Hunter's Run Page 4

  He set the autopilot, tilted his chair back until it was almost as flat as his cot, and, in spite of the reproachful almost-presence of the European, let the miles rolling by beneath him lull him to sleep.

  When he woke, the even-grander peaks of the Sierra Hueso range were thrusting above the horizon, and the sun was getting low in the sky, casting shadows across the mountain faces. He switched off the autopilot and brought the van to rest in a rugged upland meadow along the southern slopes of the range. After the bubbletent had been set up, the last perimeter alarm had been placed, and a fire pit dug and dry wood scavenged to fill it, Ramón walked to the edge of a small nearby lake. This far north, it was cold even in summer, and the water was chill and clear; the biochip on his canteen reported nothing more alarming than trace arsenic. He gathered a double-handful of sug beetles and took them back to his camp. Boiled, they tasted of something midway between crab and lobster, and the gray stone-textured shells took on an unpredictable rainbow of iridescent colors when the occupying flesh was sucked free. It was easy to live off this country, if you knew how. In addition to sug beetles and other scavengeable foodstuffs, there was water to hand and there would be easy game nearby if he chose to stay longer than the month or two his van’s supplies would support. He might stay until the equinox, depending on the weather. Ramón even found himself wondering how difficult it would be to winter over here in the north. If he dropped south to Fiddler’s Jump for fuel and slept in the van for the coldest months…

  After he’d eaten, he lit a cigarette, lay back, and watched the mountains darken with the sky. A flapjack moved against the high clouds, and Ramón rose up on one elbow to watch it. It rippled its huge, flat, leathery body, sculling with its wing tips, seeking a thermal. Its ridiculous squeaky cry came clearly to him across the gulfs of air. They were almost level; it would be evaluating him now, deciding that he was much too big to eat. The flapjack tilted and slid away and down, as though riding a long, invisible slope of air, off to hunt squeakers and grasshoppers in the valley below. Ramón watched the flapjack until it dwindled to the size of a coin, glowing bronze in the failing light.

  “Good hunting!” he called after it, and then smiled. Good hunting for both of them, eh? As the last of the daylight touched the top of the ridgeline on the valley’s eastern rise, Ramón caught sight of something. A discontinuity in the stone. It wasn’t the color or the epochal striations, but something more subtle. Something in the way the face of the mountain sat. It wasn’t alarming as much as interesting. Ramón put a mental flag there; something strange, worth investigating in the morning.

  He lounged by the fire for a few moments while the night gathered completely around him and the alien stars came out in their chill, blazing armies. He named the strange constellations the people of São Paulo had drawn in the sky to replace the old constellations of Earth—the Mule, the Stone Man, the Cactus Flower, the Sick Gringo—and wondered (he’d been told, but had forgotten) which of them had Earth’s own sun twinkling in it as a star? Then he went to bed and to sleep, dreaming that he was a boy again in the cold stone streets of his hilltop pueblo, sitting on the roof of his father’s house in the dark, a scratchy wool blanket wrapped around him, trying to ignore the loud, angry voices of his parents in the room below, searching for São Paulo’s star in the winter sky.

  Chapter 4

  In the morning, Ramón poured water over the remains of the fire, then pissed on it just to be sure it was out. He ate a small breakfast of cold tortillas and beans, and disconnected his pistol from the van’s power cells and tucked it into his holster, where it was a warm, comforting weight on his hip; out here, you could never be sure when you were going to run into a chupacabra or a snatchergrabber. He exchanged the soft flatfur slippers he wore in the van for his sturdy old hiking boots, and set out to hike to the discontinuity he’d spotted the night before; as always, his boots somehow seemed more comfortable crunching over the uneven ground than they had been on the city streets. Dew soaked the grasses and the leaves of the shrubs. Small monkeylike lizards leaped from branch to branch before him, calling to each other with high, frightened voices. There were millions of uncataloged species on São Paulo. In the twenty minutes it took him to make his way to a promising site at the base of a stone cliff, Ramón might have climbed past a hundred plants and animals never before seen by human eyes.

  Before long, he found the discontinuity, and surveyed it almost with regret; he’d been relishing the effort for its own sake, pausing frequently to enjoy the view or to rest in the watery sunlight. Now he’d have to get to work.

  The lichen that clung to the rock of the mountainside was dark green and grew in wide spirals that reminded Ramón of cave paintings. Up close, the discontinuity was less apparent. He could trace the striations from one face to the next without sign of a break or level change. Whatever Ramón had caught in the failing light of the day before, it was invisible now.

  He took the field pack from his shoulders, lit a cigarette, and considered the mountain face before him. The stones around him appeared to be largely metamorphic—their elongated grain speaking to Ramón of the unthinkable pressure and heat near São Paulo’s mantle. The glaciers, when they passed, would have carved this ground, strewing parts of any given field far from their origin. Still, the underlying stone was certainly igneous or metamorphic. The sedimentary layers, if there were any, would be higher up, where the ground was newest. It was the sort of place where a man might find the strike he’d hoped for. Uranium ore, possibly. Tungsten or tantalum, if he was lucky. And even if he only found gold or silver or copper, there were places he could still sell the data. The information would be worth more than the metals themselves.

  The sad irony of his profession had not escaped Ramón. He would never willingly move off São Paulo. Its emptiness was the thing that made it a haven for him. In a more developed colony, the global satellites and ground-level networked particulates would have made solitude impossible. São Paulo still had frontiers, limits beyond which little or nothing was known. He and the others like him were the hands and eyes of the colony’s industry; his love of the unknown corners and niches of the world was unimportant. His experience of them, the data and surveys and knowledge—those had value. And so he made his money by destroying the things that gave him solace. It was an evil scheme, but typical, Ramón thought, of humanity’s genetic destiny of contradiction. He stubbed out his cigarette, took a hand pick from the field pack, and began the long, slow process of scouting out a good place for a coring charge.

  The sun shone down benevolently, and Ramón stripped off his shirt, tucking it into the back of his pistol belt. Between the hand pick and his small field shovel, he cleared away the thin covering of plants and soil, finding hard, solid rock not more than a foot and a half below the surface. If it had been much more, he’d have gone back for the tools in the van—powered for minor excavations, but expensive, prone to breaking down, and with the whining electrical sound of civilization to argue against their use. Looking along the mountainside, he thought there would likely be other places that would require the more extensive labor. All the better, then, that he begin here.

  The coring charge was designed to carve a sample out of the living rock the length of an arm. Longer, if it was a particularly soft stone. In the next week, Ramón would gather a dozen or so such cores from sites up and down the valley. After that, there would be three or four days while the equipment in the van sifted through the debris for trace elements and ores too slight to identify simply by looking. Once Ramón had that in hand, he could devise a strategy for garnering the most useful information in the cheapest possible way. Even as he set the first charge, he found himself fantasizing about those long, slow, lazy days while the tests ran. He could go hunting. Or explore the lakes. Or find a warm place in the sun and sleep while the breeze set the grasses to singing. His fingers danced across the explosives, tugging at wires and timing chips with the ease and autonomous grace of long practice. Many
prospectors lost careers and hands—sometimes lives—by being too careless with their tools. Ramón was careful, but he was also practiced. Once the site was chosen and cleared, placing the charge took less than an hour.

  He found himself, strangely, procrastinating about setting it off. It was so quiet here, so still, so peaceful! From up here, the forested slopes fell away in swaths of black and dead-blue and orange, the trees rippling like a carpet of moss as the wind blew across them. Except for the white egg of his bubbletent on the mountain shoulder below, it was a scene that might not have changed since the beginning of time. For a moment, he was almost tempted to forget about prospecting and just relax and unwind on this trip, as long as he was being forced to hide out in the hills anyway, but he shrugged the temptation away: once the fuss over the European had blown over, once he went back, he would still need money, the van wouldn’t hold together forever, and he wasn’t anxious to face Elena’s scorn if he returned empty-handed again. Perhaps there will be no ore here anyway, he told himself, almost wishing it, and then wondered at the tenor of his thoughts. Surely it could not be a bad thing to be rich? His stomach was beginning to ache again.

  He looked up at the mountain face. It was beautiful; rugged and untouched. Once he was done with it, it would never be the same.

  “All apologies,” he said to the view he was about to mar. “But a man has to make his money somehow. Hills don’t have to eat.”

  Ramón took one last cigarette from its silver case and smoked it like a man at an execution. He walked down to the boulders he’d chosen for shelter stringing the powder-primed fuse cord, hunkered down behind the rocks, and lit the fuse with the last ember.

  There was the expected blast; but while the sound should have been a single report echoing against the mountains and then fading, it grew louder and longer instead. The hillside shifted greasily under him, like a giant shrugging in uneasy sleep, and he heard the express-train rumble of sliding rock. He could tell from the sound alone that something had gone very wrong.

  A great cloud of dust enveloped him, white as fog and tasting like plaster and stone. A landslide. Somehow Ramón’s little coring charge had set off a landslide. Coughing, he cursed himself, thinking back to what he’d seen. How could he have missed a rock face that unstable? It was the kind of mistake that killed prospectors. If he had chosen shelter a little nearer than he had, he could have been crushed to death. Or worse, crippled and buried here where no man would ever find him—trapped until the redjackets came and stripped the flesh off his bones.

  The angry, thundering roar quieted, faded. Ramón rose from behind the boulders, waving his hand before his face as if stirring the air would somehow put more oxygen in it or lessen the thick coating of stone dust that was no doubt forming in his nose and lungs. He walked slowly forward, his footing uncertain on the newly made scree. The stones smelled curiously hot.

  A metal wall stood where the façade of stone had fallen away; half a mountain high and something between twenty and twenty-five meters wide.

  It was, of course, impossible. It had to be some bizarre natural formation. He stepped forward, and his own reflection—pale as the ghost of a ghost—moved toward him. When he reached out, his blurred twin reached out as well, pausing when he paused. He stopped the motion before hand and ghostly hand could touch, noticing the stunned and bewildered expression on the face of his reflection in the metal, one no doubt matched by the expression on his own face. Then, gingerly, he touched the wall.

  The metal was cool against his fingertips. The blast had not even scarred it. And though his mind rebelled at the thought, it was clearly unnatural. It was a made thing. Made by somebody and hidden by somebody, behind the rock of the mountain, though he couldn’t imagine by whom.

  It took another moment for the full implication to register. Something was buried here under the hill, something big, perhaps a building of some sort, a bunker. Perhaps the whole mountain was hollow.

  This was the big one, just the way he’d told Manuel it would be. But the find wasn’t ore; it was this massive artifact. It couldn’t be a human artifact, the human colony here wasn’t old enough to have left ruins behind. It had to be alien. Maybe it was millions of years old. Scientists and archaeologists would go insane over this find; perhaps even the Enye would be interested in it. If he couldn’t parlay this discovery into an immense fortune, he wasn’t anywhere near as smart as he thought he was….

  He flattened his palm against the metal, matching hands with his reflection. The cool metal vibrated under his hand, and, even as he waited, a deeper vibration went through the wall—boom, boom—low and rhythmic, like the beating of some great hidden heart, like the heart of the mountain itself, vast and stony and old.

  A warning bell began to sound in the back of Ramón’s mind, and he looked uneasily around him. Another man might not have reacted to this strange discovery with suspicion, but Ramón’s people had been persecuted for hundreds of years, and he himself well remembered living on the grudging sufferance of the mejicanos, never knowing when they would find some pretext to wipe out his village.

  Whatever this wall was, whatever reason it had for existing here in the twice-forsaken ass-end of a half-known planet, it was no dead ruin—something was at work beneath this mountain. If this was hidden, it was because someone didn’t want it to be found. And might not be happy that it had been. Someone unimaginably powerful, to judge from the scale of this artifact—and probably dangerous.

  Suddenly, the sunlight seemed cold on his shoulders. Again, he looked nervously around him, feeling much too exposed on the bare mountain slope. Another flapjack called, away across the air, but now its cries sounded to him like the shrill and batlike wailing of the damned.

  It was time to get out of here. Get back to the van—maybe take a short video recording of the wall, and then find someplace else to be. Anywhere else. Even back in Diegotown, where the threats were at least knowable.

  He couldn’t run back to his camp—the terrain was too rough. But he scrambled down the mountainside as recklessly as he dared, sliding on his buttocks down bluffs in a cloud of dust and scree when he could, jumping from rock to rock, bulling his way through bushes and tangles of scrub hierba, scattering grasshoppers and paddlefoots before him.

  He moved so quickly that he was more than a third of the way to his camp before the mountain opened behind him and the alien came out.

  High above him, a hole opened in the mountain’s side—a cave in the metal that a moment ago had not been there and now simply was. There was a high-pitched whine, like a centrifuge spinning up, and then, a breath later, something flew out of the hole.

  It was square-shaped and built awkwardly for flight, like something designed to move in vacuum. Bone-white and silent, it reminded Ramón of a ghost, or a great floating skull. Against the great empty blue of the sky—atmosphere thin enough at the top that stars shone through the blue—it could have been any size at any distance. The strange boxy thing hung in the sky, rotating slowly. Looking, Ramón thought. Looking for him.

  Sick dread squeezed his chest. His camp. The thing was clearly searching for something, and Ramón hadn’t done anything to conceal the white dome of the bubbletent or the van beside it. There had been no reason to. The thing might not see him down here in the underbrush, but it would see his camp. He had to get there—get back to the van and into the air—before the thing from the mountain discovered it. His mind was already racing ahead—would his van outpace the flying white box? Just let him get it in the air. He could fly it low, make it hard to spot or attack. He was a good pilot. He could dodge between treetops from here to Fiddler’s Jump if he had to…

  But he had to get there first.

  He fled, raw panic pushing away the last shreds of caution. The demonic white box was lost from sight as he reached the edge of the scree and dove into the underbrush. The bushes and low scrub that had seemed thin and easily navigable when he’d been walking were now an obstacle course. Branches g
rabbed at him, raking his face and ripping his clothes. He had the feeling that the flying thing from the mountain was right on top of him, at his back, ready to strike. His breath burned as he sprinted, legs churning, back toward the van.

  “I didn’t see anything,” he gasped. “Please. I wasn’t doing anything! I don’t know anything. Please. I dreamed it!”

  When halfway back to the van he paused, leaning against a tree to catch his breath, the sky was empty. No ghostly box hung in the air, searching for him. He was surprised to find that his pistol was already in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing it. Still, now that he did think of it, the weight and solidity of it were reassuring. He wasn’t defenseless. Whatever that fucking thing was, he could shoot it. He spat, anger taking the place of fear. Maybe he didn’t know what he was facing, but it didn’t know him either. He was Ramón Espejo! He’d tear the alien a new asshole if it messed with him.

  Buoyed by his bravado and rage, Ramón started again for the van, one eye to the skies. He had cleared more ground than he thought; the van was only a few more minutes away. Just let him get it in the air! He wasn’t going to stop to video anything, not with that thing out there sniffing for him. But he’d bring back a force from Diegotown—the governor’s private guard maybe. The police. The army. Whatever was in the hill, he’d drag it out into the light and crack its shell. He wasn’t afraid of it or anyone. He wasn’t afraid of God. His litany of denial—Please! I didn’t see anything!—was already forgotten.

  He reached the meadow that contained his camp just as the alien reappeared overhead. He hesitated, torn between dashing for the van and diving back into the brush.