Wasteland of flint

The pilot nodded over his shoulder, flipped a series of switches and the inner door recessed with a dull clang. Two minutes later, Gretchen was standing on the landing strip, feeling a chill, cutting wind tug at her legs. She'd left a little of her face mask open and the smell of the planet flooded her nostrils.

Ephesus at twilight was sharp and cold, tart dust and crushed rock, the methane-stink of a recycler in the camp, a faint aroma of something metallic tickling the back of Gretchen's throat. She was glad she'd put on field pants and a shirt and jacket over the z-suit. The thermal heaters in her leg pads were already starting to run and her fingers were cold even with two layers of gloves.

Bandao rattled down the landing stairs and took up a position to the left and behind, while Parker and Delores went around to the cargo doors to start unloading the repaired engine. The gunner had a hand on the butt of his rifle – a stocky, evil-looking thing with a shining dark finish and a stubby, rubberized scope – and his attention moved in careful, measured sweeps, watching the distant, flat horizon and the buildings.

'Mister Parker,' Gretchen called, her voice buzzing on the comm, nearly drowned by the keening wind. 'Don't forget to put those seals in our engine intakes.'

'Crap!' Both the pilot and Fuentes turned around and jogged back to the shuttle. Isoroku had machined up a set of shockfoam plugs to close the air intakes and – hopefully – keep the Ephesian spores out of the engines. They were unwieldy, and Gretchen watched in amusement as Parker staggered down the stairs with a pair of multispec worklamps around his neck, arms filled with the fat round shape of an intake plug.

'Doctor Anderssen?' A bluff, accented voice called through the darkness and Gretchen turned. Three shrouded figures approached, bent into the wind. She walked forward, hand raised.

'Doctor Lennox.' Gretchen clasped the thin woman's hand firmly and nodded. 'Smalls- tzin. Doctor Tukhachevsky.'

'Welcome to Ephesus,' the Rossiyan answered, dark eyes sparkling over the green snout of his respirator. Neither Lennox nor Smalls said anything. 'Come, let's get to the main hall and you can meet the rest of the crew.'

Everyone began walking back toward camp, save for Smalls, who paused – indecisively, it seemed to Gretchen – and stared at Fuentes and Parker working on sealing the engine intakes. Then the meteorologist shook his head and hurried to catch up with the rest of the group. Gretchen watched him as they followed the path through the buildings – even in the poor light of the hanging lamps she could see he was a little pale. Hmm…can't be Parker, no one here knows him…must be Delores.

The main hall was a two-story building framed with hexacarbon beams, the walls and roof formed by extruded slabs of local gravel and sand run through a reprocessor. Gretchen passed into the airlock in the middle of the group – a line of dust-streaked backs, shining respirator tanks, the local equipment pitted and gray. She paused at the outer door, fingertips brushing across the metal frame of the door. The hexacarbon was scored and dark, riddled with tiny pits, as if acid had splashed on the exposed surfaces.

Inside, she pulled back the cap of her skinsuit and tugged the respirator mask aside. She was in the building atrium – a close, crowded room filled with work-suits, boots, stained jackets and dirt – with Bandao close at hand. Smalls was already gone, leaving a tired-looking Lennox and a beaming Tukhachevsky behind.

'How is everyone doing?' Gretchen slipped her nose tube free and tucked it into the collar of her suit. 'I guess you'll be glad to get upstairs and hit the showers.'

'Yes, our water supplies have always been minimal. There's no local source of water, though we'd hoped…' Lennox sounded even more exhausted than her haggard face suggested. 'I'm sorry, Doctor Anderssen, I'm very tired. Do you know when we'll be able to return to the ship?'

Gretchen spared a quick glance for Tukhachevsky, who was watching Lennox with concern, and Bandao, who was waiting patiently at the inner door of the atrium. She could see the acid glare of overhead lights and the tinny sound of someone's music box playing year-old tunes. The smell was entirely familiar and for an instant – setting aside the pale, worn face of the woman in front of her – she could have been standing in Dome Six at Polaris again.

'I think,' Gretchen said gently, 'we'll send you up to the ship tomorrow. Do you have your things together?'

'Oh.' Lennox seemed to come awake, blinking. 'No – I've been busy. I suppose I should -'

'Mister Bandao? Would you help Doctor Lennox pack her things up, and take them to the shuttle? Tell Mister Parker we'll be wanting to ferry up most of the crew tomorrow morning – early, I suppose, before the air gets too thin to fly.'

Bandao nodded and shifted his rifle behind him, out of the way and out of sight.

'Doctor? Bandao-tzin will help you get ready and carry your things.' Gretchen took Lennox by the hand and turned her around.

Bandao nodded politely and introduced himself. While he did, Gretchen motioned to Tukhachevsky and they stood aside near the main lock.

'Is everyone still in camp?' She asked, quietly. The Rossiyan nodded, fingering his beard. The sore beside his nose was beginning to suppurate – Gretchen recognized the sign of an ill-fitting respirator mask – and he smelled of alcohol. 'Have you heard anything from Russovsky?'

'Nyet,' he said dolefully. 'Not so much as a peep. I don't know – she seemed preoccupied when she was here last – maybe the desolation is telling on her. This is a bleak world.'

'Did she talk to you, when she was here? Did she talk to anyone – say where she'd been, where she was going?'

Tukhachevsky shook his head again, beard wagging slowly in counterpoint. 'No, Doctor Anderssen. She landed while we sat at breakfast and immediately went to see McCue in the main lab. Then Clarkson…' The Rossiyan paused, nose twitching, and Gretchen could see him weighing dirty laundry in his mind. After a moment, he shook his head slightly and continued. 'Doctor Clarkson went out to the main lab as well. An hour later – I would guess – I was packing a crawler to go reset the sensors at the edge of the White Plain and I saw Russovsky's Midge taking off.' He scratched his beard. 'A little odd, that. By then it was full sun, but she took off anyway and headed north.'

'When did the shuttle leave?'

'Later,' Tukhachevsky said, a slow grin peeking out from his beard. 'I heard Clarkson on the comm, shouting at Blake – he's the head of the security team – to get a shuttle ready. But number two was already sidelined on the field with some mechanical problem. So they had to wait for a shuttle to come down from the ship to pick him up.'

'Him and the damaged engine, right?' Gretchen tucked a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear. 'Carlos flew the shuttle down to pick them up?'

Tukhachevsky nodded. 'Yes, Flores had been down for several days, working on the grounded shuttle. By the time the other shuttle arrived, Clarkson was about wetting his pants.' The Rossiyan grinned again. 'He was in a rare state – almost happy, if such a dour man could ever be happy – and he was even civil to Molly.'

'You saw them while they were waiting for the shuttle? Were they waiting together?'

'No! They couldn't abide being in the same room.' Tukhachevsky waved a hand dismissively. 'I didn't see – I'd already taken the crawler out – but Frenchy told me Doctor McCue decided to go aboard at the last moment. Clarkson was already aboard, the engine already stowed. They had to delay departure a couple minutes for her.' The physicist shrugged.

So, Gretchen thought to herself, Russovsky and McCue didn't show Clarkson the limestone fragment, only the free-standing cylinder. That was enough to get him off their backs…but why did McCue suddenly go aboard the shuttle? What made her hurry? Or was she just trying to keep Clarkson from seeing what she'd put in the cargo hold?

The Company dossier on McCue implied she was a careful, thorough woman. A mathematician from the Arkham Institute on Anбhuac, the dig coordinator and chief bottlewasher. Meticulous, detail-oriented…not the kind of person to rush a sample somewhere, even one so precious. Huh. But if things between her and Clarkson were as cold as everyone is hinting, maybe she wanted to make him look bad.

'What happened then?' Gretchen returned her attention to the Rossiyan, who was looking mournful, his memories of the past stirred up. 'Did you hear anything more from the ship, from Clarkson or McCue?'

'No.' Tukhachevsky laughed hollowly. 'Blake received a call from Sho-sa Cardenas, saying the shuttle had docked on the Palenque, then nothing. For weeks and weeks, nothing. We made a telescope – we could see the ship – but…'