"I see it." I studied the pattern. "Where's it lead?"
"LI refuses to predict. If it were a worm nest," Willig considered aloud, "then we'd have passed several large chambers already. These tunnels just go down and down."
"It doesn't make sense to me," I grumbled. I swung back to my own station. "All right. Let's keep going." I pulled the helmet down over my head again and once more urged the prowler forward.
Abruptly, we came to a valve-like assembly that blocked the entire tunnel. It looked like several of the flubbery organs had mutated into monstrous red lips, expanding to seal the whole fleshy channel from intruders.
"Don't anybody say it-" I started to caution.
"I'm sorry," said Willig. "I can't help myself. This is a very Freudian experience. A deep tunnel with a big red mouth in it-how are we supposed to react?"
I sighed, loudly.
"If there are teeth on the other side of those lips," remarked Siegel, "I'm turning gay."
"Looks more like an asshole to me," Marano added drily.
"Well, you've had more experience with assholes than the rest of us."
"Every single day," she retorted.
"Say, how good are you at anal intercourse, Captain?"
"This looks like a job for Dannenfelser."
"Did anyone bring any lube?"
"I asked you guys not to start," I said quietly. But it was a losing battle.
"Aww, come on, Captain-" That was Marano again. "How often do we get an opportunity like this?"
I scratched my cheek thoughtfully, while I considered and discarded a number of possible responses. "We have a job to do here. Let's save the jokes for later, okay?"
Marano sniffed, Siegel sighed, a couple of the others made grunting sounds. It was as close to assent as they were likely to give.
"All right," I said, urging the prowler forward. "Let's push through it."
"Be gentle…" whispered Willig, absolutely deadpan. Most of them managed to choke back their laughter. I felt myself reddening, I had to clench my teeth to avoid breaking up. I allowed myself an exhausted sigh. I nudged the prowler slowly up against the center of the fleshy valve. At first it resisted, then abruptly it released and the prowler slid smoothly in.
"You're safe, Siegel," I said. "No teeth."
"Sure-not with gums like that."
The door popped shut behind us with a rubbery flopping sound. I looked straight up, and the VR helmet showed me the view rearward. The valve looked the same from this side. I lowered my gaze and looked forward again; only a few meters ahead, another flubbery valve waited. I nudged the prowler toward it.
"What? No more jokes?"
"Nah," said Siegel. "You seen one asshole, you seen 'em all."
"You haven't worked for General Wainright," Willig replied.
"Cool it," I said. "That kind of chatter is insubordinate."
"Sorry," said Willig.
"Just remember, we've got live mikes. I don't mind an occasional dirty joke. That's a soldier's prerogative, but we've got our share of eavesdroppers on every mission now. Let's behave like the professionals we are."
We pushed through the next valve, and it too flopped shut behind us. A third valve lay ahead; it looked thicker than the first two, but we pushed through it without incident.
"Cap'n?" Willig hesitated. "Take a look at Sher Khan's readouts. The atmospheric pressure is up. Humidity's up. And the atmospheric mix is changing."
I checked my display. She was right. I took a sip of water and considered the information. "These valves are a series of organic airlocks." For a moment, we all just sat and thought about that possibility. What were we heading down into?
"You ever seen anything like this before?" Siegel asked.
"I've seen the flubbery doors before in worm nests, but not concentrically, not like this." A moment later, I was able to add, "Neither has the computer. So, okay-yes, we're seeing something significantly new here. Congratulations," I added. "But don't start spending your bounty money yet. We don't know how big this is or what it means."
"You think it could be important?"
"I think we're probably going to be a paragraph in the next edition of The Red Book." And then I shrugged. "Or hell, I dunno, maybe even a whole appendix."
"If we're an appendix," said Willig, "you have to take us out. How does dinner and dancing sound?"
"How does the P-ration of your choice strike you?"
"Never mind. I'd rather sit home alone in the dark."
We pushed on through the next valve and the next and the next one after that. And with each new chamber, the air pressure climbed perceptibly, the temperature and humidity rose, and so did the amount of free oxygen in the air. The prowler descended steadily.
"Haw deep does this go?" Siegel asked.
"Until we get to something approximating Chtorr-normal atmosphere, I'll bet. This is going to answer a lot of questions." And then I added mordantly, "But probably not as many as it's going to raise. Let's keep going."
One particularly interesting tenant that occasionally travels with shamblers is the shrikevine. This is a rubbery webwork of vines, studded with very sharp thorns; it is usually found draped inside the clustered trunks of an individual shambler.
The strike-vine reacts to movement in much the same way as a Venus fly-trap, by wrapping itself tightly around its prey. It is activated by motion; the more the prey struggles, the tighter becomes the grip of the shrike-vine. Ultimately, the prey is impaled by hundreds, perhaps thousands of needle-sharp spikes, and bleeds to death within the confines of the shambler's limbs; but where the Venus flytrap contents itself with small insects, the shrike-vine prefers to feed on creatures massing from five to forty kilograms. Dogs, cats, children, goats, lambs, and calves are all in particular danger.
Other tenants of the shambler will often share the shrike-vine's meal, but the primary beneficiary of the feast will be the shambler tree itself. Any drainage-and there is usually considerable bleeding from a shrike victimflows directly into collection chambers found plentifully among the lowest reaches of the shambler columns.
The shrike-vine will hold its meal tightly in place until it has completely drained the body of all nutrients; if the meal is a particularly large one, the shrike-vine will convert the nutrients it does not immediately need into a dark waxy secretion; these "fat deposits" help to sustain not only the shrike-vine during periods of scarcity, but also the shambler and many of its tenants as well.
Inside the shrike-vine's dark web, you will find a veritable charnel house of half-digested meals, putrefying bodies, mummified remains, and even occasionally whole skeletons still impaled; they have not yet broken up or been discarded and dropped. The shambler needs the calcium, so it is not uncommon to find complete or partial skeletons of all sizes still caught in the pernicious twists of the shrikevine.
When the shrike-vine matures, it abandons the shambler host. Mature shrike-vines are quite large and are capable of feeding on much larger prey; an upper limit has not been determined. These individuals are usually found only in areas of heavy infestation. The shrike-vine is not a true shambler-symbiont, only an opportunist that forms a partnership of convenience, a partnership that is abandoned as soon as it is outgrown.
Whether growing independently, or traveling with a shambler, shrike-vines should be considered extremely dangerous. Extreme caution is advised. Do not approach under any circumstances.
—The Red Book,
(Release 22.19A)
Chapter 12
Support
"If the shoe fits, kick someone. "
-SOLOMON SHORT
The next half hour was a monotonous one. Sher Khan slid deeper and deeper into the organic bowels of the shambler grove. We were popping through valve doors regularly now.