The natives on Long Shot are tree-dwelling cephalopods. I’ve seen vids of them zipping from branch to branch, changing colors on the fly to blend in with the canopy so effectively that you can really only see them in the infrared. Their population is concentrated in the central highlands of the planet’s only continent. At the time of landfall they were scientifically and culturally advanced, but materially not much farther along than humans were prior to the development of agriculture. There’s been a great deal of speculation over exactly why that is. The best explanation I’ve seen is that the entire reason humans wound up developing spears and houses and flitters and starships is that we were lousy at being regular animals.
The natives on Long Shot were not lousy at being regular animals. They had completely mastered their environment, and they hadn’t needed rifles to do it. They ignored the colonists when they landed, because the beachhead was on the coast, hundreds of klicks from their mountains. The colonists ignored them because the natives were shy, localized, and nearly invisible, and for the first twenty years post-landfall, we had no idea they were there.
The histories don’t say much about why this encounter turned out so differently from all the others. I’ve got a theory, though: by the time they finally bumped into one another, the colonists were well established enough to stop being constantly afraid.
Time. That’s the key.
We just need time.
025
FOR THE SECOND time, for reasons that I still don’t and probably never will understand, I walk alive out of the creepers’ tunnels and into the low winter sun.
It’s a beautiful morning by Niflheim standards. The sky is a clear light ocher with just a hint of blue, and the sun makes the snow between here and the dome look like a field of diamonds. I take a deep breath in, hitch up my pack, and start walking.
The snow is knee-deep, with drifts up to my waist, and even with the rebreather I’m not getting nearly as much oxygen out of Niflheim’s atmosphere as my muscles are demanding, so I’ve got a good long while to game out how this is likely to go while I slog the kilometer or so back to the perimeter. I think about letting them know I’m coming. I even pop open a chat window before realizing that, no, that might tempt Marshall to try to stop me. If he ordered it, would Nasha or Berto be willing to drop a plasma bomb on my head?
Nasha wouldn’t. I’m confident of that. Berto, though?
I honestly have no idea what would happen to the bundle of death on my back if he did.
Probably best for everyone if we don’t find out.
I swing my route around so that I’m approaching, as near as I can make it, exactly between two pylons. I’d like to make it all the way to the dome before being challenged, but considering that the place is on high alert for creeper incursions I guess that’s a lost hope. As it happens, I’m still a hundred meters out from the perimeter proper when both of the nearest pylons come to life. I keep walking as lights flash around their bases, and the burners rise from their peaks and swing around to orient on me.
“Don’t,” I say over the general comm channel, and hold up the trigger cord in my right hand. “Please. I don’t want to pull this.”
The burners don’t withdraw, but they don’t fire either. After what feels like hours but is probably actually more like thirty seconds, Marshall’s voice speaks in my ear.
“Remove the pack, Barnes. Set it down carefully, and step away.”
My hand on the cord starts shaking, and I have to stifle a giggle rising in the back of my throat.
“No,” I say when I’ve got control of my voice. “I don’t think I’ll do that.”
The comm cuts, this time for almost a minute. When the line opens again, I can hear the barely suppressed fury in Marshall’s voice.
“Which one are you?”
“Seven,” I say. “I’m Mickey7.”
“Where is Eight?”
“Dead.”
“Did he trigger his weapon?”
“No,” I say. “He did not.”
The comm cuts again. I glance over at the nearer of the two pylons. There’s a dull red glow in the center of the barrel. I’ve never seen that before.
Which is to say, I guess, that I’ve never stared into the mouth of a primed burner before.
What would happen if it opened up on me? With a handheld burner I’m sure I’d have time to pull the cord before I died, even if it took me full in the face. With this thing, though?
Doesn’t matter. Even if I died instantly, my arm might spasm. They can’t risk it.
Can they?
I’m contemplating that question when a chat window opens.
<RedHawk>:Mickey? What the shit are you doing, man?
Oh well. At least he’s not in a cockpit right now, getting ready to drop ordnance on me.
<Mickey8>:Hey there, Berto. Surprised to see me?
<RedHawk>:Seriously, Mickey. Have you gone completely insane? What are you trying to accomplish?
<Mickey8>:Send Marshall out here. We need to talk.
<RedHawk>:…
<Mickey8>:Not joking, Berto. Send him out.
<RedHawk>:Come on, Mickey. You know that’s not gonna happen.
<Mickey8>:It is, Berto.
<RedHawk>:Take off the pack, Mick. That thing you’re carrying … it’s a war crime. If you pull that cord, you’ll be killing every human left on this planet. You don’t want to do this.
<Mickey8>:Yeah. I’m pretty sure I led with “I don’t want to do this.” I don’t want to kill you. Well, actually I kind of do want to kill you. I don’t want to kill Nasha, though, or Cat, or even that asshole Tonio from Security. I don’t want to kill anybody other than maybe you. What I want is to talk to Marshall, face-to-face. Send. Him. Out.
The window snaps closed, and I’m left to contemplate the burners on the pylons again.
They leave me standing there for almost an hour, staring up into that dull red glow while the cold seeps through the layers of my thermals, down into my skin and muscles, and finally straight through to my bones. Here is a hard, true fact: if you’re left standing still for long enough in subzero weather, you will eventually be miserably, unbearably, bone-rattlingly cold, no matter how many layers of high-tech heat-retaining clothing you happen to be wearing. After forty minutes or so I find myself wishing that they’d just go ahead and open up on me with the burners so that at least I can die warm.
They don’t, though. Instead, just when I’ve almost decided to pull the cord and be done with it, the secondary lock on the dome cycles open two hundred meters distant, and Marshall comes stomping out.
I think it’s Marshall, anyway. It’s a little difficult to tell through the rebreather and goggles and half dozen layers of cold-weather gear. The height is about right, though, and he’s followed through the lock by two goons in full combat armor, so by the time that’s all done with, I’m pretty confident it’s him. I open a comm channel.
“Seriously? What’s the escort for, Marshall? You’ve already got two cannons trained on me. How much more firepower do you think you need?”
“The security officers,” he replies, his voice a low growl, “are here because I strongly suspect that this may be some sort of ambush.”
I almost laugh at that. “An ambush? By who?”
“We are at war,” Marshall says. “And for reasons that I honestly cannot fathom, you seem to have taken the enemy’s side.”
I don’t have anything to say to that, so I stand silent and shivering, and watch him struggle toward me through the snow. He stops just at the perimeter, maybe ten meters away. The two goons stop a half pace behind him.