Recoil

by David Sherman

  By now a curious crowd had gathered. It was obvious and disheartening to Hannah and the boys that most of the people in the crowd were pleased at what was happening. Although they had voted to keep Moses among them, few had been happy with that decision. For the first time, Hannah Brattle began to doubt that the spirit of Christ still dwelt with the City of God.

  “Now leave!” Zechariah commanded the scientists. Gobels and Fogel scuttled off with their precious burden. Zechariah was certain Gobels was laughing hysterically as he climbed back into the hopper. He turned to the crowd. “We all have our duty,” he said bitterly, “and I have just done mine. Go home now and leave us in peace.” He stomped back into the house without saying another word to anyone. It was fully a month before either Hannah or the boys would even speak to him.

  Dr. Gobels’s Laboratory, Wellfordsville, Earth

  “Mumeeeee! Mumeeee!” Moses screamed, but the pain and terror only got worse.

  “Uh, don’t you think we ought to lighten up on him?” Fogel asked. “If it dies”—he shrugged—“we’re in the shit.”

  “A moment, a moment! This thing tolerates pain very well, Fogel. One more jolt,” Gobels said, and twisted a dial on the control panel. Moses shrieked. “Look! The heart rate has not increased appreciably, Fogel! That much current would knock out a human being. Truly amazing.” He turned off the machine and Moses, sobbing and gasping, went silent. “These things were bioengineered, Fogel. Bioengineered to endure pain and hardship. That is why it hasn’t succumbed to what we’ve done to it! I believe aside from deliberately killing it there’s nothing we can do with our tests that will permanently harm the thing.”

  Lying in his cage, Moses quietly murmured what sounded like a name to Fogel. “Well, it certainly feels pain, Doctor. You know, I think it’s calling for its mother.”

  “Ridiculous, Fogel! Ridiculous. The thing has no mother. It was designed, I tell you, bioengineered.”

  “Well, that Brattle woman—?”

  “Oh, come now! What’s gotten in to you, Fogel? They were attached to the thing the way many people are attached to their pets. Obviously it was birthed while the Skinks were fighting us on Kingdom and somehow got separated from its litter when they took off in such a hurry. I’ve never been able to understand that, how people can become so attached to dumb animals.”

  “But it’s not a dumb animal, sir. It’s educable. It has learned Standard English; it has a vocabulary, emotions, that’s obvious. It thinks the Brattle woman is its mother.”

  “Oh, humbug! Well, of course we know the adults are highly intelligent, Fogel. They have a highly developed technology, FTL capability, are highly organized. Yes, a formidable species, no doubt. But don’t forget how poorly this one did on the intelligence tests.”

  “Well, it has been under considerable stress, sir. I didn’t do well on exams either after a night out on the town.”

  “No, no, no, Fogel! This one was bred to have a low order of intellect. But our goal here is not to make friends or pets of the damned things, it’s to find out what makes them tick and then use that against them. Look, prepare it for another gastrointestinal probe, will you. Feed it first and set the monitors to work their way through its system in twenty-four hours.”

  “Again? The damned thing will start that screaming all over, boss!”

  “Yes, again! If your ears are too sensitive, go outside. I don’t care if they hurt the thing or not; they won’t kill it.”

  “There was considerable blood in its stool last time, Doctor.”

  “Set it up, Fogel! Now, dammit. I want to do another analysis of its stomach acids and its fecal material. Its digestive system is almost like our own, truly amazing, and I want to pin that down, Fogel, pin it right down. Analysis, analysis, analysis, Fogel! Facts and figures, man. We are on the verge of a tremendous breakthrough here. Well, get to it, man, get to it!”

  Gobels had not taken Moses to Fargo and Universal Labs. He did not even report that he had found Moses. He returned to Earth on his own, to a small town known as Wellfordsville in the hills of what had been the state of Virginia during the age of the United States. There he had his own laboratory. It was where he planned to conduct his examination in his own time and in his own way.

  The first thing Gobels did was to view a series of trids taken by combat reporters embedded with the Confederation forces during the war on Kingdom. He compared the physical features of adult Skinks with those displayed by Moses. “Compare the teeth.” He pointed them out to Fogel. “See how sharp they are on the adults but those on our specimen are closer in form to our own. Pointed, yes, but still very much like our own. They’ve been dentified on the adults, not bred that way but fixed some time after birth. Extraordinary! It has a four-chambered heart and pituitarylike glands in the brain that regulate its body temperature, like the mammals of Earth. We’ve compared voice patterns from the sound on the vids to the voice of our own Skink. His is not as harsh and guttural as those of the adults, but that’s probably because it’s not fully mature yet.”

  “Yes, and language analysis has identified fricatives very much like those of human speech,” Fogel pointed out. “We need to subject them to analysis by an expert.”

  Gobels shrugged. “Not of interest to me, Fogel. We aren’t trying to communicate with the bastards, only finding out how best to kill them.”

  “I think the Marines know how to do that already,” Fogel said drily.

  “Not just shoot them up, Fogel, but wipe them out as a species before they wipe us out! Damn, you’ve got to think big! Now, look at this”—he produced a printout of Moses’s blood analysis—“these fatty oils in the blood. Something very strange, very unnatural about these oils, Fogel. Perhaps they aid in maintaining body temperature, but they’re highly volatile. When the creatures are struck with any kind of flame—and poof! That’s why we haven’t been able to recover a dead one from the battlefield! Brilliant! Amazing! The thought that has gone into engineering these creatures.” Gobels shook his head. “We’re dealing with scientific geniuses here, Fogel, no doubt about it! And look at the gill slits along the lateral sides of the thorax. They’re vestigial, but with a minor surgical operation they can be altered so the things can breathe underwater! Truly amazing! Fogel, we’ve only scratched the surface here. In a couple of days I’ll have the results of some definitive tests I’ve been running and then we’ll have a complete picture of what this thing is made of!”

  “Do you think we’ll find out it has a soul after all?” Fogel asked archly.

  “Your sense of humor, Fogel, is wearing mighty thin on me. But you can laugh all the way into the history books when we publish our findings.”

  Zechariah Brattle’s Office, Interstellar City, Kingdom

  Zechariah Brattle rubbed a hand wearily across his brow. He’d been had, hoodwinked, fooled and he was sick to the depths of his soul that he could have let the scientists get away with it. His routine inquiry to Universal Labs in Fargo on Earth had just been returned. According to the lab, Dr. Joseph Gobels was still on Kingdom and had reported nothing about finding a living Skink. “If you have any further information on this matter, please communicate it to us at once as it may be of the greatest importance to the Confederation,” the message concluded. There was no denying the imperious tone of the message or that it was perfectly justified.

  “So what am I to do?” Zechariah asked himself aloud. “Admit how serious a mistake I made?” He smashed a fist onto his desk in frustration. Well, admitting to that publicly wouldn’t be half as bad as when he told Hannah and the boys that Moses had been kidnapped by a pair of rogue scientists. He thought about taking it to the Lord in prayer. “No, Lord,” he said quietly, “You have given me this cup for a reason and I’ve got to drink from it.”

  So what does a man do when God has given him a job and then stands back to see how well he handles it? Zechariah knew. “Lord, I’ll try this first,” he said aloud, and then he sat down and wrote a long letter, which he
sent by FTL drone to the one person he knew who could help him. He sent it to Charlie Bass.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  SEVEN

  Office of the Commanding General, Task Force Aguinaldo, Camp Swampy, Arsenault

  The rain fell in sheets outside the headquarters building. General Aguinaldo had set up his training base in the tropical region of Arsenault because he was certain the Skinks came from a watery world and he believed that when the place was finally discovered his Marines and soldiers would have to be prepared to fight them there under the worst conditions. His mission was twofold: to find their home world and destroy them once and for all, and to be prepared at a moment’s notice to fight them if and when they appeared again anywhere in Human Space. But just then he was not quite ready to do either, at least not with the forces currently available.

  Colonel Rene Raggel, late aide to General Davis Lyons, who had commanded the secessionist army on Ravenette, sat quietly in General Aguinaldo’s office, waiting for him to return from a staff conference. The Marine corporal who was Aguinaldo’s enlisted aide had given him a delicious cup of coffee and told him to make himself comfortable. Raggel was tired. He had only just arrived from Ravenette, but his orders had been to report immediately and directly to the task force commander. So there he sat, still dripping from the downpour outside. When he’d first arrived at Camp Alpha, Arsenault’s main spaceport, he’d been impressed by the beauty of the world in that northern hemisphere. But deep in the tropics in the middle of the monsoon season, he wasn’t so sure anymore about the “beauty” of the place. And, of course, everyone was still talking about the tsunami that had killed so many in that region only recently.

  The room was not climate-controlled and one of the windows was open. The roar of the rain was muted but it was a constant background noise. A damp breeze wafted in through the window. It actually felt good. Suddenly several tiny blue flashes winked at the window. Obviously the building was equipped with some form of the commercial Silent Guard system that fricasseed insects trying to fly through it. Raggel was getting comfortable. That breeze, laden with moisture as it was, felt delicious. He wondered what it’d be like in the room without the Silent Guard system. If he sat there much longer, Colonel Raggel realized, he’d doze off.

  He yawned and looked around the room. It was absolutely bare of the usual memorabilia with which flag officers decorated their office suites. A stand directly behind the general’s desk held three flags: Confederation of Human Worlds, Confederation Marine Corps, and one with two gold novas—the insignia of the Marine Corps Commandant, which Aguinaldo had been before being given command of this task force. As the rank of commandant was also the position—the Marine Corps only had one person of that rank at a time—he wondered what insignia Aguinaldo was wearing as a full general—a rank the Confederation Marines hadn’t had before Aguinaldo received this assignment. It was a Spartan office. Raggel smiled. This General Aguinaldo and Raggel’s erstwhile commander, General Davis Lyons, had in common a disdain for military pomp. He liked that.

  “Keep your seat!” Aguinaldo said as he burst suddenly through the door. “Johnny!” he called to his enlisted aide, “another cup of joe in here! Refill, Colonel?” He extended his hand to Raggel and shook it hard, then plopped into the chair next to him at the small coffee table. He stretched his legs out and sighed. “Damn staff conferences, endless conferences, Colonel, you know what I’m talking about.”

  Colonel Raggel regarded Aguinaldo carefully. He was dressed in a combat field uniform, as was everyone he’d seen at the headquarters. He was short, sinewy, his dark complexion bespeaking more of his Filipino father than his Dutch mother. He was not an awesome person—he did not try to overpower people with a “commanding” presence—but he was a man who radiated confidence and energy. And Raggel’s insignia question was answered; Aguinaldo wore four silver novas on each collar, one more than any other Confederation Marine Corps general officer.

  The corporal served Aguinaldo’s coffee and poured some more into Raggel’s cup. “May I call you Rene, Colonel? Thanks, Johnny,” he told the corporal, “please shut the door and tell Dottie we’re not to be disturbed, will you?” Dottie was the Marine commander who ran Aguinaldo’s personal staff and his office, which included keeping his daily agenda.

  Aguinaldo regarded Colonel Raggel over the rim of his coffee cup. “Think we’ll have rain, Colonel?”

  “Intermittent showers, sir. Quite normal for this time of the year,” Raggel replied, and they laughed. Even though he had no idea why he had been called there, by name, from Ravenette, the Marine’s personality was having its effect. Raggel was beginning to relax in Aguinaldo’s presence.

  “Rene,” Aguinaldo began, “I know you just got down here, haven’t had a chance to check in, get quarters even, but we’ve a lot to do and I want you to start right now. To make a long story short, Rene, when I went out looking for reliable officers to work with me getting my task force combat-ready, your name came up. You worked with General Cazombi, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I worked with him on the surrender terms and POW repatriation process after General Lyons surrendered our army.”

  “I know. I know we were on opposite sides in that war. But that was then, this is now. The president has ordered that we forget all that. The Coalition worlds are back in the Confederation and we are facing a mutual danger far, far more potent than the late, short-lived secessionist ambitions. I need good men to face that threat, and you, Rene, have been recommended to me as someone I can rely on.”

  Raggel wiped a drop of perspiration running down the side of his cheek.

  “Wondering why it’s not climate-controlled in here, Colonel?” Aguinaldo asked with a grin.

  “Um, it is rather warm in here, sir.”

  “We believe the Skink home world is very much like it is here right now: hot and wet. We’re training to invade that place when we find out where it is. So I am acclimating the task force for those conditions—and that includes my staff and me. Get used to life in the tropics, Colonel.”

  “Very good, sir. May I ask to whom the honor goes for recommending me?”

  “Volunteered you is more like it.” Aguinaldo grinned. “Alistair Cazombi. You’ve had police experience, Rene?”

  Raggel had come to like General Cazombi very much but the question surprised him. “Yes, sir, but that was a long time ago.”

  Aguinaldo leaned forward and placed his coffee cup carefully on the table. “Okay, Rene, here it is. I have a military police battalion that’s been assigned to my task force. It’s full of misfits and virtually useless as a military unit. I want you to take command of this battalion, knock it into shape. You have unlimited authority to do that. Promote, demote, transfer anyone who doesn’t cut the mustard. Whatever equipment or training they need, you ask and you shall receive. You have thirty days from today to get those duds ready for training. For all I know, we may not even have that much time. This could be a come-as-you-are war, Rene; the Skinks could show up anywhere at any time and we’ll be off to the races. That is why you’ll see no dress uniforms of any kind in this task force, combatticals only, because we have to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Can you handle this assignment? I’m not asking if you will—you have no choice—but I’m asking if you can.”

  “Uh, sir, that sergeant major sitting in the outer office—?” On the way in Raggel had nodded casually at the senior noncom sitting stiffly in a corner, a massive man with bumps on his clean-shaven head. He’d noticed the crossed pistols on his uniform, the traditional insignia of the Military Police Corps, and wondered what the man was doing sitting outside the task force commander’s office.

  “That is Command Sergeant Major Krampus Steiner, formerly the senior NCO of the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion. Dottie will give you the personnel records for every man—and the one woman—in the battalion. Go over them with Steiner. Dottie’ll give you an office to work in. See if you want to keep St
einer. If you do, fine; if not, get rid of him. But I think you’ll want to keep him. Oh, I’ll formally introduce you to the rest of my staff after you’ve vetted the Seventh’s personnel files and selected whom you want to work with down there.

  “So I ask you again, Rene, can you work with these guys and make something out of them?”

  “Yes, sir, I can.”

  “Good! Dottie!” he shouted, “send the sergeant major in here right now!”

  Headquarters, Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion, Fort Keystone, Arsenault

  Colonel Raggel and Sergeant Major Steiner sat in a small office cubicle just down the hall from General Aguinaldo’s office, methodically going through a manning roster and personnel summary sheets on the men and one woman currently assigned to the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion. With Steiner’s help—mainly his candid appraisal of each man—Raggel formed two piles of summaries: on the left, those who would be sent home; on the right, the ones who’d remain assigned to the battalion. The left-hand stack was very small, by comparison, and consisted mostly of officers and noncoms and a few other ranks whose records revealed total inexperience or monumental incompetence or men about whom Steiner had nothing good to say. That stack consisted only of the worst incompetents and drunkards. Colonel Raggel soon came to realize that if drinking to excess were the only criterion for sending a man home, the Seventh Independent Military Police would soon cease to exist.

  Conspicuously missing was the sheet of Lieutenant Colonel Delbert Cogswell, the officer who commanded the battalion on Ravenette. He had retired as soon as the battalion had been repatriated. “A decent enough officer, Colonel,” Steiner had remarked, “but too fond of the booze.” Steiner did not drink, at least not to excess, a rarity in the Seventh MPs, and he despised those who did, although under Colonel Cogswell he had been powerless to do anything about it. Things had changed. Raggel had gone over Steiner’s sheet first. A professional police officer in civilian life, he had earned several citations for bravery and two or three complaints for excessive use of force. When Raggel asked him about those incidents he had replied, “I only beat the bastards that deserved beating. Ya gotta understand, Colonel, when ya deal with scum sometimes they gits to ya.” Raggel had decided on that basis, and his sobriety, to keep Steiner as his sergeant major.