Part 40 (1/2)

”What did you see, Sandy?” Dawson asked. Worry pinched her features. ”Is it still burning?” She moved back from the cave entrance.

”Still burning,” Tatum fretted. ”It's been over four hours.” After a few paces the ceiling lifted high enough to where even Tatum could stand, but he sat down heavily next to Goldberg and took Honey into his lap. Everyone stayed close for warmth. Tatum would not let them start a fire until darkness could obscure the smoke.

”What should we do?” Fenstermacher asked. Lee and her infant lay next to him, both covered in furs and fast asleep.

”Sit and wait,” Tatum replied. ”We're on our own.”

”What happens if the bugs win?” Fenstermacher asked.

”No way!” Tatum shot back. ”We'll tear them to pieces.”

”How can you say that?” Fenstermacher asked. ”The big uglies have the firepower. Wonder why Buccari decided to fight?”

”Because the fleet's back, and judging from what happened, it's a good thing she did,” Wilson said. ”As long as we're not captured, we can still be rescued.”

”How long?” Dawson said. ”How much longer can we hold out?”

”This is our planet,” the taciturn Tookmanian suddenly interjected. ”The kones don't know it, but it's ours. It's-it's our moral right.”

”Moral right, Tooks?” Fenstermacher huffed. ”Stick to your sewing!”

”Morality has nothing to do with it,” Wilson said. ”It's called survival.”

”In the long run they are the same,” Tookmanian replied, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Silence fell over the haggard survivors.

Buccari worked the soreness from her back and the burning ache from her old injury; it felt as if she had sand in her shoulder socket. Her hair was singed and brittle from laser strikes, her cheek blistered. But most of all, she mourned Hudson.

”Tonto says we took out maybe six or seven of them,” MacArthur said. ”That leaves only fifteen or sixteen. That's a pretty good day.”

”So much for the element of surprise,” Buccari said. ”The rest will be a lot harder to hit.” She looked around at the cold, tired faces. The silvery moon was three-quarters full, giving everyone a sinister and shadowy visage. She puzzled over their next step. ”Ammo status?” Shannon demanded.

”Two hundred eight rounds standard-thirty pistol,” O'Toole answered.

”Phew!” MacArthur replied. ”Get ready to fix bayonets.” ”Can't we steal some of their weapons?” O'Toole asked.

”We need another breather canister for Et Silmarn,” Buccari said. She looked at the big kone. Et Silmarn stirred, pus.h.i.+ng off the furs.

”It-ah... makes sense.. .for me-e-e to go back-ah,” Et Silmarn said. ”It too cold, Sharl. My fuel is gone in five days or less. I am burden to-ah you.” He stood on his four limbs and stared at the humans, the moon's reflection on his helmet visor making it brightly opaque. ”Even if could-ah get-ah more fuel tanks, it-ah would-ah only be matter of time. I am dead-ah either way.” He turned and ambled slowly downhill.

”Et Silmarn,” Buccari said firmly. The scientist turned. ”We will be rescued. When my people come, we will take you with us. We can make fuel for your breathing unit.”

”But-ah will they come in time?” the kone asked.

”More fuel,” Buccari said grimly. ”We'll get more fuel.” She turned to Shannon. ”Sarge! The night's ours. It's too cold for the kones, but they'll have posted sentries. We're going back to the lake and liberate as many fuel tanks and weapons from those sentries as we can.”

The Marines rumbled their approval.

”Yes, sir,” Shannon replied, squinting up at the gibbous moon.

”Yes, sir,” MacArthur said. He had been sitting quietly. ”But with all due respect, Lieutenant...” He looked at Buccari, his eyes shrouded in the blackness of moon shadows. ”With all due respect, I think, er.. .I recommend you hand off that carbine to one of the men, er... one of the Marines, and that you lead our konish friend, here, and the horses, up to the hunting camp. Someone has to get that stuff where it can do some good, and it makes more sense to have the Marines-not the generals-doing the fighting.” He said the last sentence rapidly, as if afraid she would interrupt.

Buccari stifled a rush of anger. That certainly had not been her plan-but it made sense. There were not enough weapons to go around, and the supplies needed to reach the rest of the crew. MacArthur had a point. And, besides, he had promoted her to general.

”Okay, Sarge, I hate to admit it, but Mac's right. You're in charge,” she said. ”Good luck, good hunting, and bring everyone back with you.” She turned to the kone. ”Et Silmarn, you do not have a good choice. Sergeant Shannon will try to get more fuel. If he is not successful, then you must decide where you wish to die.”

The n.o.blekone looked up and said, ”You are right-ah. I am dead-ah either way-ah. I die free. Lead-ah and-ah I will follow, Sharl.”

Buccari glanced at the Marines one last time, stopping at MacArthur. ”We owe them for Nash Hudson and for Bosun Jones,” she said grimly. ”And for Commander Quinn and Virgil Rhodes. We owe them.”

She collected the horses and started walking. Et Silmarn followed. They hiked all night. Gunfire broke the distant stillness on two occasions, yet Buccari was encouraged because each instance was short-lived. The n.o.blekone and the earthwoman kept walking. And kept climbing.

The unlikely duo and their horses hiked throughout the next morning, their view of the ruined settlement eventually hidden by trees and intervening terrain. The sun slipped from its zenith as they reached a tree-dotted ridge near the far end of the valley, the lip of an exposed, talus-strewn bowl. Past a last stand of yellow-barked firs, the bowl rose steeply to the final wall of the valley from which plummeted two separate billowing cascades. These cras.h.i.+ng waters joined in a crystalline tarn nestled deeply within the sun-drenched bowl. The confluence of waters smoothly overflowed the granite-cradled pool and continued through a riven channel, journeying onward and downward to the lake in the distant valley, and beyond. Buccari' s and Et Silmarn's path lay across the bowl, opposite the water, where a rock-tumbled cleft angled across the bowl and breached the barren face of the escarpment-a challenge for the horses.

”We'll wait until dusk,” Buccari said, wiping her brow. It would require two hours of hard hiking to cross the open stretch of mountainside. Taking the golden horses across the traverse in daylight could expose them to the searching eyes of the aliens.

”You are capable of great-ah effort,” Et Silmarn said. The n.o.blekone had kept up, but the increasing elevation was taking its toll.

”Fear pushes hard,” she replied. ”It's easier to work than to worry.”

”Ah, yes...fear. Slow death. It-ah is difficult to face death slowly,” the n.o.blekone wheezed. He sat down on a slab of sunlit granite. ”Too much time to...consider the, ah...meaning of living. I am afraid, and also very tired.”

”You are brave,” Buccari said. ”Do not talk. Rest now.”

”And you, too, are brave,” the n.o.blekone replied. ”I am not-ah so brave. I am afraid to sleep-ah, for I may never open my eyes. Itah is so cold.”

”We'll get more fuel,” Buccari answered. ”Sleep. Go to sleep. It will be better when you wake up.” She pulled supplies from the horses's backs and grabbed several fur hides. She covered the reclining kone with animal skins, wondering how he could be comfortable laying in the sun under layers of fur. The mountain air was brisk, but the exertions of the climb had caused her to perspire freely.

”Ah!” he groaned. ”At last-ah warmth. Thang you, Sharl. Thang you.”

”Go to sleep.” Within seconds she could tell from the kone' s breathing that he had given in to his fatigue. It had been many stressful hours since either one of them had slept. After hobbling the horses she threw down another thick fur, but in the shade. She rolled herself in it and instantly submerged into the deepest of slumbers.

Direct sunlight a.s.saulted her eyes. Wet with perspiration, she blinked awake, wondering how long she had been asleep. The sun had traveled across a wide arc-she estimated three hours. It seemed like three minutes. She wobbled to her legs and looked at the slumbering kone. Her head ached, and her mouth tasted foul. She struggled to focus her eyes and was startled by a cliff dweller- Tonto-sitting alertly on a rock next to Et Silmarn's head. The hunter, bow in hand, an arrow nocked, was focused on the sleeping kone. Tonto turned and, seeing Buccari awake, hopped away from the kone, stowing his bow and returning the short arrow to its quiver.

Buccari checked the horses grazing across a patch of wildflowers and gra.s.ses growing in the shelter of the spindly grove. She moved her trail-battered body close to Tonto. Alert and unafraid, the hunter looked at her. She noticed the scars on his forearms, the vestiges of his broken arm. The day of the earthquake on the plateau lake seemed so long ago. They owed so much to the strange little creatures.

She signed: ”Greetings, warrior.” Tonto returned the salutation. Buccari pointed to his bow and to the kone and signed: ”Why guard?”

Tonto looked at the alien and signed back: ”Danger. They kill.”

Buccari nodded. She pointed to the cliff dweller and then to herself. ”We also kill,” she signed. ”We friends,” and ”Bear-person is friend.”

The cliff dweller looked over at the kone. The kone slept soundly. ”Not friend. Bear people kill your people,” Tonto signed.