Wasteland of Flint

Near the Stonespike Massif, Northern Hemisphere, Ephesus III

Choppy wind gusted across a basin striped with long, low dunes. Veils of dust and sand streamed toward the west, casting watery shadows on the floor of the valley. Gretchen felt the Midge shake and rattle as she banked into a landing approach. The engines whined as the ultralight angled into the wind. Through cloudy, pitted glassite, Gretchen could just make out the long scar left by the shuttle crash. Most of the skid — which had seemed so sharp and dark in Magdalena's video — was gone, wiped away by blown sand. A few bits of scattered metal remained, glinting in fading sunlight. The main bulk of the wreck was visible off to her left.

The Midge labored through the turn, coming into the wind, and her airspeed sank like a stone. Gretchen blinked sweat out of her eyes, gritting her teeth as she lined up for a landing. Ahead on the windswept plain, she could see the shining gray shape of Hummingbird's ultralight and a dark speck beside the aircraft. Yeah, a single thought burned, I'm coming to visit, old crow.

Gagarin wobbled down, battered by the gusty wind, and Gretchen tried to keep her hand from clenching tight on the stick. Flight comp was burning cycles at a ferocious rate, trying to keep the nose up, the wings aligned, and the overheated engines from shutting down. The busy little processors didn't need her trying to wingover into the deck and smash them all to tiny bits. A rumpled red quilt of thumb-sized pea-sand rushed up. Gretchen felt nauseated, her eyes glued to the altimeter. Numbers spun down to single digits. She tweaked the stick forward, popping the nose up, and there was a screeching jolt as the tires hit the ground.

The Midge shuddered, bouncing twice, then three times. A gust caught the ultralight from the side, slewing the back wheel around. Gretchen corrected, nearly blinded by sudden sweat, her hand moving in molasses. Dust plumed behind the aircraft and she feathered the brakes. Terrible high-pitched squeals answered, but the ultralight jounced and quivered to a standstill. Anderssen exhaled, staring at the looming mass of torn and blackened metal filling her field of view.

A figure in a z-suit emerged from the shadow of the broken shuttle, wind snapping dun-colored robes tight against a stocky, compact body. Gretchen let both engines wind down and the Gagarin settled into loose sand. Her arm trembling, she reached down to unlatch the door. As she did, the Midge shook in a fresh gust of wind, lifted a meter, then slammed violently down again. Anderssen gasped, breath knocked from her lungs, and put differential power to the engines. Obediently, Gagarin spun in place, nosing back into the wind. Gretchen locked the brakes, then waited, fingers light on the stick.

Another gust rolled across the sand, rushed over the ultralight and the whole airframe shook, lifting off again. The Midge jounced back five, ten meters.

"Oh, Mother of God!" Gretchen cursed, feeling queasy. Bile bit at her throat. "We're too light!"

She shot a glance outside and saw the suited figure squatting in the minimal shade of the other aircraft, which was tied down in a pentagonal pattern with sand anchors.

"How the hell did he — " The Midge bounced again, caught in a fiercer blast. Sand rattled on the canopy and a string of warning lights flared on. Number two engine had just taken a shot of grit right into the intake. "Sister, help me!" How did he land and have time to put out anchors with positive buoyancy? Wait — ah, idiot, idiot, idiot!

Gretchen slapped the lifting surface controls. Two hydrogen pumps woke up with a gurgle and began to evacuate the wing tanks. As gas compressed into pressure tanks behind the seat, Anderssen turned on the motors to retract the wings. Despite her best efforts, the Gagarin continued to bounce backward, leaving her a hundred meters from the crash by the time the wings were locked back into storage position, and the Midge was no longer so excellently airworthy.

Grunting under the weight of two sand anchors, Gretchen clambered down out of the pilot's chair, her goggles on, suit zipped up, one end of a heavy tan and white djellaba across her face. The footing was poor on such heavy gravel, but she paid no mind. Her muscles remembered what to do, how to walk, how to lean just so into the gusting wind. She labored toward the wreck, twin monofil lines spooling out behind her.

The squatting figure under the other Midge did not stir, watching with interest as she drew even with him and fired both anchors into the sand. Five minutes later, the winch on the Gagarin was in operation and the ultralight approached at a walking pace, bouncing and hopping across the rough ground. Gretchen squatted herself, her back to the wind, the control for the winch cupped in one gloved hand.

Gretchen secured the last of the tie-downs and stood up, feeling her back creak. No substitute for planetside exercise, she thought with a groan. Both aircraft lay in the lee of the broken shuttle, cowering in a tiny space protected from the constant wind. Anderssen turned, hands busy rewrapping the heavy scarf around her face and shoulders to protect her breather mask and the relatively sensitive gaskets and equipment around her neck.

The suited figure stood as well, face hidden by goggles and mask. Gretchen could see the suit was a little worn, the shine of newness long gone, and there was a suitable array of tools strapped onto the man's body. She guessed he'd put in plenty of hours in hostile environments, but the drape of his djellaba and kaffiyeh was poor.

"Well," she said, clicking open the groundside channel, "thanks for helping me tie down."

"Were we on ship," the voice had a little buzz around the edges, as if his comm gear were already suffering from dust, "I would have you incarcerated, or shot, for disobeying a direct order."

"You might," Gretchen said, her voice brittle with fatigue and too much adrenaline, "but I'm not an Imperial officer. I'm a civilian. I even have a permit to be on this planet. I checked — you didn't have time to file the proper forms and paperwork to revoke our exploration rights."

"Amusing," Hummingbird replied and she could hear an edge of weariness in his voice. "But I will not argue the point. You were foolish to come down here. What did you hope to achieve by following me?"

"You," Gretchen said sharply, "have something of mine. I want it back."

Hummingbird turned fully toward her. "What do you mean?"

"The cylinder. You had Fitzsimmons and Deckard take the artifact from number three airlock and stow it in your quarters. That object," her voice rose, "is Company property and my personal salvage. I'll be expecting you to return it to the lawful owner — me! — upon our return to the Palenque."

There was a moment of silence, then the nauallis laughed softly, a breathy, echoing sound on the comm link. "You…you came down here to beard me about a chunk of shale?"

"Limestone," she replied. "Compressed limestone strata containing a verifiable First Sun artifact — a knowledge storage device, in fact — which — praise the Son — is duly and legally logged as the evidence and dig-claim of xenoarch Anderssen, Gretchen Elizabeth, company employee number 337G4. My property. Not yours. Not the Imperial government's."

"I see." Hummingbird rubbed one hand across the back of his head. "You have me — and this is rare, Anderssen-tzin — at a complete loss." His hand came back into view with a small, snub-nosed pistol which steadied in such a way as to provide Gretchen with a fine view of the muzzle. "But I believe you are suffering from a psychotic reaction due to the overuse of stimulants, excessive fatigue and the psychological effects of exposure to said First Sun artifact. Now — turn around and clasp your hands behind your head."

"I am not psychotic," Gretchen said, remaining entirely still. "I suggest you consider the fuel capacity of your aircraft, your stated mission, and put the clever little gun away."

Hummingbird's aim did not waver, which showed commendable strength to Gretchen's mind. She could barely stand, her arms and legs cramping from the physical stress of landing. "My mission," he said, after a moment, "is none of your concern. Indeed, your presence here makes an already precarious situation even less tenable."

"I don't agree," she said. "And I'm going to sit down."

The gun moved as she did and Gretchen sighed with relief to be squatting. Her arms were shaking inside the suit and the three-times-cursed medband was still locked out. Stupid, stupid machine.

"So," she said, cocking an eye at the eastern sky, which was noticeably darkening. "You haven't shot me yet, which I'd have expected from a flint-hard Imperial judge. I am a little surprised."

"If you expected to be shot, why did you follow?" Hummingbird squatted himself, the gun having already disappeared into some pocket or holster hidden on his suit. "I doubt the Palenque's bigeye is sharp enough to pick us out down here. I could make your body and the aircraft disappear very quickly. No one would ever know."

"You would," Gretchen replied, finally picking out the gleam of his eyes through the polarized goggles. She laughed softly. "I knew you wouldn't shoot. I would wager you're even glad to see me…you don't have to admit that. I understand how it is."

"Why would that be?" The nauallis's voice had a cold edge. "You don't even have any idea why I'm down here. You don't even know who I am."

"I know enough," Gretchen said, still watching the eastern horizon. In such a thin atmosphere, night advanced like a solid wall, the sky darkening swiftly to blue-black as the terminator approached. "You got spooked by my cylinder, by the Russovsky-copy. I think you got enough bits and pieces of the big puzzle to make a guess — yeah, maybe an educated guess — about what's going on down here. Suddenly the funny little archaeological expedition became a serious problem. So everyone has to clear out fast, leaving you behind to clean up the mess."

"The cylinder," the nauallis interjected, "will remain in Imperial custody and will be destroyed before the Cornuelle leaves this system."

"I don't think so," Gretchen replied tartly. "Not without fair compensation!"

"It is worthless," Hummingbird said, the edge returning to his voice. "Don't you see the device is a lure and a trap? I've seen such things before, left behind to ensnare the unwary. Such things cannot ever be allowed into Imperial space or even onto one of the Rim colonies."

Gretchen shook her head, the motion barely visible through the suit. "Your little blue pyramid tell you that? Does your book have a picture of my cylinder in it, with a warning label?"

"No," bit out the judge, "but such things have been encountered before."

"Have they?" Gretchen felt curiosity stir. Down! She reminded herself. Stay on task.

"Yes. The mining settlement on Aldemar Four was obliterated by an equivalent device — "

"You know," Gretchen said, rudely ignoring Hummingbird. "I really don't care about some miners who found something they shouldn't have. This find is mine. Logged, duly reported, even surveyed and examined. Now, you can destroy the object if you want, but given the high likelihood the cylinder is in fact a First Sun information storage device — your masters in the Ministry of Finance will be very, very unhappy with you for doing so."

Hummingbird's head drew back a fraction and Gretchen felt a sharp stab of delight.

"If you destroy my artifact," she said in a cutting voice, "then a court of adjudication will weigh in my favor when the Company sues the Imperial Navy for confiscating and destroying something worth billions of quills. Now, you're a judge — you know what the rules for theft and destruction of property are like."

There was a strangled hiss from the nauallis. "You'd quote the law to me?"

"I would," Gretchen said, stiffening and rising up slightly. "You stole from me. If you destroy the evidence of theft, then I'll be compensated as if the object had a 'fair market value'. Now, let's say I put a proven First Sun artifact up on the block in the zocalo of Tlateloco. How much do you think I'd get? Can you even count that high? How many centuries of servitude to me would it take to pay off such a debt?"

"It–it is a trap!" Hummingbird's control was fraying. "Useless and dangerous! Not a prize, not a find, not worth a single quill!"

"Not to me." Gretchen glared at the stupid man, though he couldn't see her expression through the mask. "That slab and that cylinder are worth everything to me."

"You'd risk your life, and the lives of others, for money?" There was a pitying tone in Hummingbird's voice. "You can't spend all those quills if you're dead."

For a moment, Gretchen said nothing. Then, in a cold voice, she said, "I risk my life every day, Hummingbird-tzin, for one hundred and nineteen quills. I live for months in a suit, eating my own waste, breathing my own toxins, grubbing in the dirt, for one hundred and nineteen quills. I break into tombs filled with explosive gasses; I watch my friends get killed by accidents with earthmoving equipment, or suit ruptures or sheer carelessness, or from drink or drugs or mindless brawls in some grimy hole-in-the-wall bar, all for one hundred and nineteen quills a day.

"How many quills are in my bank account?" She shook her head, feeling enormous, crushing weariness press down on her like a planet. "Maybe two, three hundred. Everything else goes home to my mother, who manages to keep shoes on my children's feet, food in their mouths, maybe some new soft for the home comp so they can learn. My son is going to be eight years old next year, oh mighty Judge, and unless I have nearly thirty thousand quills in my bank account, he won't be able to get into a calmecac school or a pochteca academy, which means he'll have to work lookout on a lumbering crew, watching for woodgaunts or frayvine — just so we can keep paying the rent on what little land we do have."

"That's nonsense," Hummingbird said, startled. "The calpulli schools are — "

"Free? Maybe on Anбhuac they are, maybe for the sons and daughters of landowners, surely for the nobility — and you are a noble, aren't you? But on New Aberdeen, there aren't those kinds of luxuries, not for landless tenants. Not for Swedish immigrants. Not for my children."

The judge said nothing, settling back on his heels. Gretchen felt the pressure in her chest ease a little and she put her head between her knees.

"How did you get an education?" The anger was gone from the nauallis's voice. Gretchen didn't look up.

"My grandmother's father was a Royal Navy commander in the Last War." Anderssen wanted to lie down and close her eyes, but managed to resist. "He was killed in action off Titan and his service pension passed to her. When my grandparents fled Anбhuac during the Conquest, she put the pension money — which wasn't much, but something — in a Nisei bank. When I was old enough to enter a school and I needed tutors and up-to-date software and living expenses, she broke it out. Sixty years of interest can make a little pile fairly big — but all that was gone by the time I finished university."

There was a hissing sound again and Gretchen realized the nauallis had a habit of biting on the tip of his oxygen tube when he was thinking.

"The Imperial academies are free — " Hummingbird started to say.

"— if you can gain admittance. How many students do you think apply every year? There are millions of applicants, millions. I'm sure your relatives back on Anбhuac think the system is fair, but they're landowners and inside the Seven Clans. They're not exiles on a backwoods hellhole like Aberdeen, saddled with a crushing tax burden to subsidize the landed colonists and treated like dirt by the so-victorious planetary government."

Silence again. Gretchen saw night had advanced to the peaks lining the eastern edge of the basin. The wind — thankfully — seemed to be dying down.

"So you've come for money." Hummingbird sounded suspicious. "No you haven't! If you were really only interested in the cylinder and your 'fair' compensation, you'd be sitting up on the ship, filing suits in district court at Ctesiphon by t-relay!"

Gretchen nodded, her bleak mood lifting fractionally. "So true."

"Then why?"

She sighed, forcing herself to her feet. Her left leg was starting to fall asleep. "Because I want you to give me the cylinder back without all that legal fuss. And you desperately need my help and I can't say I've ever let someone carry a load too heavy for them without offering a hand." The angle of the nauallis's head shifted questioningly. "You're not getting back upstairs without me and my Midge, Hummingbird-tzin, and unless you do you can't remand the cylinder into my possession without us all spending years mired in the Cihuacoatl's court of appeals."

"I see. I am sure Chu-sa Hadeishi would find your lack of confidence disheartening."

"Ah-huh." Gretchen walked, creaking a little, to the cargo stowage of the Gagarin. "You're aware of the altitude limits of these aircraft?"

"Yes," Hummingbird replied, following her. "But they don't matter. A shuttle from the Cornuelle will retrieve me from the observatory camp when they return from their hunt."

"How long will that take, do you suppose?" Gretchen popped the latches and began unloading a pressure tent and her cook kit. "A couple weeks? A month?"

"I'm a patient man," Hummingbird replied, taking the bundle from her. "I've waited longer for retrieval before."

Gretchen looked the nauallis up and down with a wry expression. "I'm sure you have a lot to think about. Do you know how long these z-suits will last down here? Down here with this dust eating away at them every minute of every hour? I don't suppose you talked to Sinclair before loading up your gear?"

"The xenobiologist? No…"

Gretchen fished around behind the seat of the ultralight and pulled out a bulky object which looked for all the world like an old-fashioned hair dryer. "Got one of these?"

Hummingbird shook his head. "What is it?"

"It's worth an extra six, seven days in this acid bath. This thing uses a magnetic field to strip the microfauna living in the dust from your suit — or other equipment — if they haven't managed to burrow in yet."

Hummingbird became entirely still and Gretchen's nose wrinkled up at an undefinable, but unmistakable impression of the nauallis listening. After a moment, he stirred, then knelt down and ran his fingers through the pea-sand underfoot.

"Try an ultraviolet band on your goggles," she suggested. "They'll shine momentarily when you disturb the surface."

Hummingbird straightened up, shaking dust from his gloves. "How many days do we have?"

"Safely? About two weeks. Pushing our luck and assuming the buildings at the observatory camp are still intact when we get there, maybe twenty days."

The judge stared up at the darkening sky. "And the Cornuelle?"

"You can call them if you'd like. I'm sure the honorable captain will give you an estimate of when he hopes to return."

Hummingbird said nothing.

"I thought so." Gretchen marked out a rectangle with her boot, then dumped the tent bundle at one end. "You're serious about removing the traces of our expedition, aren't you? Well, you're going to need me, my Midge and the extra supplies I brought if you want to succeed."

"Will I?" The judge sounded irritated. "You have no idea what I intend to do."

"Doesn't matter," she said, unsealing the bag. With long-experienced fingers she flipped the rolled mat out onto the sand. At the motion, the tent stiffened and snapped into a long, broad rectangle. "I'll do my best to keep you alive so you can do…whatever you're going to do. Then, when we're back at the observatory camp, I'll make sure we get picked up before our suits erode and we wind up like Doc Russovsky."

"I don't need your help," Hummingbird started to say.

"Hummingbird-tzin, you are being stone-headed." Gretchen tried to glower, but gave up. She was too tired. "You cannot remove all evidence of human presence here if you remain." She paused a beat. "You are human, aren't you?"