Alien Wars

by Vaughn Heppner

A chime sounded. Dagon Dar halted, rotating until he faced a cunningly concealed screen. The chime sounded again. That meant an urgent message.

  “On,” Dagon Dar said.

  A part of the wall shimmered, turning into a Kresh peering out of a screen. The Kresh had tattooed skin, proclaiming her a home-worlder heretic. They made excellent warship captains. The part of the heresy Dagon Dar found the most repugnant was the eating of human and Chirr flesh. He found the idea revolting, and quite unsanitary, too.

  “FIRST,” she said.

  “Here,” Dagon Dar said.

  “The warships of our outer asteroid belt fleet have been accelerating for thirteen hours.”

  “That is in the accepted time limit,” he said.

  “You misunderstand, FIRST. I have called to tell you they are under attack.”

  Dagon Dar rose as he pushed off his talons. This was fascinating data, even if it came at such a grave expense. He was surprised the cyborgs would give away the range of their beams so easily.

  “Are they using infrared laser beams?” Dagon Dar asked.

  “No, FIRST. The cyborgs are destroying our ships with nuclear warheads.”

  Dagon Dar stared at the tattooed freak on the screen. She had green swirls around her eyes and a dagger tattoo down the length of her snout. The most egregious was the sun symbol of the Codex of All Knowledge tattooed in blue on her brain case.

  “Give me your name,” Dagon Dar said.

  “Red Bronze the 232nd,” she said.

  “I see. You are a home-worlder heretic of the Red Metal School.”

  She dipped her tattooed head.

  “You have feasted lately?” Dagon Dar asked.

  “I am quite sober,” Red Bronze said.

  So, it was true. The Red Metal heretics indulged in the old passion of intoxication. What a revolting piece of dung. The heretics believed intoxication could bring sudden enlightenment. Wrong! Deep and abiding thought dissected a truth into chewable bits, allowing a Kresh to learn wisdom. It was no wonder the half savages ate sentient flesh.

  “Do you mean to imply the cyborgs possess drones with fantastically greater acceleration than our warships?” Dagon Dar asked.

  “By no means,” Red Bronze said. “In point of fact, their drones are slower than ours.”

  “Yet you insist on telling me the cyborgs are using nuclear warheads to attack the accelerating outer asteroid belt Attack Talons and hammer-ships.”

  “Precisely,” Red Bronze said.

  “Show me the data,” Dagon Dar snapped.

  “I do so with reluctance, as I am unsure your staid intellect can absorb this chaotic reality.”

  Dagon Dar “pierced her features” with his stare. The Kresh idiom implied he would remember her later for harsh rebuke.

  The image on the screen wavered. Red Bronze vanished from view. In her place, Dagon Dar saw an Attack Talon. It was a distant scope shot. The vessel’s exhaust ports burned as hot as possible. The Attack Talon moved at maximum acceleration. That would give the shipboard Kresh terrible headaches for weeks to come. The superior Race of Fenris did not take well to high Gs for sustained burns.

  The space ahead of the Attack Talon wavered as if heat generated there. Then the very fabric of reality seemed to tear, to open. Strange motes glimmered, and a dull, mind-wearying color expanded. Two missiles flared into existence.

  No. I’m witnessing their exhaust burns. Are these chemically powered rockets? That seems unbelievable.

  The rockets flew through the wavering space as if through a hole in reality. They sped toward the approaching Attack Talon. The rip in space closed behind them, and stars shone normally there once more. A beam lanced from the Attack Talon. This was a quick-acting crew. The beam struck the lead rocket, and it exploded.

  The second rocket’s warhead ignited into a nuclear pulse. Numbers superimposed over the image showed the magnitude of the explosion and its distance to the Attack Talon. The Kresh military vessel didn’t have a chance.

  The heat wave and the gamma rays and X-rays crumpled the warship. Seconds later, parts of the Attack Talon exploded. Pieces shed free. Secondary explosions shredded more of the vessel. There would be no survivors.

  Dagon Dar sagged in his chamber.

  The space image vanished from the screen and Red Bronze the 232nd reappeared.

  “I am sorry to report this, FIRST. What you witnessed is occurring to the rest of the outer asteroid belt fleet. Since most of the warships were spread out in wildly varied locations, they journey inward by themselves. One cluster has fought off three such attacks.”

  “Describe it to me,” Dagon Dar said.

  “The cluster is composed of a hammer-ship, two Attack Talons, and three small darters. Altogether, they have destroyed six nuclear missiles.”

  “What are the present losses to the outer asteroid belt fleet?”

  Red Bronze checked a panel. “Five hammer-ships, eleven Attack Talons, twenty-three Battle Fangs, and fourteen darters.”

  “How many remain?”

  “One third of that number,” Red Bronze said.

  “What did you witness?” Dagon Dar asked.

  “Exactly what you did except for the accompanying data,” she said. “I have altered nothing.”

  “You mistake my question. I do not doubt the veracity of the data. I saw it. I accept reality.”

  “I am surprised.”

  “You will refrain from any form of insult.”

  “I am chastened,” she said.

  Dagon Dar grunted his surprise. “You follow the accepted form of courtesy and communication.”

  “You are FIRST. I recognize your rank and respect it.”

  “Under those conditions, we can work together. I respect your grade, 232nd. You have a high intellect.”

  “But not as high as yours,” she said.

  “I am FIRST.”

  “I have stated such.”

  “In the coming days, your rank may increase. In fact, I am sure it will.”

  “Why do you honor me?” Red Bronze asked.

  Dagon Dar widened his jaws. “You have strange notions concerning the orthodox such as myself. I merely state facts. Most of the philosopher kings died at Heenhiss. The rest will likely perish or dwindle in number at Glegan. Among the survivors, a former 232nd will likely easily leap many categories, possibly into the Hundred, perhaps into the single digits.”

  “I see there is a reason why you are FIRST. You are decorous and swift in analytical ability. I will hold my inner objections at bay concerning the orthodox as we work together.”

  “I would expect no less from a 232nd.”

  “Ah, you are so correct and factual. Well, I cannot compete against your intellect. I can, however, avail you of my intuition.”

  Dagon Dar kept the shock from his features. An intuitive Kresh? The very statement revolted his core. How could a 232nd espouse such a doctrine? It amazed him.

  “Let us reason through the data and seek working conclusions,” Dagon Dar said.

  Red Bronze nodded as a human might. “I state the first piece of datum. Whoever launched the missiles is an enemy of the Kresh.”

  “We will call that fact one,” Dagon Dar said.

  “Our enemy used a form of technology presently beyond us.”

  “Fact two,” Dagon Dar said.

  “Our enemy attacked the warships fleeing from the outer asteroid belt.”

  “Fact three,” Dagon Dar said.

  “The cyborgs possess a star-drive. They appeared suddenly in our system, in the outer asteroid belt.”

  “The humans used a similar technology.”

  “Do you think the cyborgs and humans are secretly allied against us?” Red Bronze asked.

  “Given the historical information we have gleaned from the Discovery
’s crew, no.”

  “The missiles used crude chemical rockets for propulsion. The blast indicates a fifty-megaton warhead.”

  “Given these facts,” Dagon Dar said, “it would appear our new-technology-using enemies are the cyborgs.”

  “I agree with your analysis,” Red Bronze said.

  Dagon Dar had no doubt she would. It was an elementary deduction. Something else puzzled him about the attack.

  “It would seem this is a devastating technology and tactic,” Dagon Dar said. “According to the records, the cyborgs have not shown the capability before this.”

  “You have decided to proceed with our analysis with the cyborgs as the certain protagonist in this latest attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure that I can—”

  “I calculate the probability at eighty-nine point three percent that the cyborgs are indeed the protagonists of this new form of assault,” Dagon Dar said.

  “Oh,” Red Bronze said.

  “I can break down the probabilities for you.”

  “Later, perhaps,” she said.

  “As you wish,” Dagon Dar said. Since she said nothing to that, he said, “Let me give you my observations.”

  “Please do.”

  “The new attack seems to work best against lone vessels,” Dagon Dar said. “That is why the cyborgs use it at this time. They whittle our numbers to their advantage. It would appear they cannot open two . . . space warps close together.”

  “How did you reach that conclusion?”

  “They would do so in order to destroy the Kresh cluster. Instead of taking that reasonable course, the cyborgs continue to make single space warp attacks against them.”

  “Instead of calling it a ‘space warp,’ might we name it a DW?”

  “You mean use the human term?” Dagon Dar asked.

  “What the cyborgs have done strikes me as a form of discontinuity window.”

  “I agree. DW is as good a name as any.”

  “And the most accurate,” Red Bronze said.

  “Well spoken. Now, the cyborgs pick apart our lone ships. Because they did not do so earlier in the outer asteroid belt, and since they did not do so to our ships here in the Pulsar system—”

  “You have reached a fundamental conclusion?” Red Bronze asked.

  Her excitement surprised Dagon Dar. The Red Metal heretics were a strange breed of Kresh. When advocating a fundamental conclusion, the accepted form of decorum mandated a cool and controlled manner.

  “Indeed I have,” he said. “From interrogating the humans, we know they cannot use a DW too close to a large gravitational source such as a sun or a planet. Compared to the humans, the cyborgs appear to have a refined DW system. They can create the DWs within a star system. The humans could not. It would appear the cyborgs create the DW near their ship, launch the missiles, and close the opening. We’re likely safe near Pulsar and here in Jassac orbit. The Glegan fleet is likely safe near the third planet.”

  “As they cross from Heenhiss to Glegan,” Red Bronze said, “the Chirr fleet is exposed.”

  “They move as insects in a large swarm. From our analysis, ships are safe while traveling together in packs.”

  “Not all of the Chirr vessels move in the swarm,” Red Bronze said. “Would you like a confirmation of that by viewing their swarm?”

  “No. I will take your word.”

  “Do you think this is significant?”

  “The lack of cyborg attacks against the Chirr?” Dagon Dar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It is critical,” he said. “In fact, the timing of the Chirr surprise assault combined with the appearance of the cyborgs is conclusive proof that the two races work together against the Kresh.”

  “Ah,” Red Bronze said. “Yes. Now that you point it out, it is self-evident.”

  “We are in dire straits,” Dagon Dar declared. “With the cyborg fleet, the number of our enemies has doubled. Just as frightening, they possess a deadly new technology.”

  “What are we going to do?” Red Bronze asked.

  Dagon Dar nodded. That was an excellent query. He did not know, but he would think of something. Otherwise, the Kresh in the Fenris System might soon become extinct.

  27

  Still traveling through the altered parts of his mind, Cyrus Gant was clothed in a billowing robe as he swayed atop a camel. Klane rode beside him on another beast.

  The ungainly camel lurched with an obscene gait. Back on Earth at the institute on Crete, Cyrus had watched a nature show on them once. His beast acted just as the commentator said one would, which made sense, since this scene took place in his mind.

  Cyrus watched the camel vigilantly while keeping a thin stick in hand. The ornery beast waited with evil patience. When it suspected that Cyrus no longer paid attention, it swiveled its head and tried to bite him on the thigh. A lashing strike across its nose was Cyrus’s only defense.

  Deep in his mind, a desert sun glared like a malignant eye. Burning dunes towered over them. Hot sand whispered down the slopes across the wasteland. The region was a parched sea of death, a desolate kingdom of doom and gravel.

  Klane skillfully rode his own camel, having grown accustomed to it almost right away.

  Sand ruled as far as they cared to stare. For days, no plant had appeared, no desert mouse, no vulture, no fox, no fly or gnat, nothing. This was a desert’s desert, hot and waterless.

  Cyrus pointed with his stick. “There,” he said. He spat particles of sand from his lips. Then he turned back just as the evil beast gave him a crafty sideways glance. Cyrus raised his stick menacingly. The camel bellowed its complaint, but lurched toward where Cyrus wished to go.

  Soon Cyrus and Klane crouched in a dune’s feeble shade. They hobbled the camels. Leaning against sand, the two men passed a waterskin between them.

  Klane seemed incongruous in his cloth headgear, scarf, and billowing robe, so different from his usual garb. He’d thrust a knife through his sash belt. Since leaving the barrier, he’d said little. Perhaps he thought about his death in the real world.

  Cyrus capped the waterskin. Out of the corner of his eye he studied the morose Anointed One. “If it’s any consolation,” Cyrus said. “I think we’re close.”

  Klane squatted, took the waterskin, squirted enough to dampen his fingers, and brushed his chapped lips. “Our water will only last another few days,” he said.

  Cyrus sat up. “Water is the least of our problems,” he whispered.

  Klane glanced at him.

  Cyrus pointed at a metallic thing topping a dune. Slowly, Cyrus flattened himself onto the sand. Klane did the same thing. The two men crawled to the top of their dune.

  The approaching machine looked like a giant armored spider fifteen feet tall. Instead of eight articulated legs, it had six. The sun reflected off the metal legs as the machine scuttled toward them.

  “We mustn’t move,” Klane said.

  “Why not?”

  “It tracks by motion.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Klane tapped his forehead.

  “Does it belong to the Eich?” Cyrus asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he in it?”

  Klane closed his eyes. “No.”

  “The bastard. Where is he?”

  “I think he flees while the machine attempts to kill us.”

  “What? Are you sure?” Cyrus asked.

  “No. It is only a feeling.”

  “Great,” Cyrus muttered. He squinted through the hazy heat, studying the approaching machine. Several things didn’t make sense to him. Why did Klane know more down here than he did? It was his own mind, not Klane’s. That bothered Cyrus, made him doubt Klane, the memory of Klane, just a little. The other thing that troubled him was the normality of
the realm. It was like Earth. He’d expected something even more alien than the city and the sea of fire. What game did the Eich play? How would he know he came to the psi-parasite’s fortress? Was the mind-rapist alien playing games with him, merely seeking time, or was something else going on?

  “It’s coming,” Klane whispered about the spider machine.

  Cyrus concentrated on it. A saucer-shaped body balanced at the top of the six legs. It had a bubble dome of glass in the center with a Saurian pilot. On the undercarriage was a swivel laser with a blinking red light on the end.

  The spider machine halted. With a whine, the saucer rose a foot higher. Something clicked and the laser swiveled as if searching.

  The camels had frozen at the machine’s approach. Now, one of them bellowed. With its hobbled legs, it jumped.

  The laser moved again as a loud whine went up an octave. The tip fired a red beam that pierced the camel’s body, smoking as it went in and out the other side. The poor beast bellowed a second time, a forlorn sound, and crashed onto the sand.

  The other camel went berserk and thrashed against its hobbles. Again, the laser beamed and the second camel soon lay dying on the sand.

  “We’re doomed,” Klane whispered. “We lack the weapons to face it.”

  A harsh beep sounded from the machine, and the laser rotated back and forth, searching for them. With delicate grace, the spider machine used one leg at a time to approach the dead camels.

  “Listen to me,” Klane whispered. “We have one chance.”

  “Yeah?” Cyrus whispered.

  “You must fight the machine.”

  “Care to tell me how?”

  “You are the new Anointed One,” Klane said. “I . . . died. It is up to you now.”

  “Listen, Klane—”

  “There is no more time. You must fashion a creature out of the sand.”

  “What?” Cyrus asked. “How?”

  “With TK,” Klane said. “Fight it with telekinesis. Use your power to mold sand to create something for it to attack, and to attack it as well.”

  The saucer dipped near the dead camels. The beasts had run toward the machine. A dune still hid Cyrus and Klane from the controlling Saurian.

  If the Eich was near, they had to defeat this thing quickly. Was that even possible? Cyrus concentrated. Klane had given him power the day he died. Now, it was time to use it fully. He willed the sand to take shape, pouring his psionic strength into it.