Guns of Mars 32
A Martian action-adventure by The Legend Chuck Dixon
CHAPTER 9.2
The bounty man weighed this new data and decided that, if he lived that long, he would take flight after dark, when the thark had settled down to camp. He was certain that Kal Keddaq had taken note of the bones as well and was thinking as he thought. The man sensed an increased wariness on the thark’s part, the broad head turning this way and that, discus eyes sharp, a hand to the rifle that he now rested across his knees as he rode. Better to be on the run than to be set out as bait for whatever creature haunted this defile. For he was sure that would be the thark’s stratagem, to use him as decoy for the unknown predator when it approached.
The pain in his unshod feet warred with the dull ache in his head for attention. The ache behind his eyes grew keener and he knew it was due to dehydration, his blood thickening from the lack of water. He had to last until nighttime without losing consciousness. His mind was set now. When the thark slumbered, he would make his break.
It was late afternoon when the bounty man spied a shimmering reflection in the tunnel ahead. The last of the light struck a gleam off something metallic at the base of a wall. An unnatural shape lay there unmoving. It might have been a vision, the product of his fevered brain driven to the edge of madness by thirst. He shook his head and looked again. Something was there, something not a part of the natural formation.
The thark saw it as well and spurred his mount to a gallop. The bounty man increased his pace from a shamble to an awkward trot, moving as fast as his hobble would allow. His head swam with each renewed effort. A searing pain lanced through his skull just behind his eyes. He gasped for air as the effort robbed him of wind. The thark was there long before him and, by the time he’d caught up, Kal was dismounted and inspecting the unusual object that lay partly buried beneath a slide of rock scree. The bounty man dropped to his knees, spent by his exertions and near passing out.
It was an airship.
It had crashed here long ago, that was evident from the rust forming along its armored hull as well as the condition of the once finely crafted upper works of ebon wood. Insects, unknowable generations of them, had been at the gunwales and planking turning them to brittle remains that crumbled to powder under the slightest touch. It was a trade ship, that was clear enough. Wide abeam with only a single heavy gun mounted behind its prow.
The ship lay canted to starboard hard against the face of the cliff. Someone had piloted it down here in a last desperate gambit. Either mechanical difficulties had arisen, or the craft was being pursued by a more powerful ship either during a time of war or an unfortunate encounter with pirates. The force of the crash had weakened a section of the canal wall which sheared off to crush the craft and add to the damage the crash had done.
No sign of the crew remained. They had either been thrown to their deaths upon impact or attempted to escape on foot. Or their carcasses dragged off and consumed by carnivores long ago. In any case, their fates were decided centuries before when this relic met its end.
A tubular steel structure lay partly buried where it was mounted along the ship’s port side. It ran most of the length of the ship and was a sort of steel nacelle with a surface crusted orange with powdered rust. Though dented in places, it was not punctured or pitted through that he could see. It was bigger around than even his arms could reach, and he wondered at its contents.
Special Note: GUNS OF MARS is now available in a hardcover edition. It is available at Amazon and at NDM Express.
