Hell Heart

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “At your orders, Burning One!” barked the Slayer in his diseased voice, hastening into the control room.

  “Preserve our inferiors aboard Destroyer for the Faith,” the priest ordered with icy calm. “We will need them to defeat the Shard.”

  “They are not necessary,” the Slayer said angrily. “Let me fight the Shard!” The Slayer brought up his battle claw and clacked it open and closed several times, undoubtedly visualizing what it would be like if a crystalline Shard were trapped in its savage jaws.

  “We will get the Vorack-stuff,” the priest said, beginning to regain control of the ship and get reports from all quarters. There was damage, substantial damage, but not so much that it could not be fixed. Unfortunately, most of the crew had perished in the battle. This would prolong the time spent repairing the ship. “You must have patience.”

  “The Shard has what we want,” the Slayer said single-mindedly. “Kill the Shard, gain our reward.”

  “True,” the Death Priest said. “What would you like to use to kill it?” He gestured at the smoking ruins of the control room, the heaped bodies of its trained slaves, and waited, eyeing the hulking Slayer with a certain degree of amusement. The Slayer had been trained for one task only: killing. The priest could consider the situation from other perspectives, ones subtler than a rapid-fire laser cannon or a head-removing battle claw. Engaging the Shard ship again would mean only their destruction—and the loss of their prize forever. There had to be other tactics than full-scale, all-out combat they could never win, no matter how determined or enthusiastic the Slayer might be.

  “I will have the surviving slaves start repairing the ship. Then we can attack,” the Slayer said.

  “Begin the repairs,” the Death Priest ordered. “I will let you know when to launch the attack. To do so before the ship is ready is to fail.”

  “I am pious!” the Slayer insisted.

  “Defeat is blasphemy,” said the Death Priest, reciting the God-king’s Prime Dictum. “We will not stray from the path of righteousness. I will not permit it. Go—see to the repairs.”

  The priest turned back to his sensors as the Slayer swept out of the control room, attempting to analyze his enemy’s next move. The area of space where the ancient enemies had vied was a desolate sector of the Outer Ring, the part of the Maelstrom farthest from the sustaining energies of the Vorack. Aside from the nebula in which his crippled ship now floated, the only objects of interest were a small moon and the greenish blue planet it orbited. The Shard ship, maintaining its proximity to the mote, was inexorably drawing closer to this insignificant orb. The priest began coaxing faint radio signals emanating from the distant planet, setting his computers to analyze the content and syntax of those primitive transmissions. Until his ship was repaired, he could do nothing but watch and wait.

  Perhaps, if he was very lucky, the crawling primitives that infested the planet and its satellite would blow the Shard out of the sky for him.

  2

  * * *

  Visual contact lost, Major,” came the crisp report from Battle Station Independence’s command sergeant. “We have a full-spectrum report in the works, and it looks like a dandy.”

  Major Lenore D’Arcy looked over Sergeant Lewis’s shoulder. Ever since the Change, nothing had worked quite right, but she’d never seen such sheer data overload, even when their instruments were pointed straight at the Maw. Meters had shifted to accept input several orders of magnitude greater than usual. Soon even that was not enough for some systems, and equipment began shutting down automatically to protect sensor elements. Being unable to spot visually the problem in the shifting, chaotic Styx Nebula was nothing new, but the rest was. Not even a proton storm could cause such a wild, wide spread of readings.

  “What do you think it is?” D’Arcy asked.

  “No idea. We’ve got rad shields up, Major. The gamma is within acceptable limits, but it spikes sporadically. Things are still within safety range across the board.”

  D’Arcy frowned. It was as if a new kind of pulsar had suddenly come into being in the Styx Nebula. Radiation levels rose and fell randomly. Just her luck it was happening now, with Colonel Custer on the moon at a high-level conference, leaving her in command of the Independence. The man’s name and straw-colored hair always sparked comparisons with the boy general who’d gotten his clock cleaned so many years ago at Little Bighorn, but there the similarities ended. Colonel Max Custer was a no-nonsense, by-the-book officer, and the last time he had done anything spontaneous, Terra was still revolving around Sol and the universe had not been stood on its head.

  Major D’Arcy was aware of her superior’s distaste for the way she conducted herself. “Too sloppy, not up to the highest military standards and traditions,” had read her last quarterly performance report, and all because of a single party she had attended. She sighed as she remembered it. Billy Newman had been rotated back to ground detail, and she was not likely to see him again anytime soon. If the colonel found her guilty of dereliction of duty because she was a half hour late and out of uniform after she’d taken the time to see Billy off properly, so be it. There was no chance she could rotate Earthside to be with him until her duty cycle was over in another eighteen months.

  Unless, of course, this thing coming out of the nebula was more serious than she thought. Then they all might find themselves returning to Earth, in smaller pieces than they had anticipated.

  “I’m picking up separate lidar returns now, Major,” Lewis reported. “Could be two or three spaceships, or it might just be one really whacking big target. It keeps splitting and rejoining. It might even be one body rotating around two others, each occluding the other at points in the orbit. A real Lagrangian nightmare.”

  D’Arcy turned from the sergeant and called to her communications officer: “Get me a secure link to Earth. I need to talk with someone who can identify this mess.”

  “No can do,” said Lieutenant Ng. “Laser comm is out. We can broadcast radio frequency to Earth, but any monitoring Neo-Sov station will pick it up.”

  D’Arcy swore under her breath. She had known the comm situation might get dicey if faulty equipment wasn’t fixed soon, but spare parts from Earth had been slow in coming. The Neo-Sovs had recently made a devastating attack in Alaska, and spare parts were going to support the Union troops there, not to fix a station up in distant orbit.

  “Any immediate threat, Sergeant?” she asked, trying to make sense of the flood of information on her control board.

  “Above my pay grade to decide that, Major, but safety range has not been violated yet.”

  “We might try contacting Moonbase,” suggested Lieutenant Ng.

  “Let’s wait a while before informing the colonel,” D’Arcy said. “Try to get information from the database at Cheyenne Mountain that can identify this, uh, phenomenon. It’ll be better to take something definite to the colonel.”

  “A big up-check on that, Major.” The comm officer started working to plunder the Earthside computer database, using only radio in such a way that they could keep the brewing problems from the Neo-Soviets.

  D’Arcy couldn’t help wondering if she was doing the right thing by waiting for more information. She still had hopes of becoming the next commander of Independence if Colonel Custer received his expected promotion, but after her last fitness report, she would have to earn it. She dared not make a mistake now.

  She pushed back her short, dark hair and focused on the sensors and the confusing readings they were spewing forth like demented bile. None of it made any sense. Then all extraneous thoughts were driven from her mind as the readouts suddenly spiked higher than any of the previous readings, straining the limits of her sensors.

  “General quarters!” she bellowed, leaning over and hitting the alarm herself. Everything fell apart at the same instant. The quantum pilot wave had tickled the sensors, giving a split-second advance hint of more—and worse—to come. A wave front of intense radiation bathed the battle station,
challenging the shielding to the limit of its design. It was a blast of physical intensity, shuddering through the station and sending crew members grabbing for handholds to keep themselves on their feet.

  “An explosion?” she asked, clinging grimly to the arm of her chair as a final trailing wave of energetic particles gusted past the battle station. The rad shields had held—barely.

  “Bigger than anything we or the Neo-Soviets could orbit,” Lewis said. “Worse, it doesn’t have the usual profile of a nuke. It peaked, then died down, but now it’s increasing again, as if it is feeding on its own debris. Never seen anything like it—and it is big, really big.”

  “Bigger than a gigaton fusion bomb,” she said, chewing on her lower lip. D’Arcy’s brown eyes scanned the banks of equipment. She was no slouch when it came to analysis. She had tried out for R&D with her biophysics degree, but the Siren’s call of command had pulled her away from pure research into the labyrinth of telling others what to do in such a way that they believed in her.

  Even if she didn’t have a clue.

  “Definitely bigger than a gigaton,” came the confirmation.

  “No immediate biohazard from the radiation,” she decided. “Power up our weapons systems, in case those lidar returns are Neo-Sov spacecraft.” She watched her sensors intently as the orders were passed along. Her mind worked overtime trying to fit this into an understandable scenario. Nothing seemed right. High pinpoint radiation source, strange sensor readings all over the spectrum, visuals gone, and possible Neo-Sov spaceships of unusual configuration in the middle of it all.

  “It’s coming out of the Styx Nebula,” she said. “Any Cerenkov radiation showing in the nebular gases?”

  “Nothing, Major. No evidence of anything ftl out there.”

  “Ng, forget trying to check dirtside data on this. Patch me through to Lunar Command,” she said.

  “That might take a few minutes, Major,” Ng said, his sure hands darting precisely over the communications console. “That blast fried some of our radio equipment. I can reroute the signal to compensate, but it’ll take time. Unless you want me to relay through an orbiting repeater to Battle Station Freedom on the far side of Earth. They have secure laser comm up and running.”

  D’Arcy considered that option for a moment, then discarded the notion. At every step along such an open relay, the signal might be intercepted—and not just by the Neo-Soviets. The last thing she wanted to do was cause a panic for no reason.

  “Negative, Lieutenant. Just give me as tight a radio signal to Moonbase as you can generate, and make it snappy,” she said. Reporting to Colonel Custer was admittedly kicking the buck upstairs, but the anomalous readings worried her—and that wave front concerned her even more. If this whatever-it-was coming out of the nebula could pose a real threat to Earth, stopping it was more important than trying to look like a hero.

  D’Arcy gnawed on a thumbnail and scowled at her sensors, trying not to let her impatience show. Ng was a good officer; if anyone could get the radio comm back online, it was him.

  After a few minutes of intense activity over his board, Ng straightened up with a look of mild triumph. “Got it locked and scrambled the best I can, Major,” he said. “The signal is getting chopped up by the nebular radiation.”

  “Comm for Colonel Custer, highest priority,” she ordered.

  “Need to boost the signal strength. Unknown cause is sapping the power,” Lieutenant Ng said. “Don’t know what could do it. Usually, the signal goes right through, and—” Ng shook his head, staring at the readouts.

  “If you’re going to do something, do it fast,” said Sergeant Lewis. “Whatever it is in the nebula, it looks like it’s headed this way.”

  One glance at her readouts confirmed his words. The mysterious signatures from the nebula were aimed straight for Earth.

  “Readings have resolved a little better, Major,” Lewis said. “Looks like two bogeys. The first is putting out an incredible amount of energy—I’ve never seen anything like it. The second—I can’t tell. It doesn’t look like a Neo-Sov design. I can’t even determine what’s powering it.”

  If D’Arcy had cherished some faint hope of contacting the colonel, that hope was now dead. Right now survival was looking like a higher priority than covering her ass.

  “Laser cannon, charge and prepare to fire on my order,” she said grimly, dropping into the command chair and working to home in on the incoming blips. “Missiles, arm and heat up the fuel for launch. All stations report!”

  “Major, it looks like they’re on a collision course with the station,” Lewis reported quietly, the tension in his voice belying his calm manner.

  “Then I guess it doesn’t really matter what it is, does it?” D’Arcy muttered to herself. She raised her voice. “Ng, has either bogey made any effort to contact us?”

  “Negative, Major,” her comm officer said, his eyes intent on his board. “I’m checking the whole spectrum, and I’m not getting any kind of communications from either one.”

  Alarms flared as radiation smashed into their defensive shields at a level high enough to fry the battle station crew if they’d been caught unprepared. Through the rad assault they could now make out a distinctive shape, a massive cube with sharp edges.

  “All lasers, fire!” D’Arcy snapped. “Missile batteries, track.”

  “Missiles locked and hot,” came the report.

  Major D’Arcy felt the battle station quiver as the laser cannons fired repeatedly. The air took on an electric feel as the potent weapons discharged and then struggled to replenish their capacitors for another blast.

  “Negative damage sustained,” came the laser-ranging officer’s report.

  “Missiles, fire. Full battery—fire, fire, fire!”

  Battle Station Independence shook as the interceptor missiles raced from their launch tubes toward the unidentified blip. Major D’Arcy held her breath as she watched the slow progression of the heavy missiles snake toward the target. Lasers took seconds to reach their target. The nuke-tipped missiles took an eternity.

  She let out the breath she had been holding at the same time a cheer went up around the room. Direct hits!

  Then a new and powerful shock wave slammed into the station. To those inside, it felt as if a giant had picked up the massive battle station and shaken it playfully. Crew members were tossed like dolls against bulkheads. Equipment shorted out as the massive EMP blast tore through the station. Lieutenant Ng screamed as electricity volted through his board and into his body.

  Then, as abruptly as it started, it was over. D’Arcy pulled herself up on wobbly legs, hanging on to her command board for support. “What the hell was that?” she demanded of the room at large. Absently, she wiped at the blood trickling into her eyes from a savage cut on her scalp.

  “Unknown,” said her missile-launch officer, his face drawn with pain as he wrapped one arm tightly around his cracked ribs. “I can tell you we got dead-on hits on that first bogey; it vectored off out of control. We didn’t destroy it, but we hammered it so hard it must have been turned to jelly inside.”

  “Systems report,” D’Arcy said. “What have we got left?”

  “Communications are completely fried,” said Ng, pale from the agony of his badly burned hand.

  “The good news is life support is fully functional,” Lewis reported. “But weapons, comm, propulsion—all dead. It’ll take a lot of work to repair.”

  “Ng, is there any way we can get a report to the colonel or Earthside?” D’Arcy asked. To hell with radio secrecy now. They may have eliminated one threat, but the second blip—that incredible energy source—might still be out there, and still headed toward Earth.

  “Negative,” Ng replied. “All comm systems are completely out—my board’s fused into a lump. It’ll take days to repair—assuming we even can repair it.”

  “Not good enough,” D’Arcy snapped. “I want a casualty report and a full systems check aboard the station. We need to know what st
ill works. Aside from keeping life support functional, top priority is restoring communications. We have to get a warning Earthside that that thing is coming in.”

  She felt a momentary pride as her people—bruised, battered, and shaken—quietly got to work. But pride was quickly replaced by worry. Had that second bogey been responsible for the blast that had crippled her station? What damage might it do if it hit the Earth? And what could she do about it? She couldn’t even warn Earth that big trouble was on its way.

  Major D’Arcy clenched her fists for a moment in helpless fury, then got down to business.

  For the time being, at least, Earth was on its own.

  3

  * * *

  The Death Priest clacked his diamond-edged ceremonial death scythes together high above his head in triumph. Just when it seemed he had failed in his mission to bring glory and power to the God-king, the primitives’ vessel had succeeded where Pharon weapons had not—they had destroyed the Shard.

  True, there was an element of disgrace in having his quest salvaged by such inferior beings. The priest smiled inwardly at the thought of how enraged the Slayer must be. But he took a broader view of things. It would have been pleasant to be the ones who blasted that diseased rock out of the sky, but as long as the Shard was destroyed, that was all that truly mattered. The prize he was after was too important to allow petty considerations like pride to stand in his way.

  The Pharon called up the recordings he had made while the battle between the Shard and the primitives raged. He made it a habit to gather as much information as he could about any aliens he encountered. Such data would be useful later, when it came time to conquer them. He watched again as the Shard vessel single-mindedly pursued the Vorack-stuff, ignoring all potential obstacles and dangers as it chased after its prize. He saw again how their puny lasers reflected off the surface of the Shard’s ship—just as the Pharon’s infinitely more powerful weapons had—but their second attack, made with ridiculously archaic missiles, had cracked the hard shell of the crystalline vessel and sent the Shard spinning helplessly out of control.