Engines Of God

Carson's reflexes were still good. Janet's scream had scarcely begun before he'd sighted and killed one of their attackers: it was a brachyid, a crablike creature not unlike the one they'd seen earlier in the day. But pandemonium was breaking out around him.

Janet was on the ground. Maggie bent over her, hammering at the thick grass with a rock.

Carson's left ankle exploded with pain. He crashed into a tree and went down.

Hutch dropped to a kneeling position beside him, pulser in hand.

Crabs.

He heard shouts and cries for help.

Maggie reached back and called Pulser! and Hutch slapped one into her hand. The brachyid was clamped to Janet's boot. Carson watched it rock madly back and forth in a sawing motion. Blood ran off into the grass. Maggie shoved the weapon against the shell and pulled the trigger. The thing shrieked.

"Stay out of the grass!" cried George. "They're in the deep grass!"

A black spot appeared on the carapace, and began to smoke. Short legs thrust out from under the shell and scratched furiously against Janet's boot. Then it spasmed, shuddered, and let go. Maggie drew it out.

Hutch spotted another brachyid. It was in front of them, watching with stalked eyes. A thin, curved claw scissored rhythmically. She bathed it in the hot white light from her pulser. Legs and eyes blackened and shriveled, and it wheeled off to one side, and set the grass afire. Hutch, taking no chances, sprayed the entire area, burning trees, rocks, bushes, whatever was nearby.

It occurred to her that they might be venomous.

"More coming," said George. "Ahead of us."

Hutch moved out in front, saw several of them ranged across the path. More moved in the grass to either side. "Maybe we should go back," she said.

"No," said Carson. "That might be the whole point of the maneuver."

"Maneuver?" George said anxiously. "You don't think they're trying to box us in?"

The brachyids charged, churning forward with a frantic sidewise motion that was simultaneously comic and revolting. Their shells reminded Hutch of old-time army helmets. Something like a scalpel flashed and quivered from an organ in the carapace situated near the mouth. Claws twitched as they approached, and the scalpels came erect.

Hutch and Maggie burned them. They hissed, crustacean legs scrabbled wildly, and they turned black and died.

Suddenly they stopped coming and the forest went quiet. They were left with the smell of smoldering meat and burning leaves. Maggie helped Janet up and placed her arm around her shoulder. George lifted Carson. "This way," he said.

Hutch played her lamplight across the path ahead. Nothing moved.

They limped uphill. When they felt it was reasonably safe, they stopped, and Hutch got out the medikit and dispensed painkillers. Then she cut Janet's boot away. The wound was just above the anklebone. It was jagged, bleeding freely, and it had begun to swell. "You'll need stitches," she said. "Be grateful for the boot." She gave her an analgesic, applied a local antiseptic, and dressed it with plastex foam. "How do you feel?"

"Okay. It hurts."

"Yeah. It will. Stay off it." She turned to Carson. "Your turn."

"I hope the thing didn't have rabies," he said. This time, Hutch had a little more trouble: part of his boot had been driven into the ankle. She cut it out, while Carson paled and tried to make light conversation. "It'll be fine," she said.

He nodded. "Thanks," he said.

When she'd finished, Maggie held up her left hand. "Me too," she said.

Hutch was horrified to discover she'd lost the little finger of her right hand. "How'd that happen?"

"Not sure," she said. "I think it got me when I pulled it loose from Janet."

She closed off the wound as best she could. Son of a bitch. If they'd been able to recover it, it could have been grafted back by the ship's surgeons. But they weren't going to go back looking.

"Finished?" asked George nervously. "I think they're still around." Hutch could hear them out there, tiny legs scratching against stone, claws clicking. But they seemed to be in the rear now.

Neither Carson nor Janet would be able to walk without help. "We need to make a travois," said Hutch, looking around for suitable dead limbs.

George frowned. "We don't have time for construction work." He found a couple of dead branches and fashioned walking sticks. "Best we can do," he said, distributing them. "Let's go." He directed Maggie to help Janet. And provided a shoulder for Carson. "Hutch, you bring up the rear," he said. "Be careful."

They moved out.

It was slow going. Frank was no lightweight, and George was too tall. He had to bend to support Carson's weight, and Hutch knew they would not make it all the way back to the shuttle. Not like this. Maybe they could find an open spot somewhere. Get Jake to come for them. Use the shuttle to crash through the trees and get them out. If they provided a signal for him to home in on—

George fired his weapon. They heard the familiar crab-shriek. "Damned things are almost invisible," he said. "That one was ahead of us."

Where the hell was Jake? Hutch tried again to raise him. But there was still no response. That silence now suggested an ominous possibility.

Hutch looked with frustration at the trees, which could provide no sanctuary since the branches were far beyond their reach.

"This isn't working," said Carson finally, disengaging himself from George and sitting down. "If you didn't have to worry about me, you could carry Janet, and you could move a lot faster. Give me a pulser, and come get me tomorrow."

"Sure," George said. "I'll hold the pass, boys. You go on ahead." He shook his head. "I don't think so."

They were leaving a trail of blood. Hutch traded places with Maggie. Then they started again. Occasionally, Maggie fired her weapon. And it seemed to have gotten personal. "Little bastard" she'd say, "take that." And: "Right between the eyes, you son of a bitch."

She exhausted another pulser. They had three left.

Hutch reluctantly gave Maggie her weapon. "What do you think?" asked Carson.

"We need to get off the ground," said Janet. "We need a tree."

"Find one our size," said Maggie. And then: "How about a wallT

"Yeah," said George. "That should work. The upper level might be safe. If the bastards can't climb." He looked at Hutch. "Can we contact the Perth!"

"Not directly. Somebody would need to activate the shuttle relay."

"Wouldn't matter anyhow," said Carson. "They couldn't help. Their shuttle's down here."

His dressing was soaked with blood. Hutch added more foam.

They'd stopped in a small clearing to do repairs, when George held up a hand. "Heads up," he said. "They're here."

Hutch had to fight down an urge to break and run. "Where?" she said.

They came out of the high grass from all directions, and they came in overwhelming numbers. They moved forward with near-military precision. Hutch, Maggie, and George formed a circle around the others and killed with a will. White beams bathed the advancing horde. The brachyids died. They died in rows, but if the lines wavered, they did not stop. Scorched carapaces littered the area, and the grass and bushes caught fire. Carson and Janet, without weapons, squeezed back and tried to keep out of the way. The air filled with the smell of charred meat. A crab trailing smoke caromed off Hutch's foot.

George fought with coolness and calculation. Standing at his side, Hutch almost felt she didn't know him. He was smiling, enjoying himself. The gentle i

Their attackers moved with malice and purpose. Hutch sensed feints and sallies and organization in the attack. Their eyes locked on her and tracked her. No crab on the beaches of her youth had ever seemed so aware of her presence.