Crash

by Guy Haley

  So they sat tight, running for cover whenever the creatures showed themselves. He’d cleared a fire zone as best he could. He would have cleared the whole riverbank, but the thorns were proof against fire and his attempts to fell them had not proceeded as quickly as he would like. Disagreement from the council. Talk of ecology. Direction of resources to causes more pressing. His efforts were frustrated. After the first eruption of terror at the destruction of the patrol five months ago, the council’s concerns had diminished. The creatures – Anderson refused to call them ‘natives’ or ‘indigenes’; they were animals, as far as he could tell – left the outlying structures alone, and had not made it into the camps. The council had come to see the natives as nuisances, things that plucked at their fences and then departed. Leonid could have swayed them, so many of the council looked to him instinctively, but he was too naive to see the danger, too weak to recognise his own power.

  Anderson could not let that continue. He did not like to have the Pointer so close at times like this – he was a distraction during combat, and in danger – but the boy had to see.

  A movement in the grass far out. A ripple, then a second, third, fourth. A shot cracked through the air: Buleweyo, atop the hospital. A good sniper.

  “Hit?” said Anderson.

  “Maybe,” breathed Buleweyo over the radio. Her voice was intense with concentration. Anderson heard her spotter softly counting off the range in the background.

  A burst of fire. Three rounds. Tuttuttut, noises of disapproval. No bangs from the propellant discharge; the guns were all top of the range, all silenced. Anderson thought about disabling the weapons’ suppression. The noise might scare the creatures off.

  “Hold your fire!” shouted Anderson. He shouldn’t have to say it. Ammunition was scarce.

  Thorn-tipped branches moved along the banks. Anderson estimated three – no, four – groups of eight. They came always as eights. The creatures burst out into the cleared zone on the river bank five hundred metres away. This was the effective point range of his men’s carbines, or was on human targets. Their weapons lacked the stopping power to penetrate the natives’ carapaces except at extreme close quarters.

  The creatures came in fast. They resembled the tiger beetles that roamed the deeper desert, but only in the same way a horse resembles a giraffe. The biology here was so alien, it was taking Anderson a long time to tell species apart. The basic physiology was the same: high backs, large thick shells, leg clusters, nothing that a human would ever call a head. But they were smaller, about half the size of the beetles, narrower down the back. Their leg clusters divided and specialised, the front set becoming an array of hooked forelimbs. It was in the mouth rakes the biggest difference was found; each rake split into two jointed sub-limbs, which ended in three-fingered manipulators. Four hands, although Anderson could not bring himself to call them hands. Unlike the other anatomical terms he had assigned to the creature’s bodies, ‘hand’ was too freighted with implications of humanity.

  The natives’ backs bore overlapping plates that curved under them to protect their bellies. The carapace flared out at what Anderson thought of as the shoulders. Like the tiger beetles, the mouths were obvious and cruel, including a retractable proboscis set around with rasps and hooks. They did not possess anything that looked like an eye or other sensory organ; how and what they sensed was anyone’s guess. An autopsy was needed, but every one they had managed to kill had been carried off by its fellows. The few samples they had of the planet’s other lifeforms gave them only the broadest understanding of the local biology. Anderson had the obtainment of a native for the colony biologists set at high priority.

  “Hold fire until they hit the two-hundred-metre line,” he broadcast. “Short burst and single fire only; every wasted round is a demerit for the soldier concerned. Ten earns you punishment detail.”

  The natives came at a shambling run. They looked ungainly, comical, a limping man carrying a boat on his back. Anderson was not human, and did not make errors of estimation. The creatures were fast, well-armoured, and intelligent.

  Anderson took away his binoculars, collapsed them, and placed them into a case at his belt. The creatures were near enough. He thumbed the safety of his weapon off.

  At two hundred metres, Anderson gave the order to open fire.

  Bullets shushed through the air, the muted pop of the carbines almost gentle. The machine guns were louder, but not much. The groups of eight natives split into smaller sub groups of four. They were animals that behaved like soldiers. There were thirty-two of them in all, nothing compared to the numbers of humans on the mesas, but the creatures were far tougher.

  “Squad Five, concentrate on the forward group,” said Anderson, as the creatures picked up speed. Rounds hit home, but the most evidence he saw was a stagger, and the onrush continued.

  “They are not dying,” said Leonid. “They’re not even wounded.”

  “No, sir,” said Anderson. “As I have said before, we need heavier weapons.”

  Three groups of four leapt at the base of the West Mesa, mouth arms and hook limbs grabbing at the rock. Another two groups went for the East Mesa. The remainder circled the rocks, heading for the vulnerable gates at the rear where the desert sloped upward. The creatures were out of the fire arcs of most of his men by now. Buleweyo continued to shoot at those climbing the West Mesa, some of the other men snapping off volleys when the opportunity presented itself.

  Anderson checked the courtyard. The civilians were secure indoors.

  The creatures gained the top of the mesa. They ignored the walls of the prefabricated buildings, instead heading for the chainlink fences between them. Another mistake. Anderson wanted the fences relocated to the cliff face, presenting a horizontal barrier. No time, the council said. No need.

  The aliens probed at the fence, snatching back their strange hands when electricity bit. They did not like the shocks, but did not appear to be harmed by them. His men shot at point-blank range, but did little to hurry them, and the creatures worked methodically along the fence. Eventually, they would work out that they could push through, if they would only bear the shock for a moment.

  The rattling of the gate guns announced the creatures’ arrival at the other side of the compound. Alien screams sounded, then ceased.

  Leonid was distracted, looking out at the creatures by the gate. Anderson went to the other side of the platform and pressed his radio’s button. “Sergeant Simbolon,” he said. “Stand ready.”

  DARIUSZ WAS IN the infirmary, a two-storey affair opposite the Command Centre and smaller logistics offices. Civilians crowded around one of the windows. The top floor was full, the lower level less so. The aliens were adept at climbing, but there was a sense of security inherent in height. Like monkeys in a tree, thought Dariusz. The longer they were on Nychthemeron, the more primitive they were becoming in thought. At first he’d put it down to the loss of the inChips – few of them were used to living unconnected – but there was more to it than that, a fogging of the conscious mind as reflex and survival drives took over in the face of pressure. It was the retreat of rationality before the advance of atavism. Dariusz prayed it would not turn into a rout.

  The buildings followed the angle of the mesa’s sides, bringing the courtyard to a triangular point. A prefabbed unit comprised the ground floor, and the first floor was two cargo containers welded together. The beds had been pushed to one side to allow more colonists refuge. The windows were cut out of the side of the containers facing over the courtyard, glazed with toughened glass baked out of the sand. There were none in the outer walls. Dariusz found it oppressive, and he was not alone.

  In the infirmary ward, there were eighty of them, including Dariusz’s team. A gasp went up from the crowd as one of the natives came into view in the gap between the Command Centre and the Logistics Office. Other human faces stared back at them from equally crammed, stuffy rooms. They craned their necks unsuccessfully to see what their fellows were pointing at.


  The native crept along the rock at the edge of the mesa, tapping at the electrified fence. It rose on its hindmost legs, periodically showing its leathery underbelly, the leg clusters and its hooked secondary forelimbs. The forelimbs were in constant motion, gripping at the cliff edge in what must have been an awkward manner for it. It brushed the fence at regular intervals with feathery fingers. Every time, the creature snatched them away, the hands of its opposing limb waving delicately in sympathy. Touch. Snatch. Touch. Snatch.

  The colonists watched as it passed along the gap toward Logistics.

  “Looking for a weak spot,” said Wróblewski.

  “Fascinating,” said Marina, who, now she was safe, was more interested than frightened.

  “It gives me the creeps,” said Günther. “A giant bug.”

  “It’s an alien lifeform,” said Marina. “Don’t you think that’s amazing?”

  “I wish it would just fuck off, I want to get my pipe finished in peace,” said Günther. Marina nudged him with her shoulder, and they grinned at each other. They were getting close, Dariusz had noticed.

  “We’re at the zoo,” said Wróblewski. He was standing on his tip-toes to see over the others. His breath stirred Dariusz’s hair. “But who is the exhibit and who the paying customer?”

  Touch. Snatch. Touch. Touch. Touch.

  Fingers curled around wire and gave an experimental tug.

  “Hey! What’s going on there?” said Günther.

  “The fence. Has the fence failed?” said someone.

  The native tugged hard. The fence was flimsy, and wobbled.

  The native was over and into the courtyard in the blink of an eye, the fence pushed to the ground under its weight. Mouthparts extended, it tasted the air in a manner the natives shared with the tiger beetles, fronds waving as its hooked cone quartered and opened. Its thin arms paddled as it shuffled around.

  “Have Anderson’s men noticed?” said Marina.

  “No,” said Günther. “Fucking amateurs. Come on.”

  Günther pulled at Dariusz’s arm. Wróblewski shouted, “What are you going to do? You’ve no weapons.” Then, to Dariusz in Polish: “This is insanity.”

  “We’ll get them to release the guns downstairs,” said Günther. “Come on!”

  The three men forced their way through the crowd. A hubbub rose up in the previously muted crowd. Panic, questions. Bodies in the room were tense, difficult to move past. Some pressed toward the window, others backed blindly away.

  A couple more colonists fell in behind them. They had to shove to get down the stairs to the lower floor, as colonists from the treatment room below were fleeing upwards. Gunfire came from outside, the muted pop of the troops’ carbines.

  “Now they notice,” said Günther.

  They emerged downstairs. Through the window they saw the alien move around the courtyard, as if it could not decide what to do now it had gained entrance. It pivoted around until it faced the comms tower directly. Then it rose up, arms waving, its rear end vibrating so rapidly it blurred.

  A rack of guns stood by the door of the infirmary, as they stood by the door in every building.

  “Release the weapons!” said Günther to the building warden.

  “Not without authorisation,” she said.

  “Then try your radio.”

  “There’s something wrong with it,” she said. Her hand cradled it protectively. It was giving out a regular bipping hum, shot through with loud crackles.

  She was not looking at Günther, but through the window. Three men approached the alien. It whipped around and dropped low as they opened fire, presenting its armour to them. Their bullets bit into its thick carapace as it lowered its shell and charged, scooping up one of the troops and smashing him against the wall of the infirmary with its flaring shoulders. The building boomed with the impact. The noise of the crowd upstairs turned fearful.

  “Give us the fucking guns!” shouted Günther.

  Dariusz’s mouth was dry. He was frightened. He tried his own radio. The same bipping noise. He could not raise the others.

  “Do as he says,” Dariusz said.

  “What?”

  “I outrank you. Release the weapons.”

  More guns joined the battle. The creature screeched. The prefab part of the infirmary was well insulated, but still the cry set their teeth on edge.

  “I’m the warden...”

  “Just do it!” shouted Dariusz. He pushed the woman aside. Günther snatched the key card from her hand and inserted it into the lock.

  “Lucky for us the inChips are down,” said Günther.

  The bar restraining the gun rack popped off. Five carbines. Günther handed them out – Dariusz, Wróblewski, and a man and a woman he vaguely knew.

  “You and you,” said Dariusz, pointing at two colonists wearing engineer’s markings. “Get over to the fence and get it fixed. Günther, let’s get behind it. Try not to get caught in the crossfire.” He was surprised at his own decisiveness; his knees felt like water.

  Dariusz opened the door a crack and shouted. “Hold fire, we’re coming out to reinforce you! We’re going to fix the fence. Keep it busy at the front.”

  Someone shouted back a hurried affirmative. Dariusz nodded. “One, two, three!” he said.

  They burst through the door.

  The cinnamony musk of the alien was choking. Bullets raised puffs from the sand as they charged behind it. “Check your fire!” shouted Dariusz. The two engineers headed to the fence. From the top of the Command Centre and comms tower, gunfire poured down the outside of the mesa. More of the natives were ascending to exploit the breach.

  Four of Anderson’s soldiers, reinforced by a small group of colonists, formed an arc in front of the native, drilling at it with their weapons. It charged, flinging another man into the air, skewering a second on its hooked secondary arms, grabbing a third up and dashing him into the ground with its four delicate hands. After every strike, it reoriented itself to the comms tower before another stab of fire drew it away. All the while, it screeched and roared, a din that distressed its human assailants, causing some to drop to their knees in pain.

  The leading edge of the native’s carapace was chipped and oozing. The sheer amount of weapons fire it was absorbing was finally taking its toll. Its movements became weaker, and it wavered from side to side.

  Dariusz’s group attacked from the rear. With its front carapace lowered, the alien’s vulnerable, leathery underside was exposed at the back. This was not the first time Dariusz had wielded a gun, but he had little formal military training, and he fumbled the settings as he tried to switch it to automatic. Günther had served long in the EFU armed forces, and raised his weapon to his shoulder, calm and collected. Wróblewski fired wildly from the hip. The creature was big enough to absorb most of his shots, but he was in danger of hitting some of their own side. There was too much going on and Dariusz was too terrified to say anything about it. Only later did it occur to him that he should have.

  The native waddled around as their bullets smashed into its underbelly. Fluid spurted from its wounds. It roared horribly, and scuttled back around as bullets from the other group wounded it again. By now the front of its shell was a cracked mess. Softer tissues welled up from inside, and blood bubbled from it. The native was losing strength, dying. It backed away toward the Command Centre.

  A shout, and Anderson’s men parted. Two soldiers assembled a tripod, slamming a heavy gun onto it, and opened fire, the louder noise joining the pop of the carbines. A line of large holes smashed into the creature’s armour, and it thrashed about. The cordon tightened. Someone called cease fire: save ammunition, let the machine gun do the work. A whoomph of gas, and a grenade launched from a trooper’s carbine skidded under the native’s body. The explosion made Dariusz and his group hit the floor. Legs blew free, scattered across the sand, one sliding to a halt by Dariusz’s nose. The creature screamed and screamed: it tried to get up, but could not. The screaming wen
t on and on. Dariusz dropped his gun and crawled back toward the infirmary. He had to get away from the screaming.

  A man in the black uniform of the Pointers’ troops marched up, teeth gritted against the native’s wails. He had a shotgun in hand. He racked a shell into the chamber one-handed, then placed the muzzle, point blank, against the native’s jaw plates.

  The crack of the carapace giving was louder than the noise of the gun. The native’s mouth collapsed inwards to a mush of shards and meat, chaos smashed out of order.

  The screaming stopped.

  The gunfire became sporadic, then dwindled to nothing.

  The assault was over.

  ANDERSON CALLED FOR shooting to stop, and the guns fell quiet. Leonid gaped at the mess in the courtyard. The monster was hidden in the lee of the Command Centre, but the signs of its rampage were everywhere. Bodies and body parts were scattered across the ground. The wounded were being seen to. Plenty more were dead. “Did you see...” Leonid said. “It got in. It got in.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Anderson.

  “You said... You said you needed heavier weapons?”

  “Yes, sir. Perhaps now we can re-examine our priorities?”

  The creatures withdrew, carrying their casualties away. Whether those downed were alive or dead, Anderson could not tell. A few of those fleeing leaked fluid from bullet holes, but were not noticeably affected. He ordered his men not to fire on them as they departed.

  So it had been every time they came, once a week, for the last five months.

  Now, thought Anderson. Now. “Sir, the council... It is putting us in danger. This stalemate, sir, it will not persist. They will keep coming until they get in and kill us all. They massacred the patrol. They will massacre us. The colony is in danger. You are in danger.”