Page 6 of Sentenced to Prism

  He did not work in silence. The forest surrounding the station, and, for that matter, the station itself, was filled with the cries and hums and squeaks of creatures largely unseen. Occasionally a deeper roar reverberated through the silicates, but nothing materialized to attack him. Still, he took no chances and slept within the security of the MHW.

  The records contained information that would be in­valuable to the company. All of it fit comfortably in the MHW's copious storage chips, where it would await transfer to company facilities. The irony was that the information couldn't be utilized until he also produced an explanation for the disaster which had devastated the sta­tion.

  Nowhere within the lengthy discourses and disserta­tions that had been fled by the station's staff was there anything to hint at the catastrophe that was going to befall them. Yet something capable of such rapid and utter destruction must exist. He was surrounded by proof of its existence.

  There was one final mystery.

  The dormitory where he'd found the two dead men held twenty‑four racks but only twenty survival suits. Personnel records indicated twenty‑four expedition mem­bers. He lead buried the remains of twenty scientists and technicians. The time had come to locate the other four. Of course, he could have gone to work on the beam first, but even as anxious to be away as he was, he would rather die than leave a job incomplete.

  "They have to be around here somewhere," he told the MHW. "Trouble is, we've found several bodies with dead beacons."

  "I will run a sensitive." Evan waited while the suit performed the high‑intensity scan. Within a modest range it would pick up even the slightest emanation from beyond the station perimeter.

  "Observation tower."

  It was the one place Evan hadn't personally inspected because it seemed an unlikely place to find survivors. The tower elevator was broken, the controls having been chewed up by tiny plant and animal forms, but the four metal struts that supported the three‑story structure were still in place, though one had white bubbles forming on its flanks. A precursor to consumption, Evan knew.

  He chose the next strut to the left and started climbing, the suit negotiating the almost vertical ascent without straining. As soon as he'd gained the top he punched in a window and climbed through.

  Two of the missing four members of the station staff lay on the floor inside, dead, and in their survival suits. The instrumentation surrounding them had hardly been touched, the destructive lifeforms not having reached so high yet.

  What of these newest corpses? Had they had time to don their suits before disaster struck or had they already been wearing them when the rest of the camp was dev­astated? He bent over the nearer figure. Behind the pro­tective visor was the face of an older man. Gray hair and mustache, strong features. Even in death he looked com­petent. His eyes were closed, his expression serene. He might have been sleeping.

  Then Evan saw the small tear in the fabric of the suit, just below the ribs. It was almost unnoticeable. He reached toward it.

  "Don't touch that," the suit said warningly.

  Evan jerked back his metal‑clad hand as though he'd put his bare flesh into a flame.

  "What is it? Another local lifeform?"

  "Several. Death here is confirmed. There is no need to touch the body."

  Evan frowned, discovered that he was sweating slightly despite the reaction of the suit's coolers. "What's the matter? Surely there's nothing here that can damage you."

  "Preliminary investigation suggests caution is more sensible than bravado. Survival suits are woven of acry­var. They can be melted, but they are not easily torn. I will enlarge the opening further to provide a better view." Again the small laser put in an appearance, its beam set for cutting this time instead of killing.

  In a second the slit was half a meter long. "Now open it, but carefully, and keep control of yourself."

  "I'm always in control of myself," Evan replied irri­tably. Despite his self‑assurances, he found that his stom­ach was turning. He was convinced he'd already seen everything the planetary lifeforms could do to a human body.

  He was wrong.

  Where the man's stomach should have been was a round cavity filled with dark green liquid. Resting in the center of this placid pool were three disk‑shaped objects. Tentacies radiated from them in all directions. They looked like a cross between starfish and fried eggs. As he was staring open‑mouthed one of the small tentacles trembled, lifted, and squirted something at him.

  It struck the visor of his suit directly in front of his right eye. He wrenched back violently, smashing his head into the roof of the chamber. The MHW's internal com­pensators protected him from concussion, but he was still rattled.

  A second squirt struck him over the other eye. The fluid had no effect on the suit. Following this second assault the remaining two starfish disks reached up and over with their own tentacles, grabbed the flaps of the suit Evan had pulled aside, and covered themselves up again.

  Evan discovered that he was shaking. "What the hell was that?"

  "Defensive reaction utilizing gastric juices."

  "Well, if the idea is to shock or surprise a potential intruder, it succeeded."

  "The intent is considerably more lethal than that. Look to your feet."

  Evan leaned forward, looked down. Several drops of the liquid which had been sprayed on his visor had dripped onto the floor. Smoke was rising from half a dozen places where the fluid was eating through the metal.

  "That's gastric juice?" Evan had to work hard to keep his voice even.

  "Very few substances can harm a strongly bonded sil­icate form. That's nitric acid. So is the pool occupying the stomach area of that unfortunate gentleman. I suspect his companion here has suffered similar treatment."

  "If that's nitric acid in his gut, then there shouldn't be anything left of his belly, much less the rest of his body."

  "I suspect that the creatures which secrete it have somehow lined the stomach cavity with a material imper­vious to their own juices. Thus secure from outside inter­ference, they can dissolve bones and flesh at their leisure."

  "Hell," Evan muttered. "I only hope the poor bastards were dead before those things infested them. You're sure about the other one?" He nodded in the direction of the second body.

  "I detect the presence of identical acidic compounds."

  "All right, how did their suits get ripped? Survival suits aren't supposed to tear."

  "Evidently these did. I should think the acryvar capa­ble of withstanding the effects of nitric acid, but perhaps the suits were weakened by something else before the bodies here were invaded. Again we have many ques­tions, sir, and no answers.

  "Of course, once the integrity of a suit has been vio­lated, many varieties of native life could subsequently gain entrance. Then it would not take much to induce death. A dilute injection of nitric acid into the blood­stream, for example."

  "Spare me the details." Evan made a last search of the observation deck, checking drawers and consoles. The several large storage cabinets were all secured. Using the suit's strength he broke the locks. The cabinets contained assorted instruments, computer storage chips, and per­sonal effects. There was no sign of the two survival suits that were still missing. Having no one else to discuss the matter with, he sat down and talked to the MHW. "This is the last refuge. We've been all over the station. So where are the others?"

  "I think it reasonable to assume that the suits are with their owners, though in what condition I cannot imagine. They certainly did not save these two unfortunates. We must at least begin to consider the possibility that the missing suits and their owners have been completely destroyed."

  "Even if that's the case," Evan argued, "their beacons would survive."

  "Nothing can be taken as assured on this world. Granted that what you suggest is so, if they have been ingested in large pieces, then the beacons in question may have been carried in the gut of some scavenger a considerable dis­tance from the station
."

  Evan sighed. "I wish you wouldn't keep bringing up facts that contradict my hypotheses. In any case, we have to account one way or another for both the missing suits and personnel. Who's still unaccounted for?"

  The screen on the inside of his visor lit up. "A security and supplies technician, Aram Humula; and a xenobiol­ogist, Martine Ophemert."

  Evans considered. "There's an outside chance they might still be alive, you know. If they were outside the station perimeter when the disaster struck, engaged in field work or something, they night have survived."

  "Why then have they not returned?"

  "Several possible reasons. Fear, confusion. They may have been injured and are holed up somewhere awaiting help. Or," he added uneasily, "they might be worried that whatever destroyed the station is still in the vicinity." He ran his fingers over one pristine console. "Most of the instrumentation up here is in good shape. No power, of course. As fond as the local lifeforms are of rare metals and mineral salts, I can imagine what they've done to the station's power grid by now. Maybe that's what happened to the defensive perimeter. Maybe it never had the chance to stop whatever it was that got in here because the power had been cut off. Backup included."

  "That is possible," agreed the MHW "A beacon loca­tor was built into me specifically for this mission, but its range is‑"

  "I know. I'm familiar with your specs." He let his gaze wander out across the crystalline, spectral forest, won­dering how much of it he was seeing and how much more lay beyond the range of his vision, Hausdorf lenses not­withstanding. "We won't find a better place to signal‑seek than from up here. You might as well make a three‑sixty scan. Take your time and work as far out as you can."

  "Excessive scanning is inadvisable."

  "You'll have plenty of time to recharge. The days here are long and you couldn't ask for more intense sunlight. Besides, you have plenty of reserve power."

  "I know, but I am programmed to be cautious when it comes to high power expenditures."

  "Well, we should only have to do this once."

  Movement caught Evan's eye. Several dozen tiny flying creatures had attached themselves to his left leg. They were bright yellow, with tiny green eyes and spiral wings. The length of their piercing mouthparts was twice that of their bodies. They were frustrating themselves on the dur­alloy skin of the MHW

  Evan brushed them off, caught the last one, and held it up to the light. It struggled to get airborne again while emitting a short, sharp whine. He crushed it between his fingers. It didn't collapse in on itself so much as it splin­tered. The whine went away.

  Meanwhile the MHW had extended a single gleaming metal rod from its backpack. The rod unfolded to form a rectangular antenna.

  "Scanning," the suit informed him unnecessarily.

  Evan waited quietly while the machinery did its job. Starfish that made their homes in pools of nitric acid in your belly. (lass fibers that dissolved away your bones. Suddenly the opportunities afforded by his visit to Prism paled beside the comforts of home. He wanted off this world, and soon.

  He'd planned to regale his friends and colleagues with elaborate stories of his adventures on a strange alien world without precisely identifying it. Now even that pleasure was to be denied him. By choice, because he hadn't seen much on Prism so far that would enliven a party by the telling of it.

  "I have one beacon fairly close in," the suit said, inter­rupting his reverie.

  Evan nodded, wondering if the suit would correctly interpret the movement. He moved to the smashed‑in window, took a last look at the bodies, and began to climb down the support strut.

  Huge strides quickly carried him beyond the station boundaries. In a small field of blue rotors he found suit number twenty‑three‑and its occupant.

  The MHW ran an ident light over the bands that criss­crossed the chest, analyzing the frequency of the feebly pulsing beacon.

  "Aram Humula."

  Evan nodded as he bent to examine the body. It was a good thing the emergency beacon had been implanted in the wrist, because the rest of the body had been crushed almost flat.

  Chapter Five

  So much for possible survivors, he thought. One more blank on his report filled in, one left to go. A few small digging things scurried for cover as the shadow of Evan's helmet covered them. They had four‑centimeter‑long legs and spiral bodies of brown glass.

  "Nothing subtle about this one," he murmured to the suit. "Looks like he was run over by a ten‑ton transport." With a finger he nudged aside shards of Humula's frag­mented helmet. "Plexalloy visor. Should be as strong as the rest of a standard survival suit. Something made gar­bage out of it."

  "Yes sir. Excuse the interruption, but I think you should know that something is crawling up your right leg."

  Evan idly glanced down. The climbing creature was smooth‑backed and curved. Instead of legs, it laid down a track of glue just ahead of itself. Four long, graceful antennae patted the path ahead, relaying information to the patient crawler. Evan could not see any eyes. The composition of the light blue glue intrigued him. It occurred to him then that the gunk might be acidic. "Suit integrity check," he said, his voice a little higher than usual.

  "I would warn you immediately, sir, if there were any problem with-“

  "Run the check."

  It took less than ten seconds. "Suit integrity is intact, sir."

  Was Evan imagining it or did the suit sound slightly miffed? "Thank you," he replied sarcastically. The crea­ture had stopped moving. "What's it doing now?"

  "Trying to penetrate, sir. Still another voracious local lifeform. I should guess that its red coloring is due to the presence of large amounts of alumina in its silicate exo­skeleton. It is not a photovore."

  "I can see all that. Get rid of it." He started to reach down with an arm. The limb froze halfway.

  "That would not be advisable, sir. There is no point in putting excessive strain on my fabric."

  Within the suit, Evan frowned. "What are you talking about? It can't tear the duralloy."

  "No sir, but I can. I can damage myself. You see, the adhesive slime the creature is secreting is extremely pow­erful. You could rip the creature to shreds but the glue would remain on my exterior. Wouldn't a complete removal of all foreign substances be preferable?"

  "Of course."

  "Then relinquish control of your left arm, please."

  Evan did so, watched with interest as the small laser cane back to life. The creature died instantly when the beam pierced it but it took nearly five minutes to boil away the rest of the extraordinary glue it had secreted. By the time the messy task had been completed, Evan could see several more of the glue producers making their way toward him through the ground cover. A couple of casual giant strides carried him well beyond their reach.

  "Another integrity check," he muttered. The suit com­plied without comment.

  He refused to admit that he was concerned. Admit­tedly, the survival suits that had been provided for the station staff were not in a class with his MHW, but it was still unsettling to see how poorly they'd fared in protecting their wearers. It took only seconds to run a check and he wasn't in the mood to take chances.

  Twenty‑three of the station's twenty‑four inhabitants were now accounted for. Find the twenty‑fourth and he could prepare for the return home. In the time it would take for a company ship to reach Prism to pick him up, perhaps he could find out what had happened. He was less and less sure he wanted to. "What about the remain­ing beacon?"

  "I have been solidifying a fix on it, sir. It is extremely weak, though that may not be due entirely to loss of battery strength."

  Evan's interest perked up and he forgot about the corpse that now lay half a dozen meters behind him. "What are you getting at?"

  The MHW turned toward the northwest. "The nature of the fluctuation is not constant."

  "You mean, it's moving?"

  "Within a small area, yes. That is the most reasonable explanat
ion."

  "°A survivor!" A survivor might be able to tell him in detail what had happened to the station and its staff, sav­ing him days of drudgery and securing his triumph.

  Of course, there could be other reasons for the bea­con's restricted range of movement. The beacon and the wrist it was embedded in might be resting in the belly of some carnivore. Or the moldering corpse of Martine Ophemert might be drifting back and forth in the eddy of a river.

  He forced himself to put a leash on his excitement even as he directed the suit to start tracking. It was unlikely anyone could have survived for so long without the sup­port facilities of the station. There was plenty of water, but food was hard to find and possessed unique methods of defending itself. Still, if this Ophemert was sufficiently resourceful and if her survival suit was still intact, she might still be alive.

  If that slim possibility panned out, he would have a chance to play the hero. He'd always wanted to be a hero. It would suit him. Hard to become a hero in the civilized, regulated confines of a major city.

  So there were several reasons for wanting to find Mar­tine Ophemert alive.

  The suit did all the work, choosing a course through the vegetation and operating the long metal legs. It was easy to be bored.

  "Let's see the plot." He slowed to a halt.

  Instantly the visor video came to life. Bright green lines formed a small grid. In the center of the grid and off to the left pulsed a bright red dot.

  "Abstracts don't tell me anything," he grumbled.

  "Depending on topography we should reach the place in four or five days, sir."

  "Not bad." It would give him the opportunity to observe and record a better cross section of local lifeforms for the company archives. "Resume tracking." He readied himself for the resumption of motion.

  The suit did not move.

  "What's the matter?" He was suddenly fearful the beacon had chosen that moment to die.