Alien Jungle (15 page)

I
mpani stared. The moss man stood as if rooted in the middle of the paddock, so near she could see the ruff of furry mold about its neck and the growth corded like armor over its midsection.

Trace’s father shouted at the crowd. “Are you blind? This is Cole.”

Alarm and disbelief twisted the faces of the onlookers. No one told
them
the monsters they’d been fighting were actually their missing friends and co-workers. None of the colonists lowered their guns.

But Impani did. Now that it was pointed out, she was certain the creature was Cole. Something in the way it walked, the way it now held its head.

Her flamethrower grew heavy. She didn’t want to fire upon Cole. She didn’t want to fight any of them. But as she glanced across the trenches, she saw dozens of moss creatures. The camp was surrounded.

“Don’t move,” Mr. Hanson told Cole, a plea in his voice. “Just tell me what to do. How can I help you?”

His words drew an impatient rustle from his employees—the shifting of many feet and guns.

Over the sound came Cole’s rattling whisper. “We have learned much but at great cost. Leave.”

The other creatures gave a whistling echo. “Leeeave.”

The word rose in an eerie chorus. Impani suppressed a shudder. Igniting her weapon, she stepped to Mr. Hanson’s side. “Back away,” she told him beneath her breath.

Instead of moving, he made a strangled sound. She followed his gaze.

Cole’s body rippled as if huge snakes writhed beneath his skin. Fist-sized pustules grew over his head and shoulders. They burst with wet pops.

The colonists recoiled with a collective gasp. Impani grimaced. What should she do? Was Cole alive in there? Was he suffering? She took Mr. Hanson’s arm to force him away, then froze in fascinated horror.

Cole was melting. Gobs of gray-green sludge rolled down his body to puddle about his feet. His head elongated. His shoulders drooped and slid over his arms in swells.

A woman screamed. The crowd shifted. Impani faced them, hands out as if she could stem their panic. As if she could stop their barrage of flame.

No one fired. Holding her protective position, she glanced over her shoulder—then gawked. Beyond the smoking trenches, the other moss men were also melting. They dotted the hillside with mounds of sludge. What was happening?

Suddenly, she remembered Trace’s plan to speak to the plants through Anselmi.

<<>>

T
race opened his eyes with the disquieting sensation that his innermost thoughts had been violated. He wondered how much time had passed. He stood as before at Anselmi’s bedside, holding his teammate’s hands. His ungloved fingers were clean of invading mold.

Suddenly, Anselmi stiffened. With a gurgling wail, he threw back his head. A blob of sludge rolled out of his mouth. Trace yanked back, but Anselmi’s grip tightened and threatened to crush his bones. Their arms vibrated together like a single taut wire.

Behind them, the hatch opened. Trace’s cry for help died in his throat. He stared aghast at his friend.

More sludge poured from Anselmi’s mouth. It streamed from his nose and ears. Mucous coated his flesh as if it oozed from his pores. Thick slime dripped from the bed in strands. With a slurp, the mucous and sludge merged.

Anselmi twitched and jerked. Suddenly, he slumped forward. Trace caught him. Anselmi was drenched in sweat, but his skin was clean, not slimy. Mysteriously, the bed sheets were also mucous-free.

On the other side of the bed, the conjoined sludge rose in a pulsating ball. Trace cringed, still clutching Anselmi. What should he do? He couldn’t run, couldn’t fight.

The ball grew. Stretching and reforming, it pulled itself into the shape of a human.

Trace shrank back. The man-shaped plant turned its featureless face. Mold within it squirmed like dark maggots contained by a dull, transparent skin. He had the uneasy impression that it was looking at him.

Abruptly, it collapsed. Trace watched transfixed as the puddle of sludge rolled across the floor to the wall. There came a hiss then a screech of air. The polycore wall curled open as if touched by acid. Oozing out the hole, the sludge disappeared from view.

Trace stared, his mouth hanging open. He only realized that he was crushing Anselmi when someone tried to take him from his arms.

Dr. Abrams hoisted Anselmi onto the bed. She checked his sensor readings. “They’re gone. I can’t believe it.” She looked at Trace with awe and disbelief. “What did you do?”

<<>>

I
mpani gaped at Cole. From the thinning moss, his facial features emerged. He opened his eyes and gave a loud wheeze as if he hadn’t breathed in a long while. Then he fell. His limbs twitched as the mold and moss seeped from his body. The outline of his clothing grew—first a collar, then a sleeve. His flesh appeared puckered and stained. The ebbing coat of plant life re-formed to one side.

Mr. Hanson took a halting step forward. Impani snatched at him but missed. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from Cole.

The undulating mass of moss and sludge grew a mucous shell. Dirt clung to its sides. Without a sound, it rolled into a ball and glided back over the bridge.

Across the trench, the other moss men had also become balls of retreating sludge. Their human hosts lay on the ground. Close to fifty of them. Some in lab coats. Some in hospital gowns. A few stirred as if waking.

Cole groaned and coughed.

Mr. Hanson yelled, “We need stretchers. Lots of stretchers.”

“He did it,” Impani whispered. “Just like he said he would. Trace saved them all.”

T
race sat at the head of the conference table, his teammates to either side. Across from him sat his father, Madsen, and Cole. Outside the meeting room, the cafeteria echoed with the screech of tables being moved and crates being stacked as workers converted the area to include food storage. Trace knew it was crucial for the colonists to combine warehouses and reduce living space to show good faith. However, the noise jangled his nerves and made him want to shout for them to stop. He was exhausted.

He gazed across the table. Cole appeared pale and shaky. He had trouble meeting Trace’s eyes. He seemed embarrassed after hearing of their scuffle in the airlock. The doctor said he needed bed rest, but Cole insisted upon taking up his regular duties.

Next to Cole, also paler than usual, sat Anselmi. After everything that had happened, Trace had expected Anselmi to ring home early. But since their three-day limit was nearly up and the auto-retrieve set, Anselmi decided to stay with the team. It showed loyalty, and Trace was grateful.

Aldus said, “All the missing workers have been recovered, and while I don’t think any of them will be doing handsprings for a while, only two need further medical attention. Jack Barnes lost an arm to a machete, and Cheyenne Farmount suffered blunt trauma to the head. No one was burned. The shell of moss and fungus protected them.”

Trace nodded. “How many of the original scientists returned?”

“All of them,” Madsen said, “although only twenty-four survived. One died shortly after being released. Five others seemed to have been dead for a while. Their bodies were decomposed. The doctor assumes they were still able to move because moss continued to fire electric impulses into their nerves.”

“The walking dead.” Wilde chuckled.

“I’m amazed the survivors could live in stasis like that for ten years,” Trace said.

“Apparently, the plants gave them everything they needed,” Aldus told him. “Oxygen. Nutrients.”

Natica leaned forward, her gaze darting about the table. “None of them remember what happened?”

“Cole?” Impani said. “Do you remember?”

Cole recoiled as if surprised at being addressed. “Not really. It was like time had stopped, caught me in mid-breath. Yet there was a sense of belonging. I remember thinking about my kid brother. I haven’t seen him and his family for years. And I wanted to go home.”

“Now’s your chance,” Aldus said. “Trace and his team plan to take the twenty-four scientists back with them. They have room for one more.”

Cole shook his head. “I’ll stay. There’s a lot of work to be done.”

Trace looked at his father. “I was still hoping to convince you to return with us, sir. You were the mission. The President won’t be happy if I fail to bring you back.”

Aldus chuckled. “Just remind Jules that a good captain doesn’t desert his ship. He’ll know what you mean.”

He stood, and Trace stood with him.

“Well, boy, you solved it. Your mother would be proud. And so am I.” Aldus held out his hand.

Trace blinked then smiled, feeling suddenly taller. He shook his father’s hand.

“See you in six months,” Aldus said.

Trace watched him leave. His cheeks grew hot, and the warmth constricted his throat and settled in his chest. He glanced at Impani who beamed at him. A grin tugged his cheeks. “Time to go.”

He led his team through the cafeteria, which was already stacked with crates of food. One of the colonists looked up as they passed and waved. Ducking through the hatch, the Scouts went outside.

The camp appeared hushed beneath a pall of smoke from the burning trenches. People whispered in groups, looking discomfited and shocked. The only sound came from the remaining forklifts and bulldozers being retrieved from the jungle. They rumbled in a slow line across the bridge toward the warehouse district.

Higher on the hillside, Trace saw several large yellow drums. As he watched, balls of plant sludge slid along the ridge’s edge, rose into humanoid form, and dipped their hands into the containers. A few rolled back into balls and glided away—but others remained human shaped. They stood as if gossiping around a water cooler.

Wilde jerked his thumb in their direction. “Fertilizer number four. It was Celeste Meade’s idea. Makes a good peace offering.”

Natica shuddered. “Let’s hope there’s enough to keep them pacified until the colonists are picked up. I don’t trust those things.”

“I do,” said Anselmi. “Now.”

Trace grinned and clapped him on the back. “So do I.”

He looked again at the humanoid moss men, still amazed at the sight. He was witnessing the birth of a new species. The way plants grew on this planet, fifty generations could pass in a single year. What would they evolve into with all that time?

He sent a mental farewell, hoping they could hear him. Then he led his team toward the hospital dome where they would pick up the scientists waiting to transport. No doubt, a lot of friends and family members would be happy to see them again. Trace hoped their retrieval would make up for the fact that the famous Aldus Hanson was not among them. He still wished he had talked his father into returning.

He thought of what his father had said about him solving everything. But there was one more question he had to answer. He had the necessary samples. All he needed now was a location.

More to himself, he said, “Wish I knew of a planet with no vegetation and lots of rain.”

To his surprise, Impani laughed. “Anselmi and I know just the place.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Her emerald eyes sparkled. “And I’ll tell you all about it—over the lunch you still owe me.”

“Lunch? No, no, not me. I plan to sleep for the next three days.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll wait.”

Trace smiled and took Impani’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Six months later

T
race grinned as his father joined him in the mirrored room at Colonial Bureau Central.

Aldus appraised the image of himself wearing a skinsuit. “Not too shabby for an old man.”

Trace said, “We call this the Impellic Chamber, our jump point to other worlds.”

“I’m still not sure about this.”

“You’ll do fine. Just step up here and press back against the cylinder.” Trace helped Aldus get situated then called to the unseen technician. “Any time you’re ready.”

The lights brightened. Trace hurried into position. In the many reflections, he saw his father grimace.

“This had better be good,” Aldus muttered.

Laughing, Trace said, “You’ll see when we get there.”

The Impellic ring descended. Trace felt a familiar tug in his stomach. He closed his eyes against the dizzying sensation of traveling fast without moving. There was a slight drop as the second ring engaged, and he knew he had changed direction. Then a barrier slowed his progress.

Rain struck his mask.

His father gave a shout. “That was some ride.”

“And here we are on another world.” Trace stretched his arm toward the craggy, scabrous land. “Planet 1186-9 HH30. It rains most of the time.”

“This is what you wanted to show me?”

Trace held back a grin. “Are you up for a walk?”

“A question for a question.” Aldus shook his head. “You get more like your mother every day.”

They followed the rough terrain. Trace hummed. He found that he always hummed when he came to this world. It was the most beautiful planet he’d ever seen. Constant rain had sculpted the blade-sharp rock into steppes and gorges. Everything was gray—the sky, the ground—but with a palette full of shades.

Of course, the landscape could use a touch of color. He smiled. “Impani found this world. There are merfolk in the lakes, but I don’t think they’ll mind us being up here. With all the precipitation, I figured this would be the perfect spot for your feed-the-universe project.”

“It takes more than rain.” Aldus scuffed his boots as he walked. “There isn’t any soil.”

“You can grow things without soil.”

“Hydroponics? You can do that anywhere. Look, what’s this all about? What is it you want to show me?”

“My science project. You remember. When I was thirteen years old.”

“Ah, yes.” Aldus chuckled. “The infamous electrical stimulation theory.”

“I was a laughingstock. And you were mortified.”

“You have to admit, it was farfetched.”

Trace grinned. “Watch your step.”

“Ugh. Moss. I’ve seen enough of that to last me. It even looks like the same stuff.”

“It is. I brought a sample from the planet. I think it likes its new home.”

Aldus stared at him. “You brought a sentient life form—”

“I had to have special permission. But with the food crisis, that wasn’t too hard. Besides, Anselmi assures me the moss itself isn’t sentient. It’s a growing medium, chock full of nutrients.”

“Edible?”

Trace nodded. “Tastes a bit like spinach.”

His father’s eyes lit. “You got all this from a single sample?”

“It grows as fast as ever. Before you know it, you’ll be feeding the hungry.”

Aldus whooped and caught Trace in a swift hug. Then he knelt beside the patch of moss, his voice choked. “And to think I was throwing it away by the wheelbarrow full.”

“That’s only part of it, Dad. Look up there on that ledge.”

Aldus stood slowly. “Is that…? Oh, Trace.”

Trace laughed, watching him, seeing it all again through his father’s eyes. He took his arm. “Let’s climb.”

Aldus gave a shaky nod, his face slack.

Together they ascended the steep path. Trace felt euphoric. He’d spent the past month in anticipation of his father’s reaction. He looked up. Light rain pelted his mask. The misty drizzle shrouded the plant growing on the ledge, but as they neared it, features came into view—broad flat leaves, red seed pods.

“Susan’s Gift,” Aldus murmured. “How can this be?”

“Keep climbing, Dad. To the top of the ridge.”

“This is a fully mature plant.” He looked at Trace. “How did you do it?”

“The trick was integrating the sludge so the roots could protect themselves.”

“Moss,” Aldus whispered. “It’s growing in moss.”

“Come on. We’ll talk at the top.” Trace edged along the narrowing path, arms spread wide, hugging the rock. At last, he heaved himself onto the ridge. He pulled his father up.

Aldus gasped.

A valley of multi-tiered stone opened before them. Moss hung in thick clumps, cascading from ledges, enveloping the walls. Among the green patches rose the dark leaves of Susan’s Gift, thousands of plants, as far as the eye could see.

Trace stood tall, warmed by pride and satisfaction. Here was his mother’s legacy. No one ever need die of Maramus again.

His father wept unrestrainedly. He put his arm about Trace’s shoulders.

They stood together, gazing out at the field of Susan’s Gift.