The Jungle Page 9

  Brainard handed the weapon over without comment. Leaf set one end of a barakite thread over the flash hider at the rifle’s muzzle and used the weapon to feed the explosive through the thorns.

  A black twig two feet into the mass suddenly flared its “bark” into a pincushion of spines tipped with brilliant blue. Leaf shouted and jumped backward.

  Two black eyes winked at him; a forked tongue dabbed at the air. The tiny lizard folded its scales as suddenly as it had erected them and scurried back into the tangle.

  Caffey had his machine-gun leveled.

  “What?” Ensign Brainard demanded. “What?”

  Leaf took a deep breath. “Nothing,” he said. “Stay clear.”

  He checked around him. Wheelwright supported OT Wilding, and Brainard had dragged Leaf’s own pack a safe three yards away. The barakite strands lying on the ground were as good a compromise as Leaf could judge between being out of the way and being ready to use.…

  He tucked the first thread another inch into the brambles which were already closing on it, withdrew the rifle and tossed it to Brainard, and lit the barakite with his multitool.

  Leaf instinctively covered his ears as he ducked away, but the sound was a vicious snarl rather than an explosion. A wave of heat slapped his back.

  When the motorman looked around, the half-consumed strand had already fallen through the gap its radiance cleared to land on rock. For several feet to either side, the brambles themselves burned with sullen orange flames, dim by contrast with the blue-white dazzle which had ignited them. Even beyond that range, vines drew back as heat seared away their moisture.

  A haze of barakite residues oozed through the tangle. Leaf grabbed a second strand of explosive. He sucked in another deep breath and plunged into the sudden clearing while blobs of barakite still sputtered, cracking rock with the last of their energy.

  There was no time for finesse now, but there was less need for it also. The initial blast of heat had stunned the brambles and robbed them of much of their thorn-clawed speed. Leaf tossed his thread of barakite over a slope of vines whose outer surface was already baked brown.

  “Here!” shouted Caffey and handed the motorman more barakite.

  Leaf laid that strand at an angle to the first, so the near ends were close together. “G’ back!” he ordered, but Fish had already skipped to safety. Leaf lighted the explosive.

  The barakite hissed forward with teeth of flame. Brambles ignited, roaring in green agony. Rock, calcined and broken, glinted beneath from the drifting ash. The three remaining strands would be enough to clear the outcrop’s entire surface.

  K67’s whole crew was cheering Leaf.

  The motorman reached for more barakite by reflex. Screams filled his ears, and his eyes stared at a curtain of rolling oil flames.

  JULY 1, 379 AS. 2355 HOURS.

  Tech 3 Leaf unsealed the front of his clown suit and removed the two-pound strand of barakite which he had wound around his waist. Sweat gave the surface of the explosive a greasy feel. More barakite appeared from beneath the carnival clothing of the other three members of the gang.

  Silent fireworks flared above the Commons of Wyoming Keep. Light flickered from the zenith of the impervium dome and reflected even here, to the narrow back alleys of the warehouse district against the dome’s outer curve. The air sighed as tens of thousands of throats cheered simultaneously.

  “Oh, my god, they’re gonna hear this sure,” moaned Epling, a hydrofoil gunner now dressed as a cherub. “The Patrol’ll be down on us before we even get a drink!”

  The buildings were thick ceramic castings. The material was hard as glass and so strong that a warehouse had remained undamaged when an out-of-control truck demolished itself against the structure. Originally the ceramic had had a pink tinge, but the grime of centuries had turned everything in the district gray.

  “Just button your lip, Epling,” Tech 3 Caffey said. “Leaf knows what he’s doing. Don’t you, Leafie?”

  “Who’s got the adhesive?” Leaf asked.

  Caffey tossed him a finger-sized spray can. Caffey wore a pirate costume, with a broad-brimmed hat over his domino mask.

  Leaf spritzed the warehouse wall five feet above the ground and pressed his strand of barakite against it. The adhesive held, despite sweat and the filthy ceramic. Leaf ran the spray down the wall, squeezing the explosive firmly against the surface.

  More fireworks went off in sheets of flame. Braudel, dressed as a skeleton, held a tiny infrared lamp. The goggles beneath Leaf’s clown mask filtered out the multicolored splendor of the display.

  Leaf began attaching the second strip of barakite parallel to the ground, with one end in contact with the upper end of the first strand. He was outlining a square doorway on the warehouse’s featureless back wall.

  “My god,” Epling muttered, “they’ll lock us up ’n throw away the key. They’ll give us life sentences to the netters and we’ll just cruise up ’n down till something eats us.”

  Braudel chuckled. “That’s better ’n what Cinc Hafner’s gonna do if he learns we scooped this shit outa one a’ Caffey’s torpedoes, hey?”

  “Look, cut it out,” Caffey growled. “You’ll see. It’ll go slicker ’n snot. All the Patrol that isn’t keeping the lid on parties is off partying themself. And there won’t be a sound. Leaf knows what he’s doing.”

  The third strip of barakite formed the other vertical. Leaf’s body trembled. Present reality, his hands forming the explosive against the sheer wall, was a thin overlay to the quivering surface of memory.

  In his mind, the distant cheers of the crowd became screams.

  “Anyhow,” Caffey added defensively, “d’ye think its going to matter if a warhead weighs a ton or just a ton less spit? And that’s only if the fish hits, which they mostly don’t.”

  Leaf set the last strand of barakite where the warehouse wall joined the alley floor in a smooth curve. Pavement and building had been cast as a single unit only a few decades after the dome of Wyoming Keep had been completed.

  “Boy, I can taste the booze already!” Braudel said lovingly. “You know, this won’t be cheap-ass shit. You ’n’ me, we couldn’t buy stuff this good if we had all the fuckin’ money on Venus! This is Twelve Families booze!”

  “Okay,” Leaf heard his voice say. “It’s ready.”

  He took out his multitool. The lanyard pulled open the blouse of his clown suit.

  Braudel and Epling stepped, then scurried toward opposite ends of the alley.

  “No, it’s all right!” Caffey growled after them. “I tell you, there won’t be a bang!”

  “Maybe from the wall, Fish,” Leaf said in a distant voice. “Pieces may fly off it.”

  “Christ!” snarled the torpedoman. “We come this far. Just do it!”

  Leaf triggered the multitool’s welder. He knelt, then touched the arc to one of the bottom corners of the barakite frame. Coiling fumes as white and solid as bones lifted from the explosive.

  Caffey grabbed Leaf’s shoulder and dragged him back a few steps. “Not that goddam close, for chrissake!” the torpedoman grunted.

  The barakite caught with an echoing hiss which gave the lie to Caffey’s promise of silence. Blue-white brilliance flowed up and across the refractory surface. The flames shivered through curtains of their own smoke.

  The ribbons of light joined at the far corner so that for a moment fire outlined the square of wall. The hiss built into a snarl like that of a chainsaw, bouncing between the warehouse and the dome. Epling and Braudel drew closer again. Their postures indicated the nervousness which their masks attempted to conceal.

  “Christ,” Caffey murmured. “Is it going to—”

  The outlined square of ceramic shattered.

  Intense heat torqued the cast wall. The internal stresses finally overwhelmed the structure’s ability to withstand them. Twenty-five cubic feet of ceramic disintegrated into a quivering pile of needles an inch long or shorter.

  Globs of barakite, f
lung aside by the structure’s shrug of release, vented their last energy up and down the alley. A dozen speckles of fire smoldered on Leaf’s costume.

  “Perfect, Leafie!” Caffey cried as he clapped the assistant motorman on the back. “Perfect!”

  “Right, let’s get it!” Braudel said. He stepped through the opening, ducking to clear the knife-edged transom. The pile of needles shifted like sand beneath the mercenary’s boots.

  Fireworks shimmered above the column, and the carnival crowd cheered. Leaf’s mind echoed with the screams of his burning brother.

  11

  MAY 18, 382 AS. 0035 HOURS.

  Wilding lay on his back, reveling in the pain of his sores because that alone could cut through the veils of fever which otherwise isolated him from the universe. His right leg floated in air, and the jungle canopy wove a slow dance above him.

  Venus took 257 Earth-days to rotate on its axis, a period useless for short-term human concerns. Colonists in domes beneath the Venerian seas had no interest in sidereal time anyway. They promptly adopted the Standard Day of Earth—and retained it for all purposes, even after nuclear holocaust had converted Earth into another star glowing in the unseen sky.

  For the Free Companies, the conceit meant that four months of daylight followed four months of darkness. Wars continued, driven by imperatives which ignored the calendar as wars commonly ignore all other things.

  Bozman, Leaf’s striker, moaned beside Wilding in his sleep. The second watch was on duty now.

  Everyone was exhausted. Brainard had put half the crew on watch at all times, not so much because that many pairs of eyes were constantly necessary … but because that way there were enough waking guards to shake alert each of their number when he inevitably dropped off.

  Wilding was exempt from the watch list, but he was too feverish to sleep. Wheelwright had sprayed Wilding’s ankle with a long-term analgesic before fitting the pressure bandage, so the injury did not hurt.

  Wilding’s subconscious knew that the ankle had swelled to the size of a balloon ascender. It was tugging his whole body upward. The bandaged ankle appeared to be normal size. The back of Wilding’s mind told him that was an illusion.

  The swollen balloon pulled. Wilding’s back twisted queasily against the rock, trying to anchor him.

  He stared at the ragged white patch of sky above him. The saw-grass hewed its surroundings clear at ground level, but branches encroached in the third canopy nonetheless. The slight interstices among the high leaves were barely enough to energize the grass for its murderous exertions.

  On the other side of Bozman, Ensign Brainard muttered in his sleep. The CO’s duties on point had been the most exhausting of all. Despite that, he insisted on adding the weight of the laser communicator to the normal load of pack and rifle.

  Flying rays cut arcs through the air 300 feet up, dancing among the knobby branches of a monkey puzzle tree. Each ray was between one and two feet wide across the tips of its wings. The creatures were about as long as they were wide if the length of their slim, ruddering tails were added to that of their bodies.

  Though the rays were descended from a purely aquatic species, they carried on an amphibious existence. Their nests were pools in the hollow hearts of mighty trees. Every ten minutes or so, the rays ducked back to wet their gills, but between dips they sailed among the branches and cleared swathes in the flying microlife. Their wings were so diaphanously thin at the edges that the sky glimmered through them.

  Wilding watched the rays wheel without slowing. He thought of K67’s commanding officer. Brainard went on no matter what, with stolid heroism of a sort that Wilding had thought was only myth.

  Nothing fazed Brainard. If he had to carry them all on his shoulders, he would at least try. But the ensign wasn’t an inspiration to lesser men like Hal Wilding, because Brainard was too obviously of a different species.

  A ray suddenly folded its wings and plummeted toward the ground. Fever sharpened Wilding’s sight or else gave him a hallucination of perfect clarity; in his present state, he neither knew nor cared which was the case. A large purple orchid had extended in a sluggish fashion from a monkey puzzle branch. It hung within the circuits the rays were cutting.

  The flower’s bulbous outline went flaccid when the orchid expelled the bubble of lethal gas which formed within its petals. The stem began to withdraw. The flower’s work was done for the time being.

  The ray’s nervous system was paralyzed. The little creature was dead before it struck the ground. Its body would rot in the damp heat. Some of its matter would be eaten by scavengers. The rest would become a decaying soup, adding its substance to the thin soil at the roots of the monkey puzzle from which the orchid hung.

  And the orchid in turn tapped the veins of the tree for part of its sustenance. Life was a chain, and mutual support created the strongest links. Even in a jungle.

  Bozman moaned softly. Leaf, Caffey, and Newton were on watch. Good men in their own way, but nothing without Brainard.

  Officer-Trainee Hal Wilding was nothing at all, only a burden on the rest of the crew. His leg tried to float him upward, and the stone under his shoulders trembled like a wave trying to lull him to slee—

  The rock was moving.

  Wilding screamed. He lunged into a sitting position. His leg was a pillar of flame without substance.

  Bozman cried out beside him. Wilding grabbed the assistant motorman by the shoulders and shouted, “Help! Help! You’ve got to get me up!”

  Everybody was shouting. Brainard lurched to his feet and threatened the jungle with his rifle. A creature in the high canopy hooted in surprise, then hooted again at a greater distance from the commotion.

  Wilding lifted himself with hysterical strength. Bozman came with him, but Bozman was a dead weight. The hot barakite flames had broken the outcrop as well as clearing it. In the hours that the men had rested, roots had crept through the fractures in quest of nutrients.

  They had found Bozman.

  Blood sprayed from the young technician’s mouth, throat, and the dozen wounds in his chest. One thin tendril had broken off. It waggled a grisly come-on from Bozman’s left nostril.

  Other roots quivered in circles a hand’s breadth out of the rock surface, sensing nearby sustenance. Their tips were scarlet for the depth they had burrowed into their victim.

  Caffey pointed his machine-gun at the outcrop and fired. Bullets and rock fragments ricocheted in all directions.

  A stone snatched at Wilding’s left leg. It missed his flesh, but the tug was all the officer-trainee needed to overbalance him.

  “Cease fire!” Ensign Brainard roared. “Cease fire!”

  Bullets had blown flat, pale craters into the rock. The roots still waved in terrible eagerness. Wilding started to fall forward onto them.

  Leaf grabbed the officer-trainee from behind. Bozman weighed down Wilding’s arms.

  “Let him go, for god’s sake!” the motorman growled. “We can’t help him.”

  Wilding thought the weight had slipped away, but he was no longer conscious of his body. All he could see was the face of Ensign Brainard, surveying the situation with a look of calm control.

  JUNE 4, 381 AS. 1147 HOURS.

  Recruit (Officer) Wilding braced in a push-up position as Chief Instructor Calfredi boomed, “Right! Everybody keeps doing push-ups until fatboy gives me twenty more!”

  Calfredi’s boot probed the ribs of Recruit (Enlisted) Groves, a pudgy youth of sixteen at the oldest. Groves lay blubbering on the ground, unable to rise.

  “I want all you guys to know,” the instructor continued to the dozen recruit, “that the reason you’re still doing push-ups is Groves here is a pussy.”

  Recruit (Officer) was not a rank, it was a statement of intent; but the scion of the Wilding Family did not need formal rank to act as anger dictated.

  “No,” Wilding said sharply. He would have liked to spring up with only a thrust of his arms, but fifty push-ups in the sun had cramped hi
s muscles too. He rose to his knees, then lifted himself to his feet.

  “No,” he repeated, noticing that when he was angry his voice sounded thin and supercilious. “We’re doing pushups because you are a sadistic moron, Mr Calfredi. Except that I’m not doing push-ups any more. I’m going to take a shower.”

  The exercise yard was crushed coral that blazed brighter than the cloud-shrouded sun. Waves of dizziness quivered across Wilding’s vision, making the chief instructor shrink and swell.

  Calfredi stood motionless beneath his broad-brimmed hat. If there was an expression on his face, Wilding could not read it.

  Wilding turned on his heel and strode toward the barracks. He expected an order—he imagined a plea—from Calfredi, but there was nothing.

  Not a sound from the chief instructor. Gigantic pumps whined from the harbor, refilling a drydock now that repairs to the dreadnought Mammoth were complete. A mile away, railguns crashed and snarled at some creature trying to burst through the electrified perimeter of Hafner Base. A public address system croaked information which distance distorted into gibberish.

  Just as he opened the door to the recruit barracks, Wilding heard Chief Instructor Calfredi’s voice say, “Down and up and down.…”

  Wilding slammed the door behind him, shutting out the hot, muggy atmosphere and the sounds of another portion of the universe which had decided it didn’t need Hal Wilding.

  He’d said he would shower, so he showered. The hot water massaged his aching muscles, and the dull pressure soothed what it could not wash away: the knowledge that he’d failed again. He had walked away from his commitment to Wysocki’s Herd, and nobody had even bothered to call him back.

  Joining a Free Company had seemed the only way Wilding could express his utter disdain to the Callahan and the whole Twelve Families: disdain for them and for their entire way of life. But the Twelve Families didn’t care, and now it was evident that Wysocki’s Herd didn’t care either.

  Wilding supposed he could try to join another mercenary company now that he’d washed out on his first attempt, but that would be pointless. He hadn’t wanted to be a Free Companion, he’d wanted to make a statement.