Hell Heart

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by Robert E. Vardeman


  “Aye, sir,” Diego said through his teeth. He got up abruptly and left without waiting for permission. One more minute in that office with that preening ass and he would have gone over the desk for the man’s throat. He knew this mission was simply scutwork to keep him out of the way. And he knew more than that: his career was over. He had gambled everything, and he had lost. He had saved the reactor, and possibly the Union’s hold on Chiapas, but he had given Mexico City the excuse it needed to get rid of him.

  He could resign now—that would be the dignified way out of the situation, rather than waiting to be court-martialed. But there was Allen to consider—he simply couldn’t walk away and leave the locals in that man’s care. His lack of concern for the people he was supposedly sent to protect had been made abundantly clear with his use of the SPEAR so close to their homes. He shuddered to think of how it must have been for them, to suddenly have death raining down on their uncomprehending heads from a clear sky.

  No—they needed him. Their safety was more important than his pride.

  At that moment, Diego felt closer than he ever had to understanding why José had done what he did. Both brothers had dedicated their lives to the Union military, and both had been poorly repaid for their sacrifices. José had chosen to walk away, but poor, duty-bound Diego once again had no choice. He had to act to protect his people, and no matter what José thought, he could do that best from within the military.

  His thoughts had carried him through his outer office and out into the compound. But now he vaguely heard someone calling after him. He turned and saw Suarez hurrying toward him.

  “Sir, I’m so sorry,” the lieutenant said, his words tumbling over each other. “It happened before I knew anything about it, there was nothing I could do, I know you left the post in my hands and I failed. I—”

  Diego held up a hand to stop him. “It’s all right, Lieutenant,” he said reassuringly. “This has nothing to do with you—it’s something that’s been building for years. It just happened to spill over now. Not your fault.”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing you,” Suarez said. “Please take me with you tomorrow. I want to help somehow—and frankly, if I have to stay in that office much longer, I’m going to punch that gringo right in the nose.”

  Diego stifled a smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do. And don’t worry—it’ll all work out somehow.”

  * * *

  Back in what had been Diego’s office, Allen was pleased. He had consolidated his position—and, more important, he had Villalobos’s troops back. Now that he had the manpower, he could begin planning his expedition to the crater to retrieve his meteorite. That tiny fragment was his ticket to higher things—much higher than command of some rinky-dink little post, no matter how much value an unimaginative officer like Villalobos might place on it.

  He reached for the comm console and began barking orders. By this time tomorrow, the meteorite would be in his hands—and his career would at long last be back on track.

  21

  * * *

  The Death Priest picked his way cautiously through the jungle. The riot of vegetation was difficult enough to cope with in the daylight hours; without the brilliant white light of the Vorack to illuminate his way, it was even more hazardous.

  But the priest had no time to waste. He had detoured briefly to check on the Slayer’s work at the Destroyer for the Faith and been pleased with the progress. He still regretted the loss of his control-room slaves; they had been painstakingly trained, and work went slower with these primitives, who were still adjusting to their new life of glorious service to the God-king.

  However, with enough . . . persuasion, they could be made to effect the repairs under the enthusiastic supervision of the Slayer. The immense Pharon warrior was beginning to chafe under the restrictions the priest had placed on him. Slayers were trained for one thing only—battle—and all this enforced waiting was alien to the killer’s nature. But soon the time for secrecy would be at an end. Soon the priest would have his hands on the bit of Vor-stuff, and then the Maelstrom would tremble under the might of the God-king. And the priest would be there, standing at his side. The Death Priest trembled in anticipation of the glory that would be his.

  But if that magnificent day were ever to come to pass, the priest would have to hurry. Time worked against him. The mote was becoming more unstable with each passing hour, and the slaves he had working on retrieving it insisted on dying. None could survive close proximity with the deadly beams emitted from the fracture in the crystalline globe for more than a few minutes at a time before they died a second death, crisped by the radiation beyond the ability of the life-support packs to repair the damage.

  Therefore, the priest was abroad in this cursed jungle yet again, in search of more slaves. And he had to hurry—if he tarried too long, the last of the slaves toiling at the crater would expire, and work would cease completely. The time for secrecy was finally past—speed was of more importance now.

  The Death Priest paused as the jungle suddenly gave way to an expanse of open fields. Beyond the open space was the largest habitation he had yet seen on this world: several massive buildings, strung with lights that made the compound bright as day even in the darkness of the night, which was usually lit only by the planet’s lone satellite and the few pinpoints of light that could be seen in the sky of the Maelstrom.

  The priest activated his phase generator to conceal his presence from the primitives scurrying around the complex and studied the scene. A battle had obviously taken place here recently—the signs of destruction were everywhere. Charred craters indicated the use of explosives, while the walls around the place were scarred with pockmarks—no doubt caused by the projectile weapons the primitives seemed so fond of.

  That explained why there was so much activity here, while the other, smaller settlements he had passed had been dark and quiet, their inhabitants asleep. Whoever resided in this complex was still recovering from the effects of a skirmish. That meant their defenses would be chaotic and disorganized, making it easier for the priest to slip in among them undetected.

  And where there was battle, there would be bodies.

  The priest studied the scene a while longer and decided to avoid the main gate. Most of the activity seemed to be concentrated there, and while he was confident he could get past their feeble defenses, he would prefer not to raise any alarms. There must be another way into the compound where he could infiltrate them undetected.

  Keeping to the fringes of the jungle, the priest circled the place until he found what he was looking for. At the rear of the walled perimeter, there was a spot where the metal wire of the fence had been cut and hastily repaired. He studied the ground between where he stood and the weak spot in the fence. There were a number of detection devices, but those were easily neutralized. He started across the open field toward the fence, his phase generator making it seem as if he was simply flickering in and out of existence. He reached the fence without being detected, and one blast from his energy weapon fried the sensors in the fence as it melted its way through the flimsy barrier.

  Once inside, the priest proceeded with even more caution. The ground was seeded with explosive devices that had to be identified and avoided, and an occasional guard trotted past. The priest evaded detection; they were potential slaves, true, but he had his sights set on a greater goal.

  Somewhere in this compound was the source of a stench of death so powerful the priest had been able to detect it from outside the perimeter. The recent battle had clearly inflicted great losses on its participants—losses that could be turned into gains for the priest, and for the God-king.

  The priest slipped past the burned-out remains of what had been a large building and paused. A slight sigh of pleasure escaped his creased and rotted lips. In front of him stretched row after row of black bags, laid out on the ground like cordwood. The shiny fabric of the bags outlined the unmistakable shape of
native bodies. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds of them. Here at last was the supply the priest had been seeking. These would ensure that he would have an ample supply of bearers for the Vor-stuff, with enough left over to man the ship for the long flight back to the Pharon homeworld.

  The priest knelt behind the first bag in the front row and gently, almost lovingly, unfastened it to reveal the body of a woman, her slight form still twisted in its death throes. She had once been small and delicate-looking, but now her legs were crushed and her chest gaped wide with the wound that had brought her death.

  The Death Priest cared about none of that. As long as the body was intact, it could serve the God-king, regardless of how terrible its injuries had been in life. Placing his bandage-wrapped hand over her face, he began the ceremony that would restore life to the lifeless form before him.

  As he completed his invocation to the God-king, the woman began to stir slightly. He quickly reached behind him for one of the life-support tanks he had brought with him and rolled her over, as she struggled feebly, to fit it to her back. The hoses plunged into her torso and began feeding her the nourishing fluids made from the remains of others of her kind that would sustain her in her life-after-death.

  The priest rocked back on his heels and waited. It always took slaves some time to adjust to their new existence. He watched as this one struggled to her feet and began taking a few tentative steps on her twisted legs. Her gait was a terrible, jerking parody of a human walk, but it would suffice. Had the priest cared to look, he might have noticed the look of unmitigated horror in the sunken eyes peering out from that ruined, blood-flecked face. But he did not.

  When he judged she was steady enough on her feet, he issued her instructions. “Go back to the ship,” he told her, placing one hand on the side of her face and mentally guiding her to its location deep in the heart of the jungle. “Bring back tanks for the others.”

  The slave bowed stiffly and began a slow, shambling walk toward the fence. The priest did not bother to watch her go; he had already turned to the next bag in the row. He had brought enough tanks with him to continue his work until the slave returned with the rest. If he hurried, he could finish his work here and be back at the crater before dawn—all without the stupid primitives in this compound being any the wiser to his presence. He would even have enough to send some to the Slayer to assist with the repairs to his spacecraft.

  Within a few short hours, he would be returning to his ship, his prize firmly in hand. And then nothing—not these humans, not the Shard, not the power of the Maelstrom itself—would be able to stand in his way.

  22

  * * *

  José swore under his breath as a dangling vine swatted him in the face. He had grown up in and around the jungles of southern Mexico—they were his home—but he was beginning to feel as if his life was one endless march after another through the sweltering vegetation. His days were beginning to blur together; he could no longer remember how long it had been since their successful raid on Puerto Madero or their agonizing defeat at Revancha.

  He paused and squinted up through the foliage toward the sky. The sun—or what passed for the sun ever since the Change—had only been up for an hour or two, and already it was broiling.

  He looked back at the ragged column of guerrillas struggling along behind him. From the imposing army of two hundred that he had commanded a few short days ago, his followers now numbered less than fifty. He was proud of all of them—they might not have the faintest idea what they were doing hiking through the jungle, on their way to a confrontation with some mythical beast, but there they all were, trying gamely to keep up.

  But José was a realist—he knew his grasp on them was tenuous at best. Their faith had been shaken by the devastating defeat at Revancha—he could see it in the way their gaze slid away from his, in the set of their shoulders, and their dragging step. He could see, too, Gunther making his way from soldier to soldier, pausing for a few words of whispered conversation with each before moving on to the next one. It worried him, but he didn’t know what to do about it. All he could do was keep going and hope Consuela was right.

  He quickened his pace and caught up with his sturdy lieutenant a few paces down the trail. “How much farther is it?” he asked, keeping his voice low to keep from being overheard. He couldn’t afford to appear anything less than supremely confident in front of his soldiers just then.

  “Only a few kilometers more,” Consuela said. “Soon you will start seeing burned vegetation—that will be the sign that we are close.”

  José chose his next words carefully—he did not want to alienate Consuela, but he had to be sure of what they were doing. “Chica, you must know that I do not doubt your judgment,” he said, stealing a sidelong glance at her. She kept walking, eyes steady on the trail in front of them. “But I must be certain of what we will find. Have you told me everything? Is it possible you have exaggerated the danger of—”

  “No,” Consuela interrupted, her voice stony. José kept his eyes on her, and after a few more paces she relented. “José,” she said softly, “I know what I have told you is unbelievable, but it is true. You know me, and you trust my abilities.” She took her gaze off the trail long enough to look him in the face. “This thing that I saw—it is worse, far worse, than anything we have faced thus far. I led that stupid Union officer there so that I could test its strength, and it took everything he could throw at it without flinching. We must stop it. I do not know how, but we must.”

  José nodded and clapped her on the shoulder. “All right, chica,” he said. “When we get there, we will figure out what to do.”

  “Assuming we find anything there at all,” came Gunther’s mocking voice. He had come up behind them unheard, and his eyes as he looked at José were scornful. “Admit it, José—there is no monster. This is just a fantasy you have seized upon to avoid going up against our true enemy—the Union.”

  Consuela halted so abruptly José bumped into her. She whirled on Gunther. “This is no fantasy!” she hissed, as angry as José had ever seen her. “You are so obsessed with the Union that you fail to see the greater threat in front of you. If you—”

  José held up a hand, and both combatants fell silent. They had heard it almost at the same moment as he had: the small, stealthy sounds of someone moving quietly toward them on the trail. Hands went to guns, but seconds later all three relaxed as they recognized one of their advance scouts.

  The woman hurried up, her face set. “Sir, we’ve got mass movement up ahead,” she reported.

  “Union patrol?” José asked, worried.

  “Unknown. I didn’t wait around to get a closer look.”

  “Diego?” Consuela asked.

  “Possibly,” José said grimly. He turned to the guerrillas behind him and gave a low whistle to attract their attention. When he was satisfied he had it, he gave the hand signal to go to earth.

  To an untrained observer it might have looked as though they had all simply melted into the ground. Guerrilla warfare depended on the ability to strike at the enemy from hiding, and José’s troops were very good at hiding. Some slipped into the dense undergrowth on the sides of the trail; others concealed themselves behind fallen logs or tangled bushes, their faded clothes blending seamlessly with the dappled foliage.

  Several climbed trees and stretched out along high branches, their rifles at the ready to attack, sniper-style. José sincerely hoped his brother had not renewed his pursuit. Being caught between two enemies—the Union soldiers here and whatever was at the jungle crater—was not a position he relished. He had hoped the casualties he and Consuela had inflicted in their earlier pursuit would have discouraged Diego, but he knew this was his brother’s best opportunity for victory since assuming command at the San Cristóbal garrison. Diego had never been this aggressive in the past, but perhaps the victory at Revancha had encouraged him.

  Wanting to get a better view of the coming conflict, José scrambled up an almond tree that bent pr
ecariously under his weight. He stopped at the first large limb and peered through the foliage as the first of their opponents came into view.

  He crossed himself when he saw who it was—or, rather, what it was.

  Now he knew what had happened to his missing patrols.

  He heard a small gasp from Consuela, but he could not tear his eyes away from the shambling, decayed parodies of humanity that lurched into view on the trail. Shreds of their uniforms hung off their twisted limbs, the wounds that had killed them clearly visible through the rags. Hoses from the dull metallic tanks on their backs circled their tortured bodies and entered their chests in several places.

  “The dead have risen from the grave,” he breathed.

  “José!” came Consuela’s horrified voice. “Do you see what I do?”

  José had been a soldier for many years; he had foolishly thought he was inured to any vision of horror. Now he knew how wrong he was as yet another walking dead woman lurched into view: Mary Stephenson. Or what had once been Mary. Her legs were twisted and crippled, yet she walked. Her chest gaped from her death wound, yet she lived. A wicked curved knife gleamed in her hand, and it did not seem that death had dulled her lethal combat skills.

  “What are we going to do, José?” Consuela cried, frantic. “We cannot leave her!”

  “That is not the Mary we knew,” José said from his aerial perch. He aimed the Kalashnikov he had commandeered from one of his soldiers in Mary’s direction but could not fire. What good would it do? She was already dead. Obviously.

  José forced himself to look from the abomination that had been one of his finest soldiers to the others coming from the green veil of the jungle. He recognized many of the guerrillas who had gone with him to Revancha and not returned—now somehow restored to this shambling mockery of life. Had Diego found some way of resurrecting the dead to use against their former friends?

 

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