Authors: Ian Whates
“Let’s wind things back a bit and examine the patches of wall those spikes emerged from,” Pelquin said. The images played in reverse, the spears retracting to be swallowed by the wall, leaving no apparent trace. “Is there anything to tell us that the spears are there? Anything at all to say that this isn’t just another ordinary stretch of tunnel wall?”
Anna shook her head. “No, not as far as the probe’s sensors are concerned at any rate.”
“Great,” Bren muttered. “So we could all end up skewered at any moment. At least it would be quick – at that speed you’d be dead before you even registered the threat.”
“The buggy has a more sophisticated sensor system than the probe, so we might be able to spot them,” Anna said, sounding far from convinced. “Plus we now know where these ones are. If they’re the only set of spikes, problem solved.”
“You reckon? Knowing where they are doesn’t mean we know how to get past them,” the doc said.
Anna summoned up a diagram: a 3D representation of the tunnel. “Okay, judging by the images from the probe, this is what we’re dealing with.”
The image displayed twin sets of eight spears pushing out from either wall, their tips interweaving at the tunnel’s centre.
“Both sides?” Pelquin asked. He had only spotted movement from the left.
“Yeah, if you check the final few frames the spikes release simultaneously from right and left. You just focus on the left ones because they’re nearer and that’s the direction the probe-killer comes from; it’s the most obvious thing there and sort of grabs your attention.”
“And once we’re in the tunnel, we can pinpoint the exact spots where the stakes emerged?”
“Sure.”
“Good. We’ll use bonding foam on the placements.”
“And if that doesn’t work we’ll come up with something else,” Bren said; showing the sort of support he’d once taken for granted. Hearing it now came as a relief.
“Exactly.”
“We’re intending to go in through the entrance, I take it?” Nate said.
That brought a sharp look from Bren, as if it had never occurred to her they’d be doing anything else.
“Yeah, looks to be the best option. The Xters have already done at least half our work for us. Trying to open a new tunnel is going to take too long, and this way we avoid any risk of a cave-in.”
“We hope,” Anna murmured.
“Fair enough.”
“You were seriously considering opening a new tunnel into a cache chamber?” Bren asked.
“Considering it, yes; to avoid the defences. Now we’re actually here, I’m not so sure it was ever a good idea, but…”
The guardian knows we’re here,
Mudball told Drake.
You can sense it?
Oh yes, and I hope your friends don’t expect to simply stroll in there and help themselves to the contents. They’re in for a fight.
This wasn’t like Mudball. Normally the little alien was all cocky swagger, boasting about how he could wipe the floor with any guardian of any cache. This time around he sounded almost… worried.
Is this guardian different in some way?
Drake asked.
Strong; very strong.
And does it know you’re with us?
No, it’s not looking for anything like me and I’m keeping my head down, so to speak.
But you know what it’s got planned?
Not the specifics, no. Trying to find out would reveal my presence, but, trust me, that’s one seriously pissed off guardian who isn’t about to stand by and do nothing.
Duly noted.
No one had yet come up with a wholly satisfactory explanation for the guardian entities. When they were first encountered, in the very early days of cache hunting, it was assumed that these were automated defences which had remained active despite the passing aeons. Not impossible; in theory mankind could readily devise mechanisms of comparable durability. Then it became clear that there was something more going on, that the defences were reactive and in a few cases even proactive. That meant a whole different level of threat, a programmed, guiding intelligence, and slowly the reality of guardian entities dawned on humankind. They weren’t always present, tending to occur at the larger caches rather than the smaller ones – though that was far from a universal truth – and they varied in capability and viciousness. It was assumed that these inconsistencies were explained by the passage of time, that some of the guardians had failed to survive while others had deteriorated over the years and were now less than fully functional.
Even the assumption that these were sophisticated systems left in place by the Elders to safeguard the caches was hotly debated: safeguard the caches against what? And why leave the caches behind at all if you were then going to guard against them being accessed?
Nobody had yet found the physical housing for these guardians – the systems they inhabited – and many had looked. Some believed that the Elders had found a way of utilising the very rocks around the caches for this. So many bizarre forms of unexplained tech had been discovered in the caches that nothing could be ruled out.
Drake had his own opinions and his own questions about the guardians. You would think that having Mudball riding on his shoulder and in his thoughts would make him an expert on the subject, but you’d be wrong. If Mudball wasn’t a guardian entity, what was he? And if he was, then the guardian entities were not programming at all, at least not in any conventional sense.
On this subject as with so many others Mudball remained evasive to the point of reticence. Of course there were reasons; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to be helpful, it was just that his memory was impaired… that he had only vague recollections of events so long ago… that the Elders had excised all knowledge of such things from his mind… that it wouldn’t be helpful to either Drake as an individual or humanity as a whole to know too much… Drake suspected that this last might at least hold some grain of truth.
One thing Mudball had stipulated at the start of their arrangement was that he wouldn’t comment on the nature of the Elders, claiming a similar argument. Drake had agreed at the time – his life had just been saved and he would have agreed to anything – but it wasn’t always an easy undertaking to abide by.
They were going in armed. The weapons locker was the only compartment on the ship routinely secured, to the best of Leesa’s knowledge. Voice activated, it opened at Pelquin’s command; a section of wall sliding away and a double-sided rack emerging from the resultant slot. The arsenal was hardly extensive but it was enough to ensure that everyone would at least be packing something. The stock weapon seemed to be machine pistols – matt black compact weapons with truncated nozzles. Leesa recognised the type: comparatively light, easy to handle, ideal for the enclosed conditions of the cache chamber. They fired slender bullets at high velocity, each slug packing an explosive tip. Two hundred and fifty rounds to a magazine, which was built into the weapon’s handle. The captain handed one of the guns each to Anna, Bren, Nate, and Doc.
He hesitated in reaching to unclip a fifth from the rack, looking at Drake and asking, “You ever handled one of these before?”
“Once or twice,” the banker replied.
Evidently satisfied, Pelquin handed the gun across. Everyone got a spare magazine as well, before Pelquin took a machine pistol for himself and also a longer-barrelled energy weapon. He then instructed the locker to close.
“Nothing for me?” Leesa asked.
“Nope. No need for you to be armed. You’re staying on the ship to monitor us and handle the drones. We’re counting on you to warn us if anything starts to go wrong.”
“What? But…”
“No buts.” Pelquin held up a restraining hand. “I know these people,” he indicated the rest of the crew. “I’ve worked with them many times before, and that sort of familiarity could prove vital in a tight spot.
Somebody
has to stay on the ship. Anna’s going to be driving the buggy so she can’t do it, and we need someone here to control the other two drones, monitor the overall situation when the rest of us might be too close to see the wood for the trees and, perhaps most importantly of all, keep an eye out to ensure that another shipful of Xters doesn’t turn up and catch us with our pants down. That someone is you.”
Leesa pursed her lips and glared. What she wanted to say was:
but you’re squandering your most effective resource. Let the doc sit back here monitoring the screens. I’m the best fighter you’ve got on board and you can bet your Elder artefacts you’re going to need me out there!
What she actually said was… nothing. She could understand Pelquin’s reasoning; it was wrong but she could understand it. He had no way of knowing how good she was in a scrap – the incident at La Gossa with the disberos aside, and he only had her word and the banker’s for that. He was going with what he knew. Logical, conservative, and wrong; but nothing she might say was likely to change his mind.
So instead of arguing she simply watched, feeling very much the outsider. She’d almost begun to feel a part of this crew, but had now been reminded very forcefully that she wasn’t. So she stood on the fringe of things and observed the others interact, as adrenaline took hold of her companions and jokes and banter flourished. The sense of mounting excitement seasoned with a touch of nerves was almost palpable.
The others trooped out, heading towards the loading bay and the planet’s surface. Leesa watched them go. Anna at least glanced back to smile and give her a small wave. Once they’d gone, she didn’t quite kick the cabinets but she thought about it.
Leesa wasn’t entirely sure why she felt so strongly about being excluded. Yes, it would have been great to see inside an Elder cache chamber but, as the Xter dead confirmed, it would also have been dangerous. These weren’t her people and this wasn’t her fight. It wasn’t even as if she would have been paid any more for putting her life on the line. A share was a share – or in her case a half of one – whether she went in there or merely sat out here and watched.
She made her way to the bridge. At least she got to sit in the pilot’s seat for once. High-backed, well-padded and responsive; the material of the seat reconfigured to support her as she made herself comfortable. She sat up and wriggled, settling back to enjoy the sensation as the seat adjusted around her. She looked around and tried to convince herself that being left behind wasn’t so bad after all. The bridge, which was always so cramped when the crew gathered here en masse, now seemed positively spacious. She squirmed in her seat, causing the chair to readjust again just for the hell of it.
As they arrived at the loading bay the doc handed out slap masks to everyone. Drake was impressed; these things weren’t cheap. Further evidence that Doctor Bariha didn’t squander his
entire
budget on drugs. Drake held the mask in the palm of his right hand and eyed it dubiously. He’d worn one of these before and didn’t much relish a rematch. It resembled a standard oxygen mask though flimsier. Once the edges were pressed firmly to the face the mask formed a vacuum-tight bond with the skin, sealing in mouth and nose. The most uncomfortable part about wearing a slap mask was that it got hot in there, particularly if you were performing any exercise. Oh, and they could be buggers to get off again; he’d had masks that came away with an appropriate tug and others that clung stubbornly to the face even after the application of solvent. He felt sure that someone’s facial skin would be sacrificed before the day was out.
Slap masks were made of a permeable membrane. They let air in but were said to scrub that air of harmful viruses, bacteria, or any other malicious mites that an alien ecosystem might have whipped up. Far more than mere filters, the masks employed an active agent capable of identifying, isolating and destroying invading microbes; nanotechnology in all its glory.
After only the briefest of hesitations he slapped the mask on. They all did, except for Nate Almont.
“No thanks, Doc,” he said, handing his mask back.
“In that case, you really ought to wear a suit with an isolated air supply.”
Almont snorted. “Doc, if you honestly think I’m going to totter around in an EVA suit on an Earth-normal world with an Earth-normal atmosphere, you’ve sniffed one tube of happy vapours too many.”
“The risk of you picking up…”
“I’ll take my chances. I’ve already been here once and, see,” he spread his arms, “I’m perfectly okay.”
“For now,” the doc muttered.
Drake was opening and closing his mouth, keeping his cheeks and jaw as mobile as possible while the mask settled in place, hoping to minimize the discomfort. He found himself sympathising with Almont.
They piled onto the buggy, Pelquin and Anna in the front, the rest of them sitting two to a side on the flatbed behind, legs dangling over the edge. Drake found himself sitting next to Bren, with Almont and the Doc at their backs. A small powerlifter and a few other pieces of equipment – hastily but securely loaded – separated them. Drake held his cane across his lap, its end poking away from Bren and towards the back of the buggy, where a storage tank had been fastened.
It wasn’t the most comfortable ride he’d ever experienced, as the buggy raced across the uneven ground, for all of Anna’s skill and the buggy’s supposed technology.
“Hey, take it easy, Anna,” Bren yelled, “or are you trying to shake us loose back here?”
“Be grateful,” Pelquin said. “This is the model
with
suspension.”
Things were a lot easier once they reached the tunnel. Apart from anything else, Anna slowed down.
They left a small comms relay at the entrance, knowing how tricky it was to get a signal through cache-chamber walls and not wanting to take any chances with Leesa’s monitoring them and her control of the probes. The tunnel leading in was straight, so the relay should provide a clear link no matter what. That was the theory, at any rate. They also collected the long handled piece of Xter kit left resting against the rock face. Bren seemed particularly pleased with this, examining the object as if it were some treasured bargain picked up cheaply at an auction.