Alien Jungle (14 page)

I
mpani stood in the entrance of the silent cafeteria. The room was nearly empty. Four men and two women sat together at a table. They glared when they noticed she was there and left in disgruntled haste.

She wondered if they had a right to be so angry with her, wondered what any of them would have done—leave Anselmi or bring him back and hope for recovery. After speaking with the doctor, she admitted that recovery didn’t seem likely. Still, if she had it to do again, she would not abandon him.

She carried a cup of water, a warmer, and a pouch of herbs to a table and sat with her face in her hands. Two days without sleep was wearing her down. But the worst part was that she knew they hadn’t made a difference. The mission had failed.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the warmer and clipped it inside her cup. Moments after the electrodes touched water, the cup steamed. She dropped in the herbs to steep. Someone entered the dome behind her, but she didn’t turn, didn’t feel up to facing their scorn. She took the warmer out of the cup and tapped it against the rim. The red glow of the electrodes died.

“Hello, Impani.”

She spun about. “Oh, Trace.” She leaped to her feet and embraced him.

His arms slid warm and strong around her. She buried her face in his shoulder. Suddenly, she was crying, grief and remorse bursting from her in sobbing gasps. She wanted to say that she’d been an idiot, wanted to tell him that she was sorry.

But she said only, “I was so worried about you.”

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “I’m here, now.” He led her back to the chair and sat beside her. “I saw Anselmi. Give me the shortened version.”

She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “We went to the old settlement like you said, and we found out—” She took a deep breath to brace her words. “The moss creatures are the original colonists from ten years ago.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

She blinked at him. “You knew? How?”

“Cole,” he said as if that explained anything. “How did you find out?”

“We found recordings made by one of the scientists, watched her metamorphosis. It was horrible.”

“I’m impressed that she had the faculties to operate a recorder.”

“Actually, she was lucid to the end. She said the moss was the answer.”

“Moss?”

Impani nodded. “Something about ionized particles producing an electro-magnetic field—”

“Magnetic! Of course!” Trace blurted. “I was onto something after all.”

“What are you—”

“My science project. When I was a kid. But there must be something more, some way of distributing the charge.”

He stared into the distance at a place Impani could not reach. She swallowed her questions, suddenly certain that he would find the answers, that he would unravel the puzzle of this world. He was brilliant—and he had every right to be team leader.

Trace looked at her. “My dad said you took a sample of some sort of sludge.”

“I have it right here.” She pulled the specimen from her belt. But instead of the scraping she’d taken, the small container held a quantity of gray-green goo. “Ugh. Even sludge grows on this planet.”

But Trace’s face lit as if she’d given him a precious gift. He cupped the container in both hands as he examined its contents. “Put on your mask for a minute.”

He pried the power crystal from the warmer. Then he poured a thin, straight line of sludge upon the table. He put the electrode on one end and the power crystal at the other.

Impani heard a faint crackle. She saw a wavering blue current of electricity travel the length of goo. The electrode glowed.

He whispered, “The moss is the answer.”

Impani shook her head. “What just happened?”

“The sludge is like our blood carrying oxygen through our body. But in this case, it carries moss. The oily sap acts as both protectant and conductor, picking up particles of moss from the roots and distributing the charge throughout the plant. Electro-magnetic impulses stimulate the plant’s growth. It also shortens its life. How many generations do you think we’ve seen since we arrived here?”

“That must be why the plants are sentient. As time speeds up, so does evolution. Maybe all plants are slated to become self-aware in time.”

“That would be a problem.” Trace scraped the line of goo into a fresh container. “You think we’ve got a food shortage now. What will happen when the food starts fighting back?”

Impani smiled, her cheeks stiff with dried tears. At that moment, she felt closer to him than ever.

With a bang, a utility belt dropped onto the table before them. Impani jumped then looked up at Robert Wilde.

Wilde smirked as he sat on the edge of the table. “Thought you might want that back.”

Impani turned as Natica pulled out the chair beside her. She hugged her friend. “I’m so glad to see you. Did you get the injured colonists back to Central all right?”

“Yep.” Natica grinned. “All sixteen of them.”

“Sixteen? But you only had three Impellic rings. How did you carry so many people?”

“It was Robert’s idea.” Natica winked at her partner. “It about scared me to death. I thought for sure we would overload the rings. But he promised it would work, and it did. We each took five patients and put another six on Trace’s belt.”

“You came back.” Trace gaped. “They actually sent you back. Do you have more skinsuits?”

Wilde nodded. “I also have a message. The Board was so mad at you for not following instructions, they made me team leader.”

Impani’s smile fell. She touched Trace’s arm.

Natica said, “Arkenstone wasn’t angry. In fact, I think he was amused.”

“That’s because he won his bet.” Wilde laughed.

Trace slid off his mask. “All right. You’re team leader. I can live with that.”

Wilde said, “And my first official act was to declare this colony a total loss and order up a transport ship to get these people out of here.”

Trace’s face relaxed. He offered his hand. “Thanks.”

Wilde shook with Trace. “My next act is to return leadership to you. What have I missed?”

“Well,” Impani said, “we found out that the moss creatures are the missing colonists grown over by plants.”

“What?” Wilde yelped.

Natica covered her mouth. “But we’ve been burning them. Hacking at them with machetes.”

“They aren’t people anymore, though. Right?” Wilde said. “I mean, the people inside the mold suits are dead.”

“I’m not sure,” Trace said as if to himself. “Cole remembered the code.”

“Cole’s been infected?” Natica asked.

“And Anselmi,” Impani said. “He’s in quarantine.”

Wilde looked stricken. “They got through a skinsuit?”

“He thought he could converse telepathically with a creature if he could touch it with his bare hands. When he did, the moss invaded his body.”

The group fell silent. It felt like they were mourning their friend, as if he were already dead. Impani didn’t want to accept that.

After a while, Wilde asked, “Did it work? Could he communicate?”

She nodded. “He said the plants didn’t understand friendship.”

“Voices,” Natica said. “He was hearing them speak all along.”

“Anselmi’s strength is telepathy,” Trace murmured, his voice far away. Then he seemed to snap to the present. “You requested a transport. How long before it gets here?”

“Three months,” Wilde said. “Top speed.”

Trace got to his feet. “I better tell my father.”

“Tell me what?” Mr. Hanson strode across the cafeteria.

Madsen whirred along behind him. Impani hadn’t heard them come in.

Trace’s gaze wavered, but his shoulders straightened. “A transport’s on the way. I need your people to dismantle the camp.”

“Leave?” Mr. Hanson boomed. “Just like that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought you were here to salvage the situation,” Mr. Hanson shouted. “I
thought
you were here to put things right.”

“But the colony—”

“
My
colony!”

“It isn’t working,” Trace said. “You know it isn’t.”

His father jabbed a finger at him. “I’ll remind you there is a food shortage.”

Impani got up to stand beside Trace. She sensed Natica and Robert do the same. She said quietly to Mr. Hanson, “There will be other planets.”

He glared as if waiting for them to recant. With a sigh, he sat at the table. “After all the plans, the expectations…”

“It’s over, Dad.”

“I put everything I had into this project.”

Trace placed his hand upon his father’s shoulder. Impani glanced from person to person, feeling uncomfortable, as if something deeply personal had just transpired.

A moment later, Trace gathered them with his gaze. “You three help Madsen spread the word. I want visual signs that the colony is pulling out.”

“What about you?” Impani asked.

“I’m going to go tell the plants.”

T
race stood before the doctor feeling like a kid begging permission to stay up late.

“Absolutely not!” Dr. Abrams told him. “Your friend may not have visitors.”

“He’s more than my friend,” Trace said. “He’s my teammate.”

“He’s a menace. He snaps restraints at will, constantly mutters to himself. Even I don’t like going in there.”

“Look, I know it’s dangerous, but if I don’t try, a lot of people might die before that relief ship gets here.” When she hesitated, he motioned toward a screen overhead. “You can watch me on monitor. Send in Security if anything looks suspicious. But I have to speak to Anselmi.”

She glanced about as if searching for options. “Fifteen minutes only.”

Trace nodded and approached the guards who stood on either side of Quarantine Room 4. His mouth was so dry his tongue felt glued to his teeth. He locked his mask in place—then checked again to be certain it was properly sealed. Moving as if his body were not his own, he stepped through the hatch.

Anselmi sat in bed. Broken straps dangled from his wrists and biceps, but restraints still held his legs. Stains painted his hospital gown as if his sweat were gray.

He watched with black-rimmed eyes. “Hello, Trace.” His voice was rough.

“Hello, Anselmi. How goes the battle?”

“I think we’re losing.”

“But we don’t have to lose the war.” Trace stepped to the bedside. “You can help us. There can still be peace.”

“How?”

“Can you communicate with the plants inside you?”

“Communicate?” Anselmi gave a harsh laugh and covered his ears. “I can’t shut them up. They want to know everything about us, want to understand why we traveled light years just to kill them.”

“Is that why they attacked?”

“They haven’t harmed anyone.”

“Are you saying the people who have been taken over are still alive?” Trace leaned closer. “Is there a chance they can be recovered?”

“Enough!” Anselmi shouted. His leg restraints snapped as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t stand it. You’re screaming in one ear and they’re screaming in the other. Talk to them yourself!”

Anselmi became still. Then, in a windy voice that Trace didn’t recognize, he asked, “What are you?”

Trace frowned. Was he was speaking directly to a plant? “My name is Trace Hanson.”

“This organism names you leader.”

“That is correct.”

“What means this—leader?”

Trace was taken aback. “It means… I speak for all.”

Anselmi gasped as if in revelation. “I, too, speak as one.”

“You’re the leader?”

“We are all leader. As the need arises.”

“Fine.” Trace kept his voice level. “You are holding my people. I want them back.”

“People?”

“Organisms.”

Anselmi’s face contorted. Finger-sized lumps rolled beneath his skin. “We have learned much of your composition. You are mobile. Vocal. You interact with the environment. But we learned nothing of
you
until we found this life form. It taught us language.”

“Return him.”

“There is still much to learn.”

“Yes, there is,” Trace said. “Ask him the difference between peace and war.”

Anselmi’s face went slack.

Trace straightened his shoulders and set his jaw.
Study that concept.
We can destroy you from orbit just the way we irradiated this valley.

Then a thought burst upon him—in a voice other than his own.
The leader would sacrifice its organisms?

Trace reeled. Had Anselmi taught them telepathy?
If the need arises,
he answered in thought then said aloud, “We did not come to kill you. Release my people, and we will leave.”

“What means this—leave?”

“Our mobility will take us away. Your world will return as it was.”

“Never as it was.”

“If you’re referring to this valley, eventually the radiation will wear off and—”

“We have learned much. Mobility and interaction. Peace and war. Trust and lies.” Anselmi’s hollowed eyes turned toward him.

A prickle of alarm swept through Trace. “I’m telling the truth.”

“What means this—truth?”

He blew out a breath. “There must be a way to convince you.”

“Communicate with us.”

Alarm became a siren. “You mean… touch you?”

“Teach us your truth.”

Anselmi’s rasping voice broke in. “No, Trace. They’ve closed themselves to me. I don’t know if you can trust them.”

Trace stared. He could walk away, not take the chance. But then, what chance would the colonists have? Slowly, he stripped off his gloves. “Trust goes both ways.”

<<>>

A
ldus stared unseeing at the supply reports before him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. How could he tell his people they were leaving this world after all his promises? All his plans? How could he fail so miserably?

He looked across the conference table at the three Scouts. Trace’s team—Impani, Wilde, and a girl whose name escaped him. They watched him expectantly. Beside them sat the interim supply clerk, Celeste Meade. Her presence aggravated him like a reproach.

He pinched the bridge of his nose then rubbed his eyes. How could he tell his people? He glanced to his right and with a pang realized that Cole should be there.

“As I understand it,” Aldus said, “we are to disassemble the camp slowly while maintaining the impression that we are working as fast as we can.”

Wilde nodded. “You have to stretch it out until the transport arrives.”

Aldus scowled. “For three months?”

“Let’s hope the plants have no sense of time,” Impani said. “You don’t want them to think you’re stalling.”

“Plants that think,” Aldus muttered.

With a whine, Celeste said, “I don’t know why we can’t use the Impellic rings. Just drop everything and run.”

“This equipment is expensive, that’s why.” He picked up her report then let it drop again onto the table. “I can’t read this. Can the warehouses be combined or not?”

“Well, sir,” Celeste spluttered, “as I’m sure you’ll agree, storing fertilizer with provisions might not be—”

“Then move the food to the cafeteria,” Aldus boomed, louder than necessary.

Celeste cringed in her seat.

Madsen burst into the room. “They’re coming.”

“How many?”

“All of them.”

Aldus leaped up. “Get everyone outside. Issue flamethrowers.”

Wilde nodded. “A show of force.”

“Most of the guns are empty,” Madsen said.

“We’re low on gellasene,” Celeste moaned. Her eyes were wide, and she appeared on the brink of tears.

Aldus felt a conflicting wave of impatience and sympathy. He turned to Madsen and said in a low voice, “Issue them anyway.”

Madsen whirred away.

Circling the table, Aldus approached the clerk. She stood as he met her, and he placed his hand on her shoulder. “Celeste, no one knows those stores better than you. If anyone can find extra gellasene, you can.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. There isn’t any. But maybe we could substitute fertilizer number four. It’s flammable before dilution.”

“That’s the kind of thinking we need. Gather as much as you can.”

She gave a tremulous smile. “Yes, sir.”

He watched her scurry from the room.

Wilde muttered, “It would take a major overhaul to re-fit the guns for that kind of fuel.”

Aldus didn’t need to be told that he’d sent the woman on a fruitless mission. A quavering breath escaped him, and he glared to cover it. “You three with me.”

They rushed from the meeting room into the maze of tubes. Shouts echoed through the passage. A crowd blocked the exit, churning and pushing to get outside.

With a grimace, Aldus grumbled, “We don’t have time for this.”

Wilde pressed past him and shouted, “Move aside! Coming through.”

People turned. Their expressions changed when they saw Aldus. Wilde forced through them and opened a path for Aldus to follow.

At the head of the pack, Wilde shouted. “All right, four at a time. You four. Go!”

Four men ducked through the orifice into the clean room. Air whistled.

Wilde allowed another group to leave then turned to Aldus. “You go, sir. We’ll catch up.”

Aldus nodded, grateful that the boy knew how to take charge.

But as he ducked into the vestibule, he heard Wilde yell, “Impani, watch his back.”

He didn’t need a damned bodyguard. Especially not his son’s girlfriend. But forced air screamed around him and nearly knocked him off his feet. He clambered through the clean room then pushed through the outer door with Impani close behind.

Gray dawn met him. People ran in all directions. Those with flamethrowers took up positions on either side of the bridge. Fires still burned in the trenches surrounding the camp, but the flames were lower, and Aldus could see over them to the approaching moss men.

A cold sensation gripped him. He didn’t need to count the creatures to know that their numbers matched the missing. He didn’t want to fight them. The thought made him sick. But his responsibility lay with the living.

“Here, Mr. Hanson.” Tungst Einkorn handed him a flamethrower.

“Thank you,” he murmured absently. Then he checked the gun. It was three-quarters full. He hurried after the man and exchanged it for one that was empty.

“Are you nuts?” Impani hissed. “You’ll be defenseless.”

Aldus faced her. He intended to make a scathing remark about her being his bodyguard, but surprised himself by saying, “My son loves you.”

At first, she looked abashed. Then her eyes flashed, and she set her jaw as if gearing up to challenge him. But if she spoke, Aldus didn’t hear. The shouts around him swelled. People lifted their guns.

A moss man walked boldly across the bridge over the burning trench. In a wispy voice, the thing said, “Don’t shoot.”

Recognition shot through Aldus like a bolt of electricity. He rushed toward the bridge, shouting, “Hold your fire! Stand down!” He stood in front of the moss man, arms outstretched, and ran his gaze over blank and puzzled faces. Their voices fell, and into the silence he said, “It’s Cole.”