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To the Last Syllable of Recorded Time - Part II

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To the Last Syllable of Recorded Time - Part II


     Gooseman knew better than to swear as he watched the controls of his Interceptor flicker and then die with a last pathetic flash. Hands tightening around the control stick, he looked through the small pane at the whirling green madness outside, and clenched his teeth as the machine shuddered and whined around him in reaction to the atmospheric resistance. 
     He was blind. In every sense of the word. 
     On the other hand, he had been in worse situations, and the details embedded on his brain thanks to a photographic memory were just what he needed to land the bird in one piece. He just needed to estimate height, velocity and acceleration, and he was safe. 
     The cockpit all but screamed around him, tested to the point of bursting. Nothing was worse for structural integrity than tons of sand crashing against the metal at incredible speed. Goose resorted to cursing after all as he pulled the stick gently towards him, trying to slow the descent of the ship. It was no good, the way it insisted falling like a stone towards oblivion. Given the intensity of the storm, there had to be a draft strong enough to carry even the bulky Interceptor. 
     He just had to catch it. 
     He frowned, feeling how beads of sweat started to gather on his forehead. Strange. Then he swore again, with feeling, kept pulling slowly at the control stick, despite a growing urge to rip it out of its mounting, and finally caught it. 
     The draft. 
     It was just enough to stabilize the aircraft and allow it to continue its descent at a saner pace. Even without controls, Goose could feel how the patterns of the air movement shifted, increasingly hindered by the approach of the ground. The sand became darker, more dense, until it almost formed a solid wall. Its pull had also increased, the ferocity with which it shook the small aircraft incredible in its intensity. 
     And then there it suddenly was: the ground. Approaching at a still crazy speed, but one with which his reflexes could cope. He pulled harder at the stick, causing the Interceptor's nose to lift just enough to catch a slight updraft. 
     The sand flew away to both sides, an effective brake. Still, there was a mighty jolt as the ship landed, slamming Goose forehead first into the control board. 
     Long minutes trickled by. 
     Finally a dazed Gooseman lifted his head and brushed a hand tentatively across his face. It was wet. 
     Immediately he hit the badge with such force that the metal almost bent. The familiar glow felt good as it penetrated his whole body, washing away the first symptoms of acute radiation poisoning, subtly changing his skin and metabolism. Perfectly adapting to the environment. 
     Allowing his arms to rest on the sides of the pilot's seat, Gooseman paused to ponder his situation. His less than rosy situation. Without any possibility for communication and the limited charge of his implant, he wouldn't last more than one and a half days in this exceedingly hostile environment. 
     A rescue mission was also out of the question -- this had been clear from the beginning. So his mission had been altered from that of an observer to that of an infiltrator -- an impossible feat for someone without his capabilities and training. A quick survey of the ship's state confirmed his analysis; the Interceptor was in no state to leave the planet -- now or ever. 
     The more aggressive approach suited him, he decided as he crawled out of the cockpit and shouldered the thirty pounds' weight of the survival pack. He didn't waste time on camouflaging the ship -- it was far enough from the Crown activities not to be detected, and the continual sand movement provided enough cover. 
     He didn't look back as he started on the long march toward the Crown base.

    "Controls failing... I'm trying to shift to man--" Static had overlaid the rest, paralyzing all but Doc, whose fingers flicked furiously over the console. Zach had recovered first, but, used to keeping his calm, he let Doc work. It was Niko who exploded. 
     "Dammit, Doc, get him back on line!!" 
     "I'm working on it!" He didn't look up at her when he continued. "By now he's already landed anyway. One way or the other," he added, looking grim. 
     "We're going down," Niko stated, resolutely. She dared Zach to challenge her, give her a reason to vent her anger, her despair on him. She wanted to strike him as he just looked calmly back. 
     "I'm still in command of this unit. And we're not going after him." 
     "He could be wounded, unconscious. We have to!" 
     "He could be dead. If we go down there, we die. With that radiation level, we are dead before we've even landed." A slap would have been better than those words, more gentle. Anything but the one possibility she had tried to shut out completely because it ripped her open from the inside. The anguish in her mind blazed a telepathic swath towards her colleagues, who all but sagged under the unexpected weight. The possibility of loss weighed hard on them, but her all-encompassing despair piled upon their own, less vivid feelings was too much. The first to recognize the source, Zach narrowed his eyes at her. 
     "Niko! Cut it out!" 
     She did, not without effort. She did not waste time on wondering why she could suddenly project her feelings to non-telepaths. The grief was too new to allow too much thought. And mixed into it there still was that frail, cruel thread of hope. 
     "Shane's not dead. I can feel it." The truth, or a telepath's mind that wanted to believe? She didn't want to think about it. She would also have loved to slap Doc's hand away as it landed comfortingly on her shoulder. 
     "He might be alive -- God knows he's seldom landed a bird the way it was meant to. But we can't go down there." 
     "He's right, Niko." Zach's voice, this time soothing with the memory of shared pain. "All we can do is stay here, keep watch, and work on a way to locate his badge. If he's alive, he will find a way to leave the planet. And when he does, we'll get him." 
     He wasn't sure of it, she could sense as much. He was thinking of Eliza and their failure, hoping it would work this time. But there was no guarantee -- there never was. 
     "I'll keep watch," Doc announced. 
     "I stay with you. Niko, you go get some rest. If we are to get Goose back, we need a telepath with a clear mind." 
     Her training forgotten, rational thought an impossibility, she shook her head. "No. I want to stay --" 
     "That's an order." Zach's tone was icy. 
     What are you going to do -- throw me in the brig? She didn't voice the thought -- he sure looked capable of responding in kind. And years in the military trained reflexes too deeply embedded to be influenced by grief. 
     "Yes Sir." After the bridge door had hissed open and then closed behind her slender frame, Doc looked helplessly at the expressionless face of his Captain. 
     "Know what that was all about? I've never seen her like that. Goose..." 
     "Goose is part of it. But there's something else..." His mouth tightened dismissively. "It doesn't matter. We'll sort that out later. Now we concentrate on pulling Gooseman's hide out of the fire." 
     "Aye, Sir." 
     As Doc turned back to his controls and Zach bent over his own console, the possibility of failure had just been erased from their minds.

     After twenty hours of marching through fine, hot sand, even genetically enhanced muscles screamed with exhaustion. At least it was already dark, the suddenness of nightfall a constant on every desert planet he had ever visited -- as was the cold. For the latter he was well prepared -- his new metabolism had adjusted admirably to the freezing temperatures of the night, as it had to the merciless blaze during the day. He could survive without water and food for days, which was not as important, considering that he had only twenty more hours at most until the first signs of radiation poisoning. 
     The adjustments to his physical body had not changed the fact that his thoughts were still human and his human brain expected his body to feel thirst as well as hunger. He obliged it by taking a few sips from the bottle hanging from his belt. He also devoured one of the bland-tasting food rations -- he had no reason to save them for later. After folding and tucking the wrapping into a belt pocket, he resumed his walk. 
     Half an hour later, Gooseman had reached the outermost edge of the crater the Crown troops had been so diligently digging. He wondered briefly why they didn't employ machines for the excavation work instead of the more inefficient troopers, then realized that long-term shielding of electronical devices was impossible because of the level of radiation. A quick look through infrared surveillance goggles revealed indeed a few abandoned diggers all but covered in sand -- testimony to the Crown's unsuccessful efforts in that direction. 
     They've probably underestimated the radiation level in the beginning -- just like we did. No wonder they keep their ships in orbit most of the time. 
     Crouching low behind one of the dunes that were in plentiful supply all around the camp, he lowered the survival pack carefully to the ground. Reaching down, he pulled the zipper on one of the bag's pockets and retrieved an assortment of electronical devices which he started to put together with practiced ease. 
     Now, let's hear the latest gossip... Inserting a minuscule earphone into his left ear, he brushed the fingers of his right hand over the small display, activating it. 
     Nothing. The usual hissing noise of static was there, but beyond that, there was no sign of communications. Frowning, Goose typed a quick series of commands into the unit -- it seemed to function perfectly, and, unlike the Interceptor, it was well suited to withstand even the present level of radiation. 
     Shrugging, he settled down and waited, well aware that he allowed precious time to elapse. After half an hour of listening to white noise, he was starting to lose patience. 
     Hmm. The slaves in a Crown camp are downright chatty compared to this bunch here. He checked his watch -- since the small devices he carried were likely to withstand a nuclear explosion without much of a scratch, the watch was still functioning. He had nineteen hours left. 
     Since there was no other option until a ship arrived, he shifted until he was more comfortable and lifted the goggles to get a better look at the night shift. 
     The shovels were sinking and lifting in a busy, irregular jumble of movement. There was no rhythm, no precision to the movements of the troopers -- just tired, forced repetition. Five slaverlords guarded the camp, the crystals on their chests pulsing busily. 
     Those five sure spend a lot of energy -- on shielding, I should think. 
     But if the Queen wasn't able to shield the machines, how much of a success could she have with humanoid beings? Even the best suit didn't offer protection for more than a few hours -- twelve at most. The irradiation effects were irreversible after that, and led to death within hours. 
     Holy shit. This is the biggest Crown graveyard I'm likely to see in my lifetime. 
     As if in confirmation, a few of the troopers dropped shortly after another. Strangely, no commotion ensued; they were simply carried away and loaded into what looked like a primitive truck. Goose shuddered at the thought that it most likely contained more similar cargo. He lowered the goggles instinctively at the obscene sight, but managed to resist the urge to rip them off his head. 
     He had to find out what was so important that the Queen killed off half of her army to get it. But one way or the other, he was out of here with the next Crown ship.



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