Tropic of Creation Read Online Free PDF Page A

graceful slide down the sandy hillock.
    Captain Dammond wore plain fatigues, no insignia,and his head was bare, showing a mass of sandy hair that he wore rather longer than the military style. The hair softened scoured features that made him seem uncaring or self-contained. The gray eyes, in particular, were flinty, and when angered she had seen them harden to black. But she had also seen him smile, and thought him handsome in any mood.
    Looking to her father, the captain said, “Lieutenant Roche is in charge until I return.” Roche, standing next to Captain Dammond, was a veteran of war, a tall, burly fellow. Captain Marzano’s face was fenced in, no wisp of emotion escaping.
    Her father nodded at the courtesy of the information. It was none of any Olander’s business who commanded, not strictly.
    But Sascha was distracted from the conversation. There was something about this hexadron she didn’t like. For a machine to transport soldiers, it looked wrong. It was too small. It had no proper Congress Worlds design but that odd ahtra shape, those six sides, waiting to engulf Captain Dammond and keep him. No, this was not a good idea.
    Eli was talking to her father. Then he smiled and said something to her, she hardly knew what, and he was climbing in. She wanted to cry out, put a stop to this event. What did it matter what lay below ground if they were leaving and never coming back? What harm to leave these bunkers and their war trophies behind? Even if ahtra lurked in the those tunnels, they were at peace now; no one need discover them or their purposes.
    Just as they were closing the hatch, Sascha darted forward. The inside of the hexadron glowed from temporary lights the techs had rigged. She looked at Eli and said, “I’ve decided to name my spiny amphibian after you, Captain.”
    “Thank you, Sascha. That would be an honor.” Looking at her closely, he finished, “See you in a little while, then.”“Yes, but …”
    He was watching her as he always did, patiently, as though he cared about what she might have to say.
    “Sascha …” came her father’s warning voice behind her.
    She swallowed, struggling with whether to speak, whether to say,
Don’t go, Captain. Don’t go down.…
But there was no reason why, no argument a soldier would listen to.
    “Hurry back,” she said, at last, and conjured up her best smile, though it felt hollow as a spiny tree.

4

    I nside, the hexadron was spare and simple. A small control panel contained finger-sized depressions cradling touch pads for boring and hatch controls. Eli sat with his knees drawn up and his neck slightly bent, his 5’10” frame a tight fit in the capsule. His hand rested on the panel, but it was Sascha’s face he saw before him, a fleeting look of fear darting across her eyes.
Why are you doing this
, she seemed to say.
Don’t do this
.
    He’d seen that look before, on his mother’s face, when she watched four of her five sons and her husband enter the mines day after day, year after year. Eli wondered why she always expected the worst of the mines when it was never mining that killed her boys, but only the war—the one she’d been proud to send them off to. Three came home again in body bags. And Eli, despite many battles, had never taken so much as a scratch. So despite the combat decorations, Eli lacked one badge—the indelible one—of regen.
    He pressed the declivity to engage the digger. Gears churned, and the frame shuddered so hard his teethclattered. He clenched his jaw and braced his arms on the seat. After a few seconds the drilling took on a high-pitched whine paired with relentless grinding. Rock and dirt raced through the conveyor tubes of the hexadron’s hull, spewing the tailings behind as the craft sank into the ground. Soon there would be only a trembling mound of soil at the surface where the digger had been.
    It took longer than Eli expected. He switched on his lamp. His hand on the small range gun at his hip was damp