"Nice job, Lieutenant," Jones said. "Never wavered from profile. Escape velocity in fifteen. Temperatures stable. Checking good."
"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 phosphorescent 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 gods, they are frightening beyond comprehension," Craag spoke at last.
"Gods would be less frightening," Bott'a said.
"They are not gods," 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 mass 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.
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, assault 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! 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.