Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (38 page)

Treet vaguely remembered seeing a river as the
Zehpyros
streaked by, but so much had happened since they'd landed, that day and its events seemed impossibly remote.

Ahead, a rising slope flattened to a promontory. “Let's stop up ahead to reconnoiter,” said Treet. “We'll get oriented, and then we can travel.”

“Good idea,” replied Pizzle. “But let's not delay too long. I wouldn't mind putting a few thousand kilometers between me and those Invisibles back there before lunch. They might decide to get serious about all this and come after us.”

They stopped their machines on the little plateau and checked for damage. Other than a few more dents, and some fire-blistered paint on Yarden's skimmer, they all had come through unscathed. Treet craned his neck around and saw the magnificent silvery bubble cluster of Empyrion glittering like a jewel as the sun's first rays bathed it in early morning light. Far behind them, smoke spread and flattened on the breeze. There was no more shooting; the Invisibles had given up without a chase, or so it seemed.

Treet turned his eyes to the west. Pale green hills the color of turquoise stretched away to the horizon beneath a sky-bowl of pale, bird's egg blue. The country was wide and broad and astonishingly open. A rush of pure liberation whipped through him, and he realized just how cramped and confining the colony had been, how constricted and limiting.

“I was sure I'd never see the sky again,” said Yarden softly. Treet turned, and she was beside him. He looked through the faceplate of her helmet and saw tears trickling down her cheeks.

“It's really something,” said Treet. “I forgot what freedom was like. I don't think I'll forget again.”

After consulting a very subdued Calin about direction, they started off, riding the green crests and valleys in search of the legendary lost Fieri.

Jamrog's
eyes narrowed as he took in Hladik's information. When he finally spoke, his voice was ice and venom. “So Tvrdy had succeeded! Very well, let him believe he has won—it will make his fall the sweeter.” He fell silent then, gazing into space while his fingers tapped restlessly on the side of the chair. Momentarily he came to himself again and regarded the Nilokerus leader sharply. “Well, tell me why I shouldn't have you thrown into your own reorientation cells.”

Hladik had prepared for just this eventuality. He said simply, “Only that I may have delivered the Fieri into our hands.”

“If this is a lie, Hageman, it is most ambitious. Tell me, how did you accomplish this remarkable feat?”

“One of the spies was placed in Nilokerus Hage …”

“Don't insult me, Hladik; I well remember. You said he had disappeared with the others.”

“He did, but not before I had him conditioned.”

Jamrog's smile was hard. “Your famous conditioning, yes. However, your subjects usually die, do they not?”

“Some do. This one survived. He is conditioned to return to me when he finds the Fieri.”

“I see.” Jamrog's expression became even more fierce. “Then let us hope for your sake that he finds them, Hageman. In the meantime we have Tvrdy and his cohorts to deal with. They must not be allowed to strengthen their position through this episode.”

“I have some ideas about that, Director,” offered Hladik hopefully. His face shone with a faint sheen of sweat. He knew how close he had been to invoking Jamrog's wrath against him. But now he could relax; the worst was over. “I suggest we discuss them over souile.”

“Your tastes have become expensive, Hladik. I'm not sure I approve.”

“It's no more than the Threl can afford, Hageman,” he chuckled, keeping his eyes on Jamrog.

“Oh, in that case we'll drink to Rohee's health, shall we?”

“Yes—may it desert him in a most timely fashion!” Jamrog laughed and took Hladik by the arm, and they went out together into Empyrion's twisted pathways.

“As I see it,”
said Treet, “our problems are only beginning.”

The day had grown comfortably warm. Epsilon Eridani shone bright, a white disk directly overhead, smaller in the heavens than Earth's yellow Sol. Empyrion's sky fairly shimmered a fine, transparent blue—the color of flame. The company had stopped to rest and eat and, more importantly, plan their strategy for surviving in the alien wilderness.

Treet continued, “We have no food, no water—only the emergency rations in our packs, and at the rate they're going, those won't last long. In short, we're in it up to our furry eyebrows, friends.”

Pizzle got up and wandered over to where the skimmers were parked.

“Am I boring you with this. Pizzle?” asked Treet, his voice crackling over the helmet speaker.

“No, I'm as concerned as you are. I just had an idea, that's all.”

“We've got to rig up some kind of shelter,” added Crocker. “We don't really know what the climate is like. It could freeze every night, or rain.”

“We can at least make a fire at night,” said Yarden. “Can't we?”

The group looked at one another glumly. No one wanted to add to the bad news by pointing out that they had no fire-making equipment and no fuel either. The treeless hills stretched out in every direction, an endless rolling sea of pale green, the color of turquoise or blue jade, without feature all the way to the horizon. Even if they managed somehow to make a fire, there was absolutely nothing to burn.

“Fire takes fuel, which we don't have. And speaking of fuel,” said Treet, regretting his dismal inventory, “there's the matter of go-juice for the skimmers.”

“They're electric,” called Pizzle, bending over the side of the nearest skimmer.

“Gosh, thanks!” remarked Treet. “That helps ever so much. We already
know
they're electric, Whiz Kid. But their cells are recharged by generators which run on solid fuel.”

“Yeah, and solar,” replied Pizzle. “See?” He straightened and unfolded a winglike panel from the rear of the vehicle. “Solar cells. We can run on solar and, unless I'm mistaken, recharge the batteries at the same time. We'll save the fuel for emergencies.”

Treet was impressed, but hardly felt in a congratulatory mood. “That helps a little,” he admitted. “But it's going to take more than a few solar cells to pull us through. What else do you have there?”

“Give me a minute.” Pizzle walked around to the other side of the skimmer and studied it, poking here and there around the machine, his putty face pursed in a scowl of concentration.

“Weapons,” Crocker said. “We should have some weapons— even primitive clubs would be better than bare hands. There could well be carnivorous animal life around here.”

“We haven't seen anything,” said Yarden. “Wouldn't we have seen signs of any animals?”

“Not necessarily. They might be nocturnal.” Crocker saw the face Treet made and continued, “Okay, maybe I'm wrong. My point is that we don't know this world at all and that until we get acquainted we better be on our toes.”

“You're right, of course.” Treet turned his attention to Calin, who had been strangely quiet all morning. “What about it, Calin? Any night-stalking meat-eaters we ought to be on the lookout for?”

Calin returned to awareness and looked blankly at Treet. “Animals?” She mouthed the word oddly. “I know of no animals. I have never been … outside … the dome …” Her voice trailed off, and she returned to her reverie.

“There's another thing I wasn't going to bring up—about the helmets,” began Crocker.

“You might as well bring it up; we're on a roll. What about the helmets? We have enough air for forty days apiece.”

“It isn't that. The thing is we can't take them off—which means we can't eat or drink.”

Treet stared. It was true—there was no way to eat or drink without taking off the helmet. “We need some kind of airtight shelter. Fast!” He had a picture of them all slowly starving to death inside the oversized mushroom-shaped globes.

Pizzle's nasal yammer sounded in his ear. “I don't know if this will work or not,” he said.

“If what will work?”

“This tent idea. Look here—” Pizzle came ambling back with a long, orange bag that bounced as he walked. He dumped it in front of them and set about emptying it. Slender fibersteel poles came sliding out, along with knitted nylon-type roping, thin and strong, and a flat packet of cloth that looked like crinkled orange silk.

Pizzle picked up the bright orange packet and shook it out, unfolding it into an ultrathin membrane with narrow pockets. They watched as he slid the poles into the pockets, stretching the material taut as the fibersteel bent into half circles. Within three minutes the tent was erected: a longish, ribbed tunnel affair with a mivex seal for a door. It looked like a culvert that had been flattened on the bottom and pinched down at one end. Clearly, occupancy was limited to no more than two people.

“Voila!”
said Pizzle proudly, admiring his handiwork.

“Any more where that came from?”

“I should think so. There's a long, skinny compartment on the floor of the left-hand side of the skimmer. It was underneath the reserve air canisters. There should be one in each vehicle, and my guess is they're waterproof as well as airtight. You don't put a mivex seal on something unless you want to keep something in or out.” Pizzle glanced around, lips wrapped around his imp grin. “You know this is just like
Escape from Nurakka
—I mean, they used airboats, but it's the same idea.”

Crocker, pale and unsteady, leaned his hands on his knees and studied the tent. “We'd have to figure some way to bleed out the air inside and fill it again so we could breathe in there.”

“We could use the spare canisters—valve off just enough to get a good mix,” explained Pizzle. “We know that the air is not downright poisonous, so that shouldn't be any problem.”

“Wouldn't we use up our oxygen faster?” wondered Yarden.

“Maybe. Not much though,” replied Crocker. “We wouldn't be wearing our helmets inside the tent, so breathing time would even out somewhat. You'd lose a little every time you opened the seal, of course. Once inside the tent, we'd have to stay in.”

Treet frowned inside his helmet. The whole enterprise seemed so half-baked in the clear light of day. “Then we eat only once a day,” he grumped. “Fantastic.”

“Twice,” replied Crocker, straightening painfully. “When we put up the tents for the night and again just before we take them down in the morning. That won't be too bad.”

“What about water? I can't go all day long without a drink.”

“Maybe I could rig up some kind of straw gizmo and run it up through the neck seal of the helmet.”

“We've go to
find
water first.” Yarden pointed out.

“The river Pizzle mentioned is to the east. If we keep heading this direction, we'll hit it before long,” said Crocker.

“What about the desert?” wondered Treet.

“Look,” snapped the Captain, “one problem at a time. We'll solve 'em as they come, okay? You people are going to have to give up some of your ideas about creature comforts. This isn't a nature hike we're on. This is survival.”

“Speaking of which,” Pizzle chimed in, “I think we ought to be moving along. The further from that place back there,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “the better I'll feel. Since we can't eat or anything until we get the tents up, let's travel as far as we can.”

The
sun was aglow in the western sky, burnishing each hilltop a brassy green-gold and throwing each valley into deep blue shadow, when the company decided to stop for the night. Although the sun remained above the smooth horizon, away in the east faint flickers of starlight already glimmered.

The sky seemed fragile and transparent, the sheerest of materials, lending the light an intense and vibrant quality—almost alive.

For the last two hours no one had broken radio silence. All were tired and preoccupied, steeling themselves for the rigors ahead. Treet had convinced himself that he would survive; one way or another he would make it. He would do all he could to help the others, but their survival, he reasoned, depended upon themselves. He was not responsible for getting them into this, nor was he responsible for getting them out—that was a problem they all shared equally. In Treet's opinion they were
all
victims.

This was the way his thoughts were bending. So it was with a shock that he heard his own voice cracking in his eardrums: “I think we'd better find a place to make camp. Since we haven't done this before, we don't want to be fumbling around in the dark.”

Why did I do that? he wondered. Why couldn't I let Crocker take command? If anyone should lead,
he
should.

Crocker ratified his suggestion. “You're right. We're losing the light. Let's stop at the next flat hilltop you see.”

The next flat hilltop was two hilltops away. Treet slowed the skimmer as it crested the hill and parked it so the solar panel could pick up the last of the sun's rays. He slowly unfolded himself from the driver's position and stretched out the kinks. According to the odometer on the skimmer's control panel they had covered slightly over two hundred and eighty kilometers since their last stop, which worked out to around five hundred and sixty for the day. Not too bad for the first day.

Treet did a few quick toe touches and torso twists as the others climbed down from their vehicles. “I feel like one of those old-time cowboys,” said Pizzle. “You know, like Roy Rogers. I believe I'm getting saddle sores.”