Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (55 page)

“You consider us a knight and the Crax and CGIG scientists, engineers, and security forces pawns?”

“You missed the point. There isn’t a black and white answer.” I thought back. “Euchre. We don’t have both bowers and the trump ace. We have to count on our partner for a trick or two.”

“And Pilot Loser is our partner.”

“Correct. And I suspect that our opponents have strong hands. Do we let them call trump?”

“So,” said McAllister. “You say trust her.”

“No. That’s the problem. I don’t know whether to trust her or go it on our own.”

“You’d kill her?” asked Guerrero.

McAllister answered, “Until Pilot Loser opened her mouth, he was going to do it tomorrow morning.”

Chapter 38

Seven basic characteristics classify life: composed of cells, requires energy, reproduces, displays heredity, responds to environment, maintains homeostasis, and evolves and adapts. Until the Silicate War all seven applied. Like many of man’s previous assumptions of the universe and its workings, exploration, discovery, and experience changed long-held views. An example might be a subgroup of a species sacrificing the rest of its kind for power and profit. A contrary view would consider such an action to ensure survival, rather than the utter annihilation
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Being crowded in the LLTV for long periods didn’t help anyone’s mood, but the travel northward, and frigid weather, made it necessary. “McAllister,” I asked, “progress report on your infiltration program.”

“Nearing completion. They’ve utilized Crax elements in the security programming.” She didn’t complete the sentence. Instead she continued tapping at the mounted console.

Skids rode crowded in back with Pilot Boyd and me while Guerrero handled the submerged LLTV. The Chicher always managed to locate a perch somewhere.

“Well,” I said, “it would’ve been much harder if Boyd hadn’t provided insight into the equipment salvaged from her fighter.” McAllister ignored me and continued to work. I leaned toward Pilot Boyd. “How much longer?”

Boyd looked up from her sewing, through the windshield and into the blue-green water. “Less than a week. The snorkel device really makes a difference.” She went back to binding the white fabric to the sleeve of a survival jacket.

“When the surface isn’t too rough,” reminded Guerrero. “That’s less and less often.”

I held out a long strip of dried slug. “Anyone?”

There were no takers except the Chicher. “I will nibble with you, Security Man.”

I tore the eight-inch strip in half. The diplomat relished the treat. I chewed and suffered its salty, bitter taste. “If you’re going to eat this stuff,” I said to no one in particular, “may as well make a meal of it and get it over with. One bite or ten, aftertaste lasts for hours.” I pulled another strip and choked it down.

Skids said, “We still have cal-packs.”

I swallowed. “For now. Better to save them.”

Skids sat up straight. “But we’re going to escape with Pilot Boyd’s help.”

I stared at Boyd and answered, “Nothing is guaranteed.”

I didn’t sleep well the last night in the LLTV, but weeks of boredom compensated. “So the plan remains. You, the Chicher and I will tramp ahead and shelter. You’ll return to pick up McAllister, Guerrero and Skids.”

“Correct,” said Boyd. “I’m the only one with arctic survival training. You and the Chicher have some outdoor experience.”

“Then the Chicher and I forge ahead.” I pointed to a map. “To this ridge and establish a second shelter and wait.”

Boyd nodded. “With you two R-Techs, restricting electronics or other detectable equipment shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Do you want to demonstrate this magnetic locator again?” I asked, smiling.

“No. Nine times should suffice. Just make sure you don’t break it or we’ll never locate the second shelter.”

“Understood,” I said. “We’ll be within two kilometers of the station’s outer perimeter.”

“I’ll secure the LLTV,” said Guerrero. “It should remain hidden if we need to retreat.”

“We’ll set it to self-destruct after twenty days, or if tampered with,” added McAllister. “Everyone but Pilot Boyd will have the code.”

“Fair enough,” Boyd said. “Let’s get under way.” She set the example by donning her white-covered coat.

“Layers,” I told Skids. “I’ve got thermals under my uniform and two sets of socks. Keep your head covered. That’s where you’ll lose heat.”

“Is that why you’ve started a beard?”

I rubbed the quarter inch stubble. “It couldn’t hurt. You follow instructions and stay tough.” I offered my hand.

“You too, Specialist Keesay,” he said, shaking it vigorously.

The LLTV surfaced and used its antigravity sled to land on an ice shelf. We climbed out before we started to sweat.

“Skids,” I said, “you make sure McAllister has that program finished.”

McAllister flung our equipment out onto the snow-covered ice and cycled the hatch. Boyd, the Chicher and I went right to work, each loading and tying down our sleds. They were nothing more than logs split into rough planks, secured to carved wooden runners. Then we secured a rope between us.

Boyd checked her compass, then yelled from beneath her white scarf, “Let’s get moving.” She led with the Chicher second, pulling the lightest load. I tied a white scarf over my floppy brimmed hat and brought up the rear.

We tramped on through the glaring snow, cold, and wind. I couldn’t tell at first if it was snowing or just blowing. Once we moved away from the coast the wind died down. The polarized goggles reduced the glare. The Chicher struggled more than me, and far more than Boyd.

Pilot Boyd stopped. “Three minute rest.” She handed us a broth-filled thermos. “Keesay, how are you doing?”

“Cold, but okay. My feet are starting to get numb.”

“Stomp,” she suggested. She signaled to the Chicher.

He signaled back, “Big cold.”

Boyd adjusted his garments and wrappings before working on his boots, which had been converted from thermal mittens. “He loses a lot of warmth through his stomach traveling on all fours.”

I brushed off the sleds. “Should I pull him?”

“No,” she said. “If he clutches, can you carry him over your shoulder?”

“Be like a fur muffler?” I said. “I should be able to.”

“Okay,” said Boyd. “I’ll pull his sled.”

After the Chicher finished his steaming drink, I signaled to him, “Carry you.”

He signaled, “No.”

I signaled again, stepped forward, and hoisted him across my shoulders. He chattered for a few seconds. I shifted his manageable fifty pounds. He clung like adhesive, making my job easier. Having his tail bound in his garments flustered his efforts to hang on.

“Here,” Boyd said, tossing a bleached white blanket over my shoulders and tucking it around the Chicher. “If his shivering increases let me know.”

I labored to knot my line to Pilot Boyd. “Understood.”

Hours passed. I stumbled several times as my feet continued to numb. Finally, Boyd called a halt. “We’ll shelter here. How is the Chicher?”

“Alive,” I said. “How about you?”

“Good, considering how ill prepared and poorly clothed I am. You?”

“Just this side of sitting in a cycled space lock.”

“Can you dig?”

I nodded before setting the Chicher on a sled and covering him. I stretched my shoulders and knocked ice from my beard.

Boyd handed me a folding shovel. “I’ll tunnel. You move the snow out and around on top. Pay attention.”

“I will. I recall your instructions. Start low, tunnel upward. Hollow out. Only big enough to shelter.”

Boyd worked fast and hard. I took over, and then we alternated. It was getting dark when we completed the task. The last thing she did was drill a ventilation shaft. We climbed in, dragging some of our equipment behind us.

Boyd activated a chemical glow light while I set the Chicher on a tarp-covered sled. “Keep off the ice and snow,” I said, then signaled as best I could.

“The key is to conserve heat.” Boyd nodded, placing a cloth over the entrance. “Not airtight.” She lit an oil candle. “Now let’s eat.”

The Chicher stirred as the enclosure warmed up. I commented, “Even this green slug tastes good.”

Boyd laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She signaled the Chicher, “How you?”

“Bad, cold, better.”

Boyd checked a thermometer. “Negative sixteen degrees outside and falling. Already up to negative four in here.”

I did some mental conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit. About four or five degrees outside and almost twenty-five in here. “How cold will it get out there?”

She shrugged.
“Maybe negative thirty.” She knocked bits of ice and snow from the sacks and produced a handful of cal-packs. “The wind makes it feel colder.”

“Wind chill,” I agreed. “I read that at minus fifty degrees Fahrenheit, your spit will freeze when it hits the ground.”

She thought a moment. “You R-Techs. Negative forty-six Celsius.” She checked on the Chicher who was beginning to move around. “Should reach, forty-five or fifty degrees Fahrenheit in here.”

“Good. I’m tired. Is leaving our two sleds outside wise?”

“Remember your rash and blisters from carving the runners?” She watched me nod.

“The hardest wood I could find was also toxic.” I pointed. “Except to him.”

“We’ll chip them loose if needed. Let’s get things situated and prepared for morning. Then sleep.” We worked while the Chicher ate and drank.

Boyd asked, “Will you be able to make it with him?”

I removed my boots and one layer of socks. “I can.” I stretched and rubbed my feet.

“Will you abandon him?”

“Won’t have to. Even, if I have to carry a corpse.” The Chicher recognized we were discussing him.

“We’re depending on you,” Boyd said. “You don’t make it, your friends, including the boy, will die.”

“I’ll make it. I do what has to be done. Just make sure you do.” I looked from the Chicher to the pilot. “We’re counting on you not to betray us. If you do, I and all my friends, including the boy, will die,” I lied, knowing they’d spare Skids if they discovered his identity.

She stared hard. “Point taken.”

We finished preparing the sleeping shelf in silence and piled together to conserve heat.

Morning arrived. We ate in silence before packing. Some equipment was wrapped and stored for Boyd’s return trip with McAllister, Guerrero and Skids. Boyd hauled a small amount for her trek back while the Chicher diplomat and I prepared to drag the rest to the forward site.

“Good luck, Keesay,” Boyd said. “If all goes well, we’ll see you in three days. Maybe less.”

“Keep your earmuffs tight,” I warned, “or your head will explode from McAllister’s bellyaching.”

“Good advice. She doesn’t deal with adversity well when elements are beyond her control. Add that to her dislike of cold.” Pilot Boyd slid on her polarized goggles before signing to the Chicher, “Farewell. Meet again.”

“Soon,” he signed back, then chattered something my direction.

“I agree,” I said, knotting his rope to me. “Keep up.” I didn’t look back. Instead, I checked my compass as I would every fifteen minutes, and hiked on.

Only once during the arduous trek did we spot a shuttle. We lay prone for ten minutes while it passed overhead. By lunch the Chicher was slowing. After lunch he caught his wind for another hour. Soon after that, despite his protests, I attached his sled to mine and carried him as before. I spotted the ridgeline not long after that, but it seemed an eternity before we reached it.

I selected a spot. The Chicher, chilled but well-rested, began the excavation. I climbed the ridge and spied part of the research station and signaled success to the Chicher. We finished the shelter minutes after nightfall.

That evening, the following day and evening crawled by. We dared not activate the Chicher’s translator, and I hadn’t brought any entertainment games. Learning Intergalactic Sign Language without verbal explanation or reinforcement is difficult. Tic-Tac-Toe using sliced bits of yellow eel-worm and orange slug on a grid scratched into the ice only goes so far, although the diplomat taught me the Chicher version where one wins by forcing the opponent to get three in a row.

Midmorning of the third day we dug, increasing the size of the enclosure to house six. I set the magnetic locator in the early afternoon and we waited. The signal’s housing limited location to a 165-degree ground-level arc. Even that small traceable signal felt like a searchlight beaming skyward from the snow-packed tundra.

I used the excuse of cleaning my weapons to hide my discomfort. The Chicher tended to my .38 caliber backup. Boyd and company would be hauling the lasers and MP pistols in a shielded case to minimize detection. My remaining popcorn nuke was with them as well. It was an EM Pulse War vintage weapon that’d been designed for stealth. Carrying it in or out of the shielded case McAllister carried made little difference. It was paranoia not bringing it myself, but one mistake or unlucky break and we’d be discovered.

I increased the detection arc to 180-degrees two hours before nightfall. To pass the time, the Chicher and I exchanged simple words such as, ‘no’, ‘yes’, ‘stop’, ‘go’, and ‘help’. We learned to utter close approximations. Human anatomy proved to be more adaptable and counter balanced the diplomat’s experience. We both jumped at the ice crunching outside our shelter.

“That bayonet had better be pointed elsewhere,” McAllister puffed through muffling garments.

I gave her a hand and pulled to assist. Skids was next. He looked near frozen. Guerrero followed, and Boyd squeezed in last. I crawled to Skids and the Chicher followed with a cup of broth warmed over the lamp. The boy was huddled tight, shivering. “How long has he been like this?”