As Marshall said this, the shaman’s expression changed. A look of something close to shock blossomed over the weathered features.
“We don’t know exactly what it is. I can only tell you that it has caused injury. It has caused death.”
The look of shock subsided, replaced by the same mix of fear and sorrow Marshall recalled from their first meeting. “Why do you come to me?” the Tunit asked.
“There was a scientific expedition at the base, fifty years ago. It met with tragedy. Most of the scientists died. But we recovered one of their journals. It contained the following words: ‘The Tunits have the answer.’”
Usuguk sat motionless, staring into the fire. Marshall waited, uncertain whether to speak or keep silent. After about a minute, the shaman reached over, rummaged slowly through an assortment of ritual objects, and grasped the bone handle of what appeared to be some kind of drum: a narrow hoop about a foot in diameter, leather stretched tightly across it. Slowly he began tapping it against the palm of his other hand, flipping the instrument with each beat, back and forth, back and forth. He accompanied the rhythm with a chant, quiet at first, then louder, the sound filling the snowhouse like the smoke of the fire. At last, after several minutes, the chant subsided. The shaman’s face was once more at peace. Putting the drum aside, he unstrung the leather pouch, dipped in his hand, and took out two greasy pellets of a soft material, one blue, the other red. He carefully dropped them into the fire, one after the other. Bi-colored smoke roiled upward, blending to violet at its edges.
“Tashayat kompok,” he murmured, examining the smoke. “As you will it.” Marshall did not think the shaman was speaking to him.
Marshall repressed the urge to glance at his watch. “Do you know what the scientist meant?” he asked. “About the Tunits having the answer?”
Usuguk said nothing. His eyes remained on the fire.
“I know you’ve seen something of the world,” Marshall went on. “Your command of English says as much. If you can help, if you know anything about this, please tell me.”
“It is not my place. You have brought this darkness upon yourself. I’ve already done what I could. I made a long journey-a sun, a moon, and a sun-to warn you. You paid no heed.”
“If that is true, I apologize. But I think violent death is too high a price to pay for our ignorance.”
Usuguk closed his eyes. “The circle you have begun is yours to complete. Even the Circle of Death can be beautiful.”
“There was no beauty in Josh Peters’s death. If you know something, no matter how insignificant or unrelated it may seem-you owe it to us as fellow human beings to aid us.”
“You are of the world,” Usuguk replied slowly. “I am of the spirit. I left that life behind long ago. I cannot go back.”
Marshall sat, wondering what else there was left for him to say. At last he cleared his throat. “Let me tell you something. I once left a life behind, too. My best friend’s life.”
Slowly, Usuguk opened his eyes.
“It was twelve years ago. I was an Army Ranger, stationed in Somalia. My unit had been under fire for three days from rebel skirmishers. It was house to house, room by room. My friend was establishing a forward post. The orders were garbled; he got ahead of the detail. I saw him moving across a square. It was dark. I thought it was an enemy sniper. I shot him.” Marshall shrugged. “After that, I swore I’d never pick up a gun again.”
Usuguk nodded slowly. Another silence settled over the snow-house, broken only by the crackling of the fire, the mournful cry of the blizzard outside.
“It was not a frag,” the shaman said, opening his eyes.
Marshall looked at him in surprise. “Were you in the service?”
Usuguk ignored the question. “It was a mistake.”
“My unit had never lost a soldier to friendly fire. I was ordered to lie, to cover it up. When I refused, my commanding officer arranged for me to get a dishonorable discharge. I-I had to break the news of my friend’s death to his wife.”
Usuguk grunted quietly. Reaching into his medicine pouch, he pulled out several small artifacts. Smoothing the skins before him, he tossed the items onto them and scrutinized the way they fell. “You said you swore not to pick up a gun again. Such an oath is not to be taken lightly. And now? What will you do now?”
Marshall took a deep breath. “If there’s something out there-something bent on killing all of us-I’ll do my very best to kill it first.”
Usuguk looked into the fire. Then he turned his seamed and inscrutable face toward Marshall. “I will go with you,” he said. “But the only lives I take now are those necessary to sustain my own. My hunting days are over.”
Marshall nodded. “Then I’ll hunt for both of us.”
37
Penny Barbour had wanted to take all the data critical to the expedition: a network image; the accessions and samples database; the online lab journals of her fellow scientists. In the end, she’d taken nothing. The two soldiers, Marcelin and Phillips-looking nervous despite their M16s-did not allow any time. Barbour, Chen, and the four others assigned to their group were instructed to change quickly into their warmest clothes and to grab some form of ID. They were assembled in the officers’ mess, their names checked off against a master list of everyone at the base, then they were escorted to the staging area. Phillips took point, Marcelin brought up the rear. They moved quickly and in complete silence through the corridors, halting at each intersection while Phillips reconnoitered. Reaching the central stairwell, they crept upward and crossed the entrance plaza-spectral in the nighttime half-light-to the weather chamber. The chamber was as crowded as the rest of the base had been empty: as they opened its door, a sea of tense faces turned quickly toward them.
Gonzalez stood at the head of the group. He had a handcart full of weapons and ammunition-enough for a small army-and he was methodically checking each in turn. He nodded to the soldiers, then racked the slide of the handgun he’d been inspecting, holstered it.
“This is the last of them?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Marcelin replied. He passed the list of names to the sergeant, who inspected it, grunted his approval, and put it aside.
Gonzalez glanced at his watch. “Carradine will be ready to load in five minutes.” He turned toward the group. “All right, everybody-listen up. I want you to don your weather gear now. We’re issuing extra gloves, scarves, and balaclavas-you’ll find them in this box. When I give the signal, we’ll head outside. You are all to follow me and make directly for the trailer. Maintain silence at all times. Any questions?”
Nobody spoke.
“Then get busy.”
There was a squeal of metal against metal as three dozen lockers were opened almost simultaneously. Opening hers, Barbour shrugged into her parka, draped a scarf around her neck, then grabbed a balaclava from a large carton in the middle of the room and fitted it over her ears. She pushed an extra scarf into one pocket and a pair of gloves into the other.
“I have a question,” a gruff voice said. It was the foreman of the roustabouts, Creel. He alone had not put on a parka, and was against the wall, burly arms crossed.
Gonzalez eyed the man, nodded.
“Just what is it you’re planning to do after the truck leaves?”
“We’re planning to put a stop to all this killing.”
“You mean, you’re going to hunt it.”
“Whatever this thing is, I think it’s done its fair share of hunting. Now it’s our turn.”
“Just the three of you,” Creel said.
Gonzalez eyed the cache of weapons, then smiled mirthlessly. “Why? You think our force is insufficient?”
“Given the state of your intel, I think the larger the force, the better.”
Now Gonzalez examined the man more carefully. “Were you in the service, mister?”
