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62.
Alex and Maryan returned to the valley with Xumar, Mixic, and ten warriors.
Xumar rode bareback on a horse whose long, magnificent blonde mane curled in the wind.
Maryan looked healthy and strong, a far cry from the woman dying of infection that Alex had rescued from the monsters in her birthing caves. In her ankle-length, flowing dress, she looked positively regal. The Takkar had given them some blankets and clothes of wool that they appreciated very much; Xumar carried them for them on the back of his horse. The Takkar tended to weave very fine wool in dark earth-tone colors. He thought several times that they might have to travel to their city to trade their furs for their wool and other goods; but since they were the last of their kind, he did not feel a great ambition.
They both felt a tangle of emotions as they entered the valley, coming down from the mountains. Maryan sniffled a few tears away, and he felt a horrible pang as he saw the late afternoon sun glint like blood in the water, and on two dozen or more skull-tops that stuck in the riverbank sand like cobblestones. The Takkar looked about with misgivings and made the Sign of the Eagle—a fist with index finger and thumb spread, held to the forehead while looking to the sky. Xumar pulled his cloak tight around himself and gripped his iron-tipped spear harder.
They came down on the east side of the river, opposite the bank of skulls. There were fewer skulls in the middle of the valley—testimony that few clones had ever gotten that far on their first run out of the birthing cave doors.
Mixic unfolded a soft leather map, which he consulted in a conversation with Xumar, holding the map against the horse’s neck. He saw a drawing etched in burn marks: the river, the plain, the cliffs on either side. In the center of the map was a circle, and lines radiated from it in all directions. At the end of each line was a notation—a landmark of some type. Guarded by the warriors—for Xumar carried the sacred talisman in a bag that hung from his neck—They moved closer and closer to the center of the radians. It was getting dark, and they had to break to make camp. They did not light a fire, but posted guards all around.
In the morning, Xumar rode out to do a fast reconnaissance along the seashore. He returned saying the shore appeared safe. He sent several warriors to the east and west to carefully scout the area.
With Mixic and four remaining warriors, they came to a tangle of brush. They set to clear it at Xumar’s direction, and discovered a slightly raised surface of concrete, badly weathered and pitted. It was an oval about 100 feet long and 40 feet across—a landing platform? This was a human artifact he’d missed in his desperate search long ago! It was impossible to read the lines the map said should exist on the surface. Perhaps centuries ago, when Takkar ancestors had brought down the first rescue ship, the concrete had been in better shape.
The platform was completely cleared within about two hours. By noon, a vast pile of brush, thorns, and torn-up grass lined the sides of the platform. The warriors had been able to use their stout spear-handles to simply push the brush off. In a few places, the platform was cracked, and thick trunks had to be sawn off. Two or three real trees had also poked through, and these had to be cut down with great effort, down to the surface so nothing should stab the ship.
Mixic alone stepped onto the platform, his layered clothing blowing in the wind, his dark, angular ox face enigmatic. He moved with great dignity, holding the amulet up like an offering. Then he gave it a gentle twist, laid it on the platform, and walked off with the same dignity. They waited.
Alex noticed after a while that a shaft of glowing light, very faint, stretched from a center point in the concrete right next to the amulet. The Takkar noticed it too and a murmur went around. The ancestors had been right. Several men fell to their knees. Xumar stood holding his horse’s bridle and looked up, shading his eyes. Maryan and he did the same. It must have taken nearly an hour, and Alex grew impatient, puzzled, even disappointed—then several warriors shouted, pointing into the sky.
The ‘silver house’ fell down like a drop of water, like a splash of mercury.
Alex wasn’t sure it was even a solid shape until the spacecraft descended in a crisp, quick motion. There was a whoosh of air, like a subway train arriving, and they were pushed back several feet, all of them, their clothes and their hair blowing, grit getting into their eyes. The boat almost materialized rather than landed. There it was, a 100 foot long cylinder, 20 feet in diameter, devoid of any markings. It steamed where its hot skin burned the condensation out of the air.
The silver skin was very hot now. Mixic motioned for the group to wait.
Just then the first gunshot rang out.
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