Wasteland of flint

hooked the cable onto a winch-ring atop the Midge.

'Deck, I'll be right back.' Fitzsimmons jogged back up the hill, glad to be out of the immediate blast of wind. His combat suit was impervious to the flying gravel and sand, but he was worried about Ephesian dust seeping into his tools, weapons and even the suit itself. Isoroku had warned him about the unexpectedly corrosive nature of the local microfauna and Fitz didn't want to wake up with his shipsuit disintegrating into sand.

He ducked under the overhang and knelt, letting his camera pan across the rock shelter.

'What now?' He asked in a normal tone of voice. 'The cooking stone? Aye, aye.'

Fitz knelt by the blackened rock, gloved fingers brushing over the evidence of a heating unit and a meal. Hummingbird's voice was an intermittent whisper. The Marine rubbed a forefinger across the black streaks and was surprised to see the glove come away almost clean.

'This is an old fire,' Fitzsimmons commented. 'Really old. But who was here before Russovsky landed last night?' He felt a queer chill tickle his spine and his right hand drifted to the butt of the automatic slung at his hip. 'Is there someone else out here?'

The Palenque

A pressure gauge mounted into the green, then steadied as standard atmosphere was established – at last – in the shuttle bay. Gretchen waited impatiently, one boot tapping against the heavy door. She could see shuttle one resting in its cradle in the bay, windows shining with cabin lights, the forward lock cycling through its own regulatory process. Her door opened first and Gretchen kicked off into a sharp, distinct smell of heated metal, ionized gasses and ozone.

Brushing a tangle of hair out of her eyes, Anderssen clung to the cargo netting around the landing bay while the shuttle lock opened, spitting red dust, to let Bandao help a tired, worn-looking woman in an old-style z-suit and tan-colored poncho across to the passenger airlock.

'Doctor Russovsky?' She put out her hand in greeting. 'I'm Gretchen Anderssen, University of New Aberdeen. Very pleased to meet you.'

The Russian gave her an odd, exasperated look, hands hanging at her sides. 'I'm very busy,' Russovsky said. 'I have no time for your meetings and weekly updates. I'll turn in a proper report when I'm done with my survey.'

Gretchen withdrew her hand and gave Bandao a surprised look. The gunner shook his head slightly and subvocalized on his throat mike. She's been this way since we picked her up.

Anderssen took a moment to look the geologist over. The older woman seemed physically fit. Her face was much as the Company holos had represented – weathered by too much sun and wind, marked by the calloused grooves of goggles and respirator mask, her hair turned to heavy straw – and her suit, though battered and worn, was obviously in good repair. Gretchen was surprised at the state of the woman's boots and the sand-colored poncho – given the effects of the Ephesian dust, they were in excellent shape.

Only her eyes belied a sturdy, no-nonsense appearance. Though as sharp and blue as the holos recorded, they stared coldly past Gretchen, past the wall of the ship, past everything in her immediate vicinity. Anderssen had a strange impression the woman was viciously angry, though nothing else in her demeanor or the line of her body suggested such a thing.

'Take her up to Medical, Magdalena's waiting,' Gretchen said to Bandao. The gunner nodded silently and took Russovsky by the arm. The woman allowed herself to be led away.

'That was a stupid thing to do!'

The sound of Parker's voice sharp with anger, real anger, swung Gretchen's head around, eyebrows raised in surprise. She hadn't known the pilot for very long, but he seemed eternally calm. To her further surprise, she found Parker and Fitzsimmons glaring at each other in the shuttle airlock.

'…hang around for hours while you dink about recovering some salvage!'

Fitzsimmons's face grew entirely still as Gretchen approached, the corner of one eye tightening. Parker wasn't bothering to restrain his temper, his voice ringing through the entire shuttle bay. Heicho Deckard was watching from the top of the stairs, his face split by a huge grin. Gretchen looked behind her and was relieved to see none of the scientists had wandered into the bay.

'We don't leave equipment behind,' Fitzsimmons replied in an entirely emotionless voice.

'Well, that's great,' Parker snapped, 'but we don't have unlimited fuel, like the navy, or some armored shuttle that can eat stone and bounce right back up!'

'What happened?' Gretchen settled on her stoic management-is-displeased face and shouldered in between the two men, looking up at Parker. To her disgust, she realized though the pilot was only a few inches taller, Fitzsimmons was head and shoulders above her. Despite her disadvantage, both men backed off a little – not so much as she'd have liked – but enough to put them at arm's reach.

'Your Marine,' Parker said in an acid voice, 'decided we should recover the Doc's Midge from down a freakin' hole today. I spent far too long juggling our wingtips between cliffs. We barely got back to base and I was flying on fumes the whole way. I don't think that was a good idea!'

'Her ultralight?' Gretchen turned and stared up at Fitzsimmons. 'Why? Do we need it?'

The sergeant gave her a look – a considering, not-quite-baleful, not-quite-outraged look. 'Fleet does not leave working equipment behind, ma'am. We recovered Doctor Russovsky and her Midge without incident and in a timely fashion.' His voice was very clipped and precise. 'Ma'am.'

'We didn't need the u-light,' Parker had calmed down a little, but Gretchen could feel his body trembling and she realized the pilot was coming down from a massive adrenaline shock. 'All we needed was the doctor, whom we had extracted in two minutes, no muss, no fuss! Not thirty-five minutes wallowing around on top of razor-sharp stone with canyons on either side! Not thirty-five minutes with the air heating thinner and thinner every second!'

'Mister Parker.' Gretchen managed to chill her voice appreciably and caught the man's eyes with her own. A baleful stare usually reserved for naughty children worked equally well on the pilot, who abruptly closed his mouth. 'The cameras and geological sensors on the u-light are Company property, as is the aircraft itself. It is incumbent upon us – as specifically stated in our contracts – to recover any misplaced, lost or stolen Company property with all due speed. Failure to do so will – in some cases – result in the cost of the equipment being deducted from employee salaries, as appropriate.'

She paused, watching an expression of disgust spread across Parker's face. How does that taste? She thought. Tastes bitter – realizing the Company cares more for the contents of a camera crystal or sensor pack than for a human life. Very bitter. 'But I'm glad you came back alive, Mister Parker, with Doctor Russovsky and our Marines. And I'm glad you didn't have to walk home.'

Gretchen turned to the sergeant. 'I'm glad no one was killed, Gunso Fitzsimmons, and I am glad you brought back Russovsky's Midge. Her cameras and sensors might explain a mystery that's cropped up this afternoon.' She smiled a little, seeing a glint in the Marine's eye. 'But please don't risk your life this way again – you see how much you've upset Mister Parker.' Gretchen patted the pilot on the arm. 'He cares, you know. He'd weep to see your broken body scattered across some lava flow or field of calcite ash.'

Deckard broke up – a big horse laugh – but neither Parker nor Fitzsimmons did more than stare at Gretchen in disgusted amazement. She didn't wait to see if they renewed their argument – she wanted to be in Medical. Russovsky, and the answer to so many questions, was waiting.

In comparison to the acrid heated-metal and testosterone smell in the shuttle hangar, Medical was quiet, cool and a little dim. The soft overheads had lost their matching pastel wall coverings during the 'accident' and the bare metal of the ship's skeleton drank up what little light fell from the panels. Russovsky was sitting on an examining table in the main surgical bay, her pale hair glowing in a shaft of heavy white light. Gretchen paused at the doorway of the nurses' station. The geologist seemed entirely and unnaturally still to her.

'Doctor Russovsky? Victoria Elenova? Kak vui chuvstvyete?' Gretchen tried another smile.

This time Russovsky turned to look at her, brow crinkling in puzzlement. For some reason, she seemed tired now, her formerly straight shoulders slumped, her skin a little ashen. The light in here? Or is she starting to relax after so many weeks alone? Gretchen knew how hard a homecoming could be.

After her first tour on Mars, she'd taken a commercial liner home to New Aberdeen. After sixteen months