by Peter David
“Shelby, you’re going to have to lock it down,” Kemper told her.
“You think you can do better?” Shelby demanded. She shoved the tricorder at him. “Fine. I have an idea. You lock it down.” She moved toward one of the rock walls of the canyon and said, “I’ll just stand over here and tell you about everything you’re doing wro—”
She vanished, letting out a sharp cry as she did so.
“What the hell…?” Travers cried out.
“I think she found him,” said Kemper dryly. “Holowall. Nice.” He reached forward into the area through which Shelby had disappeared. Calhoun tried to get to her, but Kemper put up a hand. “Keep back,” he said, feeling around, his arm having disappeared up to the shoulder into the illusion of a wall. Then he grunted, pulled, and Shelby stumbled back into the bright Xenexian daylight. “Good work, Shelby,” Kemper said.
“He must have found some sort of cave entrance and then created this to cover it,” said Travers. He ran his fingers through it. “Clever bastard.”
“What’s on the other side, Shelby?” asked Kemper. “Give us a preview.” But she shook her head. “Too dark to tell. I could have been surrounded by God knows what in there, five inches from my face, and I wouldn’t have seen it. Hold on.” She brought her tricorder right up to the phantom wall and took readings through it.
“You sure you can trust what you’re getting off there?” asked Langdon.
She nodded with conviction. “Definitely. There’s nothing actually here to deflect the readings. Tricorder’s getting no life readings from the other side.”
“All right. Goggles, everyone.”
Within moments they had all pulled day/night goggles from their packs and adjusted them over their eyes. “On line,” said Kemper, as the goggle-phaser interface came on, providing them with targeting arrays over their eyes to facilitate phaser fire.
In two-by-two formation they moved through the wall, emerging into a darkened area on the other side. Calhoun and Kemper were the first two through, back to back, aiming their phasers all around to make certain that the corners of the room were vacant. Then came Shelby and Langdon, followed by Fitzhugh and Travers. Each of them made damned sure that there was no imminent threat. There was, in fact, not much of anything. Just a large, empty room.
“He carved this out of solid rock,” murmured Calhoun. “Very impressive.”
“I want to see less impressive stuff and more targets,” replied Kemper.
Carefully they made their way across the room, encountering no obstacles. They got to a door at the far wall, which was locked. Calhoun aimed his phaser and fired off a shot. It cut through the lock easily and he pulled the door open.
Something huge and black-furred and extremely crazed-looking screeched directly into his face.
Calhoun slammed the door and said, “We may have a problem.”
And then from the shadows overhead, dark beyond even the ability of their goggles to penetrate, creatures started dropping down. Creatures of all shapes, all sizes. They hadn’t been there moments before, but Calhoun spotted trapdoors and hidden entrances snapping open, pouring out more of the nightmarish, malformed monstrosities that were charging them with the clear intent of ripping them to pieces.
“We may have a big problem,” amended Calhoun.
ii.
Dr. Marius Bethom could not have been happier.
He sat in the innermost chamber of his lab and smiled at the spectacle that was occurring on the viewscreen. In his lap was a very small animal that looked like a cross between a gerbil and a tribble, round and furry but with a small head and little legs. He called it “Gribble,” which was intended to be amusing. He idly stroked Gribble as he watched the proceedings.
Another creature was also watching, barely a foot away from it. It was much larger than Gribble. It was almost as large as Bethom himself. Its gaze was as fixed on the viewscreen as Bethom’s was.
Five or six Starfleet personnel had opted to intrude into his place of residence. Without so much as an invitation! The idea! It was…it was monstrous, was what it was. Bethom’s sensibilities were sorely offended at the trespass.
Fortunately he had a remedy for such an offense, a remedy that he had just unleashed.
For some reason his mind spiraled back to his childhood, when his mother would read to him from a centuries-old writer named A. A. Milne, who liked to write about curiously mutated stuffed toys. Indeed, it had been those early readings that had first piqued Bethom’s interest in such things as animals that were in some way beyond what nature had intended. And in those books, the mutated pig toy was convinced that he had an uncle named “Trespassers Will,” which was undoubtedly short for “Trespassers William,” all because of a sign erected nearby his domicile that bore that inscription. The humor of the moment was aimed purely at adults, of course, for children would not comprehend that the sign had obviously once said “Trespassers will be prosecuted” or perhaps simply “shot,” but with part of the sign having fallen away in disrepair, the brainless toy had drawn a false conclusion.
Bethom decided that, once the Federation intruders had been disposed of, he would put up a sign that read “Trespassers Will” in the main entrance. It would amuse him, and perhaps even cause a mild chuckle for further intruders before they, likewise, were annihilated.
The good doctor was tall and thin, with black hair smoothed back into a widow’s peak. His skin was sallow, which was not all that surprising considering that he’d spent much of the past several years remaining inside whenever possible. His eyes were set wide apart, his nose was large but not hideously so. When he was nervous, his hands tended to move in a fluttery manner. He was not nervous now, however. One of his hands was calmly petting Gribble, and with the other he reached out and ruffled the fur of the rather large creature nearby. It was one of which he had become particularly fond, and it appeared to show great potential for future endeavors. He ran his fingers affectionately through the beast’s fur as he whispered, “Now watch. Watch your brothers and sisters have fun.”
He watched the flashes of phaser fire, which he had known would come. He saw the ricochets off the sleek metal walls, heard the howls of pain. It had been so predictable. He knew perfectly well that if Starfleet sent in someone, they’d be armed with their precious directed-energy weapons. Not a problem to thwart at all, if one simply put a little brainpower to it. His animals had been specially bred to be highly resistant to any setting short of full demolecularization. The Starfleeters would naturally begin with something a little less lethal, not realizing just how dire their straits were. They would quickly discover that their assailants wouldn’t be stopped by anything as routine as a stun setting. But any stray shots would bounce off the specially treated wall. Which meant that if the Starfleeters kicked the setting up to a lethal level but missed their targets—which, in this darkened space, would certainly be a likelihood—then they’d be dodging their own phaser shots. Chances were they wouldn’t be able to dodge them for long. Yes, some of the animals would likely be killed, but Bethom could always make more animals.
Oh, but certainly their clever Starfleet devices had built-in targeting systems. He smiled thinly as he looked at the blinking lights on his console. The lights that informed him that the scrambling system was nicely on line, thoroughly frustrating any devices they might have with them that facilitated targeting.
He heard the shouts and cries, and laughed. A voice was shouting “Cease fire! We’re hitting ourselves!” and another cried out, “They’re everywhere!” and yet another called, “Like hell I’ll cease fire!” More phaser blasts then, more shouts, more cries. Bethom laughed louder. The creature next to him looked at him in curiosity. “Don’t mind me, my friend,” Bethom told him. “I’m simply having a very, very good day.”
There was always the chance they might send more. Certainly when these didn’t report back, there would be that inclination. But more teams would meet the same fate. And for that matter, Bethom had backups, other pla
ces he could hide out. They would never catch him, and he would be able to continue his work unharassed.
Then Bethom heard a shriek. A shriek of pain, of fear, of pure terror, and a sudden death rattle. It was not, however, from a human throat. It was from one of his animals.
This piqued Bethom’s curiosity. Was it possible that one of the Starfleeters had gotten lucky? Managed to pick off one of his animals?
But that was when Bethom realized the weapons fire had stopped. The animal screaming, however, was continuing. High-pitched, angry, wounded, frightened. And there was another death rattle, and some sort of thick “splutch” sounds, as if someone was halving watermelons, and then another sound, a snarl. But it wasn’t one of the animals. Bethom was sure of that. It was a snarl from a human throat, except it sounded even more animalistic than some of the animals.
“What the hell is going on down there?” he wondered, even as the sounds of combat continued.
And then they stopped. Just like that, there was nothing.
Obviously the fighting was over. Yet Bethom would have thought that, once the initial battle was completed, he would hear more sounds. The sounds of flesh being rent, of bones being snapped up. Of tearing and chewing and slurping as the creatures dined upon the carcasses of their prey. Obviously it had to go in that direction. These were animals, after all. There were just some things that happened naturally.
Yet there was no noise at all. Just a deadly silence.
He reached forward to his control panel and brought up the lights. He had to see what was transpiring down in a room that should have been running red with human blood.
There was plenty of blood, all right. But for the most part, it wasn’t human.
Most of the humans were either unconscious or barely conscious. But they were most definitely alive, because even from this distance Bethom could see that there were no mortal wounds on any of them. Some had been struck by stray phaser blasts, others had been physically roughed up by the animals. None of them were dead, though.
And there was one who was very, very active.
He was crouched over the fallen form of one of the Starfleeters, who appeared to be a female. She was waving him off, clearly trying to convey that she was all right. Slowly he stood then, flexing his arms. His clothes were torn and he was covered with blood, but Bethom had the sick feeling that almost none of it was his own.
He was clutching something in his right hand. It was a sword, the blade slick with blood.
And his creatures…his beautiful creations…they were everywhere, and none of them in one piece. Arms, legs, torsos, cut apart, brutalized.
The man was standing in profile, but Bethom could still make out that his mouth was curled back in a snarl. His hair was hanging all about his face, and it likewise was thick with blood. He had a beard, and there seemed to be some sort of throbbing red line down the side of his face that was pulsing steadily. He looked even less human than a number of the animals that lay scattered about the room.
He’d slaughtered them. Slaughtered them all. He had hauled out a sword (and what the hell was he doing carrying a sword) and had simply waded into the midst of the attack wave and he’d just…just cut them all to pieces.
Didn’t the fool have any comprehension of what he’d done? He was the one who was in the wrong here. He was the villain of the piece, and yet he probably considered himself some sort of brave hero, fighting the forces of darkness and chopping them to bits all in the name of the glorious Federation.
“Butcher,” he breathed, and then he shouted, “Butcher!”
Incredibly, the man on the screen suddenly turned and stared straight out of the monitor, as if he’d heard the doctor’s defiant howl. “Bethom!” he snarled. “I know you’re watching! I’m coming for you, you bastard!”
One of the men in the room shouted after him, saying something that sounded like “Calhoun.” But this “Calhoun” ignored it. Instead he headed out the nearest door, swinging his sword in anticipation like the reaper with his scythe.
Bethom wasn’t concerned at first. The place was like a labyrinth. Calhoun would be searching forever and still would never find the proper route to Bethom’s location.
Except as he switched to views from other cameras, he was horrified to see that Calhoun was moving with swiftness and certainty. Any time he came to a junction which could potentially have sent him off in another direction, he paused a moment and then actually seemed to be sniffing the air. Then he would keep on going, heading invariably and inevitably in Bethom’s direction.
“Are you afraid, Bethom?” Calhoun bellowed as he made his way through the corridors. “Afraid to fight me man-to-man? Afraid to face me without hiding behind these things you’ve created? At least they took me on! At least they attacked! You sent them to their deaths and didn’t give a damn about it.”
“They weren’t supposed to die,” snarled Bethom. “You were. And you will.”
Calhoun couldn’t hear him, or at least Bethom didn’t think he could hear him. Then again, it seemed with this madman that anything was possible. He kept on coming, right turn, then another right, then left, and actually seemed to pick up speed.
Bethom stood quickly, sliding Gribble in his pocket to keep him safe, and collided squarely with the creature who was next to him, watching the monitor raptly. He looked down at the creature and said, “This is it. This is your moment of glory. He’s heading here, but I’m going to be gone by the time he arrives. Instead he’s going to find you waiting for him. Kill him. Or, failing that, buy me enough time to get away.”
The creature, crouching low to the floor, stared up at Bethom. There was clear skepticism in his eyes. He looked back to the monitor, back to Bethom, and then determinedly shook his head.
“No?” Bethom could scarcely breathe. “You’re telling me no? Me? How dare you!”
He kicked out at the creature, the blow taking the creature solidly in the shoulder and knocking him over. He wasn’t at all concerned that the monster might turn on him. He had enough safeguards built into the creature’s psyche to insure that such a happenstance could never occur. “You will do as I say!” he shouted, and kicked the creature once more while it was down. Then he drew in a few deep breaths to calm himself, and snapped, “Get up!” He pointed at the far door. “He’ll come in through there! Get ready! Keep him busy so that I’ll have enough time to slip out through there.”
The creature lumbered toward the door. Bethom was certain it had a far better shot against this Calhoun than any of his other creations. For starters, it was more massive. And second, his experiments with the thing’s intellect had succeeded beyond what he could have hoped for. It wasn’t remotely as smart as a human yet, but it would be able to match Calhoun barbarian tactic for barbarian tactic.
The creature was standing directly in front of the door that Calhoun would inevitably have to enter, since it was the only way in or out. Bethom angrily chided himself for the oversight, but really, how could he possibly have foreseen this?
Bethom readied himself at the far end of the room. He risked a glance over at the monitor, saw that Calhoun was almost there. This would work. He was certain it would work. It had to work.
The door slid open and there was Calhoun, sword in hand, looking even more fearsome in person than he had on the screen.
The great furred creature was waiting for him.
Calhoun swung his sword down in a stroke that would have cleft the beast from sternum to crotch had it landed. But the creature was as agile as Bethom could have hoped for. He lunged to one side, avoiding the sweep of the sword, and grabbed Calhoun roughly with one hand from behind and another hand on Calhoun’s sword arm. Calhoun twisted around, trying to get at him with his free hand, but the creature was too strong and it had happened too quickly.
I’m not going to have to escape after all! He’s going to kill him! Bethom thought with joy.
And then Bethom saw a glint of grim satisfaction in the creature’s eye, right b
efore it heaved Calhoun straight at Bethom himself.
Bethom gave an alarmed yelp and tried to get out of the way, but it did no good. Calhoun crashed into him and they both tumbled to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Bethom tried to extricate himself, to go for the sword that Calhoun had in his hand. No chance. In an instant Calhoun was atop Bethom, and he had the sword whipped around and pointed right at Bethom’s throat.
“Dr. Bethom, I presume,” he grated.
“Get him!” Bethom shouted to the crouching creature nearby. “Kill him, you great furry oaf!”
But the animal to whom he was shouting was busy picking small bugs out of his fur. He paused in his idle pursuit to exchange looks with Calhoun.
“Nice watchdog you got there,” Calhoun said to the cowering Bethom, who now had his hands up in the universal sign of surrender.
And then very slowly…very deliberately…the “watchdog” said, “Thank…you…”
Both men froze and stared at him. He tilted his head and although he didn’t—couldn’t—smile, there was still a faint merriment in his eyes.
“It talks.” Calhoun looked at Bethom. “It talks?”
“I…I was working toward it…but I…I didn’t think…the chemical balances, I didn’t think I’d gotten them right, I…”
“You…did…” said the furry creature, again taking excessive time between each word, as if it took every bit of focus and concentration he had to produce the sounds.
“But…but why haven’t you said anything until now?”
“Be…cause…I…don’t…like…you…”
“Just what I’ve always wanted to meet,” said Calhoun, as he hauled the stunned Bethom to his feet. “A genetic monstrosity with good taste.”
In one of the most bizarrely self-contradictory things that either man had ever seen, the creature bowed slightly and said, “Now…you…have.”
Bethom watched his creation and, even though the thing had betrayed him to his enemies, he nevertheless felt a brief swell of pride.
“Damn, I’m good,” he said.