Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (39 page)

“You look a little bowlegged,” said Treet, flipping open the storage compartment of the skimmer and pulling out the long tent envelope. He carried the tent to a level spot and dumped it out. The others chose spots nearby and began setting up their tents.

“Let's keep them fairly close together,” said Crocker, “so we can talk to each other.”

“Who's going to be talking?” said Treet. “Once I crawl inside, I'm sound asleep.”

“It's eat first and then sleep for me,” said Yarden. “I'm starved.”

Crocker warned, “We'd better make our food last. It might be a while before we find anything edible out here.” When no one responded, he went on more insistently, “I mean it! No more than a few mouthfuls—eat just what you need to keep yourself going. And drink only a swallow.”

“Aye, aye. Captain Bligh,” grouched Treet. “We get the picture. Let's don't dwell on it.”

“Look, Treet. Maybe you'd prefer leading this expedition yourself. It's not in my contract that I have to be Bwana, you know.”

“I didn't mean that you—I mean, I—” stuttered Treet. “Oh, forget it. We're exhausted, and we're all stressed out. Let's just get the tents up and go to sleep.”

The sun had nearly dropped below the fading hill line when they climbed into the tents: Treet and Calin into one—the magician would not go with anyone else—and Crocker and Pizzle in another, since Yarden did not express an interest in sharing quarters with either of them and the men were hesitant to suggest otherwise.

Treet backed into the half-hoop structure, pulling two spare air canisters in after him. He sealed the mivex entrance and then opened the connector valves of both flat canisters, allowed air to bleed off while he counted seconds, and then said into his mike, “I've had both valves wide open for ninety seconds. Now what?”

“Take your helmet off,” said Pizzle.

“You take
your
helmet off!”

“It'll work, don't worry,” Pizzle coaxed. “Trust me.”

“I don't know why I'm the guinea pig, but here goes.” He took a deep breath and placed his hands on either side of the helmet, gave a three-quarter twist, and lifted it off, holding it above his head for quick replacement. He let his breath out and paused, then sniffed experimentally. Okay, so far. He drew more air in and held it—nothing unusual. Calin sat cross-legged at the far end of the tent, watching him with wide eyes. Then he gulped a deep breath and announced, “It works! Hey, it works!”

He breathed deeply, in and out again a few times. Besides a faint metallic tang on the back of his tongue, the air seemed perfect.

“It feels great to get out of that plastic bubble!” He heard a faint voice, like the voice of his conscience buzzing at him. He picked up his helmet again.

“You forget something?” It was Crocker.

“Are you all right?” inquired Yarden with some concern.

“Yeah, sorry. It works perfect. You can take your helmets off now.” He waited a few seconds and then hollered, “Isn't that better?”

“Marvelous!” came Yarden's answer through the tent membrane.

“Sweet relief!” called Pizzle.

Treet took Calin's helmet off as she made no move to do it herself. She looked at him oddly and then curled up in a ball where she sat. He opened their emergency pouches and brought out some food for them—dry wafers with the texture and taste of dog biscuits. He gave a couple to Calin and crunched down two himself, then rinsed his mouth with a few sparing sips of water.

He placed one of the flat air canisters under his head for a pillow and stretched out. Calin remained curled at one end of the tent. Rather than try to move her, Treet lay diagonally across the floor so that he would not have to keep his knees flexed all night. “Nighty night,” Treet called as he settled himself to sleep.

He heard some mumbling from Pizzle and Crocker's tent, but closed his eyes and was asleep at once.

The dog biscuits tasted
no better just before dawn the next morning, but by then he was hungry enough to eat rocks. At least the single sip of water he allowed himself was refreshing. Calin awoke at Treet's merest touch and rose without speaking. They donned their helmets and climbed out of the tent. Treet walked down one side of the hill, Calin the other as the sky turned pink low in the east. Treet stood looking at the dawn-dulled sky, noting a line of gray clouds with rosy feathered edges chugging westward far to the south. Otherwise, the heavens were uniformly void.

When he retraced his steps up the hill, he met Pizzle coming down. “Sleep okay?” he asked.

“Fair. Crocker muttered all night; I think he's still hurting.”

“Crocker can hear you, you know.” The voice was Crocker's, loud in their helmet speakers. “I'll be all right. Don't you worry about me. I won't slow anybody up.”

“Sorry,” Pizzle said quickly. “I wasn't implying anything.”

Treet turned to see Crocker stumbling down the hill toward them. “Is it true, Crocker? Are you in pain?”

“No!” the Captain denied, a little too forcefully. “Just worry about yourselves.”

“We could stay put for a day or two and let you get some rest…”

Crocker jabbed a finger at Treet's chest. “Nobody is doing any such thing on my account. We'd waste food and water which we might well need later on.”

“I didn't mean anything,” said Pizzle sullenly.

“Yes, we know you didn't mean anything,” snapped Treet. “Forget it. Let's get the tents down and head out.”

The sun's pearl-white disk was peeping above the eastern hill line by the time everyone was ready. The skimmer's whine, muffled by the helmet, climbed into the upper registers, and Treet eased back the joystick for another day's journey.

“Keep the sun to your back and spread out. We can't afford any accidents,” he said as his skimmer slid out over the grass, gliding down the hill into the shadowed valley.

Treet again took the lead, Calin maintaining a steady speed a little ways back on his left hand, Yarden nearly even on the right. The three vehicles churned their way across the rippled landscape, passing from sunlight into shadow as the turquoise hills rose and fell in even waves.

The
next two days were perfect copies of the first. They ate, slept, woke, and traveled the wide, hill-bound country, which showed no variation and gave no indication of ever changing at all. A more monotonous land Treet could not imagine.

This, Treet reminded himself, could be considered a blessing, for it meant that their travel was unimpeded by the more diverting variations of scenery and weather. If there was nothing much to look at, at least no obstacles hindered them.

About midday the fourth day out, they halted to stretch and take another directional reading—as much as possible. Treet sat on the ground, tucked his knees up to his chest, and rolled on his back, working the kinks out of his lower spine. While the others were walking and limbering up, he approached Calin, who was sitting by herself on the ground next to the skimmer.

Her eyes were focused on something far away in the distance when he came up. He squatted down beside her and tapped her helmet. When she failed to acknowledge his presence, he reached out and touched her radio switch. “Calin, I haven't heard a squeak out of you since yesterday. Are you feeling okay?”

Calin did not move when he addressed her, but remained immobile, arms encircling updrawn knees, vision fixed on the unvarying horizon.

“Did you hear me?” Treet leaned toward her. “Calin?”

“Can I help?” Yarden dropped down beside him on her knees.

“I don't know what's wrong with her. She hasn't said a word all day.”

As Treet spoke, the magician's body began to shiver, though the sun was warm and the breeze fair. “Calin? Listen to me. Calin?”

The tremors became more pronounced. She raised her head, and Treet saw in her eyes a vacant, mindless stare—the look of a wild creature shivering with fright. He placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her muscles rigid and cold beneath his touch. “She's stiff as stone!”

Her head began thrashing inside her helmet. Her mouth worked silently behind closed lips, and a keening moan sounded in the helmet speakers. Her eyelids fluttered as her eyeballs rolled up into their sockets. Blood trickled from her mouth. “Her tongue—she's chewing her tongue!” cried Treet. “We've got to do something!”

Yarden bent close, putting her arms around the trembling woman. “Calin, this is Yarden.” She spoke softly, calmly. “I'm going to take your helmet off.”

“You can't do that!” shouted Treet. “It could kill her!”

Yarden moved behind the magician and cradled her trembling body. “She'll die anyway—she's swallowed her tongue. She's choking!”

It was true. Calin's face was now tinted a ghastly shade of purple; her lips were blue.

Yarden put her hands on either side of the helmet and gave a sharp twist. She pulled it off and forced Calin's jaws open with one hand, reaching deftly in with her long fingers and flipping the magician's curled tongue forward.

Calin gulped air and instantly her eyes bulged out in terror. “Aaiiee!” She screamed a ragged, throat-tearing scream which, even through the sound-dampening properties of their helmets, sounded like a death rattle. Her hands clawed at the air.

“For God's sake, get her helmet back on!” boomed Crocker, running up.

Pizzle stood frozen a little way off, staring at the writhing woman on the ground before him. Yarden still knelt beside her, holding her head. Calin inhaled and screamed again, this time her voice faint and far away. “Aaiiee! It bur-r-n-n-s!”

Treet snatched up her helmet and thrust it forward.

“No!” said Yarden.

“You're killing her!” cried Treet. He moved to put the helmet over Calin's head, but Yarden shoved it aside.

“No, wait!”

“Talazac!” roared Crocker. “Get that helmet back on her right now. What do you think you're doing?”

Treet stooped with the helmet in his hands. Yarden resisted once more. “Please stop. It'll be all right. Just wait a moment.”

“What's gotten into you?” said Treet. He hesitated, his hands thrust out with the helmet between them. “Do you want her to die?”

“Wait, she's right,” said Pizzle. “Look.”

Calin lay still now, her color improving and her breathing, though still ragged and shallow, developing a more regular rhythm. She whimpered and moaned, but her limbs had stopped trembling and her head no longer thrashed. “It
burns,”
she rasped.

“Well, I never—” observed Crocker. “She seems to be coming out of it.”

“Get her some water,” ordered Yarden. Pizzle returned seconds later with one of the pouches. He held up the collapsible plastic canteen to Calin's lips and she swallowed, her features convulsing with pain. “Her throat's a little sore I imagine,” said Yarden, putting her hands to her own helmet.

“Wait! You're not thinking of taking off
your
helmet.” Treet stared incredulously at Yarden. “Have you lost your mind?”

“She needs me,” replied Yarden simply. “I have to talk to her.” She gave the helmet a quick twist and pulled it off. She paused, eyes closed, laying the helmet aside. Then she inhaled.

The pain twisted her features monstrously. She gulped air and shuddered, collapsing against the side of the skimmer. Her hands went to her throat, which she grasped as if she were trying to strangle herself. Tears streamed from her eyes. “Ahh! Ah-hh-hh …”

“Yarden! Put your helmet back on!” shouted Treet. He leaped forward, took up the headgear, and lowered it over Yarden's head. Her eyes flew open, and she knocked it away.

“Help me, you two!” Treet shouted to Pizzle and Crocker, who stood motionless behind him. “Yarden, you're suffocating.”

“She can't hear you anymore,” said Crocker.

Treet raised the helmet once more, but Yarden reached out, gripped his arm, and dug her nails in. “She doesn't want it,” said Pizzle. “She's over it.”

Yarden's eyes opened slowly. She smiled weakly, painfully, then bent over the quivering magician and spoke to her. Treet saw her mouth move, but could not hear the words. Then Yarden straightened and turned to Treet, put her hands on his helmet, and nodded.

Treet shook his head furiously and grabbed her wrists. She smiled and mouthed the words.
Trust me.
He hesitated, then took a deep breath, and nodded. The helmet twisted and came off. Treet sat back on his heels, still holding his breath.

“Let it out slow and breathe in slow,” said Yarden in a grating whisper. “It will sting like fury, but you'll be okay.”

Sting wasn't the word for it. As Treet inhaled, it felt as if all his soft tissues had suddenly burst into flame—as if his nasal passages, throat, and windpipe had ignited. His lungs convulsed with the shock. Angry red flares erupted in his brain. It seemed as if he breathed pure fire.

The scream he loosed was far from pretty. It bubbled in his throat and tore up through his vocal cords in an explosive burst only to trail off into an agonized, choking wheeze. Tears blinded his eyes and he squirmed convulsively on the ground, thrashing from side to side.

“Don't fight it,” Yarden soothed. He felt her hands on his chest. “Breathe in slowly. Stay on top and ride it out.”