Emile and the Dutchman

by Joel Rosenberg

  Their faces were broad, with huge eyes and large cupped ears; the eyes were a fathomless, solid black. It felt like they were following my every move, but there was really no way to tell.

  "How intelligent are they, Donny?"

  "They are aware, aware." He opened his eyes, and his body stopped its weaving.

  I didn't like this, not at all. "What say we lift out of here and try again later, Major?"

  "Look up, krauthead. We aren't going anyplace right now."

  I looked up. The canopy formed by the branches laced together over our heads bent with the weight of the things. And beyond, above them, were hundreds more; at least a thousand, all together.

  If the Dutchman had had a cigar in his mouth he would have chewed on it. As it was, he just grunted, reflexively fondling the butt of his pistol.

  It was an archaic device, lacking the sophistication and spraying power of my wiregun. But one Glaser Safety Slug spewing out of the barrel of that ancient piece of steel had more immediate stopping power than all the wires in my gun.

  Trouble was, it was a six-shooter, which looked to be at least nine hundred and ninety-four fewer shots than a combat situation would call for.

  "We'll stay a bit, Emmy," the Dutchman said calmly.

  Some of the tension went out of my shoulders when I saw him holster his Magnum. I did the same with my wiregun. But while the Dutchman thonged the weapon into place, he had left the flap open, and so did I.

  One of the chiropterans dropped off the tree, wings outfolded to break its fall, then shuffled and splashed forward until its head was under N'Damo's hand. Donny rubbed the broad head absently, as though he was idly petting a cat, that distant look on his dark face again.

  "I'm waiting for word on how smart these chiropterans are, N'Damo," the Dutchman said, looking down distastefully. One of them was rubbing up against his thigh. "They sure as hell don't look bright enough or vicious enough to have taken out Second Team."

  "I see a nest, a nesting place, a nest," Donny said. "But they look at us and see them, overthem."

  "What the fuck?"

  Donny shook his head violently. When he spoke again, he sounded awake. "There's no . . . perception that we're alien. Major, just different. A new, a new species in the forest. They know the trees, the water, themselves. But no abstract concepts—I think they've got a leg up on chimpanzees, but it would be a close call."

  "No hands," I muttered.

  "Huh?"

  "No hands, Major." All the brains in the universe don't do you any good if you can't alter you environment. So there's only a slim evolutionary edge in becoming intelligent if you don't have hands or equivalents. It doesn't take much brains to sneak up on a leaf; it takes a lot more to sneak up on a leaf-eater.

  "I noticed." The Dutchman paused. "So where the fuck are they, eh?"

  Donny leaned closer to me. "They?"

  "Whoever killed Second Team, asshole." To the Dutchman, the threat was always a them. Like the other old saying goes: personifiers of the universe, unite—you have nothing to lose but Mr. Dignity.

  "They've got a village, Major," Donny said.

  "What? You said they were stupid."

  He looked embarrassed for a moment, but then his eyes went glassy as he retreated into communion with the locals. "Not a village, really, not a village, Major, village. Not really—"

  "Go easy on him, Major—"

  "Shut up."

  "—more of a rookery? A rook, rook, rookery." He pointed. "Over there, it is over there."

  "That's where I spotted the heat concentration. Major."

  "Thank you. Lieutenant von du Mark. Take two brownie points out of petty cash."

  He stood silently for a moment, eyeing the creatures, who were busy eyeing him eyeing them.

  I shrugged, and eyed all of them. It seemed to be the thing to do.

  The Dutchman nodded. "Okay, let's go." He pulled his hand controls off his belt. "Airborne, after me. First the spook, then the kraut."

  His lifter started with a loud roar. Kicking up mud and leaves, he rose into the air like a fat balloon. In a moment, Donny followed him.

  The noise and rush of heat didn't seem to bother our local audience. A few dozen flapped after each of the other two, but the rest stayed to trade stares with me. I didn't like that, not at all. There's only two possible explanations for a wild creature that doesn't run at a strange loud sound: either it's dogshit stupid, or it's the toughest bastard around.

  I hoped the chiropterans were stupid.

  I stowed my cutter and triggered a beep on the scout's freak. "Bar-El? You catch any of this?"

  No answer.

  "We're going to check out the village now."

  I pulled on my lifter controls, thumbed them on, and rose into the air.

  We came down in a bona fide clearing surrounded by real trees. None of the pale, spongy, phony trees grew within twenty meters of the woody giants which thrust upward, vanishing into the canopy, into the gathering twilight.

  Pale vines laced the trunks, which were thirty to fifty meters around. Woven baskets hung from the grassy strands. Hundreds, thousands of pairs of beady eyes peered at us, from tree limbs all around us.

  "Some village," the Dutchman said, snorting.

  Donny looked very uncomfortable.

  "It's all right, N'Damo. You're doing fine." Norfeldt turned his back on Donny, so he missed the pleased and surprised look on the kid's face.

  Like a puppy patted on the head. Espers can be like that.

  I went over to the Dutchman. "What now, Major?" I

  "Damned if I know. So far, so good, eh?"

  "We're alive, if that's what you mean."

  "That's it, Emmy. Take some samples—then we'll hit the air and get back to the scout, have a good night's rest, and check out Second's scout tomorrow."

  Beyond the circle of light, all I could see was shadows and eyes, watching. The tree bulked comfortably at my back.

  When I poked at one of the woven-basket nests, one of the chiropterans flittered out and took to the air almost silently. I shook the next to be sure nobody else was home; it rattled like a bag full of sticks.

  When I poked my flash inside, it gleamed against dry bones.

  They were split lengthwise, and the insides were still faintly wet. Feathers lined the nest. It looked as though one of the brightly colored flyers from up above had come down, slumming, and paid for it.

  I checked another nest. Same procedure, except that this time there was nobody home. More bones, though, and more feathers, and parts of a pelt from a creature I hadn't seen before. It had died sloppily, and the chiropterans weren't done with it yet. The brain was still in the skull, and some of the viscera were still present, uneaten.

  My stomach was starting to protest, and I couldn't get the sour-vomit taste from the back of my mouth. Enough for now, I decided. I could swallow some Paradrams before the next time we went out.

  I looked around.

  All I could see was eyes. Donny and Norfeldt were gone.

  "Major—"

  "Shut the fuck up, Emmy," the Dutchman said, his flash blinking about fifteen meters away. His collar lights came on for a moment, and I could see his face. "What's the problem?"

  "I couldn't see you."

  "Well, I sure as hell can't see you now, either." He shut his collar lights off. "Whatcha got?"

  "Their eating habits. They're not herbivores. At least some of their prey is pulled down out of the upper levels of the forest, up at treetop level."

  He frowned.

  Something brushed my membrane helmet, like a flurry of dry leaves, but with some weight behind it. I took a step back and brushed it away, but there wasn't anything there, not anymore.

  "Nightfall," the Dutchman said, and I swear I heard him smiling that smile that said, all of a sudden, that he knew something that I didn't, something that was about to become awfully important.

  Or fatal.

  "Condition Blue," the Dutchman said. A
ttack expected. "Get your weapon free."

  Something hit me in the back, not very hard. I turned. Something else thwocked off my membrane helmet again.

  Something bounced off my hands.

  My leg.

  My back again.

  And then my helmet. Batting at the vague bodies, I turned the floods up full.

  The air was filled with them. They boiled out of the nests, off the vines, down from the trees, and blew into the air like an explosion. They bumbled against my membrane helmet, not very hard, but a dozen times a minute.

  I fetched up against the tree, hard, and was batted down to my knees.

  "Emmy—"

  "Here, Dutchman. I'm over here."

  But I couldn't see where he was.

  They cut through the light and then fluttered away; My membrane helmet was laced with scratches. The air rumbled from their beating wings. I felt the sound more than heard it.

  One clamped itself on my shoulder, but an explosion to the left shattered it into blood and gore that covered my helmet completely.

  I got to my feet again, felt a weight on my right arm, and clapped my left hand onto my forearm.

  When I jerked the chiropteran free, the talons took a small swatch of my oversuit sleeve and ripped through, into my E-suit itself. I felt another hand on my arm, grabbed for it, and felt a gloved human hand.

  "It's me, Emmy. Let's get the fuck out of here," the Dutchman said calmly. "And don't you ever call me Dutchman again."

  Fine time to be worrying about that. "Suit breached."

  "Better hope that the biogel wasn't misleading us. N'Damo? Where the fuck are you?"

  "Here, Major," he said, from somewhere. I couldn't see a damn thing.

  We linked hands and started walking. I fell down a lot in the next twenty meters. The last time I didn't bother getting up.

  "This isn't going to work," I said. My throat burned from the bile I'd held back. My gut was clenched like a fist against the sickness. Primeval reflex: dump excess baggage and run. But letting go in a closed suit is not exactly a survival-oriented behavior.

  Norfeldt and Donny each took an arm and hauled me to my feet.

  "I can't see anything—" I started to say.

  "Doesn't matter," the Dutchman said.

  "Use the lifters. Have to slave mine to yours—"

  "No way. We'd get knocked out of the air before we went ten meters. Safe and sure on foot, Emmy. Come on, N'Damo, they're not going to wait for fucking ever—"

  It was about then that Donny grunted, hard.

  He lost his grip on my arm and went down.

  "Donny?"

  "Clawed—suit breached—"

  Then they hit me, like a white-hot nail driven into my back, through the outer insulation, cooling/heating tubing, and my uniform coveralls, straight to flesh.

  I yelped and bit deep into my lower lip.

  The report of the Dutchman's Magnum hammered in my ears, and even through my gore-covered helmet I could see him standing a few meters in front of me, cloaked with the flesh of the aliens. The Magnum spat lightning again, and spattered chiropteran pate into the night air. Another, caught by the blast, tumbled to the ground in miscellaneous pieces.

  One clamped itself onto my leg. I slapped it backhand without thinking and then kicked it hard in the head. It flopped into the water, twitching. It was easy to kill them, but there were millions of them and only one of me, only one of me.

  I started fumbling for the straps on my lifter. A lifter's pack was designed for security, not for easy disposal; it seemed as though there were about two dozen fasteners.

  Norfeldt's Magnum went off five more times, then it went silent as he reloaded. I wanted to shout for him to be sure to save a shot, but my teeth were stuck in my lower lip.

  I got the sample pack off, dropped it and a couple hours' of work into the swamp water.

  "Major."

  Dimly, I saw him turn my way. I hoped to hell his helmet allowed him more visibility than mine allowed me as I fumbled at my lifter's buckles.

  "Fucking kraut's a genius—do it."

  I gripped the lifter by one strap and threw it as hard as I could. It splashed down all of five meters away.

  I didn't have to say anything; the Dutchman squeezed off two quick rounds. The pack exploded.

  The concussion knocked me off my feet, while the heat of the explosion raised blisters on my exposed forearm. Carbonized bits of wood and flesh struck me in a sudden rain.

  I forced myself to my feet. I could see, a little. My membrane helmet was scratched cloudy, but I could see where Donny was lying, almost at my feet. I hauled him out of the water, the Dutchman took hold of his other arm, and we started wading, unfastening his lifter from his back as we did.

  Behind us, the fire flickered dimly. Above it, a thousand chiropterans orbited. Maybe we could get out while—

  The flock shattered in our direction.

  "Not enough." My lungs were burning. My strength was leaking out, slowly, like the air hissing out through the suit.

  "Stop your—"

  His words were lost in thunder. And red-hot lightning.

  "If you move, you die."

  The thunder and lightning moved closer. The needle of flame, hot and bright as the sun, played through the trees.

  * * *

  Walking an automatic recoilless onto a target is relatively easy. You work the controls in your left hand, aim it as close to the target as possible, pull the trigger, then use it like a garden hose as you correct the spray. Even if you're controlling a hovering skimmer with your right hand and feet, it's not all that difficult.

  Of course, it's not quite so simple when the skimmer is moving at something better than forty klicks an hour, and when you yourself are under attack by hundreds of flying chiropterans.

  And when there are three nontargets right in the middle of your field of fire, three separate points that you don't want that deadly hail of lead to touch, it's practically impossible.

  And when your targets are thousands of airborne chiropterans who have to be knocked out of the sky while your three Contact Service comrades aren't to be touched, it's absolutely impossible.

  Check the manuals; ask anyone.

  I guess Akiva Bar-El hadn't read the manuals. He swung the recoilless around, firing it continuously, burning down the chiropterans. The vegetation blew into flinders beneath the deadly hail; pieces of aliens were chopped and shattered into a gory rain.

  Even through my suit, I could feel the whip of bullets coming within centimeters—

  —but not a one touched me. Or Donny. Or the Dutchman.

  "When I tell you to, make a run for the skimmer." The water around us came to a boil and shattered into the air, but the thunder went on and on. "Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it . . . and . . . now."

  "No time for a nap, Emmy." The Dutchman shook my shoulder roughly. He and Donny helped me sit up.

  "You okay, Donny?"

  "Sure," he said, dazed.

  The Dutchman pulled a pair of syringes from his medikit and jabbed me in the thigh. "I'm going to give you a broad-spectrum cocktail, kid—and," he said, jabbing another one viciously, "a bit of Afterburner. We gotta get airborne."

  My head started to clear; I looked around. I was sitting on cracked, powder-dry earth. For a few hundred meters all around, scatterings of wood shards and smoking ashes marked where the smaller trees had stood.

  The larger ones were still there, flayed and blackened, oozing sap.

  Farther away, fires licking skyward were already going out.

  The scout sat a short distance away. Akiva Bar-El stood on its roof, the recoilless now mounted abaft the weapons turret, the backblast tube resting on his right shoulder. Scattered around on the ground outside it were at least thirty chiropteran bodies.

  They hadn't been shot; they looked like they had been batted out of the sky, caught and crushed in a giant's hand.

  "Can you fly?" the Dutchman asked.

 
; "It's a day for miracles." I nodded. "Get me to the couch."

  VI

  "Let's get out of here," Norfeldt said. "This place depresses me."

  I had a tear twenty-five centimeters long extending from just above my right kidney down across my right buttock and a short way down the back of my leg. It wasn't very deep, and it had clotted over before I dropped into the pilot's couch.

  It just hurt like hell.

  "Everybody strapped in?" I asked, running through the main engine's start sequence, setting the throttle to minimum before punching the ignite button.

  "Here goes." I punched for the combination that would blow the restraining bolts on the landing pods, then hit the start button.

  The scout reared up on its hind pods; I shot the throttles forward just as the nose reached vertical.

  The engines roared.

  Weightless, docked with the orbital stage, burn ointment covering my right forearm, local anesthetics taking care of the pain in my leg and butt, I started to feel better. Anyone can free-space-navigate from orbit to a Gate.

  "Right about sunset," Akiva was saying, "I lost the beeps from your personal transponders."

  "All at once?" The Dutchman raised an eyebrow and puffed a cloud of smoke toward the outflow.

  "Yes. Which seemed strange, so I suited up and popped the topside hatch. I had about three seconds to notice that the antenna had been chewed through before they were all over me."

  Norfeldt raised an eyebrow. "You telling me you took out two dozen of them without your sprayer?"

  "Yes, sir." He didn't wince as Donny pulled the bandage away from his forearm. "I knew there was a reason that God gave me hands."

  "Right." Norfeldt shook his head. "It's all my damn fault. Teach me to trust an esper. Idiot."

  Donny started to open his mouth, but Norfeldt waved him to silence. "Not you, shithead—me. I'm the bloody idiot. You were so sure that the aliens weren't hostile—"

  "They weren't. Honest, Major. You can't lie with your mind."

  "—that I believed you." He looked over at me. "Any bets that that's not what happened with Second? I swear, that's the trouble with having a decent-rated peeper around—when the locals are psi-positive, you're tempted to trust him. You can't lie with your mind, right?"