Viking (32 page)

And lastly, it seemed likely that Heward had dumped him on purpose. He’d loaded the
skimmer in such a way that only the forward restraining harnesses were available, and
then assigned him to ride in back. Was it just the luck of the draw, or something
more?

At least the GPS still worked. The quality of his online maps was noticeably better
than it had been a few days earlier, when he’d been stranded before; the reconnaissance
satellites had been busy. He pinpointed his position without difficulty. A scale
conversion told him it was only half a kilometer to a point where trees tapered off
into a small beach and the shallow reefs of coastal ocean.

Was that where he wanted to go? It was in the same general direction they’d been
flying, and he had the impression that Heward’s destination lay somewhere along the
coast, though many kilometers farther south. Travel and foraging would probably be
easier along the beach as well. If nothing else, he could wash the muck off and look
for fresh water.

But could he get there? He dreaded a descent from this perch that he’d scratched and
clawed his way to. Even if he got down without trouble, half a kilometer of this
tightly tangled jungle would be a challenge with a machete, two good legs, and plenty
of water.

It would be murder in his current condition.

Rafa lay in the crook of the tree branch, too weak and irresolute to move, feeling
despair darken his vision like the night that would soon descend. He would never get
out of this god-forsaken jungle. Never.

Why couldn’t he have died in the fall? So much easier. Or for that matter, why had
he run so hard in the stampede? Why had he even hired a lawyer for his trial? A nice
quick conviction and a lethal injection would have saved so much pain and trouble.
Probably would have been easier on Julie, too.

Tears clouded his eyes. He let them accumulate, burn angrily down his cheeks, and
drip like bitter raindrops to the carpet of leaves and ferns below. Overhead, a deep
peal of thunder growled, and the hidden fringes of the canopy rustled in response to
unseen breezes. The devastating loneliness that had erupted in a shout after his escape
from the hexapods crowded in once again, more oppressive than ever. It stifled his
breathing, constricted his chest, and intensified the shooting agony at his ribs.

A fleeting thought to pray arose and was immediately hurled aside by the swelling
rage it triggered. He was in no mood for metaphysical communion. Everything he cared
about had been taken away—his wife, his daughters, his good name, his future, even the
miserable company of the crew and the chance for a quick death.

So much for divine intervention.

The fury gave Rafa a reckless strength that consumed his lethargy and despair. He’d
been resigned when the forest swallowed him, but fickle fate hadn’t followed through.
Now if Death wanted him, he would not go gentle. Let it find another plaything.

Rafa raised his head and scanned the environs with greater awareness, anger giving
focus to his thinking. Only a few meters away were some small branches that might work
as a splint. He scrabbled toward them, the searing fire under his shoulder and above
his heel spurring him on, and snapped off several with savage impatience. Then he
unzipped his suit, peeled it back to the waist, and pulled off the sodden cotton tunic
underneath.

The motion of his shoulder tore like molten acid at his ribs, and great wracking
sobs rose from his throat, but he refused to stop. He drew his survival knife and slit
the fabric into ragged strips, then bound the sticks in a crude brace along his shin
and calf, clenching his teeth and moaning as the bones in his ankle grated against each
other in unnatural ways. There was terrible swelling, making it totally unthinkable to
remove the boot.

Better to let it hide the damage anyway—he wasn’t sure he had the stomach for a
mangled, bloody, purple stump right now.

He pulled the knots as tight as he could stand and circled the whole clumsy bandage
several times. It didn’t keep the foot perfectly immobile, but he could put weight on
the sticks without jarring his heel. Maybe that would make walking less painful and
damaging.

While he was working Rafa felt a few cool raindrops splash across the knotted
muscles of his shoulders. The smell of fresh water, more than the sensation of blooming
wetness, made his head snap up in sudden interest. The attenuated light from above had
quickly dimmed in the past few minutes, and he could hear regular crashes of thunder
and irregular swishing of wind as if at great distance.

His thirst, partly suppressed by more immediate concerns, now rose black and
towering. He must get something to drink. For one wild moment he considered climbing
toward the storm, saw himself clawing up fifty meters of the massive trunks and
standing open-mouthed on a flimsy exposed limb, rain pouring into his parched lips.

Then saner reasoning prevailed. Surely rain made its way to the forest floor
eventually. He simply had to find its path. The next moment he had his flashlight out
and was shining it up at the jade thatch. The beam of illumination in the twilight
glanced off pearls of rain in silent descent in every direction. Some were falling
regularly near another crook in the limb he was on, another ten meters up.

Without pausing to rezip his suit, Rafa struggled toward the water, the coarseness
of the tree rubbing against his bare chest and arms. He redoubled his efforts as more
drops splashed across his neck and into the small of his back, his mind filled with
visions of arriving just as the downpour came to an end.

He needn’t have worried. When he arrived the spatter was coming even faster. He
cupped his hands eagerly and trembled as they speckled and ran with the sweet-smelling
liquid.

Not fast enough. He sucked and licked his palms dry, ignoring the unwelcome
grittiness from bits of loamy bark and moss, and groaned in frustration. If anything,
his thirst was worse now. Somehow he had to catch the water better.

He grabbed the open flaps of his upper biosuit and spread them over the wettest
portion of the branch, twisting painfully to finish unzipping the top from the trouser
portion. Faint pinpricks of moisture flicked his eyelashes and throat as precipitation
plopped against the water-resistant weave and puddled in the center. Unwilling to wait
for more accumulation, he lapped at it dog-fashion, disregarding the unpleasant saline
flavor of sweat and rubber.

How long he crouched impatiently to the precious moisture, Rafa didn’t know—but at
length the raw, chalky urgency was slaked and his stomach began to slosh and gurgle. He
unbent stiffly, suddenly and uncomfortably conscious of the resurgent ache in his side,
the twinge in overworked back muscles, and the possible consequences of drinking
unpurified water.

There was no help for it now. Either he’d get sick or he wouldn’t. He could only
hope that rain was free of the worst parasites—and that he hadn’t already gulped deadly
contaminants in the swamp water.

The thought of purification tablets sent him digging through the pockets of his
suit. Soon he’d retrieved the flaccid, empty water pouch and was filling it in little
splashes that spilled largely over the mouth of the container and down to the blackness
below. It was slow work, and before he was half finished the rain tapered off.

That worried him.

He would sweat away massive quantities of water with the daytime heat tomorrow. If
he didn’t find another source of fresh water soon, dehydration would rear its ugly head
again. Rafa added some purification tablets from another pouch and replaced the cap,
refusing to linger on the anxiety. At least he had staved off the thirst for a
time.

The rapid descent of tropical night was nearly complete, and rain had cooled the
atmosphere slightly. There was no breeze, but his bare shoulders and back almost felt
comfortable now.

Rafa wondered for a moment about traversing the forest in the dark. The temperature
was certainly more bearable, and he’d probably save water. But he wasn’t equipped to
deal with nocturnal predators. Of course, he wasn’t equipped to deal with any kind of
threat from hostile fauna—but the thought of defending himself in impenetrable
blackness was especially terrifying.

The swampiness of the terrain was also a problem. He had no wish to mistake
waterborne scum for earth and repeat his plunge into the stinking morass. And he was
too exhausted for serious travel, anyway.

He spent the night in the tree.

Swarms of stinging and biting insects, surging busily in the post-diluvial
stillness, quickly convinced Rafa to re-don the upper portion of his biosuit. That
proved to be an agonizing task that continually aggravated his broken ribs, but
eventually he managed it.

As the slick material of the suit enclosed him, Rafa blinked wearily. Despite pain
and gnawing hunger, he could feel the fog of sleep approaching. He was faintly
surprised, given his long bout of unconsciousness, but he welcomed the reprieve from
fear and discomfort.

If he could really sleep.

He was straddling the limb at a broad, gnarled fork that was approximately level.
The twisting knobbiness was terribly uncomfortable, but he couldn’t think of a more
likely spot. If he lay across the splayed branches he could support his back and neck
and be reasonably confident of not falling from his perch in the random twitches of
slumber.

Slowly, gingerly he rotated into position. The one thing he absolutely had to change
was the way his feet were dangling. His damaged foot throbbed mercilessly, and he felt
as if all the blood in his body had pooled there, exacerbating the swelling. He battled
for several minutes until his splinted leg was resting almost horizontal on a lumpy
projection.

There was an immediate relief from the worst of the pain, and Rafa sighed audibly
and closed his eyes.

Another yawn.

Then nothing.

Agent Ray Gregory stared at the screen on his desk, his eyebrows raised in
surprise. For at least the tenth time that morning, he set down the lukewarm cup of
coffee that he was continually forgetting to drink.

“What do you mean, his file’s sealed? Of course it is. That’s why I called you in
the first place.”

At the other end of the connection, his friend leaned forward and spoke earnestly.
“I’m not talking about the little lock on his file that you ran across. That was pretty
routine.”

“Well, what other kind of protection would there be?”

“That is an excellent question.” He drummed his fingers on his desktop meditatively.
“An excellent question.”

“Well, don’t hold out on me. What
did
you find out?” Gregory absently picked
up his mug again and leaned back in his chair. The hinges creaked in protest.

“I can give you what I know so far. You’ve got the clearance for it. But you’ll need
to sign a release. He’s connected to an on-going investigation, and the division that’s
in charge wants everything kept under wraps.”

Gregory nodded impatiently. “Fine. Send the form over.”

In a moment the screen filled with a few lines of bureaucratic text. He
scanned it quickly, then pressed his thumb to the scanner on his desktop. There was a
beep.

“Okay, whatcha got?”

The man shuffled some papers. “Rafael David Orosco. Age 33. Professor in the health
department at UCLA. Cross-country coach. Convicted of murder one in the death of
Samantha Oberling, an FBI agent. Sentenced about two months ago.”

“I had to sign a release for that? It’s all public knowledge.”

“Hold on, I’m just getting started. Apparently Orosco didn’t like prison. He signed
up for viking service after only a few days in the pen.”

“Who with?”

“Company by the name of MEEGO, Inc. They’re based out of Houston. Do quite a tidy
profit in the exploration business.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Anyway, it seems that they’re flirting with the law. Filing planetary claims that
exaggerate their investments and underestimate the value of natural resource,
mistreating their crews, running risky jump routes. Things like that. The exo division
started watching them almost a year ago. But they’re a slippery bunch. There hasn’t
been much that could be pinned on them—just minor infractions that would hardly raise
an eyebrow with a sympathetic judge.

“Then, about the time Orosco signed up, there was a sudden flurry of internal memos,
a shuffle of assignments within their science teams, and a big push to get one
particular mission on the fast track. It looked like they were up to something, and
this time it was something pretty big. Orosco got assigned to the mission.”

“But I still don’t get it. How does that lead to a protective order on his
file?”

“Well, Orosco had a set of implants before he signed up.”

Gregory put down his coffee yet again, a look of astonishment on his face. “He
did?”

“Yep. Nice ones, too.”

“How’d he get them?”

“That’s a mystery. Aside from law enforcement, the only common uses are for vikings
and entertainment. It does say that he’s a certified scuba diver here—maybe he did
vicarious dives for the vids or something.”

“Somehow he never struck me as the Hollywood type.”

“Well, I don’t see how else he could have got them. He certainly wouldn’t have paid
for them himself.”

“A druggie, maybe? They say a vicarious high is better than the real thing because
you don’t have any side effects.”

“And it costs three times as much. No way could he afford that kind of habit on his
salary. Besides, the guy was a happily married family man, not a bum.”

Gregory’s face darkened angrily. “So he claimed. And then he blew away Oberling in
cold blood.”

The man sighed and shook his head. “The more I delve into this guy’s background, the
weirder his crime seems to me. He had a wife and little kids who loved him. Good job,
good education. No known vices. No criminal record. Not even a traffic ticket. Yet he
clearly did it. You got him dead to rights. And the offshore bank account you traced
had more than enough to pay for the sort of double life that he must have been
living.”