Genellan: Planetfall

"Thy plan, Braan-our-leader?" Craag asked directly.

Braan was not offended. Craag had proven his loyalty many times over. By waiting for the others to depart he had rendered due respect. Braan looked the warrior in the eye, done only in challenge or in affection, and smiled to indicate the latter.

"A difficult situation," Braan said. "We must inform the council."

"Should we not leave watchers?" Craag asked. "I volunteer." "Yes. We will learn by watching the long-legs." Braan grew apprehensive. "My son will expect to stay," he said.

"If thou desire, I will insist on one more experienced."

Braan almost smiled. "Thou hast forgotten the pride of youth, my friend. It would not do to coddle my son."

"Perhaps the long-legs will go away," Craag said hopefully. "No," Braan whistled. "Our futures are tangled."

Buccari, still wearing her EPL pressure suit, floated onto the flight deck and strapped in. She was exhausted; the responsibility of flying the lander to and from the planet, the inability to make a mistake, had taken its toll. Qui

"What's your guess, Sharl?" Qui

"No idea, Commander," she replied, yawning.

"Maintenance diagnostics are going to take time," Hudson said.

"Without mothership systems it'll take at least two days," Buccari said. "We'll run a simulation. Jones is loading the programs, but I think Nash or Virgil should supervise. Jones's out of gas."

"Virgil, er…Mr. Rhodes just called in," Hudson interjected. "He's already relieved Jones. He knows EPL maintenance as well as anyone."

"You were right, Commander…about getting the crew down first," Buccari said. "We may not have many flights left in the old apple."

"They may be nothing wrong with the lander," Qui

Buccari floated numbly in her tethers, grateful for having been overridden.

"Nash, let Sergeant Sha

The smell of roasted rockdog hung heavy in the still darkness. The smoke from the dying campfire disappeared straight up into star-blasted skies. The humans were quiet, sitting back or lying down, bellies full of tough meat. In the flickering light Sha

Sha

A twig snapped. Instantly alert, Sha

Movement!

He retreated behind a rough-barked trunk, stealthily lowering into a crouch. Twisting to keep his weight balanced, aching knees protesting, he rounded the tree and peered into the shadows. His peripheral vision revealed indistinct forms, four-legged and long-necked. Small beasts, less than waist high to a man.

More movement and sharp noises erupted from Sha

"Sarge!" A stage whisper—Tatum's voice. "Sarge, is that you?" Tatum' s gangling form appeared from the darkness, assault rifle pointed threateningly.

"Yeah, it's me, Sandy. Put down your weapon before you ruin my day." Sha

"Evening, Petty Officer Dawson," he said.

"Good evening, Sergeant Major," she said, a spark in her voice. "Just thought we'd come out and give you some company." "Thank you. Appreciate it."

"See something, Sarge?" Tatum asked. "Or did we, er. interrupt you?"

"No, Tatum. You didn't frigging interrupt me," Sha

"You should be more careful, Sarge," Dawson admonished. "Could have been something big and dangerous, and you out here all by yourself—with just your knife!"

Sha

"Made your point, Dawson. You're right. But don't think I'm going to take back that chewing out I gave you. I did that for your own good, and to make a point for everyone else."

They walked into the circle of firelight, but still out of earshot of the rest of the crew.

"Fair enough, Sarge," Dawson said quietly, clear eyes glowing orange in the flickering light. "But, I didn't come after you to get even. I asked Sandy to go looking because I was worried—worried about you." She smiled, a warm smile for him alone, and then walked quickly away.

Sha

MacArthur cringed as he sniffed the air, the fetid stink of the buffalo herds alarmingly pungent in the stillness of morning. He turned to his partner. Chastain settled under his load like a strong-hearted beast of burden. As much as possible had been removed from MacArthur's pack, whatever they could do without having been wrapped and buried. Yet his lightened pack still rode heavily. His shoulder was weak, the laceration not healed, and it was painful; but MacArthur could no longer endure the waiting. The lander flights had stopped. Something was wrong.

They hiked down the valley, toward the river. Spongy taiga disappeared as they traversed sections of weathered lava pocked with steaming sulfur vents, reminders of the smoking mountains on their flanks. The yellow-barked trees increased in number and size as the spring led them downward, flowing through cauldrons of bubbling mud before joining a crystalline artesian upwelling, and onward, growing into a small stream as tributaries added to itshappy gurgle. They observed two breathtaking geyser eruptions and heard the distant roaring exhausts of numerous others.

Dainty birds of red and yellow plumage serenaded their passage, and hoofprints of small deer were seen, although the animals remained hidden in ample cover. The brush thickened as they progressed; runs of alder and willowlike bushes impeded movement along the ru