The box wasn’t that large, about a half meter on a side and vaguely oblong. There were two queerly formed handles on it that the bots used to drag it to the surface. A careful cleaning by Gorilla and Gun Doll revealed that it had controls on the surface and some inscribed characters.
“It could be anything or nothing,” Gun Doll said, as she wiped away dirt to reveal the text and pulled out a ruled scale and camera. They couldn’t decipher it here, but they could get images for file.
“Yes, but any industrial corporation would pay a cool billion credits for it,” Bell Toll said. Even if it wasn’t sold, the soldiers could expect enough of a bonus for it that they’d be able to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.
“So, ten percent of a billion, split eight ways…” muttered Dagger, sliding up alongside to peer into the hole. He was figuring the likely salvage percentage they’d get if the government did sell it.
“Dagger, get back out where you belong,” Bell Toll snapped quietly. The sniper’s eyes were needed where they could track incoming Blobs, not calculating profits.
“Yeah, sure,” he agreed and slithered away again.
“Captain, should I get some images for our researchers?” Tirdal asked. “We do have more experience with Aldenata equipment than you.”
“That’s partly because you won’t share the info you do have, but go ahead,” Bell Toll said, some prejudice slipping past at last. Tirdal ignored it and took several views of the device.
They turned over a few more rocks and had the bots drill around the area, test bores to see if anything else registered. There was nothing else that stood out.
“I’m getting nothing else,” concurred Tirdal. “All I feel is the power from this,” he indicated the device, “and it feels as if it’s idling, waiting.”
There was nothing left but for a full archaeological expedition, which could be expected if the humans ever took the world.
“Well, let’s clean up the area and move out,” Bell Toll ordered. “We’ll take the box with us and let the experts fiddle with it.”
Gorilla got the bots to work replacing the chunks of plascrete, while the soldiers took turns scraping and digging at the bot tracks and drag marks of the rocks as only trained Special Operations troops can.
“I can easily determine the damage at this close range,” Tirdal said when they were finished, “but it’s likely not obvious to a routine observer at any distance.”
“I can see it,” Dagger challenged. “If I can, others can if they look hard enough. But there shouldn’t be any real searches before we bug out.”
“Nevertheless, let’s try to cover our tracks in and out,” Shiva suggested.
“I concur,” Bell Toll said. The work resumed amid sighs.
The trick to a good concealment is not to do too much, or a site becomes a “garden,” neat and obvious rather than rough and nondescript. In true Zen fashion, doing little is harder than doing much. But by dusk, rain starting, there was little evidence that anything untoward had happened. An organized search might show something, but no casual examination. If they’d done their jobs properly, rain would wash away any remaining signs in short order. Of course, any major flaws in the dig would show more clearly as rain eroded soft earth. It was best they move quickly, just in case.
Bell Toll took the bulky artifact and strapped it onto his pack under a chameleon cover. He grunted with the effort of lifting it — while not outrageously massive, it wasn’t light by any means.
Slogging through mud is a military tradition from as far back as humans have been fighting, which is always. It’s something every military organization has to get used to, but, despite jokes, no one ever gets used to. Mud slows the steps, sticks to the boots then oozes inside, cold, wet, gooey, gritty and sharp in spots. It splashes as high as one’s head, no matter how high that might be, and is generally unpleasant. Every generation, the designers insist they’ve developed a “mud proof” boot, and every generation the troops laugh hysterically as mud squishes past seals, flush surfaces or joints.
The team was squelching along the nearby river, mud alternating with trickles and puddles of water, the dark, dank bank on one side with the tendrils of tree branches arching in ghostlike fingers over them to the water’s edge. They should be well shielded from most sensors. Even thermal imaging wasn’t likely to detect their chilled, clammy hides through the scattering foliage.
Ahead, they were seeking a ford. Some further distance from the Tslek facility was desired, and crossing the watercourse should decrease the likelihood of anything coming for them. While they could swim, even burdened as they were, there was no need to exert unnecessary energy.
The first ford they found wasn’t as hospitable as Bell Toll had hoped. Certainly it was shallower than upstream, but it was on a moderate slope that gave the shallow water good velocity over rocks. It wasn’t going to be that much easier to cross here.
“Keep low,” Bell Toll advised in a whisper. Everyone nodded. Besides keeping their silhouettes concealed, it would keep them stable in the current. They were as wet as they could get already, anyway. “Ferret, out you go.”
“Ferrets don’t like swimming,” the little point troop replied, but he said it as he moved out on the rocky shallows they’d been using, toward deeper water.
Ferret stepped down off the shelf, one hand on a protruding root near the bank, and began wading. The bubbling, ankle-deep stream near the edge turned to rippling and waving knee-deep currents within a couple of steps, then to a pounding torrent that ripped at him, seen as dark and light infrared and enhanced visible traces across his visor. He leaned forward and grabbed a rock that rose from the water, and worked his way around into the calm downstream of it. Kneeling and reaching, he caught another handhold and crossed the channel between the two, water shoving at his chest and splashing into his face. He worked his way across by keeping solid hold of the rocks as his feet slid on smooth, moss-slickened pebbles underneath and water raged past him. He was two thirds of the way over when he reached a deep, rushing current about two meters wide. It didn’t take much observation to conclude that he wasn’t going to cross it alone. And it would likely look worse in daylight.
Ferret studied the voracious swirl for long seconds. Then he began crawling backwards. Once he reached the previous slab of weathered limestone he called back on his transmitter, it being too loud to shout even if noise discipline allowed it. “It’s too swift. Gorilla can likely get over; he’s taller and heavier. We’re going to need to belay,” he said.
“Goddammit. Understood,” Bell Toll replied.
Shortly, Gorilla began splashing and crawling from the bank. His larger mass was of benefit, and he made steady progress through the tugging current and was alongside in moments.
“Hold my ruck and tell me what you need,” he said as he swung his albatross-long limbs free from the harness.
“Deep and swift,” Ferret said, pointing. “If you can shove across we’ll run the rope. Otherwise, that bastard is going to take someone for a ride.”
“Got it,” he nodded.
Gorilla had a tough time of it himself, and Ferret was glad he’d asked for aid. The two-meter tall troop splashed into the water and only kept his head above by maintaining a firm grip on Ferret’s proffered hand. He reached across, angled by the strong current, scrabbling for purchase. The flow underneath was unbelievable, stretching him out starfishlike. After several minutes of clutching, he retreated. Sitting under the rock, he shouted up to Ferret, “I think it would be easier to move further downstream. But let me try something.”