Deadman Switch (23 page)

On the threshold of the house, I shook my head sharply. Fatigue depression, I told myself—it was nothing more than that. As long as Myrrh Fellowship was unaware of who and what we were, they couldn't be held responsible for aiding us. Not legally, not rationally.

And yet …

I looked upward. Hanging overhead, like some kind of bluish fruit, was the partially lit disk of Solitaire, with three abnormally bright stars off one edge. Three of Commodore Freitag's ships, coming for us … and it occurred to me that the law was usually designed to serve the purposes of those in power. And that for those same people, rationality was more an occasional option than it was a requirement.

W
E LEFT JUST AFTER
sunrise the next morning—a totally ungodly hour, to my way of thinking. Even so, quite a few of the Seekers were up before us, though that was hardly remarkable once I reminded myself that Myrrh was economically an agricultural community. Still, to my city-oriented biological clock, the thought of doing this day in and out made my eyes ache.

My skills at manual driving were probably ten years out of date, but given there was no road to stay on and no other traffic to avoid, I didn't expect to have any real problems. Calandra, clearly more wide awake than I was, suggested she take the first turn at the wheel, an offer I had to regretfully decline. The way my eyelids were sagging I wasn't at all sure how good an observer I would be, and it would be better for us to hit a few extra bumps than to miss some possibly vital clue off on the horizon somewhere.

Fortunately, Zagorin had anticipated the problem. Two mugs and a thermac full of a hot, tart-sweet-tart drink had been placed into the car along with the promised supply of sucon rings, and even as we drove out of the settlement I found I was gradually sipping my eyes fully open.

The fields surrounding Myrrh were more extensive than I'd realized from our approach the evening before. Our southeast heading took us through several hectares of cultivated land, a good scattering of Seekers and small-scale farm equipment already hard at work among the rows of greenery. “What do you know about farming?” I asked Calandra.

“Nothing more than I picked up as a child.” She craned her neck to both sides. “I'd say they've got enough cropland here to support their community, though, if that's what you're getting at.”

“It was,” I acknowledged, too groggy to be irritated by her customary ease at reading my thoughts. “Can you identify any of those plants?”

She shrugged. “That's corn over there, and I think those short broadleaved things are trelapse. The rest—” She shook her head.

“Not important,” I said. A movement off to the left caught my eye: a Seeker, head down, walking slowly through the native flora bordering the fields. “I wonder what he's looking for,” I commented.

“Valeer, probably,” Calandra said, leaning forward to look past me. “The Mustains told me about it last night before I went to bed. It's a native plant they extract a spice from.”

“Ah.” I thought back to the exotic flavors of the food at dinner last night. No wonder I hadn't been able to identify the ingredients. “Interesting. They planning it for export?”

“I'm sure the leaders have toyed with the idea—the Mustains certainly have. At the moment, though, they seem to be keeping it to themselves.”

Something in her voice … “Trying to find out if they're being fed a placidity drug, were you?” I asked.

I sensed a grudging embarrassment from her. “The thought
had
occurred to me,” she admitted.

“We both ate it last night,” I reminded her. “Even with just a single dose either of us would have noticed if it produced that kind of effect.”

“If they're using one native plant, they could be using others,” she countered. But her voice lacked any real conviction. And rightly so—with a multitude of vodkyas in vogue around the Patri and colonies these days, both of us were well acquainted with the outward signs of such use, and none of the Seekers in Myrrh had exhibited any of them. That Calandra would even consider such an unlikely possibility meant she was determined to find a darker explanation for the Halo of God than a loving community spirit.

She wanted to believe the worst of them … and down deep I knew that nothing I could say would change that desire. Even Watchers could blind themselves to reality if they wanted to badly enough.

Perhaps that was how Aaron Balaam darMaupine had managed to get as far as he had.

A stray fact ticked at my consciousness: the Seeker out there had been wearing gloves. “Are the valeer plants sharp-edged?” I asked Calandra, as much to change the subject as anything else.

She glanced out at the Seeker again, and I could tell she was also relieved that another argument about Adams's group had been deflected. “It could be just the plants themselves. The Mustains told me that Spall's soil is highly acidic.”

I grimaced. Great. And us about to go out poking around in it without any protective clothing. “How acidic is acidic?”

“Oh, it's not dangerous or anything like that,” she assured me. “Just gives you a rash if you dig around in it too much.”

Yes—the Seeker had been wearing the same general style of daywear clothing we'd seen at the settlement dinner the previous night, which hadn't struck me then as particularly thick or chemical-resistant. “I suppose that means they have to lay down some kind of alkaline solution before planting their own crops,” I commented.

“Probably,” Calandra nodded. “Whatever the method, it seems pretty effective—I haven't seen any signs at all of native plants where the soil's been treated. I wonder,” she added thoughtfully, “if that means it's the chemicals in the fusion drive exhaust, after all.”

My stomach tightened as academic curiosity faded and the huge task facing us flooded back on me. “Could be. Speaking of which, I suppose we'd better get down to business.”

“Right.” Calling up a map of the area on the car's display, she tapped for a contour overlay. “I presume you'd planned to do as much searching as possible from high ground?”

I nodded. “Unless, of course, we spot some place straight out that looks like it would be a good hiding place for an illegal shuttle or starship.”

She peered at the display, then slowly scanned the landscape around us. “Not really. Anyway, we're still too close to Myrrh.”

“Agreed.” I tapped a spot on the display, ahead and to our left. “That's probably that hill over there,” I said, pointing to a small rise in the distance. “Ten to fifteen minutes away, I'd guess. Shall we start there?”

She shrugged, and I could sense her brace herself. “Might as well.”

With only the unfamiliar plant life around to judge by, the distance proved deceptive, but we still made it to the hill in under half an hour. The only slope gentle enough for the car to manage was unfortunately also too rocky for me to want to risk the tires on, and so we wound up spending another ten minutes struggling to the top on foot.

Shepherd Zagorin had been right: both the landscape and the flora facing us were remarkably different from that which we'd seen on the drive between Shekinah and Myrrh. Added to the basic blue and gray-purple we'd already seen were touches of red, dark yellow, and even a delicate lavender. Most of the color seemed to belong to flower-like structures, but some was simply the plants themselves.

There was animal life out there, too, the first we'd yet seen on Spall. Dozens of tiny spots flitted low over the ground or circled the flowers in the semi-random pattern of insects everywhere, and I discovered that if I watched the nearest foliage carefully I could see the subtle leaf movements that implied small ground animals underneath.

And in the midst of the thickest and richest patches of plant life stood the thunderheads Zagorin had mentioned.

Even never having seen one before, I had no doubt as to their identity. Growing up to probably a meter in height, standing singly or grouped together in twos or threes, their oddly asymmetric, flat-topped breaking-wave shapes towered over the shorter plants surrounding them. Their shape, coupled with their dirty-white color, made the name “thunderhead” practically inevitable.

“They seem to prefer the lusher areas,” Calandra commented into my thoughts.

I dug out the noculars from our ship's survival pack and studied a quick sampling of the thunderheads within view. She was right—each one was indeed surrounded by several meters of colorful plants, making a sharp contrast with the thunderheads' own whiteness. “Lusher areas, or the presence of some particular insect,” I offered, lowering the noculars. “I can see small clouds of something surrounding each one.”

“Probably coincidental,” she shook her head. “More likely the insects are going for the more attractive plants around them.”

“Though who knows what's attractive to an insect?” I shrugged. “You suppose they're some variety of fungus?”

“They sure don't have whatever the local equivalent of chlorophyll is,” she said. “I don't know, though—those don't exactly look like ideal places for dead vegetation to have collected.”

“Maybe a parasitic fungus, then,” I said, reaching back as best I could into the classroom biology I hadn't used in years. “It would make sense—any parasite that size would have to have a lot of host material around to live off of.”

Calandra nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds reasonable. If so … it may mean they're a sort of reverse indicator for fusion-damaged plants.”

I considered. “Maybe,” I agreed. “Assuming the pattern here also holds further out, anyway. We'll have to keep an eye on that.”

“Right. Well …” Straightening her back, she took a deep breath and fell silent. Taking the cue, I raised the noculars again and began my own search.

Nothing. No indication of the sort of inhibited plant growth we'd seen at the landing area near Shekinah Fellowship. Also no scorch marks, no landing skid tracks, and no odd reflections that could be from plastic or metal.

I didn't have to look to sense Calandra's disappointment. “Like you said,” I reminded her gently, “we're still pretty close to Myrrh.”

Her eyes, when I turned to look, were haunted. Haunted with the threat of failure … or with the threat of the death that would follow that failure. “Come on,” I said softly. “We can do it.”

She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them the haunted look was gone. “Sure,” she said. Almost as if she believed it.

Biting the back of my lip, I slipped the noculars back in their case. Taking her hand, I led her carefully down the hill and back to the car.

I don't know how many hills we drove or climbed up that day. There were at least ten—that many I remember clearly—but much of the ordeal remained afterward little more than a fatigued blur in my memory. The pattern of that first attempt remained with us the rest of the day: choose a local high point, drive there across bumpy ground, climb or drive up—driving being the rare exception—and gaze out at the landscape until our eyes ached. Climb or drive back down, head for the next spot, and repeat.

It was incredibly draining. Physically, it was clear that neither of us was in shape for this kind of activity, and by the time the first fluffy clouds began to form about noon my eyes, head, and legs all ached with fatigue. Calandra, with the normal woman's higher stamina in such things, fared a shade better, but not enough to really matter. By midafternoon she was stumbling as much as I was, and leaning on me for balance as much as I leaned on her.

But as bad as it was physically, it was even worse emotionally.

I'm not sure really what I was expecting when we started out that morning. That God had guided me in a lucky guess, I suppose, and that within a couple of hours we would spot the telltale signs of fusion-drive damage and could scamper back to Shekinah and call Commodore Freitag down on them. But it wasn't happening. To gaze at an unfamiliar landscape and try to pick something “abnormal” from it took incredible amounts of both painstaking attention and equally painstaking imagination. The existence of the thunderheads helped, but not as much as we'd hoped it would. The dirty-white plants grew in small clumps, never with more than three or four together, and never in the kind of widespread daisy field that would eliminate large sections of territory from our consideration.

And as the work continued—as the hours dragged by without even a hint of what we thought we were looking for—the optimism slowly faded … to be replaced by depression and finally despair.

We both felt it—both tried to hide it from the other for pride's sake, if for no other reason. But as the sun dipped toward the horizon, and Calandra started us toward yet another distant hill, she finally gave up the pretense.

“It's not working, Gilead,” she sighed, abruptly letting her foot off the accelerator. The loud background swishing of the plants against the car faded to a half-imagined ringing in my ears as we rolled to a stop. “We're not going to find anything this way, and we both know it. Let's give it up and go back.”

I ground my knuckles into my eyes, trying to rub the soreness out of them. Watching the landscape from a bouncing car, we'd discovered, was even harder on the eyes than repeatedly sweeping the horizon from the tops of hills. “We can't do that, Calandra,” I told her, hearing her same tiredness in my own voice. “Besides, we've just barely reached our main target section. All this up to now has been practice; tomorrow is what really counts.”

She turned to face me. “Do you really believe we're going to find anything?” she asked bluntly.

“There's always hope—”

“That's not what I asked.”

I clenched my teeth. “You've given up on faith completely, haven't you?”

“What I believe or don't believe isn't the issue,” she said stiffly. “And if it comes to that, don't forget that
you've
left the Watchers, too.”