils.

The bushes and hanging mosses trembled with hidden life, while insect life-forms swooped and buzzed in packs through the air. Many creatures strove here for food and mastery, including the one that she sought. And including her. She fired on creatures that charged, fell from trees, sprang from the ground. She plunged on, but no vone appeared.

As she grew weary, she hatched a new strategy, one of watch and wait.

Sizing up the trees as she passed, she inspected the drooping husks of vone sacks, split and hanging limp. Then, finding one less torn than the others, Maret climbed inside. A small pool of water had collected at the bottom, but mercifully, it wasn’t inhabited. Through the rent in the sack, she could peer out into the woods, from a pod that hid her mostly from view and surrounded her with the scent of vone, a musk avoided by all but such as she.

From this small gallery, Maret gazed out at the OverWoods and its denizens: all the living beings, animal
and plant, than ran, lurched, dropped, crept, and flew to their consummation. Throughout the long afternoon, she watched as a tree root grew imperceptibly up a small stalk, entwining it in a fatal hug. She saw gray-skinned runners no larger than her hand take down a cousin five times their size. She saw mating of every sort: animals coupled while running; languorous snakes plaited their length; insects flying in mated chains of individuals; plants from which a long central spadex emerged, arching over into a female plant; all the varieties of joining and exchanging genetic potential. No one noticed her watching or paused under her gaze. It was, an active, single-minded time, that brief span between dry seasons, when the bloodlines flowed forth, or dried up forever. Patiently, she waited.

At times, she thought that, through the chaotic patterns of green, she could make out a tall pale creature with fur on its head, one who went abroad in the blue uniform of a captain of Congress Worlds, who sought a good death that could have no lasting purpose. She saw this vision, as the humans said, in her
mind’s eye
. She willed it to be so, that Eli had won his freedom, his ascension.
Because he is remembered in the flow, he is one of us
. How Nefer would despise such an idea! How Maret would have despised it, so short a time ago.

In the late afternoon, as the primary sun threw vertical stripes of light through the forest, she saw a tall shadow, a bulk walking in stately cadence toward her. A vone.

One moment the clearing before her had been full of pink-winged insects, flapping in a rosy broth of air. The next instant, a vone was standing there. Luck was with her; it was a male. Slowly twisting his great head back and forth, he crinkled his forehead crest in successive waves. He was close enough to display for Maret his silvery oval markings, and the concentric, fainter ones within.

He was humming.

The deep song filled the forest depths like a swirling tincture in water. It was a long melody, with one series of familiar repeating notes, just out of reach of her memory. The melody, the slant of sun on the vone’s skin, was all she could hear and see. It filled her. Even the bright slash of blood on the vone’s thigh was no blemish. This was UpWorld: both death and life.

He turned toward her. If he was hungry, and she paled before him, he would kill her.

But there were no two minds about this encounter. She stepped from her hiding place, her skin dark and lush. She stood waiting, hungrily, helplessly.…

The vone saw her and approached, his great feet crushing vines and sticks underneath his weight. He towered over her, close to twice her height. Then one long arm descended in a gesture she had seen before. But this time the arm swept down slowly, no death slash. He crouched slightly, laying his arm along the forest floor. Instinctively, she knew what to do. Stepping forward, she straddled the forearm, facing the muscular shoulder.

Then, tucking his arm behind him, the vone began to stride away from the clearing. Maret clung to him, gripping her thighs tightly against the vone’s arm as he struck out into the heart of the woods, his easy gait dipping her up and down in an undulating wave.
Yes. Yes
, came her intoxicated thoughts.