Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “For a normal Kresh, yes, I agree. But let me boldly state the obvious. You are the offspring of the Seven Sisters. They were notorious for having non-Kresh attributes. I’m afraid that I detect such anomalies in you.”

  If he could, Chengal Ras would have killed the 73rd right then. For these insults, he yearned to see her blood gush from her hide.

  No, no, maintain decorum. She is recording me. She is analyzing my reactions. I am at a disadvantage in several categories. I must use my superior intellect to full effect or face a possible loss of rank.

  “It would appear that you are susceptible to heightened emotions,” Zama Dee said. “My indicators show you are angry.”

  “I have a tainted family line,” Chengal Ras said, as smoothly as he could. “It plagues me no matter how hard I try to expunge it from my chromosomes.”

  “Interesting,” Zama Dee said. “Is this a play for sympathy?”

  “No. It is simply a bald statement of fact.”

  “Hmm, the indictors show you are bringing your emotions under control.”

  “I note you feel free to imply insults,” he said. “Does this not indicate an emotive state upon you?”

  “I grow weary of this exchange,” she said. “I believe I have the evidence I need—”

  “My treatise is simple,” Chengal Ras said. “I believe human norms have advantages in certain situations, at least over the modified species.”

  “That is a dubious hypothesis,” she said. “Our genetic-molders have improved upon the humanoids, giving us better soldiers, psionic-capable inquisitors, and—”

  “In precise environments, the selected humanoid has greater utility,” Chengal Ras said. “In a Chirr tunnel, for instance, one would use a soldier. But I am testing a different theory. Given changing environments, which humanoid has the highest survival value? I have begun to suspect the unmodified norms have a greater chance to succeed at a multiplicity of tasks than the gene-warped specimens.”

  “What does any of this have to do . . . ?”

  “By your pause I see your intellect has already made the leap,” Chengal Ras said. “I have included one soldier in the prey-craft and one unmodified norm. I had wished to continue testing the two of them.”

  “You expect me to believe this is why you practiced deceit here and now with me?”

  This is the moment to lie to the best of my ability. I believe what I am about to say as the Creator’s own truth.

  “It is a simple treatise,” Chengal Ras said, “but I believe it will have a revolutionary impact on our breeding programs. In truth, I see it elevating me two or maybe even three new levels.”

  “You attempt to reach 106th in a grand leap?”

  “More than that,” he said.

  Zama Dee glanced at something unseen, likely the indictors of his eye rate and breathing. “Hmm, I see.”

  “As I have bared my secrets to you, I now formally request a landing permit and the results of your investigation team.”

  “Granted,” she said.

  “I would also like my property returned to me so I may continue further studies,” he said.

  Zama Dee stood motionless. At last, she said, “I grant that, too, on a provisional basis. First, my investigation team must apprehend your cattle.”

  “That should prove simplicity itself.”

  “Let me ask you, Chengal Ras. Would you care to wager any codex points on which humanoid my team captures first?”

  “How many codex points?” he asked.

  Zama Dee revealed her glistening teeth. The inner ones looked polished. “Let us make it one hundred points. I believe the team will capture the unmodified human first.”

  He blanched inwardly at the amount, and he seethed in secret at her. She could afford such a princely sum. For him—

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “One hundred codex points is acceptable. Your team will capture the soldier first.”

  “Interesting,” she said, “very interesting.” She tapped her panel. “I have recorded the wager. And you have made me more than attentive to those two cattle. I will be monitoring the situation closely.”

  Chengal Ras felt sick inside. He may have overplayed what little hand he had. Well, he must forge ahead and be ready to extract every benefit he could from the coming troubles. He had already destroyed one of his own Attack Talons. He would have no hesitation destroying more property in the furtherance of his quest.

  7

  Cyrus and Skar barely made it into the tall, spindly grass that towered above them as a Kresh sky vehicle slid through the air.

  They both wore Berserker clan garments, including the tall, conical hats. Unfortunately, Cyrus had discovered that Jassac was too chilly to wear only the leather straps, buckles, and medallions. He still wore his regular shirt and pants, and wore the clan accoutrements over them.

  “It will fool no one,” Skar had informed him earlier.

  The soldier wore the primitive outfit and carried his old garments in a carryall he swung at his side.

  “Down,” Cyrus hissed.

  Despite his stiff neck, he’d looked back by turning his entire torso. He saw a dark object sliding low through the sky, coming from the direction of the nearest valley.

  In silence, the two of them watched the sky vehicle.

  “We should return to the edge of the grass in order to get a better understanding of the situation,” Skar said.

  Cyrus wanted to keep wading through the sea of grass, but he realized that Skar was right. They needed information.

  Skar led the way. He moved like a jungle cat, never breaking stiff stalks or crushing the grass at the base. After his passing, the grass looked as it had before his coming.

  Cyrus, on the other hand, blundered about. Except for the two years at the institute at Crete, he had lived either underground in Milan or aboard the corridors of a Teleship. This was alien, indeed, living rough in the wilds. He’d never had any experience at it. Thus, he broke stalks and crushed bases. By watching the soldier, he was starting to get the hang of it. Would it be soon enough, though?

  “Be careful,” Skar called out from ahead. “We’re almost at the edge of the field.”

  Seconds later, Cyrus crouched down beside the soldier. The two of them peered through a last screen of stalks. They saw the crashed antigravity sled a little over a kilometer away. They’d also left the three corpses where they’d fallen. Skar had suggested they slash and hack the bodies to make it look as if the primitives had died through native weaponry. Cyrus hadn’t believed it would fool anyone, nor had he wanted to cut up the dead.

  “It’s small,” Cyrus said, pointing at the Kresh sky vehicle.

  It had a thin, boxy shape, although somewhat curved at the front. On the top middle was a bubble canopy with a single Kresh operator underneath. The craft was half the size of the main chamber aboard the destroyed needle-ship.

  “It’s a capture-craft,” Skar said. “I have seen them before.”

  “Capture . . . how?” Cyrus asked.

  “Notice the front mount.”

  Cyrus squinted. He might have detected a hump on the front hood. It was hard to tell at this distance.

  “I suspect it throws a net or fires a paralysis ray,” Skar said.

  The sky vehicle approached the antigravity sled and soon hovered over it by one hundred meters. After half a minute, the sky vehicle turned in a complete circle, began turning again, and slid toward the corpses. The vehicle descended to a man’s height, stayed there for a minute, and finally came to a rest on the surface, sending up a puff of dust. The Kresh had parked near the three corpses.

  The bubble canopy slid open and a Kresh climbed out of the car. Its resemblance to a raptor seemed uncanny to Cyrus. The alien opened a trunk in back and extracted poles. In its raptor-stalking manner, the alien approached the corpses. It ap
peared as if the alien recorded something with a handheld device.

  “I wish we had binoculars,” Cyrus said.

  Skar grunted agreement.

  After it had finished recording, the Kresh used the poles, neatly shoving something under one of the corpses. Effortlessly, the alien lifted the first dead primitive and carried it to the back trunk, sliding the body inside. The alien soon deposited all three corpses into the sky vehicle. The Kresh thoroughly examined the area. Afterward, the dinosaur-like creature put on a helmet and reexamined the ground.

  “Is that an infrared-vision helmet?” Cyrus whispered.

  “Be careful you make no sudden motions,” Skar whispered. “It is always easier to spy movement than immobility.”

  “Do you think it can see us?”

  “One must always assume the helmet has zoom capability.”

  The Kresh stalked back to where Cyrus imagined he’d been standing while firing Skar’s gun. He had combed the area before leaving. Skar had, too. They had tried to take everything technological with them. They hadn’t been able to take the antigravity sled.

  The Kresh froze for thirty seconds. Perhaps the alien was speaking into a recorder or to someone back at its base. Then, the creature climbed back into the sky vehicle and flew to the antigravity sled. The vehicle landed in another puff of dust. The Kresh climbed out and seemed to test the sled, poking it with a pole. Eventually, the alien carried the sled to the car and put it in the trunk.

  “What’s next?” Cyrus asked.

  “Patience will likely reward us with an answer,” Skar said.

  The sky vehicle lifted and hovered over the site. Finally, the Kresh raced away in the direction of the plain. Cyrus found it ominous that the sky vehicle took off in the exact direction the two surviving primitives had taken.

  “Do you think it’s tracking them?” Cyrus asked.

  “I do.”

  “That means the alien can track us.”

  “At least to here,” Skar said. They both stood. “You must move more carefully through the grass,” the soldier said.

  “Let’s get started,” Cyrus said.

  They did. Time passed; Cyrus’s left leg became tired, and he started to limp. How in the world could he find Klane, anyway? This was going to be impossible. Well, surviving a free fall onto a planet should have been impossible, but the two of them had done it. Why couldn’t they find Klane, too?

  Walking became monotonous. Nothing changed. The grass hissed against their garments, and every once in a while a blade caught on their clothes.

  “I imagine you could make good rope out of this stuff,” Cyrus said, as he shoved a long blade out of his way.

  Skar said nothing. The soldier marched as if he were late for a battle. It was a relentless step.

  “Do you hear that?” Cyrus asked.

  Skar stopped, and he raised his head. Then he turned fast, and motioned Cyrus to duck. With his legs, the soldier lowered himself like a submariner bringing the periscope down.

  Instead of listening to Skar’s advice, Cyrus looked up over his shoulder. The sky vehicle slid into view. Profanity exploded out of his mouth and he hit the ground. The stalks around him shook, and his neck burned red-hot with agony at the sudden motion.

  Like a crab, Skar scuttled away from Cyrus as his garments whispered against grass.

  The sky vehicle slid closer, and Cyrus could hear its mechanisms. Panic threatened as fear thudded through him, along with a flood of shame for blundering like a fool just now. Was this how he was going to save Earth from the aliens? The flying machine came even closer, and Cyrus scrambled to his feet.

  His left side and his neck throbbed, but panic washed adrenaline into his system. He stood and saw the reptilian Kresh inside the bubble canopy. The creature was huge like all the others of its kind. Yet there was something lesser about this one. It was hard to pinpoint the difference, but Cyrus certainly felt it.

  Without any visible emotions, the Kresh manipulated its controls. A gun popped out of the front hump of the sky vehicle. The weapon swiveled around to point at Cyrus. Time seemed to slow down for him even as Cyrus reacted as fast as he could. He used his mind powers and attempted to short something within the sky vehicle.

  Instead of causing the sky vehicle to crash, the bubble canopy slid open. The Kresh looked up in surprise. A second later, the alien concentered on its task of shooting the human.

  Cyrus tried to focus his thoughts for another stab of telekinetic power. He lacked time for the opportunity. The orifice of the gun on the front mount lit up. A microsecond later, Cyrus froze, and then he toppled. He couldn’t make his mouth move in order to shout or to make his vocal cords vibrate enough to mutter his rage. Like a falling log, he crushed stalks and slammed against the ground. His nerve endings silently screamed their complaint at the pain. He wanted to rave and roar. Instead, he lay on his back, unable to move, but watching the sky vehicle.

  He heard Skar’s gun then, the phutt sounds it made. One pellet exploded harmlessly against the half-open canopy. Then blood sprayed and bone chips blew into the air. The angle was bad, but the topmost part of the Kresh’s head disappeared as blood spurted upward.

  The Kresh slumped forward. Cyrus dearly wanted to squirm out of the way or even open his eyes wider in wonder. The sky vehicle slid toward him. Then it passed overhead like Death’s shadow, and several seconds later he heard it plow into the ground. Things crumpled and shattered, and a burnt electrical smell billowed into existence.

  From his location on the ground, Cyrus heard sizzling, zapping sounds. They intensified until the crackle of grass fire drowned them out.

  How long would the paralysis hold? Cyrus was defenseless. What if Skar couldn’t find him in the vast maze of grass?

  He heard the soldier running, with stalks cracking in half.

  Skar, Skar, I’m over here. Panic threatened again. What would it feel like, burning to death while he couldn’t move?

  The intense crackling sounds of fire grew louder, and out of the corner of his eyes, Cyrus saw leaping flames. Would the entire sea of grass become a wild fire?

  There was shouting, banging, and more shouting. What was going on?

  I don’t want to die like this. I can’t believe it. After crossing two hundred and thirty light years, I’m going to roast to death on the first alien world I reach.

  Cyrus strove to move. He strained, but nothing worked. After that, as the flames leaped higher, he struggled to maintain his calm. Maybe he could use his psionics to break the paralysis. For the next few minutes, he did what he could. Unfortunately, his mind felt sluggish. Did the paralysis ray affect it in some way?

  “Cyrus!” Skar shouted. “Cyrus, where are you?”

  Here, here, I’m over here. Don’t leave me, Skar. Search for me.

  “He could be dead,” a woman said.

  “He’s not dead,” Skar said, harshly. “The Kresh hit him with a paralysis ray.”

  “What is that?” the woman asked.

  “The demon cast a spell over him, freezing his muscles,” Skar said.

  “The demons are evil,” the woman said in an agreeing tone.

  That must be the barbarian princess speaking. Yes, of course. The Kresh must have tracked down the last two Berserkers and captured them. Skar had no doubt freed them from captivity.

  “You are a demonslayer,” the woman said in admiration.

  “Help me find my friend,” Skar said.

  Cyrus could hear them beating the grasses, shouting his name. All the while the fire grew. He could feel the heat against his face.

  “Here! I’ve found your friend.”

  Cyrus saw the woman bend over him. She looked young, even though she had sunburnt skin. She had brown eyes and a raw gash over the bridge of her nose. Despite that, she was beautiful, with a full figure and long brown hair. She wor
e fur garments and had smooth limbs like a triathlete.

  Cyrus wondered if she would take the opportunity to kill him silently.

  Her eyes showed curiosity, interest perhaps. She opened her mouth, and he wondered what she meant to ask.

  Skar appeared then, limping into view. “Cyrus,” he shouted. “Can you hear me?”

  Cyrus could only stare.

  “He is under a terrible spell,” the woman said. She glanced toward the flames. “Do you want me to put him out of his misery?”

  “No!” Skar said.

  “The fire grows,” the woman said, as if making an argument.

  Skar snarled, and he pointed a finger at her. “We’re carrying him out of here.”

  “Impossible,” she said. “The fire grows and will become wild in minutes. We will be lucky to save ourselves.”

  “You’ll carry him,” Skar said in an ugly voice. “My left leg feels as if it’s burning. I saved you from the belly of the demons. Now you owe me your life.”

  The woman stared at the shorter soldier. Cyrus wondered what went on inside her head.

  “Yes,” she said. “You speak the truth. We will take turns carrying him. I will do so first because I am unhurt.”

  She turned her back on Cyrus and bent down. Skar grabbed Cyrus under the armpits and hauled him onto the woman. She adjusted for his weight. She was stronger than she looked, and grabbed his dangling arms. She was lithe and beautiful, and he felt the strength in her.

  Now, for the first time, Cyrus saw the fire in full bloom. Orange flames leapt into the air. The flames jumped and crackled, heading in the direction of the wind. The three of them would have to flee toward the antigravity sled’s landing zone, heading into the wind.

  The woman shoved up. Cyrus could feel her strain. Then the soldier and the primitive began to run through the grass, carrying Cyrus away from danger.

  They were in the race of their lives.

  The paralysis wore off by degrees. Cyrus felt tingling in his fingers and toes first as the flames’ heat scorched his back. His clothes smoldered, and it felt as if the skin there melted.