Excerpt From Susan's Gift

Excerpt from Susan’s Gift by Roxanne Smolen Full manuscript available at http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_susansgift.html

PLANET NGC920-03 For the first time in his life, Aldus Hanson wished he were someone else. He sat in the cargo area of the utility vehicle with his assistant and four field workers, and he was afraid. But he wasn’t allowed to be afraid. This was his show. “Faster. Go faster,” a woman groaned behind him. “Excuse me,” the driver shouted, “but you may have noticed that the road is missing.” Aldus glancedout the mold-spotted windshield at the riotous color outside. The roadway had indeed been overrun, the fungus jungle encasing it like the closing of a wound. The treelike mushrooms that had been plowed under a week ago now stood as tall as a man. Bright yellow bracket fungi grew larger than truck tires. How could they mature so fast? This world was to be his crowning conquest. If he could harness the secret of accelerated growth, he would feed the universe. Butmore than that, he would give meaning to his wife’s death. Chagrin filled him.

He wished he could take back the last two months. Suddenly,something heavy struck the truck, causing it to swerve. Aldus wrenched forward. He heard a patter of footsteps across the roof, and then a loud thump as a man-shaped creature landed on the vehicle’s hood. Moss and lichen covered its body, draping the heavy arms like gray fur. It turned its eyeless face to peer through the windshield. The driver yelled and veered. The truck teetered on two wheels. With a groan of metal,it slammed onto its side, skidding. Aldus fell hard upon his shoulder, gasping with the weight of someone upon him. The engine roared and died. For a moment, all he heard was the tapping of falling pebbles. Then one of the field workers kicked open the back doors. Hazy light broke over him. “Get up, Mr. Hanson,” Colesaid in his ear. “Sir, we have to get out of this truck.” “I’m all right,” Aldus said, although his voice sounded distant. Leaning on his assistant, he clambered out of the vehicle. A blaze of color dazzled him—bright purple puffballs, stringy orange vines. The toppled truck had dug a trench through the thick undergrowth. To the side, three men and a woman huddled together. The womanwept. “Is it gone? Did you see where it went?” “With any luck, it’s buried,” said a man. Then a sound met them—like wind whistling through pine boughs. The howl of the monster.

Aldus licked his lips. “How far are we from camp?” “Too far,” said Cole. He kicked at a vine reaching toward his ankle. The driver leapt from the cab, face streaming with blood. “This way. Let’s go!” The group followed without question, stumbling over rocklike toadstools and slipping on slime mold. Throbbing puffballs sent runners to trip them. Garish flowers spat pollen at their heads. Vines swung from towering black-capped mushrooms to snag their arms, their shoulders, reaching as if directed by a group mind. Aldus panted in shallow gasps, one hand clasping a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. He held his other arm tight to protecthis injured shoulder. Coleran at his side. Aldus glanced at him. Cole had been his assistant for over fifteen years, and in all that time they never had a disagreement. But now Cole insisted upon callingfor help. He said he could send a message through an Impellic ring and communicate with the authorities. Impellic rings created space-time tunnels used to carry one or two people to distant planets. This latest application into off-world communication was revolutionary. The problem was that the only organization currently using Impellic rings was the Colonial Scouts, and Aldus couldn’t bring himself to ask for their help.

The Scouts were made up of teenagers who used the rings to transport to obscure worlds and report their findings to the Colonization Bureau. It was a game to them, he thought—a dangerous, presumptuous game. Besides, ten years ago, the Scouts who had found this world said it was innocuous. No life formsat all. They said nothing about moss creatures. Aldus’ team had been attacked since the moment they’d set up camp. Equipment was smashed or stolen. Now, five of his employees had disappeared. He gave an involuntary shudder. When he’d left the outpost crew two days ago, they had erected interlinking bubble tents and had begun clearing a nearby field for its first planting of grain. When he returned, he found the site all but erased and some of the crew missing. The survivors reported an attack despite the precautions he’d put in place. He searched in vain for the victims. It was as if the jungle had absorbed them, as if the world were alive and offended by their presence. And he was responsible for bringing them there. Aldus forced the accusation away. No, he wouldn’t ask the Scouts for help. He was not yet ready to concede. A mossy hillock rose ahead. Reeds sprouted from its top like antennae, and brilliant meter-wide flowers drooped from its sides. Butas

Aldus approached, he noticed that the hill stood on stilts. He saw the occasional glint of glass. “It’s the Lander,” he said with sudden recognition. “Looks even worse than the last time we saw it,” Cole said. “Oh, God, let the airlock work,” said the crying woman. Aldus looked at her. He didn’t know her name—Colehad handled personnel. He was certain she was good at whatever job she’d been hired to do, but right nowshe was worthless. He muttered, “First we have to find the hatch.” Stepping to the saucer-shaped craft, he ran his hands over the overgrown sides, searching for the airlock. The others did the same. “Here,” cried the truck driver. Aldus hurried to his side. Clawing at the fibrous moss, they revealed a door. Aldus keyed the entry code upon a control pad, and a light blinked, showing the lock was cycling. Then he heard a reedy whistle, like wind through pine needles. “It’s coming. It’s searching for us,” the woman whispered. The door opened. “All right, three at a time,” Aldus said. “You should go, sir,” Cole told him. Aldus motioned to the woman and two men. “These three. Hurry up.” Wide-eyed, the field workerscrammed into the narrow compartment. The hatch closed, and the airlock started its slow cycle.

Aldus tapped the side of the Lander. He heard another windy whistle, heard the clackingreeds growing on top of the ship. He looked at the driver’s blood-streaked face, at Cole’s patient façade. Then the airlock opened, and they piled inside. Oxygen hissed, and his ears popped as the lock pressurized. An inner door opened onto a dim command center. Aldus walked inside, glancing up at windows girding the ship, surprised to see daylight filtering through the growth. Hoops of purple mold marred the glass. The Lander had brought them down to the planet from a transport ship —a ship that was no longer in orbit. The circular interior had seats along the walls anda control hub in the center. A few lights glowed with lock-down. He said, “See if you can rig enough power to contact camp.” Cole nodded and sat behind the communications console. “There should be a first-aid kit in storage,”he told the driver. Then he looked at the field workers, their torn and moss-stained clothing, their fearspent eyes, and he said, “I want an accounting. Why didn’t the barriers hold?” If possible, they looked even more alarmed. “You must understand, Mr. Hanson, those energy grids were never meant to be used as electric blockades,”one man stammered. “Wewere told there were no life forms. We never expected to need—”

“There’s nothing wrong with the fences,”said the other. “The moment we started plowing the fields, those monsters walked right on through. Nothing stops them.” “Fire does,” said the woman. “Fire just slows them down a bit while they regrow,”said the truck driver. He dabbed his forehead with a gauze pad. “Sir,” Cole called. “I have the camp.” “Good,”Aldus said. “Tell them we need to be picked up. Seven of us.” “I count only six,” the driver said in a hushed voice. The woman shrieked. “Bentley! Where’s Bentley? Oh, God!” She ran to the airlock. The truck driver rushed to intercept her, grasping her wrist before she could activate the controls. “What do you think you are doing?” “We can’t leave him out there!” she cried. He shook her shoulders, leaning forward until his face was level with hers. “He’s gone!” A loud bang at the door made them jump. Aldus looked at the windows. Several mossy, eyeless faces peered down at them. His stomach fell. “They found us.”

COLONIAL SCOUTS HEADQUARTERS

Trace crossed the crowded cafeteria, passing tables of laughing, boisterous people. He scanned the room for Impani and Natica, finally spotting them in a corner booth. Impani’s face brightened as he approached, making his step lighter. She patted the seat next to her, and then leaned to kiss his cheek as he sat down. “We thought we’d missed you,” Impani said. Trace shrugged. “I overslept.” “I’m not surprised, staying up half the night with my friend here.” Trace raised an eyebrow at Natica, wondering what she’d said about him. “It was just one drink.” Natica laughed, blushing. “I kept him safe for you.” “Anyway, I ordered you chai,” Impani said, sliding a cup his way.

“Great.” He took a sip, trying not to make a face at the now lukewarm tea. “Impani was telling me about her mission,” Natica said. “Oh, you should have been there,” Impanisaid, green eyes flashing. “There were mermaids, and giant squids, and a city at the bottom of a lake.” Trace laughed, buoyed by her enthusiasm. “How did you find a city down there?” “We were jetting across the water, and a huge creature reached up and snagged me.” “Must’ve been a sizable lake to hold an animal like that,” Trace said. “It was,” Impani said. “We couldn’t even scan the other side.” “Wait a minute,” Natica said. “You tried to cross a body of water when you couldn’t tell how wide it was? Pani, you know better than that. You could have run out of power in the middle.” “That’s what they said in debriefing. But, honestly. If I hadn’t gone across the lake, the squid wouldn’t have dragged me under, and I would never have seen the city. Right?” Impani looked back and forth between them. Trace laughed. “You are unshakable.” “Yes, I am.” She snuggled against his side. “It appears that you and I have a bit of free time.” “Is that so?” he murmured, his arm about her.

“Both of us came back early. We shouldn’t have another mission lined up for at least another day.” Her bright eyes took on a mischievous glint. “Want to do something fun?” “Well, let’s see.” He frowned as if thinking hard. “We could spend the morning in the gym, maybe get in a little target practice this afternoon.” Both Impani and Natica groaned. “Or,” Trace said, “we could have lunch at that art museum you’re so fond of visiting.” Impani beamed, and for a moment he was lost in the perfection of her face, the warmth of her body next to his. A voice broke his thoughts. “Trace. There you are,” Davrileo Massaid. “Mr. Arkenstonewants to see you in his office. Now.” “Why? What’s up?” he said, louder than he’d intended. “I’m just the messenger.” Davrileo walked away. Trace set his teeth against a knot of trepidation. He lifted his gaze, looking at Natica. “It’s probably nothing,” Natica said, her voice grave. “What’s nothing?” asked Impani. “What’s going on?” “I’d better go find out,” Trace said, getting to his feet. “Keep me penciled in for lunch, all right?” He walked through the cafeteria and into the corridor, feeling he would rather be running the other way. He had never been in the Program

Director’s office, never took advantage of Arkenstone’sopen-door policy. Other Scouts had, of course. Impani was practically on a first-name basis with him—but Trace didn’t feel comfortable with authority figures. Now he was being summonedto the man’s office. Trace imagined a formal reprimand being placedon his record, his first and last mission as team leader. He frowned, imagining Robert Wilde’s face when he heard the news. Mr. Arkenstone’s office was heralded by a sign emblazoned in gold. Trace entered a room dominated by a holographic portrait of an ocean. Waves rolled, and as he watched, a boat sailed into view. He approached a woman behind a desk. “Nice holo.” “Makes me dizzy,” she said. “Can I help you?” “I’m Trace Hanson. Mr. Arkenstone wanted to see me.” She nodded toward an open door. “He’s waiting for you in the conference room.” Steeling his shoulders, Trace approached the room. He knocked on the doorframe. Three men stood from a circular table. One was Mr. Arkenstone. Trace had met him on several occasions, but always in a group setting, so he was surprised when the Director called him by name. “Come in, Trace.” Arkenstonemotioned with a sweep of his arm. “This is Mr. Dunlop of the Supervisory Board.” Dunlop leaned forward to shake Trace’s hand.

“And this is Mr. King, Inspector General of the Federation,” Arkenstone said. Trace paused. A government official? He must be in more trouble than he thought. With a stoic nod, he shook Mr. King’s hand. Arkenstonestepped behind him, closing the door. “Sit down, Trace.” Stiffly, Trace pulled out a chair. He felt far away, as if in a dream. Focus, he told himself. Butinside he quailed. If he washed out as a Scout, would they send him back to prison? He’d gotten into the Colonial Scouts as a plea bargain for a crime he did not commit. He’d been working as an off-loaderon a merchant ship. While on leave, he happened across a man assaulting a girl in an alley. He stepped in to help her. The man turned out to be a local politician who, trying to salvage his political career,claimed Trace had tried to rob him. The girl settled out of court and wouldn’t corroborate Trace’s story. And now he sat again before a government official. Arkenstoneslapped a sheaf of papers before Trace. The top sheet was stamped CONFIDENTIAL. “Planet NGC920-03,” Arkenstonesaid, taking a seat. “You can read the full report on your own time. Suffice it to say that theScouts surveying the planet found no animal or humanoid life. Butthey did note accelerated plant growth, saying mushrooms grew before their eyes. That was twelve years ago.

“Ten years ago, a team of thirty scientists was dispatched to study the phenomenon. This was before the food crisis, of course, and the mission was meantas research only. Low priority. The scientists were to transmit their findings periodically. Communications being what they were in those days, it took months to receive the reports. No one noticed for nearly a year that the reports stopped.” “Excuse me, sir, but what happened to the scientists?” Trace asked, wondering where this was leading. “We don’t know for certain,” said Dunlop, “but their last communiqué mentioned illness. We assume they died.” “You have to understand,” Arkenstonetold Trace, “that by the time we realized there was a problem, it was too late to help them. Also, the cost of sending a Scout was prohibitive. That is no longer the case.” “Six months ago,” said Dunlop, “a group of seventy businessmen, scientists, and laborers left for planet NGC920-03.” Trace frowned. King spoke up. “They were warned, of course, of the health threat, but the benefits outweighed the risks. With the current food shortage, you must see why the Federation has renewed interest in this planet.” “They reached the world two months ago,” Dunlop told Trace. “Reports from both the drop ship and the colonists themselves indicated a successful landing and a good start to construction of camp. Then . . .”

Silence struck the room. Trace glanced from man to man. Arkenstonecleared his throat. “This morning, a message came in through an Impellic ring. I’d play it for you now, but the signal was degraded—” “They spoke of assailants,” King said. Dunlop tapped the table briskly. “There are no indigenous life forms in this report,” he said, indicating the papers before Trace. “Animals did not spring out of nowhere in twelve years.” “Trace, you will lead a team to evaluate first hand,” said Arkenstone. “Scouts have never been used in this capacity before, so it is vital that this mission succeed.” Trace stammered. “What capacity, sir?” “Rescue, of course,” King said. “You are to ring onto the planet and then ring back, transporting colonists with you.” “Correct,” Arkenstonesaid, “but only if you cannot stabilize the situation. The mission has the standard three daylimit. Your team consists of four members. Each Scout will travel via a separate ring—” “Five rings?” Trace asked. “How can we transport seventy people with five rings?” “We understand that it will be impossible to bring them all back,” Arkenstone said. “Unfortunate business,” said Dunlop. “Cannot be helped.”

King said, “Actually, we are only interested in the safe retrieval of one man.” “Which is why we’ve chosen to meet with you alone,” said Dunlop. “This is classified information, Trace,” Arkenstonetold him. “If you find that the colony cannot be salvaged, your orders are to ring back to base with fifteen colonists, including the target. Your team will be toldyou are there to assist and stabilize. They will be unaware of this additional aspect of the mission.” “Because they’d never go along with it,” Trace blurted. “You are team leader,” Arkenstonesaid. “Keep the others in line.” Five rings, Trace thought. Seventy people. “You’re asking me to pick and choose who will live and die.” “I’m asking you to assess the situation and make a decision,” Arkenstonesaid. “Take charge. You are eighteen years old, now.” Not for a few weeks, Trace thought morosely. “Who is this person? A Federation diplomat?” “Not exactly,” Arkenstonesaid. “It’s your father.”

Excerpt from Susan’s Gift by Roxanne Smolen Full manuscript available at http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_susansgift.html