“How long?” he whispered.
She looked at her watch. “Half an hour.” And glanced up at him. “He’ll be here before that,” she assured him.
If anyone else had brought him out here—if anyone else had even suggested that he should come out here, making himself the perfect target for every nightmare beast in this planet’s ghastly repertoire—laughter would have been the kindest of his responses. But Lise had suggested it and he trusted her judgment, sometimes more than his own. And Ian had to be dealt with. There was no way around that. Case should have jailed the man when this all started, but he had chosen to assign him to therapy instead, and now he was paying the price for that decision.
“Listen,” she whispered. “Here he comes.”
He nodded, noting that though her jacket and pants were dark enough for cover her pale skin glowed like a beacon in the moonlight. They should have thought of that. Rubbed her down with charcoal, or lampblack, or . . . something. Made her dark, like him, so that they could creep through the night unseen. Too late for that now, he thought. He cursed himself for carelessness and motioned for her to keep low, so that the weeds might obscure her face.
True night was about to fail. Less than half an hour now. Case told himself that the term was a mere technicality, that even on Earth heavy cloudcover might obscure the stars and moon, leaving a man in total darkness—but he knew that there was more to it than that. He had tasted its true power once in the field, by turning off his lantern so that the darkness was free to envelop him—a darkness so absolute, so utterly boundless, that all the shadows of Earth paled by comparison. The mere memory of it made his skin crawl. By now the whole camp would be alight with beacons, bright floods fighting to drive back the shadows of the triple night. As if mere light would help. As if mere walls could keep the serpent out of Eden, or prevent it from reading their secret thoughts, from turning their fears and even their desires against them.
As he listened for the sound of Ian’s approach, he remembered the night it had come for him, the serpent incarnate in an angel’s form. Remembered how all his fear and his skepticism and even his innate caution were banished from his soul in an instant, as though they had never existed. Because what had stepped out from the shadows was his son—his son!- as young and as healthy as he had been ten years ago, before the accident that took him from Case’s life. And in that moment there was no fear in the Commander’s heart, no suspicion, not even a moment’s doubt. Love filled him with such force that he trembled, and tears poured down his cheeks. He whispered his son’s name, and the figure moved toward him. He reached out his hand, and the creature touched him—it touched him!—and it was warm, and alive, and he knew it by touch and scent and a thousand other signs. Christ in heaven, his son was alive again! He opened his arms wide and gathered the boy up, buried his face in his hair (and the smell was familiar, even that was right) and cried, let all the pain pour out in a tsunami of raw emotion, an endless tide of grief and love and loss . . .
And she had saved him. Lise. She had come, and she had seen, and she had understood at once. And acted. Somehow she’d killed the unnatural thing, or driven it off, and she’d dragged Case to MedOps. Barely in time. Later, when he had regained the wherewithal to communicate, he asked her what she had seen. And she answered, steadily, It was devouring you. From the inside out. That’s what all these creatures do, one way or another. They feed on us.
In the distance now he could hear the low rumble of a tram approaching, its solar collectors vibrating as it bumped over the uneven turf. Ian. It had to be him. The trams had proven to be dangerously unreliable—two had exploded while being started up, and three more simply would not work—but Ian was one of the few who seemed capable of making them run, and they gave him no surprises. Likewise the man’s weapons functioned perfectly, while others jammed and backfired, and as for his lab equipment . . . the botanist lived a charmed life, without question. But at what price?
In his mind’s eye Case could see the grisly stockpile that Lise had discovered one night, after following Ian from camp. Small mammals, a few birds, a single lizard . . . all beheaded or dismembered or both, and hidden beneath a thornbush at edge of the forest. When Case had confronted Ian about them the botanist had made no attempt to dissemble or even defend himself, but had said simply, There’s power in the blood. Power in sacrifice. Don’t you see? That’s how this planet works. Sacrifice is power, Leo.
Sacrifice is power.
The tram was coming into sight now, and it was possible to make out the form of a man behind its controls. Lamplight glinted on red hair, wind-tossed: Ian Casca’s trademark. In the back of the tram was something bundled in a blanket, that might or might not be alive. Case felt a chill course through him as he gauged the size of the trapped animal, and he thought, Might be human. Might be. He couldn’t see Lise’s expression, but it was a good bet she was thinking the same thing.
The blood is the life, the Old Testament proclaimed. Lise had shown him that passage in Casca’s own Bible, underscored by two red lines on a dog-eared page. He wondered if Ian had made those marks before or after this horror began.
The tram had entered the clearing now, and after a few seconds of idling Ian braked and shut it down. The harsh purr of the motor died out into the night, leaving silence so absolute that Case’s breathing seemed a roar by contrast. Even the insects were still, as if they, too, feared the darkness that was about to fall.
Case tightened his hand about his gun. Waiting.
The old formulas will work, Ian had claimed. He was lifting a bag from the cargo section, a specimen case whose soft sides bulged when he set it down. From it he removed a long strip of red cloth and a canvas sack. All we have to do is learn to apply them. He hung the cloth about his neck so that its ends fell forward, brushing against his calves as he worked. Painted sigils glittered on its surface: geometries bordered with Hebrew figures, ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, something that might have been an astrological symbol . . . Case shook his head in amazement as the man reached into his sack and drew out a handful of white powder. The trappings of his madness were so precise, so deliberate, so painstakingly detailed . . . which made him all the more dangerous, Case reflected. A careless madman would have gotten himself locked up long ago.
Lise touched him on the arm. He turned back to look at her, saw the question in her eyes. But he shook his head. Not yet. He turned back to watch the botanist, who was now tracing a circle on the ground, dribbling powder through his fingers to mark its circumference. When he was done with that he began to sketch out more complex figures, his fingers trembling with fear—or excitement—as he worked. On the bed of the tram one of the bundles had begun to move, and Case heard a soft moan issue from it. Human, he thought. No doubt about it. His jaw tightened, but he forced himself not to move forward. Not yet. Erna had no jailhouse, and at the rate things were going wrong they might never get the time to build one. If Ian’s madness had turned murderous, then for the sake of the colony he would have to be disposed of. Excised, the way one excised a cancerous tumor to save the flesh beneath. And as judge, jury, and executioner, Case had better be damned sure that what he was doing was justified.