Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  “The mystery deepens.” What did it all mean? When George had approached Hanover earlier about letting them go, Hanover had laughed and walked away. What could be his motivation for keeping them?

  “I say we rush the bastard’s hut, arm ourselves and get the hell out of here,” Baider growled.

  “Hush, Baider. The whole camp will hear you,” Heather whispered, stretching out between George and Wendell.

  “It’s too risky. He keeps his hut guarded.” George reached up and tapped the light pole. It dimmed. “Besides, I’m sure he’s got our weapons stashed somewhere else. If you’ve noticed, my .45’s on his hip.”

  “Angel told me that right after Hanover took charge, two guys who questioned Hanover’s authority died soon after in hunting accidents,” Wendell whispered tremulously. “No one has questioned his authority since.”

  “I think Angel’s in love with you, Wendell.” Heather nudged him and winked. “She may just be telling you stuff to keep you from trying to leave.”

  “Yeah, I think that sometimes too, but I don't think she’s lying about everybody being afraid of him.”

  “Be that as it may,” Heather continued, “Tasha is on our side. She says Lonesome won’t lift a finger to stop us, even if it means facing up to Hanover. She left me with the impression that most everybody feels the same.”

  “Piker’s getting lax.” Baider shifted closer, yet his deep baritone still carried. “Something goes down, I can drop him.”

  Despite the warmth emanating from the thermopad hung on the back wall of the hut, Heather shivered. She tugged a double layer of blanket and furs about her and lay down. “Tasha hinted she might be willing to get me a handgun.”

  George sighed. “We can't stay here much longer or Lauren will send Don and Owen out looking for us. I’ve picked up bits and pieces about armed groups they call ‘the patrols’ who shoot on sight. Best wait. If we rush it...hurt or kill someone... We should keep working our contacts, keep our eyes and ears open. Take advantage of the first solid opportunity that presents itself. Agreed?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Baider turned his back to them and pulled the blanket tight about him.

  Since their arrival at camp, Baider had kept a space between them, but twice now, George woke to find Heather snuggled up to the seaman. If there was something between them, they were being very discreet.

  “I’m sure Angel will help us, too,” Wendell whispered.

  “Don't count on it, Wendell,” Heather yawned and plumped up the fur roll that served as a pillow, “but, I hope you’re right.”

  That thought in mind, George reached over, tapped out the light pole and snuggled into the thick, wool blanket covering the three of them. He was pleased when Heather pushed her back up against him. She was soon breathing softly. The gentle rhythm eased his descent into sleep.

  Before slumber awakened his night-mind to a world of dreams, he thought about his dad, whom he had promised to spend time with when Slinker’s sea trials were over. They were close once, but their career paths had drawn them in different directions. As a nuclear physicist, Wilhelm John Schumer was world-renowned, a holder of the Nobel Prize, but when he became obsessed with time-travel, his circle of friends had diminished and he’d grown ever more reclusive. His home was around here somewhere, built into a remote cave of all places. Perhaps if he sought the old professor out, he might know the answers to what had happened, but no, his father had lost it a long time ago. He would be of no use. Yet, the old man in the hologram did bare a striking resemblance, albeit quite older.

  Chapter Six

  12:31 Hours, August 15, 2057 - Space

  “What’ve you got on sensors?”

  “Nothing, Colonel. Absolutely nothing.” A worried frown replaced Clapton's usual disarming grin. He shook his head no.

  Apprehension washed through O’Brien, overwhelming his biomods. We have no defense against these creatures. Nothing to fight them with. “Has to be something!” Too sharp. "Damn it." Less forced. He cleared his throat, using the moment to calm himself. That wasn't like him, he grimaced. He shouldered back emotions as alien to him as quiche to Sergeant Doomes. Training, discipline, and sheer arrogance bundled such destructive worries off to the dark recesses of his mind.

  “Garson, you got anything?”

  Face centimeters from his console vid, Garson hastily punched in a sequence. He paused, frowned, reconfigured, paused, scowled, reconfigured, then tossed his hands up and sat back.

  “Not a thing. Not that I have a clue what I'm looking for, but what I know to look for isn't out there. All I can give you is what we can see through the viewport.”

  The men glanced up, but the portal revealed only the same murky, crystalline soup.

  “Has to be something going on.” Clapton announced to the con, then squinted at O’Brien.. “Can’t you feel it?”

  “Yes.” Nothing O’Brien could say with certainty, but a disquiet deep inside, as if the seismic continuity of his being were off.

  A shudder rippled through the ship.

  Here it comes, O’Brien thought.

  Like twisted lengths of rope, pulsing and writhing, faint green tendrils appeared on the view screen. One straightened and thinned to a gray band, tightening its grip. Mars Explorer wobbled. Hull plating groaned. Braces popped. Red alarm bands scrolled across the bottom of the vids.

  Warning. Decompression imminent. Seventeen minutes and forty one seconds to complete decompression.

  Imperceptibly at first, the Mars Explorer broke loose and, revolving slowly, rose from the asteroid through the rapidly thinning fog. The vibration intensified, then dropped away as the ship surged into open space.

  “Oh Lord,” O’Brien swallowed.

  Framed by the portal, a thick, writhing green spiral undulated between the Mars Explorer and the alien domino ship. At once internal systems shut down, plunging the command deck into twilight.

  “I believe we’ve been grabbed by some kind of energy snare.” O’Brien offered, noting Clapton’s incredulous look.

  "We have no counter-measure,” Garson said.

  “I gets better, Colonel.” Clapton drummed furiously on the armrest, caught a sharp glance from O’Brien and stopped. “We’ve got dozens of leaks. A few in places impossible to access. Even if we release reserves, we’ll be out of air in a half hour.”

  “I’ll consider any suggestion, Major.” O’Brien leaned back, unable to tear his eyes from the viewport and the green rope dancing across it.

  "Reminds me of mad alien vids.” Clapton grinned derisively. "Where the heroes, that's us, always win, despite our eminent demise at the hands of a technically superior and malevolent alien race."

  O'Brien recognized Clapton's ironic witticism as a plea for guidance. Even during the worst of the Afghan Wars, O’Brien invariably provided an immediate and succinct response, but this situation was far outside the scope of his training, experience and imagination. "Don't count us out yet." He handed off lamely.

  Warning. Decompression imminent. Sixteen minutes and thirty four seconds to complete decompression.

  From below, Tammer’s deep baritone projected uncertainty. “Colonel O’Brien, may I ask what’s happening up there?” A moment later, his head popped up through the hatch, followed by his great bulk. Pushing himself along the ceiling, he floated towards them.

  Garson glanced up at Tammer. “They’re pulling us in. Better get below and make sure everyone’s secured.”

  “What’s the point?” Tammer gripped a handhold along the ceiling to stall his progress, but his body kept going. Lips round an oops, he fought inertia to a standstill, and assumed a more dignified presence. “We’ll be dead soon enough as it is.”

  O’Brien swiveled about and square eyed Tammer. The journalist's dismissive tone annoyed him. Civilians always assumed the worst. “They don't want us dead, Tammer. Not yet anyway. See it as an opportunity to overcome or escape. Makes dying because you’re unsecured pointless.”

  “Put so succi
nctly, I quite agree with you, Colonel. I'll see to it we get buckled up…per your order.” Tammer pushed off and drifted to the hatch. With an awkward gyration and several contacts with the bulkhead, he managed to wriggle through it. Raised, nervous voices followed, but Doomes snapped an order and down below quieted.

  Warning. Decompression imminent. Fifteen minutes and twelve seconds to complete decompression.

  “Shut that off,” O’Brien snapped.

  “Yes, sir.” Garson leaned forward and tapped a red square.

  They were no longer spinning, but the alien ship remained outside the scope of the view port. The cabin brightened, then darkened. The ship shuddered briefly and passed into the shadow of the alien vessel, plunging the cabin into absolute darkness. Mechanical sounds intruded: the hum of motors, the hiss of pumped air, the thump of huge objects mating.

  Gravity. A split second of free fall. O'Brien's heart leaped to his throat. An invisible fist slammed him back, emptying his lungs with a whoosh. Sheet polyfiber crumpled, composite stanchions grumbled and gave way with loud shrieks.

  For a terrifying moment, O'Brien couldn't catch his breath. The Mars Explorer settled with a pitiful moan and the feeling diminished. Outside noises petered out until there was just the hurried rasp of their own breathing. Outside, a glimmer pulsed to life, but revealed nothing.

  Clapton rocked his chair and locked it down to face Garson and O’Brien. “Orders, Colonel?”

  To O’Brien, Clapton was a darker shape amid a black backdrop. He addressed the shadow. “Break out what weapons we have and get below. From the way this ship is lying, the airlock is clear of the deck.”

  "Aye, Colonel." Clapton released and squirmed around until his legs dangled over the side of the chair, and let go. The thud of his slippered feet against the bulkhead carried throughout the ship, summoning a frightened cry from the lower cabin.

  “It’s okay!” O’Brien called out, “we’re just releasing. Stay put.”

  A flicker, then a strong, square lamp beam flowed across the bulkhead and down, illuminating the hatch, now at the lowest point of the cabin. Garson landed beside Clapton and pointed his litemate up at the weapons locker, a meter beyond his reach.

  “Garson.” Dangling from his seat, O’Brien braced himself. “Get under me. I’ll use you to reach the locker. Steady now.”

  Garson handed Clapton the litemate and moved under O’Brien. O'Brien rested his feet on Garson's shoulders and waited until Garson had a solid grip of his calves, then released and eased onto his shoulders.

  "We set?" Garson grunted.

  "Yes. Lean," O'Brien answered.

  Leaning slowly towards the bulkhead, Garson shifted, wavered, recovered.

  “More.” Steadying himself with a hand cupping Garson’s pate, O’Brien leaned with him until he could grasp a handhold beside the panel, then popped the latch. The lid swung down, narrowly missed his fingers and bumped the bulkhead with little force.

  Garson groaned and shifted, but O'Brien held firm.

  “Here.” O’Brien handed two lasguns to Clapton and shoved a third into a wide pocket at his hip. “Okay.”

  Garson eased into a crouch, then squirmed out from under O’Brien. “That worked out okay,” he said, working his shoulders.

  O’Brien ignored him. “We'll use the emergency port-test to analyze the atmosphere. If its breathable, we'll manually activate the outer hatch.” He played the litemate over the step-rails leading to the next deck.

  “Bet we’ll find a welcoming party.” Clapton’s joke elicited a snort from Garson as he brushed past, ducked through the hatch and ran straddling the steps. Clapton shrugged and followed.

  O’Brien swept the dark cabin with his litemate for useful equipment, turned to follow and paused. “Thanks for getting us this far.” He patted the bulkhead, then joined the officers moving swiftly to the next deck and the next. Released, the others were waiting in the Cargo bay.

  When O’Brien reached them, Paider was stooped beside the port tester's digital display. He glanced up. “Oxygen, nitrogen, carbon, trace elements, almost Earth standard, Colonel.”

  “Any reason we can't go outside and see what they want?”

  “With all due respect, Colonel...” Tammer placed his bulk between O’Brien and the hatch. “...those bastards destroyed the Mars base and probably wiped out Earth. If I had to hazard a guess, I would venture they more than likely took out our space station as well. I vote we fight. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Some of us might...will survive.”

  “We’re on their ship, at their mercy. The only choice we have is to find out why they spared us." O'Brien counted heads. "I don't see Doomes.”

  “Not likely he disembarked, Colonel,” Greco offered. "He ducked through to the cargo bay before the rest of us released."

  Doomes was up to something, but O'Brien had no idea what. It was best he made no further issue of it. Cowardice wasn't in Doomes' makeup, but guile and deception were.

  “Excuse me, Colonel O’Brien.” Myer hadn't spoken directly to him since leaving Mars. “How do we know we can even communicate with them?”

  “We don't.”

  “Uh huh. Then, how do you propose we find out what they want?”

  “We’ll have to ask them.”

  “No other way? I mean, before we go out there?”

  He detected a hint of cynicism in her flat response. “I wish there were. They made our ship dead, so we’re trapped. Surrender may offer us more viable options."

  With a deep sigh, Tammer reached over, drew her to him, and patted her shoulder. His manner was condescending, though O’Brien was certain that wasn’t his intent. “This is new to all of us, my dear. The Colonel’s gotten us this far. I daresay we’d be the better for it if we continue to follow his lead.”

  From outside, a series of mechanical thumps, centered about the airlock, reverberated. Myer latched onto Tammer and didn't resist when he wrapped a protective arm about her waist. Greco ducked and scuttled through the hatch, O’Brien on his heels, followed by the others.

  In the refracted beam of Greco’s litemate, the yellow cargo containers reached out overhead, secured to the cargo deck by thick, black straps. He crouched beside a loose container below the airlock, lasgun aimed at the hatch. “I hear them, Colonel,” Greco whispered. “Sounds like they’re setting something up near the airlock.”

  A low hum swelled into a crescendo of undulating frequencies, setting the hull plating and the thinning air to vibrating. O’Brien’s guts quivered and each breath became a chore. He covered his ears, then opened his mouth to equalize the pressure, but it continued to worsen until his sinuses rapped his head in agony. His knees buckled and, teetering on the edge of consciousness, O’Brien retched uncontrollably. As quickly as it risen, the agonizing assault on his senses fell off.

  Badly shaken and chagrined, O’Brien gathered his wits and stumbled to his feet. "Get back!" Instinctively, he shoved Myer farther from the air lock, tripped over her foot, fell and rolled. She landed on him with elbows and knees and an anguished cry, bruising his ribs and pinning his arm to the deck.

  Jolted into action, Greco ducked while the others scrambled past O'Brien. The airlock melted away. A dazzling, vaporous orange column shot through and blinked out. The cacophony faded to a whisper.

  Greco leaped to his feet and shook his fist. “You're not taking me alive! I’ll kill you all!”

  “Greco!” O’Brien bellowed.

  Mouth slack, Greco hesitated, his glazed stare drifted to O’Brien. A thin, wooden smile and a nod. He turned away, mounted the shipping container, raised his lasgun and fired through the breach.

  No more than a wisp, a yellow beam bathed him. He staggered back, eyes and mouth wide in mid-shriek. Above the knees, Greco dissolved into a fine mist, the particles glittering as they drifted down. The beam died away. His shins toppled from the shipping container and lay sizzling. The putrid reek of burnt flesh stained the air. Linda choked and buried herself in Tammer’s bulk.
/>   “Stupid thing to do.” Paider’s voice dripped with sarcasm, and angst.

  O’Brien met Paider’s troubled gaze. He sensed the bitter taint of fear and loathing, but his implants would not allow him to plumb the depth of these emotions. Panic was beyond him. The next move was his. He nodded to Garson, squatting beside the hatch to the upper deck.

  With an understanding nod, Garson scuttled to the gaping hole and peeked out. He took another quick look and waved O’Brien over.

  “There’s only three...that I can see,” he whispered when O'Brien ducked down beside him. “Three meters tall...give or take, arms, legs, heads like ours...athletic slim...and head-to-toe in black tights. Hand weapons, but no obvious armor.”

  “Come out. We won’t harm you.” The voice was of normal pitch, albeit nasal.

  Mice trapped in a cage. No way out. Even if they could...no. It had to be peaceful surrender. It was the right choice, under the circumstances. Greco's death notwithstanding.

  “They speak English,” Tammer murmured. “How in God's name do you suppose they know our language?”

  “Not important.” O’Brien leaned closer to Tammer. “But it gives us something in common.”

  “Our next move, Colonel?” Paider hissed.

  O'Brien pointedly ignored him and nodded to Garson. “Tell them we’re coming out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Garson laid his lasgun aside. “Okay! Okay! We’re unarmed. We’re coming out. Don't shoot.” He waved an arm, no doubt praying they wouldn't shoot it off.

  “Mr. Garson, you sound like a vid crook reading bad lines.” Usually robust, Tammer's comment was subdued.

  “It works on the vids,” Garson chuckled nervously and started to rise.

  O'Brien laid a hand on his arm. For a moment, Garson resisted, but with a relieved sigh, he moved aside.