Chapter 1: "Loss of the Beggar's Grasp"

Valkarr hadn’t seen natural sunlight since impact—two Cyncorian days ago. From planetary rotation, measured on his way down, he figured it should be midday where he was now. As the howling winds diminished and the sky finally cleared, a small red sun brightened in its climb to zenith, proving his calculations correct.

Crude hemispheric projections indicated it was summer here, and the day-periods were long. The heat, rising rapidly with the sun, suggested it would get quite hot before the next nightfall.

While rich in oxygen, the atmosphere contained an odd mix of exotic compounds which had frequently been spectacular; first appearing as an opaque green fog, then gathering in solid drifts during the period of darkness. Now, as the temperature increased, these particles evaporated into a thinning haze.

The nose of the craft, where Valkarr was trapped, had been buried deep in the sludge, piled high during the skid at flight’s end. From his one unobstructed viewport he watched as patches of slime slid down the ship’s sides, melting away.

The forecabin and central bulkheads had been sealed with the severing of the main, leaving Valkarr to wait out this “thaw.” It was early afternoon when hull pressure stabilized. The command cabin top-hatch, released from auto-lock, resisted a considerable effort before the bonding cracked and the shield-plate moved in its track.

Pulling the hatch free, Valkarr was drenched by the condensation surrounding the portal’s rim. Coughing from the in-rushing air, eyes watering, he recognized the smell of quamwold and drew the hatch-lid in, shoving it slowly into its side-bin.

Crawling from the command cabin, climbing onto the hull, he walked to its crest, currently aft, and surveyed the scene.

In every direction, as far as he could see, there spread a virtual sea of slime. The wide variety of green and brown mushrooms contrasted with the Titanium-99 fuselage coat that glittered down the length, and to the sides, of the long furrow plowed in the barely controlled descent.

Already the planet’s scar was healing; the carved ditch losing its definition. Standing on the ship’s high point Valkarr saw how his weight alone affected the vessel’s level.

The two rear hatches were easy to open, and soon the main was up. Most backup systems followed suit. Aside from being bogged in the mire, actual damage to the spacecraft was minor. Normally the Journeyman could have her flight-worthy in a day or two.

He knew little about this region of Sector SC into which he had fled. Of the planets in its fifth group he remembered only that low-tech ratings had been a consideration of the plotting committee. The ship’s hom-loc beacon had failed the first night, and the constantly monitored standard and primitive registers had yielded only static.

Valkarr had known well the risks when placing his bid. It was his view, lately taken by management, that the recent discovery of sentient fungus on Zamlon (SC-463) offered a reward potential beyond that of ordinary planetary acquisitions. Having been recognized “Prime Procurer” by the Job Master, the Journeyman was entitled to the highest of personal fortunes, and he supported a large house.

Security had been tight. From the large “IGPH” ship markings (legitimate branch ownership) through detailed documentation, the hardware frigate was misrepresented in the classic style of Combine duplicity. Still, hardware had value, and Valkarr was well prepared to be accosted by pirates, as he had been. Their persistence in pursuit he thought noteworthy. It was unlikely known that he transported the first gynum.

With the redirection of a few command sequences ship-wide power was maximized and he set about entering planetary approach data from his belt-calc.

The portable’s data dumped, he worked to bypass the defective interface from commcon to main. Hours into the heat of late afternoon he unpacked his personal DDS mini-frame to begin the slow, tedious, manual download and transfer.

Returning to the forecabin, resetting bulkhead locks along the way, Valkarr found the mushrooms that earlier poured from the portal had colonized the interior. They squished underfoot as he made his connections and began the data-siph. He noted the listing, to whichever side he happened to walk, was considerably worse with the greater heat.

Shortly before sunset the last transfer was completed and the weary Journeyman retreated aft, sealing the second lock to halt the advancing slime. He started the main on buoyancy test and began to settle in for the evening.

That he’d not monitored anything from the cockpit had bothered him some; he had trouble believing this “class-L” planet vacant. Yet, even now—with a full complement of enhancers—there was want of a signal.

Floatation, surface substance, and other related tests were conclusive: the Beggar’s Grasp was slowly sinking.

Long into the night he studied playbacks of his descent. Each time he began with the pirates and his smuggler’s run.

There had been four ships, unexceptional in design or performance. Each had the usual groupings of colors, trophy panels and accessory mounts, but one had markings that, while covered over, had not been totally eradicated.

Extensive enhancement failed to draw the previous image from its shadow. What may have been a coat of arms might well have been a portrait. Greater magnification showed something else which looked like initials, a logo, or perhaps a motto.

From where he’d entered the local storm its density and turbulence reduced trajectory analysis to speculation. For a while, even with the highest altitude shots, he was unable to make out anything beyond the perimeter of the disturbance.

Just before visual blockout rendered recording useless he got his first clue to the topography. Closer examination of the data revealed traces of ore, with evidence of pure water vapor at increasing elevations.

Again and again he counted the compass spans, marking each freshly drafted hard copy map as he ran through the options, working out the variables.

He concluded that a two day march toward the setting sun would certainly lead to the slime sea’s edge, but there would be no time to rest. The slush was never stable, and though it hardened with the cool, night wasn’t long enough for solidification. By the end of a long day such as this one, the ground was more like quicksand. As the alternatives became clear he began a security decrypting of his manifest.

There were many prototypes aboard which were being evaluated for use in the Zamlonian cultivation process, and he was relieved to find a box of the special “mush smusher” footwear listed. A sort of snowshoe, ostensibly used in dipole replacement and platform construction, these would be essential in treading the planet’s surface.

Choosing one of the lighter EVA suits, Valkarr cut away most of the fabric and began prepping for survival in a watered land. He would carry only the necessary pharms, water, his bottle of primitive mash, and the gynum—though theoretical risks of volatility had him considering odds for a later salvage.

About the second Zamlonian derivative, the bosar, he could do nothing. It was, minus the gels converted to gynum crystals, inert semi-raw material. It shipped well in bulk, and could be configured as many things including insulation, which was the case here. Though organic, for purposes of the project the fungal extract was classed as a manufactured element. Theoretically, it could be reproduced.

It was late when he finished make-ready. He debated with himself for some time before deciding to shave, then started winding down for a last comfortable rest. Chatting briefly with the restored commcon, he declined its invitation to play a game and requested a predawn wakeup. The voicing servo unit spoke of a missed tranq dose as he fell fast asleep.

* * *

At sunrise on the third day following his crash Valkarr sat on the hull of his “cargo” vessel donning his “snowshoes.” The ship had now sunk beyond mid-section, and he had brought up shelving racks which he lay as a ramp down into the bog.

Walking down the ramp onto the living ground he found standing difficult, but as he got farther from the ship the footing became more firm. This was as good as he could expect till the next morning. He reckoned the Grasp would sink completely by then.

When the small sun reached its peak the air was much warmer. Sometimes when he’d plant his platform shoes there would be difficulty pulling them up again. Eventually, the impact of stepping generated tremors that became ripples which, as they spread outward, were becoming waves of slime. Shortly after midday he passed through a relatively firm section of surface but allowed no break in the stride, what there was of one.

After awhile there was another change. This one he felt might be a daily occurrence. The heat had aroused the slime-molds, and for miles he walked through terrain resembling an active lava bed.

There were bubbles of a sort, some were several paces across, and these would rise and erupt, bursting back into the ever more liquid-like landscape. He would be lifted suddenly as these bubbles formed beneath him, and as the afternoon wore on he got a sense of their eruptive rate.

It became more difficult to avoid these bubbles, and as they burst, spurting and spewing their contents, he was becoming covered, head to toe, in the clinging, thick, heavy slime.

Throughout the worst of the heat his course remained true, and as the eventual sunset became more definable he could make out a rise on the distant flat horizon. It was far too far to be reached this day.

It was in the very late afternoon that he first wondered about his ability to persevere. The pharms had compensated well for the fatigue, but his battle with the planet was harder—much so.

Blinded at times by the inundating splatters of slime that now soaked him, he couldn’t clear his eyes, nose or mouth before being awash again.

During the last hour of sun his entire effort may have carried him thirty paces. Having tied the shoes together he would throw one ahead and slog forth to it, drawing the other after him, hurrying to repeat the procedure. He was losing the fight, wading at chest height, when the sun sank before him.

The sun well gone he continued by starlight. He wondered about the moon he’d seen the night before, and was sorry he hadn’t bothered to calculate its orbital frequency.

Hours into the dark his spirit received some rejuvenation as the cooling surface made his progress seem more real. This was his chance to make time, and he dared not slack off.

With the morning the distant elevation appeared as an ocean-fronting bluff, still a long day’s “walk” away.

By midday the air was perceptibly clearer. The slime itself was changing color, and it was much more firm, in spite of the higher temperature. Drawing closer to the once distant goal, Valkarr started to smile as he realized the worst of his ordeal had finally passed.

He constantly revised his estimate of distance to the rock wall, as the footwear was still required for any real progress to be made. The steep escarpment seemed to rise from the slime as he entered its lengthening cool shadow.

At last the organic slime began to merge with the rockier mineral elements of the surface and he could remove his life-saving footwear. Soon, he stood on solid rock.

The mountainous ridge was like a shoreline running as far as he could see to his right and left; the slime sea behind him, a wall of rock ahead—it seemed a rocky, desolate beach.

It was a few hundred paces from the basin’s edge to the foot of the cliff. Here, there were rocks, large boulders and sparse vegetation, as well as small signs of animal activity.

Approaching the wall he noticed what looked like a cave entrance. Senses heightened, he explored the nearby rocks to find a stash place for the gynum. He chose to discard the snowshoes there as well, hoping to never need them again.

He was putting the last stone in place over the salvaged cargo when a dog-sized black creature, in attack spring, jumped from the rocks onto the Journeyman’s chest. Sinking its long, squirrel-like teeth deep into the EVA suit, it went for the heart, grabbing instead the mash bottle.

The animal growled and snorted as it snapped for a better grip; teeth clanking against the bottle. It was trying to shift its weight when Valkarr sank his knife hilt deep into the creature’s side.

The attack snarl became a wounded howl as the small beast fell to the ground. Valkarr dove quickly to silence its fierce final scream. Mindful that other predators were likely, he remained where he was, watching the cave for a long time. Quietly, he began cleaning the dead animal for food.

The sun had long disappeared beyond the high rock wall, but it was still light as Valkarr approached the almost square opening with caution.

Suspecting an optical aberration, the Journeyman grew gradually sure that the glow he saw was, in fact, a faint, increasingly bright light from within the rock’s hollow. The light, he soon determined, was actually sunlight pouring in from the other side. As he proceeded, he saw the cave was a machine hewn tunnel.