The Legacy of Heorot
Chapter 8

GRENDEL'S ARM

What of the hunting, hunter bold? 
Brother, the watch was long and cold. 
What of the quarry ye went to kill? 
Brother, he crops in the jungle still. 
Where is the power that made your pride? 
Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side. 
Where if the haste that ye hurry by? 
Brother, I go to my lair--to die.
KIPLING, "Tiger Tiger"

    "Skeeter Three, this is home base. Do you copy?" Zack listened to the answering crackle of static, and cursed under his breath.
    Standing close behind him, Sylvia Faulkner held her sides gingerly. Sudden stress had drained her, made her legs unsteady, her belly feel swollen and tender.
    The entire colony was in a barely contained state of panic. There would be little sleep tonight, and a heavy demand for stimulants and mood stabilizers before morning. 
    Zack was holding up well, but his eyes were frightened.
    Sylvia's body cried out for somewhere dark and warm to curl up and sleep, just dream the nightmare away. But she had done it: she had held herself under control while she examined Alicia's corpse and identified the bloodstains left smeared in an empty, broken cradle.
    The aborted rescue party had only worsened the situation. Too many of the men had families now, wives and children that they were reluctant to leave. There seemed little reason to march out into the fog, searching for what no one really wanted to find.
    Gregory Clifton's haggard face still floated in her memory. The sound of his voice as he begged desperately. Please--I need your help. Help me find my baby. Please . . . I . . . His words had trailed away as the sedative took hold.
    "Skeeter Three, this is home base. Do you copy? We have you on radar now. Just come on in, Cadmann." Zack rubbed his hands on his pants. His voice was cracking. "Is Ernst with you? Do you have the calf?" Another pause.
    Sylvia folded her hands, staring down at them disconsolately. "Maybe the radio is broken."
    "I hope so," Zack said miserably. "God, I hope so. I don't want to go looking for him in the morning. For them. How in the hell did this happen?"
    The door clattered open, and the air took a chill as Terry entered the communications shack. His hands clutched at the edges of his windbreaker. "Greg is out now," he said sharply. "It's not exactly what you'd call sleep, but it's an improvement. We don't want him up and around when Weyland comes back." He paused thoughtfully. "He is coming back, isn't he?" 
    Sylvia glared at him.
    "All right, all right--I don't want a lynching party. Nobody's calling Weyland a baby-killer. I just want the truth. About now I don't know what to think."
    The fog outside was still a hovering, isolating curtain. In only two hours Tau Ceti would rise and burn much of the mist away. Until then it stifled sound as well as sight and aggravated their sense of dread.
    Zack rubbed his eyes. "That idiot. He had to go out and get the job done himself."
    "He's an idiot all right," Terry said. Then, exhaling harshly, he added, "But goddammit, just this once, I hope he was a successful idiot. Christ, poor Alicia."
    Sylvia reached out to her husband, gripped Terry's fingers tightly and pulled him close. Two deaths. Two deaths in a population of less than two hundred.
    One percent of their microcosm dead in one swoop, without any explanation, any answers. Perhaps just a series of warnings that they had all been too rational to heed. 
    Everyone except . . .
    "Cadmann. Can you hear me?" Zack adjusted the microphone's sensitivity. "Come in, please."
    There was a commotion outside, yelling, and through the fog she could hear the beat of the Skeeter's rotors as they whipped the air.
    "Thank God," Zack said fervently. "Weyland." 
    Leaning on Terry, Sylvia levered herself up out of her seat. "I want to go out," she said.
    She expected opposition from Terry, but he just nodded. "Let's go," he said. "I guess everyone should be there." 
    The air pad was directly behind the com shack, an asphalt-paved square with a target circle painted in white and a ring of landing lights implanted around the edge.
    Those lights splashed whitely against the belly of the Skeeter, beamed grainily up at the insect shape that hovered as if suspended by the fog. Its cargo hoist was empty. Its silver belly pivoted slowly on the axis of its top rotor. A ghost ship bobbing on a sea of air.
    Rick Erin and Omar Isfahan were trying to wave Cadmann down, motioning with flashlights, talking worriedly into the flat rectangular comcards clipped to their shirt collars.
    She could hear Zack's voice over the nearest one, could hear it grow more tense as the hovering Skeeter's transmitter remained mute.
    Most of the colony was out now--a forest of frightened, weary faces graven with unanswered questions.
    "Cadmann--can you hear me? Come on down. Come on and land, Cadmann. You must be running on fumes anyway . . . Come on, Cad. We just want to talk to you. We've had some trouble down here, and maybe you can help us understand it. Come on down, Cad . . ."
    There was a long pause, and then Sylvia heard Cadmann's voice. A small, weak, plaintive voice.
    "I'm sorry," it said. The Skeeter wobbled as if Cadmann was having trouble flying and talking at the same time. "I didn't mean for anything to go wrong. You've got to understand. There wasn't any way that I could have known how fast that thing is. There w-wasn't any w-way I could have known."
    Terry's eyes narrowed as a low mutter swept the crowd. "What the hell happened to him?"
    A million possibilities shouted against each other in Sylvia's mind. She remained silent, afraid that anything she said would make the situation worse. Somehow. 
    "Come on down, Cad. We'll talk about it."
    "I . . . I'm coming." The Skeeter floated down, spinning on the axis of the cockpit, settling to ground like a pale blue feather.
    At first there was no movement from the Skeeter, just the motionless silhouette in the pilot's seat. Then the door opened, and Cadmann fell out.
    Sylvia's scalp crawled. He was burned, scratched and bloodied. His face was chalk, his movements teetering jerkily on the edge of shock.
    Carlos hurried to his side, tried to help him, but Cadmann waved him away and levered himself up using the Webley like a crutch.
    "No," he gasped. "Get . . . Ernst. You've got to believe now."
    The other side of the Skeeter was already being opened. Someone gasped, someone cursed; several colonists broke for the open air. The stench of burnt flesh hit Sylvia, triggering a fresh wave of nausea.
    "Let me take that," Zack said, forcing nonchalance into his voice. He reached for the rifle.
    Cadmann snatched it away, screaming "No! Nobody's taking this from me." He held it white-knuckle tight against his chest. "You're scared, aren't you? Well, it's about time! Maybe some of you will stay alive." He patted the Webley. "Anyone who's smart will get one of these for himself." Cadmann laughed bitterly. "I'm not even sure we can stop it." 
    Another hand touched him from behind, and Cadmann wheeled, the butt of his rifle raised to strike.
    "Get a--"
    Mary Ann's eyes flew wide as the butt stopped inches from her chest. "Cadmann . . . ?"
    He wiped his hand across his forehead. She reached out a hand, and when he didn't take it, she grabbed him, ignoring his feeble attempts to push her away. 
    "Cadmann, please . . . give me the rifle." 
    "No."
    The pitiful bundle from the passenger seat was unwrapped. Jean Patterson turned away and bent over, gagging hollowly. Hendrick tried to comfort her and she heaved again, staining his pants.
    Cadmann took a few steps, stumbled, caught himself. He reached out for Mary Ann this time. She sagged under his weight, then pushed with her strong runner's legs until he was braced against the infirmary wall. "It was . . . it was the monster. It's big. Bigger than a Komodo. Fast, like a racing motorcycle! Turns better."
    Sylvia knelt to look at the corpse. Terry was behind her, peering over her shoulder, and hissing in disgust. "Komodo, Weyland?" he said incredulously. "Shit. It was sure as hell a dragon, anyway." 
    She had never seen a human body damaged so badly.
    Cadmann's eyes met hers, and there was a naked plea in them. Please. You believe now, don't you? Don't you?
    "You're hurt. You've lost a lot of blood," she whispered. "We've got to treat those burns."
    "Not yet. No sedatives until you believe me." He waved one blackened hand weakly. "Go ahead. There's a tarp on the floor of the Skeeter. In it you'll find a chunk of that goddamned thing. If you can't believe me, you can believe that." He waved them away. "Go ahead--get it. Take it into the lab and for God's sake analyze it."
    Two of the lab techs unloaded the chopper. The package was bulky and clumsily wrapped and weighed about two kilos. Sylvia didn't want to unwrap it.
    "All right. Cad," she said. "Let's go in and take a look--but you come in and sit down. We can't afford to lose you." 
    Zack was watching Cadmann's eyes carefully, chewing at the corner of his mustache. Carlos pushed his way through to stand next to Sylvia.
    "Carlos," Cadmann said weakly, trying to smile. He moved his mouth as if his lips were half frozen.
    "Amigo." There was confusion and mistrust mingled in Carlos's face, and his dark eyes kept straying to Cadmann's makeshift crutch. "We've had a lot of trouble here." 
    Cadmann was having trouble keeping his eyelids high. "Yeah. Tell me something I don't know."
    Several of the colonists had edged almost imperceptibly nearer, and the tension left a metallic taste in Sylvia's mouth. Something ugly was going to happen.
    She broke the spell by clearing her throat. "I'm taking this into the lab. I'd like you, Zack, and Terry, and Mary Ann and Carlos. Except for lab personnel. I'd like the rest of you to wait, or go back to bed. There's nothing more to be done tonight, and we're going to need clear, rested minds in the morning."
    Without another word she turned and entered the lab. She didn't look behind her, didn't want to, because she didn't want Cadmann to see her confusion. No matter what happened here, and what she found out, they had to get the rifle away from him.
    He was mumbling as Carlos and Mary Ann helped him through the door. "Absolutely. Blew off of it when Ernst's fuel pack exploded. Shrapnel must have . . ." He shook his head woozily. Hysterical laughter was bubbling up through the fatigue. "It got a mouthful all right, a real mouthful, and I wish that I'd blown its fucking head clean off--" 
    "Cad--" 
    "Stay back." There was still iron in his voice.
    "Cadmann," Zack said quietly, watching with eyes that missed nothing, "Alicia is dead. Her baby is gone." 
    Cadmann said nothing, swallowing hard. "How . . . no . . . when?"
    "Right after you left. Something got through all of our defenses. Broke through her window. We need your help. But the first thing you've got to do is to put that rifle down." 
    Sylvia forced her mind to the table in front of her. There was a raging headache coming on, and it was splitting her attention when she needed it most. The only thing she could do for Cadmann now was prove the truth of his claims. The truth, or--
    She cut that thought off before it had a chance to take-root. He was telling the truth. There simply wasn't any other answer.
    Not even Terry had accused Cadmann of killing Alicia and her baby. There is a big difference between a calf and a human being--
    She sneaked a peek over her shoulder at Cadmann. He was staring at her, eyes dark-rimmed with exhaustion, and she was suddenly afraid.
    "I'm cold," Cadmann giggled almost to himself. "A floating anvil. That's a nice image."
 "Cadmann--" Sylvia and Mary Ann exchanged looks. "You need rest."
    "Not until you look at that sample, damn it. But . . . I'll go into the veterinary room. I'll sit down."
    Mary Ann, yellow curls flattening against Cadmann's shirt, his blood staining her nightgown, motioned to Carlos. Together, they helped him into the veterinary clinic and to an examination table. He sat, clutching the rifle.
    Sylvia turned from the magnascope screen. "You need plasma, Cadmann. I'm not going on with this until you let us start working on you. You don't want a sedative or anesthetic, fine--macho it out. But I'm damned if you're going to die on me." 
    "All right, all right."
    Jerry grunted relief and prepared a plasma bottle. Carlos peeled Cadmann's blackened shirt away from his right arm.
    Cadmann winced, clutching the rifle more tightly. "You should have seen it," he muttered. "If you could see it, you'd understand. It's fast. God, it's fast. I swear it's faster than any animal on Earth. Nothing can move that fast, but it did. Be damned if it didn't."
    "Come on. Cad," Mary Ann wheedled. "Put the rifle down for a minute, so that we can get--"
    "The hell with that!" he screamed weakly. "I'm not letting this out of my hands until that thing is dead, do you hear me? Dead." 
    Zack whispered to Jerry just before the veterinarian slipped the needle into Cadmann's arm, and set the control on the rectangular box of the plasma pump. It hummed gently, sending healing fluid into Cadmann's veins.
    "Don't look at me that way--" Cadmann's voice was pleading, slurred and drunken. He tried to raise his head but it seemed monstrously heavy. It thumped back to the table. The rifle slipped in his grasp a little, and he groaned, tightening his grip.
    "Ernst had a bullet hole in him, Cad. We were hoping you could help us with that."
    Cadmann, slipping further toward unconsciousness, didn't really hear the irony in Zack's voice. "The monster. It was eating him." He yawned deeply. "Must have hit Ernst. Maybe even tried to. He screamed, Zack. Screamed like a woman. He wanted to die--"
    Zack made his move, snatching at the rifle. Cadmann twisted the stock and with a short, choppy movement drove the butt into Zack's stomach. Zack staggered back, grunting, face whey-colored.
    Cadmann tried to roll from the table and stand, but fell heavily, ripping the I. V. from his arm. Dark fluid drained from the needle and dribbled onto the white tile of the clinic floor. He struggled to gain his feet, make it to his knees before Carlos landed on his shoulders, pinning him down. Zack stumbled back in, wresting the rifle away as Cadmann sobbed and collapsed to the floor.
    "Please. Don't . . . just trying . . ." His head sank back to the ground, and he was unconscious.
    "Jesus Christ," Carlos whispered, for once his accent forgotten. "What kind of man is he? How much somazine did you pump into that plasma, Jerry?"
    "I didn't want to overdo it. Come on. Help me get him on the table."
    Sylvia watched Carlos and Terry tie him down. Terry tightened the shackle loop until Cadmann's skin creased. 
    "Why so tight, Terry?"
    "You haven't told us yet," he said nastily. "Is that a piece of Ernst or isn't it?"
    "No." Sylvia shook her head, more from fatigue than relief. "I've tried human antigens. It's not calf meat, it's not dog. It reacts to all of them. It's not turkey or chicken, and it's not catfish. So it's alien." 
    "So he killed a pterodon. So what?"
    "I'm tired, Terry. Back off." Her voice was numb. "Jerry--get the liquid nitrogen, would you?"
    She tweezed a piece of the meat to a dissection tray, and sliced a quarter-inch piece away. Jerry carried over a ceramic thermos and tipped the lid. The liquid nitrogen, boiling at the touch of room temperature air, foamed white vapor. Sylvia slipped the sample into the pot.
    "We're going to do this right. Cassandra has a complete analysis of every life form we've found on this planet. I'm going to run a gene analysis. It will take about ninety minutes, and we'll have our answer. Is that all right with you, Terry?" 
    "Don't make me out for a villain," Terry said flatly. "Something terrible just happened here, and I want the truth." 
    Sylvia removed the frozen section of flesh, and Jerry started up the automated apparatus. A conveyer belt hummed, trundling into a rectangular box of chrome and white enamel. She placed the smoking sample gingerly on its tray, and it disappeared inside. There was a tiny, high-pitched hum as the laser saw sliced the meat into specimens only a few cells thick.
    Cassandra would build a holographic model and then compare it in depth with the others in her memory banks. Then they would know. Sylvia wasn't sure that she wanted to.
    She turned back to the magnascope, to the tissue sample displayed in a quilt of reds and pale browns. She looked disgusted, tired, heartbroken. "It could be anything. Pterodon. Samlon. Or something we never even dreamed of." It may have only been the terrible fatigue, but a tear welled at the bottom of her eye, and she wiped it away harshly.
    "What are we doing here?" She snatched the sample tray from under the scope and hurled it across the room. It broke with a tinkle of crystal, and a spatter of clear fluid against the yellow plaster. "Just why the hell did we come?" 
    "We're all tired," Zack said. "It's going to be a couple of hours before we have answers?" 
    "Close enough," Jerry agreed.
    "Then let's get some rest. Before this is over, we'll need every bit of it we can get. All right?"
    Carlos looked at the wall, at the still form of his friend, strapped now to the table. "What about Cadmann?" 
    "I honestly don't know," Zack said wearily. "But I know that I'm too tired and sore to think. I need some rest. He'll keep." 
    "Everyone but Jerry out of here," Sylvia said.
    "I want to stay." Mary Ann stood against the wall, her arms folded, eyes fixed on Cadmann.
    Zack was still massaging his stomach, feeling for bruised ribs. Every few seconds he wheezed in pain. He said, "Carlos, take care of Mary Ann. We need to clear out so that Syl and Jerry can work." 
    "No, I'm not--"
    Sylvia closed her mind to the sound until she heard the door close behind them.
    Then she and Jerry methodically stripped Cadmann, sprayed his burns and minor wounds and covered them with gel. When they were done with the hemostats and the dissolving thread and the unguents, they slipped him into a clean smock and refastened the straps. Then they turned out the lights and left.
    She shivered in the fog. Jerry turned to her. "What do you think happened out there? You don't really think Cadmann did that damage to himself?"
    "I don't know. I don't know anything right now. We'll know in a little over an hour. Just let me close my eyes for a few minutes."
    Jerry nodded and started back to his cottage, to the dubious, transitory comfort of a warm bed, when Sylvia's voice stopped him.
    "I can tell you one thing, Jerry. No matter what we find out, we're not going to like it. I promise you that there aren't going to be any comforting answers."
    "Yeah." Jerry hunched his shoulders against the chill. He turned to speak again, but Sylvia had already disappeared around a corner, or into the fog, and he was alone.