Trident's Forge by Patrick S Tomlinson Page B

never given me reason to doubt zer before.”
    â€œYou put a lot of faith in your pet,” Tuko said. Kexx laughed and flashed annoyance. “What’s funny?”
    â€œYou saw their great bird darken the sky over our village. Are you really so convinced that Mei is the pet?”

Seven
    â€œ W e’re all clear out here, administrator.”
    Sergeant Atwood had been thorough. It took her detail fifteen minutes to clear a patch of land barely larger than the shuttle that had touched down on it. All things considered, however, her caution was probably warranted.
    â€œAny sign of the Atlantians?” Valmassoi called down the stairwell.
    â€œNo. Nothing moving out here except these damned bugs.”
    â€œThank you, sergeant. We’re coming out now.” The administrator turned to the rest of his flock while Benson leaned against the bulkhead with his arms crossed. “OK everyone, we’re going to exit in a calm and orderly fashion. Once you’re outside, stay inside the perimeter established by the security detail. No wandering off to look at a plant. No stepping away for a little privacy. And no ducking behind a tree when nature calls. Use the facilities on the shuttle or hold it. We move together as a single group. OK?”
    There was a general murmur of agreement, enough to assure Valmassoi that his message had been heard, or enough to set up the I-told-you-so and shift culpability to the eventual offenders. Benson had done the same many times in his day and couldn’t help but admire a fellow practitioner of the art.
    The line of dignitaries walked down the single flight of stairs like a line of cattle being herded out of a barn. Cattle. Benson hadn’t thought of the old epitaph for at least a year. With the crew of the Ark tens of thousands of miles up in the sky, and nearly everyone else busy building new lives down here in the dirt, the old labels had fallen out of use. Maybe they didn’t really apply anymore.
    Benson tucked into the end of the line and waited patiently for everyone to shuffle out into the light. Warm air from the outside blew up the stairwell and mingled with the stale, cool air of the cabin. The breeze was heavy with pollen from the fields outside. Someone further down the line sneezed once, then again, then finally hard enough to pop a lung. Allergies were new to everyone. The air on the Ark had been so thoroughly scrubbed of particulates, by the time it reached one’s nose, there was nothing to sneeze out again. For a small but unfortunate percentage of the population, landing on Atlantis had been an unexpected adventure in mucus.
    He reached the bottom of the stairs and set his right foot onto the ground. Benson fought a sudden urge to kiss the dirt. Everyone milled about underneath the shuttle to stay out of the noonday sun. They were a few hundred kilometers south of the planet’s equator, but still well inside the tropics, and local summer was approaching its height. Atwood’s team stood at the shuttle’s three corners with weapons held at low ready while she busied herself assembling a small quadcopter drone.
    Benson left her alone and walked over to the edge of the clearing. The crops grew tall in the sun. They were a bleached lavender and shaped like branching ferns. He ran a hand under the leafy stem and felt knobby growths. He flipped the plant over and saw three rows of what he assumed were seeds growing down the entire length of the stem. It didn’t look like any of the native plants from their continent, but then corn didn’t look a damned thing like its undomesticated ancestors either.
    He pinched off a few seeds and walked back to the group under the shuttle. “Think these are safe to eat?” he asked Valmassoi.
    â€œFor Atlantians, or for you?”
    â€œFor me, obviously.”
    â€œHow the hell should I know?”
    â€œDidn’t we bring a botanist?”
    Valmassoi looked at him like