"Roger, Boats," she exhaled. "Checking good." She smiled, proud of herself. Full-manual takeoffs from planetary gravity were done only in an emergency. Things could go very wrong, very fast. She peered ahead, into the deep purple of the thinning atmosphere.

The hunters breathlessly watched the phosph.o.r.escent fireball scream into the pastel heavens, a white-hot exhaust trailing an immense tongue of orange flame. As the silver-tipped explosion neared the high wispy clouds, the roaring missile brush-stroked brilliant shades of red and yellow instantaneously across their dark undersides. The glowing rapier leapt from the planet's shadow and into direct sunlight, trailing a glorious and starkly white plume. Braan rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe out the fiery ghost images. Gradually they faded, allowing his night vision to adapt to the descending dusk. Braan hopped from the rocks. Hunters not on watch followed, congregating in the rocky clearing adjacent to their cave. They sat dumbly.

"Even if not G.o.ds, they are frightening beyond comprehension," Craag spoke at last.

"G.o.ds would be less frightening," Bott'a said.

"They are not G.o.ds," Braan added softly. "I have been near to them. They are frightened... perhaps more frightened than we."

"Then they are dangerous, for the frightened eagle crushes its own egg," Craag said. Silence returned to the little clearing. Bott'a jumped lightly to his feet and motioned to Kibba. The watch mates wordlessly departed through the bushes. It was their turn to collect food, and fishing was too good to sit around talking. Brappa followed. Craag remained.

"Thy plan, Braan-our-leader?" Craag asked directly.

Braan was not offended. Craag had proven his loyalty many times over. By waiting for the others to depart he had rendered due respect. Braan looked the warrior in the eye, done only in challenge or in affection, and smiled to indicate the latter.

"A difficult situation," Braan said. "We must inform the council."

"Should we not leave watchers?" Craag asked. "I volunteer." "Yes. We will learn by watching the long-legs." Braan grew apprehensive. "My son will expect to stay," he said.

"If thou desire, I will insist on one more experienced."

Braan almost smiled. "Thou hast forgotten the pride of youth, my friend. It would not do to coddle my son."

"Perhaps the long-legs will go away," Craag said hopefully. "No," Braan whistled. "Our futures are tangled."

Buccari, still wearing her EPL pressure suit, floated onto the flight deck and strapped in. She was exhausted; the responsibility of flying the lander to and from the planet, the inability to make a mistake, had taken its toll. Quinn and Hudson watched her without speaking.

"What's your guess, Sharl?" Quinn finally asked.

"No idea, Commander," she replied, yawning.

"Maintenance diagnostics are going to take time," Hudson said.

"Without mothership systems it'll take at least two days," Buccari said. "We'll run a simulation. Jones is loading the programs, but I think Nash or Virgil should supervise. Jones's out of gas."

"Virgil, er...Mr. Rhodes just called in," Hudson interjected. "He's already relieved Jones. He knows EPL maintenance as well as anyone."

"You were right, Commander...about getting the crew down first," Buccari said. "We may not have many flights left in the old apple."

"They may be nothing wrong with the lander," Quinn replied, "and any decision would have had risk. Be thankful that most of the crew are safe. Without them on board we have enough air and water to take a couple of days to find out what's wrong, and you can use the rest."

Buccari floated numbly in her tethers, grateful for having been overridden.

"Nash, let Sergeant Shannon know about the delay," Quinn said.

The smell of roasted rockdog hung heavy in the still darkness. The smoke from the dying campfire disappeared straight up into star-blasted skies. The humans were quiet, sitting back or lying down, bellies full of tough meat. In the flickering light Shannon and O'Toole labored with a crude smoking oven. Raw meat would spoil quickly; cooked and salted, it would last much longer.

Shannon straightened, trying to loosen kinks in his tired muscles. Satisfied that O'Toole understood what to do, the sergeant walked into the darkness to use the latrine ditch. He detected a faint glow on the horizon. A tiny limb of the planet's smaller moon broke into view and palpably climbed the black sky, pulling its irregular ma.s.s after it. His bladder relieved, Shannon sat down on a downed tree and stared into the distance, mesmerized by the moonrise. Fatigue displaced his vigilance. He was anxious for the commanderto take the burden of responsibility. Shannon was trained to lead but not to be the leader. His career had been dedicated to faithfully executing the tactical orders of superior officers. This was not a tactical situation-it was a survival situation, and there was more than just Marines to worry about.

A twig snapped. Instantly alert, Shannon abandoned his stupor on the fallen log and moved toward the noise, pulling his knife. Soft rustlings emanated from the shadows, sporadic and barely discernible. The Marine crept obliquely toward the desultory sounds, trying to flank the noisemakers and to manufacture a silhouette against the faint glow of the fire. His own blade glinted in the guttering light. Slowly he pinched inwards, sliding from tree to tree, staring into darkness.

Movement! He retreated behind a rough-barked trunk, stealthily lowering into a crouch. Twisting to keep his weight balanced, aching knees protesting, he rounded the tree and peered into the shadows. His peripheral vision revealed indistinct forms, four-legged and long-necked. Small beasts, less than waist high to a man. He retreated behind a rough-barked trunk, stealthily lowering into a crouch. Twisting to keep his weight balanced, aching knees protesting, he rounded the tree and peered into the shadows. His peripheral vision revealed indistinct forms, four-legged and long-necked. Small beasts, less than waist high to a man.

More movement and sharp noises erupted from Shannon's flank, startling the animals. In the blink of an eye they bounded from sight, their delicate leaps hardly stirring the fir needles.

"Sarge!" A stage whisper-Tatum's voice. "Sarge, is that you?" Tatum' s gangling form appeared from the darkness, a.s.sault rifle pointed threateningly.

"Yeah, it's me, Sandy. Put down your weapon before you ruin my day." Shannon sheathed his knife and stood erect, feeling a dull pain in his bones. Another figure materialized-the tall feminine form of Nancy Dawson. Women! Women! Shannon cursed to himself. Shannon cursed to himself.

"Evening, Petty Officer Dawson," he said.

"Good evening, Sergeant Major," she said, a spark in her voice. "Just thought we'd come out and give you some company." "Thank you. Appreciate it."

"See something, Sarge?" Tatum asked. "Or did we, er... interrupt you?"

"No, Tatum. You didn't frigging interrupt me," Shannon snarled, grateful it was too dark to see the look on Dawson' s face. "Saw some animals, like tiny deer." He plowed through the thicket in the direction of the campfire. Tatum and Dawson followed, catching the whiplash of the branches.

"You should be more careful, Sarge," Dawson admonished. "Could have been something big and dangerous, and you out here all by yourself-with just your knife!"

Shannon was tired, but he held his temper. She was right. He should not have wandered into the darkness alone. He admired Dawson's boldness, but he wished she would not lay it on too heavily. Tatum would spread it around enough as it was.

"Made your point, Dawson. You're right. But don't think I'm going to take back that chewing out I gave you. I did that for your own good, and to make a point for everyone else."

They walked into the circle of firelight, but still out of earshot of the rest of the crew.

"Fair enough, Sarge," Dawson said quietly, clear eyes glowing orange in the flickering light. "But, I didn't come after you to get even. I asked Sandy to go looking because I was worried-worried about you." She smiled, a warm smile for him alone, and then walked quickly away.

Shannon stood, abashed, unable to cope with the direct sentiment. He glanced at Tatum still standing at his side, sporting a silly smirk. Shannon did not have to speak; the look on his face was as eloquent as it was fierce. The smirk vanished and the corporal wisely double-timed back to his tent.

MacArthur cringed as he sniffed the air, the fetid stink of the buffalo herds alarmingly pungent in the stillness of morning. He turned to his partner. Chastain settled under his load like a strong-hearted beast of burden. As much as possible had been removed from MacArthur's pack, whatever they could do without having been wrapped and buried. Yet his lightened pack still rode heavily. His shoulder was weak, the laceration not healed, and it was painful; but MacArthur could no longer endure the waiting. The lander flights had stopped. Something was wrong.

They hiked down the valley, toward the river. Spongy taiga disappeared as they traversed sections of weathered lava pocked with steaming sulfur vents, reminders of the smoking mountains on their flanks. The yellow-barked trees increased in number and size as the spring led them downward, flowing through cauldrons of bubbling mud before joining a crystalline artesian upwelling, and onward, growing into a small stream as tributaries added to itshappy gurgle. They observed two breathtaking geyser eruptions and heard the distant roaring exhausts of numerous others.

Dainty birds of red and yellow plumage serenaded their pa.s.sage, and hoofprints of small deer were seen, although the animals remained hidden in ample cover. The brush thickened as they progressed; runs of alder and willowlike bushes impeded movement along the running water, and berry brambles lined the stream banks, their th.o.r.n.y branches covered with bright red fruit. Blueberries, initially thick underfoot, disappeared as they descended.

MacArthur saw the paw print in soft ground next to the stream. "Jocko!" he gasped. "Look at this! Here's your bear!" It was a forepaw, with a span thrice that of a human hand. Predatory claw marks impaled the muddy soil. "Christ, it's huge!" MacArthur said, stepping back. He looked around warily for more tracks, or their source.

"Told you!" Chastain blurted. "What do we do if we see one?" "Don't shoot... unless you have to." MacArthur stepped out, senses heightened.

Chastain' s round face brightened. "My pappa once told me about David Crockett. You ever hear of David Crockett, Mac?" They plowed through bushes, the stream noisy to their left.

"Yeah, I heard of Davy Crockett," MacArthur replied. "Wore a c.o.o.nskin cap." Several seconds went by; Chastain seemed to be thinking. MacArthur forged ahead, fighting the bushes. He moved away from the stream.

"My pappa says David Crockett used to hunt bear by smiling at them."

"What, Jocko? Smiling? You kidding me?"

"Yeah-I mean, no," Chastain continued. "David Crockett would see a bear coming, and he would just stand there and smile. The bear would get confused and stop...or something. I don't remember what happened next. But my pappa says it's a true story. David Crockett use to hunt bears by smiling at 'em."

MacArthur chuckled. They broke through blue-flowered thickets and moved onto an outcropping of lichen-covered rock where the stream joined a similar-sized tributary. The terrain descended sharply, filling the watercourse with splashing white water. In the distance they glimpsed the river valley. Beyond the valley MacArthur saw foothills reaching into hazy ridges, and beyond the ridges were magnificent, white-shrouded peaks, partially obscured by low clouds. The sun-star exhibited a golden halo of ice crystals, portent of change.

The land gradually flattened, the adolescent river running smoothly with occasional deep stretches. In the shadows swam dark-backed fish, and the fish invited the attention of bears. MacArthur rounded a bend of large boulders and found himself a dozen paces from the broad back of an ursine monster. The bear stared into the water, ma.s.sive forepaw poised to strike. MacArthur froze. He eased a forearm straight up, fingers spread, and slowly turned his head, moving a finger to his lips. The Marine retraced his steps, waving behind his back for Chastain to retreat. Walking backward, MacArthur did not see the loose rock on the river's edge. The crumbling shelf gave way, and MacArthur, with a loud splash and an involuntary half-choked yell, slid into the rushing water. The flailing Marine scrambled onto the rock bank and clumsily regained his feet. Chastain moved forward.

The giant beast wheeled and was on them, great flanks and shoulders convulsing, shaking away clouds of dust and insects. Growling belligerently, it reared to its majestic height, menacingly glaring down at them with beady golden eyes. Bigger than even the largest Earth bear, its ears were floppier, more pointed, and its wet, black nose and wolfish snout longer, but the differences were overwhelmed by the similarities. It stank of fish and wet fur; its coat, ragged and mangy, was the color of bright rust, with dusky mane draping back and shoulders. Powerful muscles rippled under its hide, and ma.s.sive forepaws, with cutla.s.s claws, waved in the air. The bear sniffed the breeze, opening and shutting its mouth to gather and taste the strange scents, drooling and displaying dreadful yellowed fangs. The animal remained ominously quiet, perplexed by the sight of humans. MacArthur, dripping wet, was afraid to move. His rifle was slung over his pack, and his pistol was b.u.t.toned into its holster. He dared to glance sideways, to see if Chastain was ready. Chastain stood rifle in hand, but it was aimed at the ground. Disbelieving, MacArthur could only stare at his companion. Chastain stood confidently erect, cherubic features broken by an idiot's grin. MacArthur' s eyes rolled skyward. His trembling hand crept toward his holster.

The vignette held for eternal seconds. Slowly, very slowly, MacArthur worked his pistol free and made ready to repulse an attack, while Chastain just stood-smiling. The bear fell back on its haunches and closed its mouth. MacArthur looked at Chastain and back to the bear, trepidation abating. Unable to resist, MacArthur' s mouth formed an unsteady, toothy grin. More time crept by. The bear dropped to its front paws, slowly turned, and lumbered out of sight behind the rocks.

MacArthur released his breath and forced the muscles of his mouth to relax, wiping a frozen grin away with a sweaty palm. Inhaling a week's supply of air, he holstered his pistol, jerked his rifle from his pack, and signaled for Chastain to return the way they had come. Keeping as quiet as they knew how, the Marines made a wide detour before turning back in the direction of the river.

Half an hour later Chastain broke the silence: "Hey Mac, what's a c.o.o.nskin cap?"

She had to admit it; the generator made sense.

Chapter 10.

Third Landing "Take the generator!" Buccari shouted. "That's crazy!" She and Quinn had retired to the mess decks, joining Rhodes and leaving Hudson on the flight deck. Gunner Wilson was on watch in the communications center.

"We need a power source," Quinn said patiently. "Nearly everyone's down and safe. Now's an acceptable time to take risks. With fuel from the lander we can keep the generator running for years. We can recharge our electrical equipment. We can generate heat. We can keep some level of civilized behavior. It'll be a long time before we're rescued, and Shannon says it's cold down there."

"Commander, I understand," Buccari debated. "That's what I wanted in the first place, but...you were right. The lander is unreliable. I say we load everyone in the lander and get down on the planet while we can. It's too risky to try two runs."

"The lander has gone through a full diagnostic, and we fixed everything that was possibly broken. Right, Virgil?"

"We found all sorts of discrepancies. Full maintenance checks always do," the engineer declared. "We switched out the blaster control. All systems look good."

"All systems look good," Quinn cajoled, his tone revealing his impatience. "Enough discussion. Two more flights, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir," Buccari said, struggling to sound supportive. "The sooner we try it out, the sooner we'll know what we're up against." She noticed Quinn's fatigue. His eyes had dark circles. His features were haggard, his head and face stubble grizzled and scruffy.

"Two more flights," Quinn repeated with less of an edge. "Virgil and I will keep this hulk alive for a few more orbits. You and Jones take Chief Wilson and Mr. Hudson down with the generator. I have a feeling we will be in for a long, cold winter."

MacArthur and Chastain broke through the last line of brambles. Their burgeoning little watercourse spilled out of its defile and was soon lost in a wide, shallow, gravel-rattling flow. Large bars and shoals built up by previous floods were strung at irregular intervals across the valley bottom. Many of the buildups had reverted to solid land, overgrown with trees and underbrush. Smooth stones squeaked beneath their boots.

"Don't you want to make camp?" Chastain asked.

MacArthur checked the skies, his shoulder pain dulled by the long day's efforts. The overcast was darker. Winds had shifted from the south. The weather had changed.

"Let's keep moving," MacArthur said. "Looks like rain, and I don't want this river rising any higher. I figure no more than four or five kilometers to high ground." He crunched across gravel. The first finger of the river was wide but barely ankle deep.

"This won't be hard to cross," Chastain said. "It's a bunch of shallow rivers."

"Yeah," MacArthur grunted, looking into the distance. A fine mist hung in the air. A low rumbling intruded into his awareness. The next channel was deeper and more powerful but only paces across. They lifted their packs overhead and forded the opaque green-gray torrent. Chilled by the icy waters, the Marines trudged onward, crossing more and more fingers of river. In midvalley they heard a double sonic boom.

"They're still there," Chastain said, looking upwards. MacArthur said nothing, staring futilely into the clouds. The noise signified the presence of other humans and paradoxically made the Marine feel even lonelier. MacArthur moved out with renewed vigor.

Shannon stood on the high plateau and stared into the overcast. Lee, with her medical equipment, stood at his side. The double sonic boom had echoed overhead ten minutes earlier-the lander should be on final. There it was-a black pinpoint against gray clouds, growing larger. He pa.s.sed the alert over helmet radio. He had to get the cargo off fast; the weather was deteriorating.

The lander had definition; he made out the cruciform shape of wings and tail hanging in the air, rock-steady on glide slope; magically it grew larger. Closer, it appeared to settle and drift to the right, his offset from the landing point generating enough parallax to provide perspective. The EPL commenced landing transition, slowly raising nose att.i.tude and bleeding off airspeed. Huge flaps deployed. The craft approached in a silent, graceful swoop. But then the nose of the craft jerked sideways. The lander oscillated back and forth, a cobra with its hood fully deployed. Something was wrong!

Buccari was ready. She felt the renegade inputs. They had come earlier this time, before main engine firing. She had two options: abort the landing-hit full igniters and blast back into orbit-or ride it in, hoping the retro programs would work correctly while she overrode the controls. Training and logic said to wave off and return to the corvette. Intuition told her the lander was only going to behave worse the next time. In a fraction of a second she chose to fly the landing and get those on board safely down.

The controls kicked in her hands; the autopilot had not disengaged. She fought for control, using both hands on the stick.

"Boats!" she roared. "Kill the control master! Disengage she roared. "Kill the control master! Disengage now!" now!"

Overcoming ingrained conditioning, Jones moved in blur, hitting the control master. The retros would have to be manually fired! Buccari felt the flight controls relax. She moved her left hand to the power quadrant and engaged retro-igniters. Monitoring the main fuel feeds, she hit the ignition with quick pulses. The main engines rumbled. She checked the engine gimbal angle indicator; it had set correctly during transition. Buccari fired hard on the hover blaster and felt the nose surge backward. She eased up on the blasters and applied more power to the mains. The craft oscillated into landing att.i.tude, but it was burning fuel at a horrendous rate! She moved to deploy the landing skids and noticed that Jones had already done so. With nothing left to do but pray, she tweaked power down. The lander settled with an ugly, sc.r.a.ping bounce. She urgently secured the fuel flow to mains and blasters, afraid to see how much fuel was left. Forcing herself, she stared at the gauges.

Tears welled in her eyes. The fuel levels were so low! But she knew what she had to do. The decision was easy.

"Boats, get this thing unloaded and made ready," she shouted. "But Lieutenant-" Jones started to speak.

"Get moving, Boats!"

"But Lieutenant, no way this bucket's going to make orb-" "Jones," she hissed. "That's an order."

"Aye.. .aye, Lieutenant," Jones replied softly.

"Lieutenant, Shannon here," Shannon's voice came up on radio. Buccari looked outside and saw the sergeant. Lee and another helmet-masked Marine stood nearby. Tatum, judging from his height.

"Yes, Sergeant, and don't say anything about the landing," she replied, trying to calm her rampaging emotions.

"Aye, sir. It looks like you still have a problem."

"A big one, Sergeant." Buccari leaned back, sensing the nagging pressure of gravity against her back. "I've got to rendezvous with the 'vette as soon as possible. I can't shut down, and I'm below critical fuel." It was a confession.

"I'm no pilot, Lieutenant," Shannon transmitted, "but I know when things are out of control. Are you sure you-"