Xenopath (24 page)

Only the
presence of three large moons, tumbling visibly overhead as if tossed
by a celestial juggler, told him that he was off-world.

His first task
was to hire a vehicle, and then buy a decent map-pin for his handset.
He found a car-hire place next to the terminal building, staffed by
two women in light blue uniforms like air-hostesses. His request to
hire a flier for six days was met with surprise, then a bright smile.
"I'm sorry, sir. Air-traffic. other than that authorised for
government use. is prohibited on Mallory. We have a range of the
latest ground-effect vehicles for hire, though."

He bought a
map-pin from the counter, and after inserting it into his handset and
studying the screen, be asked if they had a sturdy four-wheel drive
for hire.

The woman took
him into an enclosed lot and gave him the choice of a Bison
all-terrain jeep or a beat-up mountain truck. He selected the Bison.

Ten minutes
later he drove from the compound and headed into town, surprised at
the physicality of driving a road vehicle after the smooth handling
of air-cars. It was a long time, over ten years, since he'd last
driven a vehicle whose wheels were in contact with the ground.

He found a
general store and bought provisions to last him a few days: half a
dozen two-litre canisters of water, a dozen foil-wrapped self-heating
meals, and a bag of local fruit not dissimilar to bananas. He had a
long drive ahead of him, and much of it would be through sparsely
populated terrain.

He put the Bison
on a southward course and headed out of town—an operation that
took all of five minutes.

With the town
behind him, he pulled off the road and consulted the map on his
handset. He was on the larger of Mallory's two Africa-sized
continents; Mackintyre was situated on the western coast, close to
the planet's equator. His destination, Campbell's End, was located in
the southern mountains some five hundred kilometres south of the
capital.

He started the
engine and set off again. The road, here at least, was good: a wide,
straight blacktop. If it remained in a similar state all the way,
then he should reach his destination in five or six hours. He planned
to spend the night in the town of Lincolnville, ten kilometres from
Campbell's End, and then consider his next move in the morning.

The day on
Mallory was longer than that of Earth: twenty-six hours divided, now
that it was late Autumn, into days of twelve hours, and long fourteen
hour nights. Eta Ophiuchi, a blue-white main sequence star, burned
with a distinctly orange cast. The ambient light, combined with
fields of blue grass, created a definite alien atmosphere. Vaughan
found the experience somewhat disconcerting, his senses confused by
the contrast between the familiarity of man-made roads, cars,
farmsteads, and the otherworldly combination of triple moons, sallow
light, and the spiked, blue grass.

As he drove, he
passed through the region of farmed land around Mackintyre and came
to an area of old upland meadow, scattered with polychromatic
wildflowers and bizarre, spiral-trunked trees. The horizon in three
directions was crenellated by distant, snow-capped mountain ranges,
their peaks tinted tangerine in the afternoon light. He was to notice
this geographical effect during his long drive south: the road cut
through range after range of low mountains, crossed high pastures,
and always the horizon presented ever more mountain ranges. He had
read, on the voyage here, that Mallory had once boasted six
continents, but over the course of millions of years tectonic drift
had brought them together to form two vast land-masses: where they
joined, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, mountain ranges were
pushed up from the fertile grassland.

He passed
through great areas of cultivated land. At points, the road swept
around bluffs to give an elevated view of oceans of wheat, with lone
timber farmsteads lost in the vastness like becalmed galleons.

At one point,
perhaps halfway through his journey, he pulled into the side of the
road and climbed out. The view was no less than a visual assault of
beauty. He had been climbing the foothills of a mountain range for an
hour, and he looked down on a cascade of blue grassland, chivvied by
the wind so that it presented alternate shades of silver and indigo,
like caressed velvet. Beyond, in stark contrast, was the bright
golden expanse of wheat, stretching to the far horizon and the
enclosing palisade of peaks.

He ate a meal
here and pored over the map on his handset. Lincolnville was another
two hundred kilometres distant, beyond the next mountain range and
across the plain.

He had discussed
tactics with Kapinsky in the little time they had to prepare before
he caught the voidliner. It was imperative that he reach the
environmentalists and warn them that Denning and his team were coming
for them, and that Gustave Scheering's order was to bring them in
dead or alive. They possessed, according to Scheering, information
dangerous to the corporation and to Mallory—though as the
business concern and the planet were one and the same thing, Vaughan
knew that Scheering's claim for the safety of Mallory was nothing
more than a rhetorical flourish with which to impress his underlings.

In an ideal
world he would find the radicals, warn them, learn what their big
secret was, and get out again. With luck, the information might lead
him to the apprehension of the assassin on Earth, even the salvation
of the street-kid Pharn. Or was he being too optimistic? Did his
sanguine take on existence, since meeting Sukara, blind him to the
dangers involved in messing with a ruthless multicolonial like
Scheering-Lassiter?

The difficulty
would be in locating the radicals at Campbell's End without alerting
their watchers to the fact of his presence. As there was nothing he
could do to foresee how he might go about avoiding this, he decided
to worry about it tomorrow, after he had reached Lincolnville.

He finished the
pre-packed meal of broiled fish and greens—bland almost to the
point of tastelessness after a diet of Indian and Thai cuisine back
home—and strolled away from the Bison. He stood on the edge of
the road and stared out over the wind-ruffled blue plain.
Experimentally, he tapped the start-up code into his handset and
activated his implant.

He scanned, but
was unable to detect the transition between his implant being turned
off and its functioning. All was silent. He turned, pushing out his
mind-probe towards the last farmstead he had passed, perhaps fifty
kilometres away.

Did he detect
the faintest hint of mind-noise, or was he deluding himself?

Smiling, he
climbed back into the Bison. He decided to leave his implant active,
as an experiment to see how deserted this landscape really was.

Gunning the
engine, he drove into the mountains.

He braked on a
high mountain pass and stared down across the plain, a fertile
expanse of farmland nursed in the lap of the enclosing peaks. As he
started up and took the winding road down into the valley, he looked
out over a sea of golden wheat and, beyond, vast squares of
cultivated land bearing another crop entirely, this one dark green
but anonymous at this distance.

He left the
mountain pass in his wake and raced along the high straight road
between fields of wheat. Kilometres ahead and to his right, he made
out another farmstead set back from the road. Remembering that his
implant was activated, he scanned ahead. He came across no
mind-signatures—the silence continued. He wondered idly if the
farm were deserted, or its owners away.

Only when he was
a kilometre from the farm did he make out the tiny shape of a
beetling harvester, a red bug against the golden field. He assumed,
quite naturally, that the machine must be automated, as he still
could detect no human mind-presence. Then he drew closer, and saw
upon the back of the harvester the dark shape of the farmer, turned
in his seat to monitor the threshing.

He pushed out a
mind-probe, directly towards the farmer. Even at this distance he
should have picked up something, some sub-stratum of emotion, if not
articulated thoughts. But the silence suggested that the man did not
exist... or was shielded.

He drew
alongside the farmstead and slowed, so that he was a matter of only a
hundred metres from the harvester when it reached the end of the
field and turned. The farmer in the driving seat gave a friendly wave
as Vaughan passed.

He scanned
again, and his probe slipped off and around a mind-shield, the faint
white noise of static in the place of vibrant thoughts.

He drove on,
wondering why a farmer this far from civilisation and the possibility
of telepaths should wish to shield his mind.

The mountains
ahead, which an hour ago had been an apparent hand's width above the
level of the plain, now reared to fill the windscreen. The plain
rose, and the road with it, hugging the contours of the foothills and
turning in long loops through undulating countryside patched with
strange trees and shrubs like explosions of crimson flame.
Squat-bodied birds, with long beaks like chopsticks, darted from bush
to bush imbibing nectar from blooms as long as clarinets.

He wound down
the side-screen and the Bison was flooded with a sweet heady scent.
The sun was setting behind the mountains, turning the air a
combustible tangerine hue, and he suddenly wished that Sukara was
with him to appreciate the alien beauty of the colony world.

Then his regret
was replaced by curiosity, again, as his vehicle passed a truck that
had pulled into the side of the road. A dozen men in uniforms stood
at the side of the road, smoking and chatting. He was moving at
speed, and was unable to tell if the men were militia, though he
suspected so. He could tell, however, that to a single individual
they were shielded. His transit, so close, should have brought their
minds flaring into his like so many burning torches, but again all he
detected was the slippery blitz of static, and then nothing as he
raced on by.

Even if they had
been militia, it was strange that every one of the troop had worn a
shield. Vaughan could understand, perhaps, a commanding officer
choosing to keep his thoughts a secret... but even that was decidedly
odd in such a sequestered backwater.

Then he saw the
second truck, and the laser-cordon barring the way. Half a dozen men
and women in camouflage fatigues hung around the vehicle, their
interest stirring as he approached. They pushed themselves from where
they had been lounging, unslung weapons, and moved into the road.

He scanned, and
read nothing.

The officer in
charge strolled along the centre of the road as Vaughan approached, a
palm raised nonchalantly to halt him.

Vaughan slowed,
opening the side-screen as he drew alongside the officer.

The woman had
the crew cut and overfed face of a career soldier, and the
intimidating gaze of one backed by the authority of superior
firepower.

She rested an
arm on the roof of the Bison and pushed her face close, inspecting
both Vaughan and the interior of the vehicle with one quick sliding
glance.

"ID."

Sweating despite
himself, Vaughan produced his card. He waited, staring through the
windscreen at the blue laser cordon, as the officer processed his ID
through a com on her hip.

He wondered if
the sweat standing out on his face would be seen by the soldier as a
sign of his fear, and therefore his guilt. To get so far, only to be
picked up by a random road-block...

But the card
passed muster. She handed it back, and Vaughan gave silent praise to
Lin Kapinsky.

"What're
you doing this far south, Mr Lacey?" The woman spoke with a
colonial twang, high and nasal.

"I'm on
holiday," he said. "Someone suggested I take a look at the
southern ranges. I thought I'd check them out."

"Think
again, Mr Lacey. The road's closed."

He thought fast.
"Is there any other way I can get to Preston?" he asked,
naming the town a hundred kilometres beyond his destination. If he
managed to reach Lincolnville some other way, he didn't want the
military to know he was there.

"All the
roads are closed hereabouts, Mr Lacey."

He stared at
her. "And when will they be reopened?"

"That,"
she said, "I can't say. Military operation, Mr Lacey. And who
can say how long military operations might last?"

Vaughan gave a
theatrical sigh. "And I was told the southern range was one of
the best."

"Well, why
don't you take my advice, turn yourself around, and check out
MacArthur's Range away back. That's almost as pretty, take it from
me."

"You know,"
Vaughan said, "I might just do that."

The woman
nodded. "Safe journey, Mr Lacey."

He reversed,
giving the officer a salute, turned the Bison and accelerated back
along the road.

A military
operation. He wondered if it might be linked to Denning's imminent
arrival? If so, Scheering was leaving nothing to chance.

He felt a cold
dread in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he'd been a fool to think he
would be able to waltz in here, warn the radicals, and skip back out
again with their secret in his possession.

It was going to
be a tad trickier than that.

He travelled
five kilometres north, then pulled into the side of the road. From
his earlier examination of the area on his handset, he recalled
secondary roads branching off the main highway at intervals and
twisting further into the foothills.

He consulted the
map and charted three narrower roads, which left this one and climbed
south. One of them, a particularly tortuous track, looped around a
low peak and approached Lincolnville from the south-east. It would
put another hundred kilometres on his journey, maybe delay his
arrival until after sunset, but the track looked insignificant enough
not to warrant an army blockade.