Alien Wars

by Vaughn Heppner

  Scars on the man’s chest seeped blood. The scars were shaped like Kresh letters. Cyrus believed someone had carved them into the man’s flesh. The primitive was large, wore a loincloth, and clutched a rock as if it was his weapon. The primitive stared down the hill he’d climbed and then slunk for a spike bush.

  Cyrus became aware that both of them had chosen the easiest path up and down this part of the mountain. On either side of the path rose sharp crystals and impossible-to-scale cliffs. The terrain had funneled their passage. Was that by design? Despite the man’s furtive manner, he carried himself like a warrior, ready to use his rock in a fight to the death.

  Who chased the man? Was he a slave or something even more degrading?

  “Up here,” Cyrus whispered.

  The man froze, and for a moment terror washed across his harsh features. Then the warrior—for his actions declared him one—clutched a pendant dangling from his throat. His lips writhed, in an oath perhaps. He overcame his terror and rushed in a crouch toward Cyrus’s crystal.

  Cyrus gambled by stepping out, showing himself. “I’m a friend,” he said.

  The warrior raked his gaze across Cyrus. It felt nothing like cold pressure. Even in the murk, Cyrus saw the subtle change in the man, a lessening of tension. The warrior kept rushing toward him. Was the primitive another of the many memories in Cyrus’s mind?

  “Hide,” the man said.

  Cyrus darted back behind the crystal boulder. In a moment, the large warrior couched beside him.

  The primitive reeked of sweat, blood, and barely suppressed fear. Grim lines streaked his bearded face. The warrior seemed unpredictable, like a wounded tiger. He panted and used a forearm to wipe sweat and grime from his face.

  “Are you in league with the Saurians?” the primitive growled.

  Cyrus had no idea who they were supposed to be. Ah, he had an idea. “Are those the owners of the tents?” he asked.

  The primitive spat on the ground. He examined Cyrus, noticed the baton, and grunted.

  “You’re a psionic?” Cyrus asked.

  The warrior shook his head, saying, “The Saurians hate human psionics. They’ll use knives to slay you, skin your hide, and fashion their evil flutes from your bones.”

  “How long have the Saurians hunted you?” Cyrus asked.

  The primitive glared at Cyrus. Then he gripped his pendant, his lips writhing in a silent curse.

  As the primitive’s hand dropped away, Cyrus’s curiosity betrayed him, and his eyebrows rose. The disc hanging from the man’s throat showed an image of a junction-stone.

  “Klane,” Cyrus whispered to the primitive.

  The man exploded with a startled oath. He clutched Cyrus’s sleeve. “You’ve spoken with the Anointed One?”

  “I have indeed. How do you know him?”

  The primitive opened his mouth, perhaps to answer the question. Then a weird warbling horn cut him short, the sound coming from farther down the hill. Panic entered the warrior’s eyes. He fought to control it, began to tremble, and then snarled a bloody oath.

  “The Saurians?” asked Cyrus.

  “The Sa-Austra,” the primitive said bitterly. Maybe he noticed Cyrus’s incomprehension. “The Eich’s lost slave—the Sa-Austra is their champion in this place. We’re as good as recaptured and headed for the vats.”

  “Does vat mean death?” asked Cyrus.

  “I escaped their bloody altars,” the primitive said, ignoring the question. “Maybe I should have stayed, helped them restore their glory. Anything is better than the vats.”

  “Death is forever,” Cyrus said.

  “Are you daft?” the primitive shouted. “They would have slain me on their altars and used my blood.”

  “Tell me what that’s supposed to mean,” Cyrus said.

  The warbling horn sounded again, closer than before.

  The wild-eyed primitive said, “The Saurians capture any who wander into this evil land. They seek to cleanse the blue poison from every ruin. Then they will rebuild the ancient machinery.”

  Cyrus scowled. He was thoroughly confused by these things. He never should have listened to Niens. His altered mind had become a madhouse of things he didn’t understand. What did the blue poison have to do with the Eich? What was ancient machinery supposed to do down here in his mind? This seemingly made no sense. He began to hate the psi-parasite even more than before.

  Heavy panting sounds from below the cliff along with clattering rocks became quite distinct.

  The primitive’s muscles tightened. He rose, clutching his rock. “The Sa-Austra comes,” the man said, his features bleak. “I will never be his Steed. Better a warrior’s end than changed in the vats.”

  Steed? Cyrus remembered the Eich boasting that someday he, Cyrus, would be the parasite’s Steed. It must mean the Eich would ride and control him, a master-and-slave affair.

  “We must work together,” Cyrus said. “I must capture the Eich and make him reveal his secrets to me.”

  The primitive howled an ancient battle cry and launched himself downhill.

  Cyrus stood and the sight shocked him. On all fours, a naked giant climbed up the steep slope. The giant had a spiked bit in his mouth attached to reins, and he had a high arching back and a saddle.

  What must have been a Saurian—with red scales like a dragon and shaped like a man, although with a greatly elongated torso—crouched on the saddle. The Sa-Austra carried a bone-white sword of immense size.

  The Jassac primitive recklessly plunged downhill. He hurled his rock. With a clink of metal, the Sa-Austra neatly parried the hurled rock with his blade. The primitive had already launched himself airborne, diving, recklessly seeking to knock the Saurian off his mount. The Sa-Austra’s sword was out of position. The creature hissed a powerful word, a psi-force.

  A meter before the primitive’s bold plan would have borne fruit, something knocked him aside. The man thudded onto the rocky ground, his neck at a grotesque angle, broken.

  So much for that memory, Cyrus thought. I wonder if the primitive had once been a seeker on Jassac.

  The naked giant—the Steed—gave three short barks, laughter possibly.

  That angered Cyrus, although he wondered if that was why the primitive had thrown away his life. Would the vats have changed the reddish seeker into a mount for the inhuman thing that rode the other?

  A cold pressure pushed against Cyrus’s body. The Saurian, the Sa-Austra, noticed him. It had white eyes all of one color. The creature flicked the reins. The giant mount hooted and began to scale the steep grade.

  Cyrus’s pulse quickened. Scalps flopped on the sides of the saddle, grisly trophies of human skin and hair.

  The naked mount gathered himself. Like a giant cat, he leaped onto the outcropping that the primitive had scaled only a few minutes before. The Sa-Austra drew rein. Twenty paces separated the Saurian from Cyrus. Small, bony ridges ringed the creature’s scaly head. Is this what the alien had once looked like? It seemed very possible. The Saurians were similar then to the Kresh. That was interesting. Was sentient reptilian life more common than intelligent mammalian life?

  “The beast destroyed itself,” the Sa-Austra hissed. “Its flesh is wasted and the blood soaked where it is of no value. You will take its place.”

  “How do I wake my woman?” Cyrus asked.

  The Sa-Austra stiffened. The mount must have noticed, for he glanced up at his master.

  “Give me your name!” the Sa-Austra demanded.

  Was this the Eich? Cyrus didn’t think so.

  “It frightens you that I don’t quiver at your presence,” Cyrus said. “Why is that?”

  “Your name, I demand it!”

  Cyrus turned sideways toward the creature and held his baton aimed toward the ground. Mentally, he fanned through his options like a gambler through a deck of cards.r />
  “Psionic creature,” the Sa-Austra hissed, as if spitting poison.

  “I noticed you’re handy with ESP yourself,” Cyrus mocked, seeking to goad the Saurian into a foolish move. “It shows a wise lack of faith in your sword skills.”

  The Sa-Austra raised the immense bone-white blade. “You shall weep on the altar as I sing the songs of cleansing. Your blood will boil, and the Family shall be another step closer to returning home.”

  “Do I hear a dead lizard speaking to me?”

  The Saurian kicked its ridged heels into the mount’s flanks. The giant moaned and charged on all fours across the stony soil.

  Cyrus stood his ground. Then he, too, bounded, running uphill, moving across from the mount’s left side to his right. The Sa-Austra likewise began to move his sword cross-body. Before the Saurian could complete the movement, Cyrus aimed his baton. Just as he had once made a vibrio-knife appear in his hand, he caused the baton to grow, and he gave it a point. Before the white sword could parry it, the point impaled the Sa-Austra like a spear. The Saurian hissed in agony, and the sweeping sword snapped the elongated baton. Sparks erupted, momentarily blinding the creature and its mount.

  As they swept past him, Cyrus ducked out of the way. The mount crashed against a crystal boulder. The wounded Sa-Austra tumbled out of the saddle. Cyrus dashed there. He fumbled at the Saurian’s belt, drew a curved knife, and held it to the Sa-Austra’s throat.

  “Tell me how to wake Jana.”

  The creature glared at him.

  “I can kill you easily enough,” Cyrus said.

  “Do you think I am the one? No. I am the Eich’s servant. Kill me and your woman dies.”

  Cyrus clenched his teeth. “So be it,” he said. He applied pressure.

  “Wait! I will speak. I will tell you how to cloak your vessel. I do not know how to repair your woman.”

  “So tell me,” Cyrus said.

  The Sa-Austra did. It made sense after a fashion. “There,” it said. “I have relayed the message as the Eich told me I must do if you could defeat me. Now release me.”

  “Yeah, right,” Cyrus said. “You’ll just head back to your tents and get another mount. I’m not sure I can get out of here quickly enough.”

  The creature watched him. Something about it troubled Cyrus.

  He thought about the stakes. Fenris humanity was doomed. One of the three alien races would win the coming war. If the Chirr won, humans would likely become food or psi-fodder. If the cyborgs won, people would become machine-flesh melds. If the Kresh won, humans would remain as slaves.

  I’m the only chance we have. That means I have to play the game more ruthlessly than a Dust dealer would.

  “Remove your knife from my throat,” the Sa-Austra said.

  “Sure thing,” Cyrus said. He sliced, cutting the throat and jumping back. Blood jetted. The Saurian hissed, and it attempted to rise. Cyrus watched coldly.

  The Sa-Austra slumped back against the crystal stone. “You are doomed, liar.”

  “Yeah? How about your master playing his little trick earlier. We’re even, I’d say.”

  “You are doomed.”

  Cyrus decided he’d talked enough. So he headed back the way he’d come. It was time to leave his mind, return to reality, and see if he could slip the Battle Fang away without Dagon Dar noticing them heading for High Station 3.

  21

  Across the Fenris System in the outer asteroid belt, Senior Darcy Foxe of Ice Hauler 266-9 sat in the control module with Glissim.

  The cyborgs had left them alone for the last twenty-six hours. That meant she’d heard nothing about Jick.

  During that time, Darcy and Glissim had watched the cyborgs land three heavy lifters onto the asteroid. That had shaken the ice hauler each time. From the lifters jumped suited cyborgs. They carried mining equipment. Soon enough, ice and rock flew into space. Then the lifters rose with a strange silvery craft tethered to them. The lifters took the alien vessel to the main cyborg warship.

  “Is that what you saw in the ice?” Glissim asked.

  Darcy nodded silently. The cyborgs had the ancient treasure. What would they do with it? What did Jick pretend to know? Did it help him? Or did the cyborgs torture the fool?

  Darcy didn’t have any love for him—he’d tried to rape her. But he was human. They weren’t. A terrible thought made it hard to sleep afterward. Would the cyborgs turn Jick into one of them? That was terrifying.

  During the twenty-seventh hour, the message panel lit up.

  Glissim turned to her. “What do we do?”

  “Move aside,” Darcy said. “I’ll answer it. I’m the senior.”

  Glissim drifted from her chair, hovering just out of sight of the screen.

  Taking the vacated spot, Darcy strapped herself down. With a tap of her finger, she opened channels. Toll Three peered at her on the screen.

  “Prepare for boarding,” he said in his monotone.

  Darcy wanted to ask about Jick. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth as she stared at the cyborg. In her fear, she couldn’t speak.

  “Do you comprehend my words?” Toll Three asked.

  Darcy could only nod.

  The screen flickered off.

  “What is it?” Glissim asked. “What’s happening?”

  Darcy turned around as she trembled uncontrollably. This was awful. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to become a cyborg.

  Minutes ticked by and became an hour. Finally, outer clangs foretold the cyborgs’ return to the ice hauler.

  With fear and trembling, Darcy and Glissim waited in the airlock chamber. The same procedure as before produced similar results. The inner airlock slid open and Toll Three with another freaky cyborg stepped into the chamber.

  “H-Hi,” Darcy stammered.

  “You are the senior?” Toll Three asked.

  Her tongue froze again. Darcy could only nod.

  “You are the one who originally discovered the alien vessel?”

  “Yes,” Darcy whispered.

  “You will come with me.”

  “W-Where are we going?” Darcy asked with a moan.

  “Don your suit,” Toll Three said.

  “Is Jick all right?”

  The cyborg stared at her in silence.

  The trembling intensified so Darcy’s teeth rattled against each other.

  “I’m scared, Darcy,” Glissim whispered.

  “So am I.”

  The two women hugged. Tears leaked out of Darcy’s eyes. “Glissim, I-I—”

  “You’ve been an excellent senior,” Glissim whispered, patting Darcy on the back. “I’ll miss you very much.”

  “Please,” Darcy whispered. “Don’t say that. I’m coming back.”

  “I don’t think any of us are ever going home again.”

  Darcy released Glissim. Was that true? It was too horrifying to consider. She faced Toll Three. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “The Prime Web-Mind wishes to speak with you,” the cyborg said.

  “Who is that?”

  For the first time, Toll Three showed a modicum of emotion, that of slight surprise. “You do not know the Prime Web-Mind?”

  Darcy shook her head.

  “The Prime is the ultimate construct in the universe,” Toll Three said, sounding proud. “The Prime guides the Conquest Fleet and will begin the liquidation of the humanoids and their reptilian masters.”

  “You mean kill us?” Darcy asked.

  “Liquidation does not mean death. It is a rebirth into the cyborg machinery. We are the future of the universe. Our conquest and assimilation is foreordained.”

  “H-How do you know?” Darcy stammered.

  “We are superior. We shall liquidate each species in turn and rebuild in our perfection.”
r />   “Does he agree with that?” Darcy asked, pointing at the other cyborg.

  Toll Three didn’t turn to look. He peered at Darcy, waiting. Finally, he said, “Don your suit. Time has become a factor.”

  The trembling had stopped, but Darcy felt drained. Without energy, she climbed into a vacc-suit. She slipped a laser torch onto the equipment rack that acted as a belt. Just before Darcy put the helmet on, Glissim broke into sobs.

  The helmet clunked into place and Darcy snapped it tight with a twist. The tall cyborg whirred near, grabbed her vacc-suit sleeve, and pulled her into the airlock.

  It closed, air escaped, and the outer lock opened. The former cyborg tube was gone. The three of them walked on the surface of the snowball with stars glittering everywhere.

  Her earphones crackled. “Can you hear me?” Toll Three asked.

  “I can,” Darcy said.

  “We will journey to the warship.”

  “With what?” Darcy asked.

  Toll Three stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her torso, bent down, and leaped.

  She cried out as they catapulted into space. It was a small asteroid with almost zero escape velocity. Darcy looked around wildly. The cyborg lacked a thruster pack. She saw no space lines either.

  “How are we getting there?” she radioed.

  “Do you see the warship?”

  She looked up. She saw it all right. “You mean you just jump there?”

  “How can you ask me that? You are witness to the event.”

  That was about right. Toll Three’s jump was an event. Did the cyborg really have that kind of precision? Or would the cyborgs on the ship catch them in a giant net?

  “Can I ask you a question?” Darcy said.

  “You just did.”

  “That was to get your permission to ask about Jick.”

  “Who is Jick?”

  Darcy felt cold inside. “He was the human who went with you the first time.”

  “Jick is gone,” Toll Three said.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”