Rift (3 page)

Day one
. The smells were all wrong: sulfur, engine oil, humus, and putrefaction. Reeve opened his eyes, peering through a blur at a small, gold disk that at last resolved into focus. A yellow bird perched on its nest, pecking at a bit of meat clutched in its talons. It cocked its head, shifting its weight from one stick-foot to the other. When Reeve tried to move, he found he was pinned down by a metal panel pressing against his legs. Sunlight flooded through a rent in the cabin while the smell of burning fuel threaded its way up his nostrils.

He closed his eyes again to fend off the return of memory. But it was all coming back, it was all true—the roaring descent, his arms shaking as he gripped the seat, a concussive landing, and something glancing off the back of his head. They were down, on planet. And oh God, Station …

Something was wrong with that bird. It wasn’t sitting in a nest, it was perched on someone’s dark brown hair. Dana’s, sitting there in front of him. She didn’t bother to fend off the creature.

He tried to pull up his knees to leverage the panel
off him. The bird took flight as Reeve heaved the hull section off and staggered to his feet. Beside him lay the bodies of his companions. Dana Hart, Marie Dussault, and the three others. Struggling forward to the cockpit, he found the shattered remains of the cabin and its occupants. A drift of smoke carried the smell of burning hull composites and fuel, but the fires were sputtering out. They’d been down a while. He could have burned to death. Maybe he should have.

Reeve made his way out the gaping hole in the starboard side of the craft, squinting against the light.

Everywhere, cloaks of green cascaded before him. The wind rustled millions of leaves. All green, green, in more shades than seemed possible: bright apple-green, chartreuse, pale yellow-green, deep emerald, and, in profusion, a lacy moss-green. In the corridors between the trees, a shadowy blue-green gave way to distant black.

The shuttle had landed in a swamp. Black water lapped around tree trunks, glinting here and there from sun refracted through the festooned moss. The air smelled brackish and foul. He sat on a tree stump, boots sunk into the murky water. After a while, he felt the first sobs come lurching up from his chest.

Eventually, he was able to think again. He stood, realizing he had to leave the shuttle, and maybe quickly—enclavers might have seen the craft come down. He climbed back into the shuttle to hunt for weapons, but there was nothing, not even a knife. Then he remembered that the space suit he was still wearing had a tool pocket. Inside he found a folded titanium blade bristling with attachments. He stripped off the suit and substituted a padded flight jacket from one of the stowage bins, slipping the knife in his pocket. Rummaging through the bin, he found a field pack containing a med kit, water purification tabs, and two breathers. Without taking time to apply a breather, he combed the rest of the ship for every
breather and food pouch he could find, cramming them into the pack. He’d need the breathers, eventually. He could smell some of the poisons in the air—the sulfur if not the high carbon dioxide—but it was long-term effects he must avoid. For now, he was in a hurry.

He knelt beside Marie’s body and reached out to touch her face.
You should have lived, Marie
. Sunlight fell on her hands, and he wished she could have had that instant of sun-on-skin. He brushed aside long wisps of her iron-gray hair.

At his touch, Marie stirred, and whispered something incoherent.

Marie
. Lord of Worlds, she was still alive.

Her eyelids fluttered. Blood welled from a gash in her forehead.

“We’re down, Marie,” he said. “We crashed.” Digging into the med kit, he grabbed a bandage and bound it around her head. Then he held her hand until she opened her eyes.

“My arm …,” she whispered.

He helped her shift her weight and gently pulled her arm into a normal position. She groaned.

“We’ve got to get away from the shuttle. Can you walk?”

She struggled to her feet with his help, but slumped against him. He sat her down at the edge of the opening, then jumped out, and scooped her up in his arms. She was heavy, but they had to move out.

He headed for a patch of solid ground and laid her down, propped against a tree.

“Who’s alive?” she asked.

“No one. We’re the only ones that made it.”

She licked her lips, looking stunned. He had to think. What, by the Lord of Worlds, were they going to do? Then, realizing he would never have another chance to grab supplies off the shuttle, he decided to make one more quick trip inside.

Cautioning Marie to remain silent, he made his way back. They’d need more breathers; in this stew of carbon dioxide and sulfur, a breather might last only a few days. As he entered the wreck, the bird swooped past him to settle onto an upended flight seat. Despite his hurry, Reeve kept looking at the bird. He was stuffing another pack with extra breathers and food—and all the while looking at the first live nonhuman creature he had ever seen. The bird’s glossy feathers gave way to a speckled down on its underside. It trembled now and then, and on closer inspection looked mottled in an unhealthy way. In the grand collapse of terran populations, perhaps this was all that remained: the ragged, palsied, and infirm.

A moan erupted from the cabin. Reeve swung around. He picked his way around the debris until he found where the sound was coming from. It was Grame Lauterbach, second chief of electronic systems. Not dead.
Reeve, you fool, to make that mistake again
. He did a quick survey and found that Grame had a major chest wound and a badly lacerated right leg. Reeve opened a med kit, thinking to bind Grame’s injuries, but what was the point? The man was dying. Grame stirred and tried to speak.

“Don’t talk, Grame, it’s OK, you’ll be OK.”

Grame’s voice came out thinly: “Reeve?”

“Yes, it’s me. You’re hurt, Grame. Try not to move.”

“OK.” Grame closed his eyes, breathing noisily. Reeve left him for a moment to check every other body, carefully this time.

All dead, he was certain.

Eventually Grame opened his eyes again. “Your father,” he rasped. “Cyrus. Is he onboard?”

“No.” Reeve held the thought at bay, not able to think about it now.

“He should have made it.” Little bubbles of blood appeared at the edges of Grame’s nose and mouth.

“Yeah.”

“Could’ve seen the
ship
, you see?” Grame appeared to smile, but it might have been a grimace of pain. “Could’ve seen the stars after all.”

He was delirious, Reeve decided. The man was going to die. What should he do? He couldn’t move him, but he couldn’t stay here, either.

“Reeve.”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Listen now, boy.”

“I’m listening, Grame.”

Grame’s watery eyes stared in his general direction. “You got to hurry. Get to Bonhert, save yourself.”

“Shh. Just try to rest, Grame.”

“No, you can’t rest! You got seventy days and a long walk. Get to Bonhert. Then you can go along.”

“Go along?”

He reached for Reeve’s arm. “To the stars. The stars.”

“Just rest, Grame. It’ll be OK.” God, what could he
do
? Grame was hurt bad, and Reeve knew so damnably little that could help him.

“No, listen, you dumb pup!” Grame’s jaw trembled. “Don’t think I’m rummy, boy. The ship’s coming, the generation ship. We never told folks, but it’s on its way. Been coming, all these years.” He closed his eyes a moment, stifling a moan. Then: “Bonhert didn’t want us to tell. Didn’t want the damn Reterraformers to make converts of the new ship’s crew … persuade them to stay … so we kept it secret.”

Ship
? Reeve bent in closer, concentrating.
Ship, did he say?

Eyes still closed, Grame’s voice came more faintly: “They might want to stay, see? Lots of people are afraid of the stars, Reeve, don’t want to drift out there in space. People think, let’s stay on Lithia and get her whipped back into shape, but Lithia, she’s a goner, Reeve. We—all the science team—we knew we couldn’t fix Lithia.”

“But the geo project!”

“No, no, just a front. To cover our tracks.” A spume of blood gushed from the man’s mouth, and he took several desperate breaths. His words came out in a harsh whisper: “Just … a front. We were working on Bonhert’s scheme. To kill her, so the ship wouldn’t stay.”

“Kill who?”

“Lithia, you damn fool, Lithia …” His voice was so faint now that Reeve had to bend close. Grame’s breath was dreadful.

“Kill Lithia?”

“With the mole. It’s the only way. So the ship’ll take us … rid of this hellhole for good. Just never tell … the ship’s people.” His eyes grew bright for a moment. “We got to kill her … but, see, they might not think so. So promise … you’ll never tell.”

Reeve opened his mouth to promise, but instead he asked, “Where is Bonhert?”

Grame had slumped over. Reeve bent closer to his face.

“The Rift,” Grame whispered. “The Rift …”

“Where we were going to set up terraforming?”

Grame nodded. The words came out on his fetid breath: “That’s it.… Get there, Reeve.… Save yourself.” He sucked his breath in like he couldn’t get enough. He was bleeding to death, and nothing could save him.

The scrawny bird flew to a gash in the top of the shuttle, pausing on the ripped hull, then flying off. Reeve closed his eyes a moment, allowing weariness to enfold him. He heard layer upon layer of sound: the gentle susurration of wind through the nets of hanging moss, the chirping and whistling of a few birds and … a distant shout.

Reeve’s attention snapped back in an instant. He clambered outside, trying to identify where the noise came from, but the voices filtered in from all sides.
Grame, my God, Grame was still alive.… But clavers were closing in. He couldn’t carry both Grame and Marie. He began backing up, away from the shuttle, and then turned and ran. Where was Marie, where had he left her? He ran on, splashing through the water, then saw the small hillock of mud and Marie waiting there. He scrambled over to her, shouldering the pack and whispering, “Clavers. We’ve got to get away from here. Can you walk?”

Lord, he was abandoning Grame. He’d made his decision, an ugly one. Helping Marie to her feet, he used a branch to obscure their footprints as they staggered backward into the shallow water. The voices were clear now, dozens of clavers shouting, but still muffled in the distance. He and Marie set out, away from the shuttle, moving as fast as they could, with Marie leaning on Reeve’s arm. The marsh went on and on, trees beyond trees, until in the distance all merged into green-black muck. Slogging on, he searched for any place that could offer shelter or camouflage, but it was all water, moss, and spindly trees.

In another moment the voices rose in excited clamor, announcing that the clavers had found the shuttle. An eerie ululation pierced the swamp, sending a new chill to Reeve’s heart. He had never heard a scream like that in all his by-the-book, ordered Station life. Finding a large stump of a tree, he and Marie huddled together, afraid to move. He could see vague movements by the shuttle, but it was impossible to judge numbers through the webs of moss. Then again, whether there were four or forty, it hardly mattered—he and Marie were outmatched in every respect.

It would not be long before they came looking for survivors; for all they might be barbarians, they weren’t stupid.

“Marie,” Reeve whispered. “We’ve got to find somewhere to hide.” He pulled her along, but slowly, to be as quiet as possible in the water. As they waded onward,
the shouting dimmed. Ahead of them, the sun speared through the green maze, creating tunnels of light, wondrous even in this extremity. The glowing chartreuse of leaves, the flash of blue in the water, reflecting planetary sky … it was a wonderland. But one devoid of shelter.

Their only hope was a hollowed-out stump, but none were big enough for two. They’d have to separate. He found a stump for Marie, ensconcing her in its crumbling interior and covering her with an insulated blanket from the pack. “Will you be all right?” he asked.

She flashed a crooked grin. “Get lost.”

Reaching into the pack, he pulled out a breather. “Use this.”

Leaving Marie for now, he set out to find his own bivouac, taking care to remember where he’d left her, and finally choosing a hollow snag, plugging the entry hole with an armload of moss. Leaning against the spongy bark, he felt tiny somethings moving behind his back, but not even that could distract him from the sound of claver screams. He
hoped
they were claver screams. Hoped that Grame was dead. At last the cries tapered off and he fell into a stupefied sleep.

At dusk he was awakened by shouts, and the sounds of clavers sloshing through the water nearby. Flickers of torches created shadows inside his burrow. Afraid to breathe and forced to remain motionless, he closed his eyes and listened to their boisterous calls and occasional maniacal screams. The search went on and on, for what seemed like hours, and ended finally, late that night.

Huddled in his tree stump, frightened and cold but unable to digest the impact of his losses, Reeve Calder closed his eyes and let his mind spin. He listened to the background noise of his brain, and when it finally subsided, he was left with a silent darkness. Through that endless well floated Tina Valejo, her white space
suit lit up on one side by the sun, her arms waving as though she could swim her way back home.

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