Double Helix 03_ Red Sector - Diane Carey [116]
The ambassador strode a few yards out into the meadow and swept his gaze in all directions. “The CST should be here… I’m certain of the coordinates… The directional signal definitely indicates this location, but I see no sign of them”
Zevon turned to Stiles. “You have to let me go now, Eric. Your ship is not here.”
“Yes, it is. Ambassador, can you hail them with that implant?”
Spock touched the pressure point behind his ear where the microcom was either situated or had its subcutaneous controls. “Spock to Saskatoon. We are at the rendezvous point. What is your location?”
The soft buzz of the tiny mechanism was hard to understand, but good to hear. “This is Perraton. Is Commander Stiles with you ?” “Yes, he is.” Stiles said, “Tell him ‘Lightfoot confirms.’” “Mr. Perraton, ‘Lightfoot confirms.’” “Acknowledged. Here we come.”
“This is bewildering.” Spock frowned and looked at Stiles. “These are the coordinates. The ship should be virtually on this spot. From where are they broadcasting?”
Stiles didn’t bother answering. He didn’t need to. The answer shimmered on the lake’s surface. The still water began to froth, then to erupt as if it were suddenly the center of a resting volcano. Zevon and Spock both looked up into the darkening sky to see if the power were coming from a descending ship, but the sky was still clear.
They looked now at Stiles and saw him watching the lake’s surface. They too turned in time to see sharp nonreflective metal formations break the surface and sheet free of the clinging water and the biorich glaze living there. The disruption got bigger and bigger, destroying the beautiful flat lake water with a violent commotion. In the rattle and swoosh of water and engines, the Saskatoon’s industrial nose surged furiously out of the water, and the rest of the ship broke free of the suction.
The ship emerged enormously from the water, like a blue whale breaching and not bothering to dive back in. It hovered over the lake while the last of the water drained from its nacelles and spiraled back into the lake, creating a sheen of droplets that sparkled in the setting sun.
“The bottom of the lake” Spock marveled. “Of course. A scan-proof shelter.”
“Just thinking ahead.” Stiles grinned proudly and eyed him. “You spent too much time on starships.” “Apparently.”
“This is Perraton. We’ll set down on the plain directly to your right, on the other side of that ridge.” “What’s wrong with the transporters?” Stiles asked. “Is there something wrong with the transporter?”
“Yup. You broke ‘em when you beamed through that reflector envelope. They’re under repair.”
Politely Spock asked, “Permission to grant them permission to land?” “Permission granted to grant permission,” Stiles responded. The ambassador seemed impressed, maybe a littlie embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of this, and cued his microlink. “You have permission to set down, Mr. Perraton. We shall stand by.”
“Let’s go over the ridge;’ Stiles ordered, “and be there when they maneuver down. It’ll take us a few minutes to climb over the ridge.” “I don’t want to go, Eric.” “My finger’s on the button, Zevon.”
The ridge was the only rapture on the otherwise pristine meadow landscape, created over a hundred years ago by ambitious roots from the swamp moving below the surface till they hit rock and tried to find the surface again. The roots had grown and grown beneath the crust, fattening and searching and hitting stone, until the stone began to surge upward eight or ten meters. Sometime along the way, the roots had died off, leaving the rocky ridge as the only scar on the meadowlands.