Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [50]
“Leave ’em alone. There’s no reason to tell them anything until we have something definite to tell. Those who are sleeping might need all they can get.” Reaching down, he put a strong hand on Meeker’s shoulder. “Keep monitoring everything that sputters and let me know the instant you hear anything, even if it’s just bad language.” She nodded once. In charge of words, Meeker was not one to waste them.
Hollis regarded the captain speculatively. “I suppose there’s no reason for you to stay here, sir. You might as well go back to bed. We’ll call you when we know something.”
He glanced sideways at the starship’s silent, flickering instrumentation, his expression set. “Like hell,” he growled softly.
They settled into orbit without incident. As expected, they were the only vessel present. Treetrunk was an outpost, a comparatively new settlement far from Earth and the other colonies. KK-drive ships called infrequently, and only on official business. In the ellipsoidal cargo compartment that comprised the bulk of the vessel’s superstructure was a consignment of goods from New Riviera. Subsequent to delivery, the space-plus transport would move on to Proycon. Everything about the run, from its payload to its course, was conventional.
On the chill world below, however, something was not.
Meeker had been at it for another six hours straight when Trohanov finally lost patience. By now all three shifts were awake, with rumor and controversy rampant among the crew. It was time to resolve ignorance.
“Run the check on shuttle number two. I’m going down. Hollis, as per procedure you’re in charge until I get back.” He turned to leave.
“What about the cargo, sir? We have three full loads. The company will scream if we have to make an extra drop.”
“Let ’em howl. There’s some kind of trouble down below, and until we know the nature, extent, and degree of the local emergency it’s more prudent to hold onto the shipment than to start delivering it. As soon as we know what’s going on we’ll start shifting containers. Until then, ship is to remain on alert and everyone is to stand by. I’ll field complaints from those who are supposed to be on downtime later. Right now the first thing we need to do is find out why this place is electronically comatose.”
Nothing untoward materialized to interfere with the shuttle’s descent. The view out the small, thick ports was uneventful, the surface a watercolor wash of white, brown, and green. Trohanov and the half dozen crew he’d chosen to accompany him spoke little as the shuttle struck atmosphere and began to vibrate. At such times each man and woman had thoughts enough to occupy their minds. At the captain’s direction, all wore sidearms. Procedure, he thought. In the absence of knowledge it was always reassuring to be able to fall back on procedure.
Nothing in the literature, or the regulations, or his experience prepared him for what they found, however.
As the shuttle dropped beneath the thick clouds and into calm air the pilot reported the absence of any signal from the capital’s port. There was heavy overcast but no rain or snow, the atmosphere being as eerily silent as the surface. In the absence of the usual datastream to take control of the shuttle’s instruments and guide it in, the pilots were forced to locate the landing strip themselves. “On final approach,” one of the pilots said, and Trohanov and his people scrunched a little deeper back into their seats. Down, down…
The shuttle accelerated violently and without warning. He found himself wrenched sideways, then pressed back into the seat. Several of the crew gasped, but no one screamed and there was no panic. They were still airborne, and the shuttle’s engines throbbed with restored power. Moments later the voice of the pilot echoed through the passenger compartment.
“Sorry about that, everyone. Obviously, we made a last-second pull-up. We’re going to have to try and find a field or something to set down in. We can’t use either of the two landing strips at Weald shuttleport.” There was a short pause while the atmospheric craft began