Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

“It cost me a couple hundred of my share,” Tham shrugged.

Free of its earlier burden, the helicopter climbed swiftly and Terson turned onto the heading their passenger provided the moment Windstone Center released him. It took them toward the intercontinental basin that held the closest thing Algran Asta had to a sea: the impenetrable, planet-spanning swamp from which the chinche had emerged to confound the colonists.

Seventy-five years of human habitation had not ended rumors of strange, wily creatures skulking around outlying communities stalking children and killing livestock. New species of varying hazard emerged from the jungle every year, and most people assumed that the chinche were merely one more irritation to deal with.

The pivotal event occurred when a hired hand at a remote homestead killed one as it lapped up the blood of his employer’s wife in her own kitchen. The unfortunate incident might have been noted, remarked upon for a few days and forgotten, but the creature possessed what some interpreted as primitive tools and jewelry.

Predation by an animal acting out of instinct was one thing; the existence of a reasoning predator that consciously sought out human victims was intolerable. Despite the fact that the total number of deaths attributed to chinche since their discovery was a tiny percentage of the annual mortality rate—more people died annually at the hands of fellow humans—Algran Asta’s ruling body launched a campaign to eradicate the creatures. Unfortunately, it was the fervor with which they did so that spurred the CCB to investigate the reason behind Algran Asta’s sudden thirst for defoliants and nerve agents.

A bare, rocky spine ridge jutting upward through the jungle canopy ahead spurred Terson to glance at his altimeter. There wasn’t supposed to be anything higher than seven hundred meters in the area, but maps had been wrong before.

His headset popped with an unfamiliar voice: “Colonial aircraft, this is the Marine gunship at your five o’clock. Hold your present direction, altitude, and speed. Acknowledge.”

Terson’s kept his voice steady, though his pulse sped. “We copy,” he replied before covering the mike with his hand. “We’ve got company! Gunship at five o’clock—can you see’im?”

Foster clambered over the crates to the portside door, pulled it open and peered back along the tail, into the sun. “Two Headhunters!” Terson looked at Tham and shook his head— told you so .

“Colonial aircraft, state your destination and purpose.”

“Making a supply run to Rimhead, sir.”

“You’re off course, mister. Rimhead is seventy-five degrees to port.”

“Yeah, roger that. We’re having trouble with our GPS; thanks for the advisory, over.”

The Marines didn’t buy it. “Turn right heading one two five point seven. You will proceed to Windstone under escort, and submit to inspection. Over.”

“Roger, Marine. Changing course now.” He eased into a long, gradual turn as the Headhunters moved to the port side, forty degrees above the helicopter. Tham twisted his head around to shout back to the passenger: “Buddy, you got anything in there you don’t want’em to see, now’s the time to dig it out!” The passenger knew the drill: he loosened the cargo straps and flipped up one corner of the tarp.

It was a familiar game: the Marines intercepted aircraft suspected of transporting Militia supplies, the colonists played lost and dumb. The Marine’s rules of engagement prevented them from opening fire without provocation and for the first few months they could only watch helplessly as the colonists dumped their loads into the deep bush where the chances of recovery were virtually zero. The practice grew so prevalent that the Board finally decreed the dumping of any man-made object a deportable offense.

Now the trick was to jettison the contraband without getting caught. Windstone lay far enough away that they could break the packages down and toss out individual items as they passed through mist banks. Terson and Tham turned their full attention to the search for such opportunities and did not immediately notice the scuffle that broke out a moment later.

“He’s Militia!” Foster shouted.

Tham rolled his eyes, twisting around to calm the teenager. “No shit, kid— Jesus Christ!” His hand flew to his chest, fumbling to release the seat harness. The object the passenger had removed from the case, and which Foster now grappled for control of, was a single-use, shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missile launcher. The Militiaman wrenched the weapon from Foster’s grasp and raised it, sighting on the Headhunters through the port hatch.

“Hang on!” Terson yelled. Foster leapt for a cargo net as Terson banked hard to port. Searing propellant exhaust filled the cargo compartment; the Militiaman lost his balance and vanished through the open door. The abrupt maneuver broke the weapon’s target lock and it sailed harmlessly past the two gunships, but it was too late for apologies. The Headhunters pealed off in tight turns, circling in behind the helicopter from opposite directions. Projectiles rattled along the airframe like gravel. Something slammed the back of Terson’s head, driving his chin into his chest.

His ears popped from a sudden burst of pressure accompanied by acrid fumes and moist air. The helicopter went gyroscopic; the sky streaked into a horizontal blur of green, blue and smoky gray. He glimpsed the tail section spinning away and Foster falling with it, legs pumping, hands pawing with splayed fingers as if he could gain purchase on the air itself.

Terson thrust his hand through the rubberized boot covering the panic bar between the pilots’ seats and wrenched up with all his might. The engine screamed, transferring a flood of kinetic energy to the blades before the squibs detonated, flinging them away like a quartet of scythes. The cockpit module separated, thrown forward by centrifugal force and Terson’s stomach rose to his throat in the terrifying moments of free-fall before the parachute deployed.

The broad crown of a tree rushed up at him and the cockpit module crashed through half a dozen meters of foliage until the chute snagged in the ruin of broken branches left in its wake. The situation went from deafening chaos to near absolute silence in an instant. He hung limp in his seat harness, gasping for breath while the ghastly image of Nick Foster flailing against the relentless pull of gravity looped through his mind’s eye.

“I’m sorry,” Jack Tham choked out. “Jesus H. Christ, I’m so sorry.”

Jack’s guilt was nothing compared to Terson’s. Boss Hanstead expected him to make the right decisions, not let Jack Tham talk him into risking life, limb and property. The fact that it hadn’t taken much talking only exacerbated his guilt.

Terson swallowed the emotion, blinked the wetness out of his eyes and twisted around to haul out the survival pack stowed behind the seat. A firm jerk released a coil of rope attached to a tie-down ring in the floor.

Insects swarmed around the two men by the time they lowered themselves to the mound of taproots at the base of the tree. Terson dug into the pack for a tube of greasy salve which they applied liberally to their exposed flesh. The chemical stung skin and was excruciatingly painful if it came into contact with the eyes, but it was the only topical repellent capable of deterring the bugs.

Next he checked their weapons: a short bull-nosed automatic rifle he kept for himself and a semi-automatic shotgun with a pair of twenty-round drum magazines that he handed to Tham. His copilot set the weapon aside and sat down while he packed his pipe with his personal blend of mildly narcotic homemade tobacco.