Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  Though hesitant to expose himself, neither courage nor discipline motivated O'Brien to stand. Curiosity, and the stark reality that the Mars Explorer was indefensible, made him swing a leg into the breach and pull himself up. Two deep breaths and he stood, framed in the diffused illumination flooding the breach. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust, then stepped forward and leaped to the seamless, ebony deck and stood at parade rest. Garson, then Clapton jumped and came to attention beside him. Paider hit the deck, took Myer by hand and elbow, and helped her down.

  Grumbling, Tammer eased up to the smooth-cut edge of the opening. He made to jump, but instead sat, rolled onto his broad belly and lowered himself with great effort. Face florid and beaded with sweat, he confronted the aliens with a notably loud harrumph, and stepped up to stand between Myer and O’Brien. Arms crossed over his chest, he assumed a belligerent pose.

  Subdued lighting emanated from the ceiling with no obvious source, the excess absorbed rather than reflected by the glassy smooth deck. What O'Brien could see of the huge bay was devoid of constructs and without portals. Before them was a massive tri-pod mounted silver weapon and three black sheathed giants with thick silver tubes at the ready. Their perfectly balanced humanoid features were flawless, their hair shades of brown, cropped short. As Garson noted, they were dressed head to toe in body-hugging black suits, the only decoration a triangular, gold and red emblem above their left breast. Their squat, pleated silver tubes with blackened snouts bulged in the middle like hand-rolled tokes. Energy weapons, O'Brien guessed. How skilled were they in hand-to-hand combat? He raised a hand and the left alien pointed its tube at him.

  “We’re explorers, not aggressors," O'Brien attempted to project a command presence, but to him, his words sounded hollow and irrelevant. "Why have you destroyed our Mars outpost and disabled our ship?”

  “You will have your answers. Come with us. No deviation will be tolerated.” The same thin voice came from the middle alien. The one on the left lowered its tube and flowed unhurried away from them while the speaker motioned with its own tube. Everyone turned to follow, except Tammer, who, in dramatic style, reared his massive bulk and pointed an accusatory finger at the leader.

  “See here. There’s no reason to treat us like prisoners. We...” The last alien squeezed its tube and a soundless yellow bolt impacted Tammer at the shoulder. His arm fell to his side, limp. He dropped to his knees, and gagged.

  “You said you wouldn’t hurt us!” Myer cried.

  O’Brien assumed a fighting stance, fists raised, in a futile effort to defend his crew. Myer started to go to Tammer's aid, but a glance from O’Brien stilled her.

  The aliens waited, mute, as Tammer, massaging his flaccid limb, pulled himself together and struggled to his feet, his mouth twisted in a sneer of pain and outrage.

  “The effect is temporary,” the alien leader said. “You will join the others. No deviation will be tolerated.”

  “We’ll damned well see who gets the last comeuppance here,” Tammer whined, but he quickly joined the others, rubbing his shoulder and scowling.

  Bracketed by the aliens, they single filed through an opening that appeared to melt away when they approached the nearest bulkhead. They entered a corridor softer lit and rich in flavor: the seamless deck maroon, the smooth walls an opaque gray with tall narrow scarlet outlines at eleven-meter intervals. O’Brien assumed they were hatches, though there were no visible controls, nor physical signs they were other than painted lines.

  Just before a right bend, the corridor widened into an alcove to the left. The lead alien turned into it and stood to one side, tube raised in threat.

  “You will remain here.” It gestured with his weapon. O'Brien led them in. A scowling Tammer lumbered along a few steps back, massaging his limp arm.

  “For how long?” O’Brien asked respectfully, turning to the speaker.

  “Until we return for you. The detain field is impenetrable. Death will occur if you try to pass.” It stepped back to its companions and a shimmering energy barrier isolated the alcove. The aliens departed up the corridor, and disappeared around a bend.

  “Loaded with answers, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, shut up, Tammer.” Anxious, with arms crossed defiantly, Myer strolled to an oblong portal at the back of the pocket. One by one, they joined her. At some distance was the comet trail, growing less distinct, though nothing else indicated the ship was moving.

  "Where do you think Doomes is?" Myer asked.

  "They could be listening." Paider admonished.

  "Oh, right." Myer blushed. Distracted, she turned from the portal. Paider and Garson turned with her. Armchair-like forms, of the same texture and color as the bulkheads, appeared. A loop of water sprang from the deck, and vanished where it completed its arc. A cubicle emerged from the opposite wall, large enough for a person to enter. At its center was a soft-hued gray basin that resembled a toilet.

  O’Brien noted the alien's effort to meet their physiological needs, but such niceties meant nothing when compared to the destruction of Mars Base. He remained at the portal, watching the comet trail fade to a luminescent streak while Paider, Garson, and Myer examined their surroundings. They showed a great deal of restraint approaching each phenomenon. A scowling Tammer, blatantly self-absorbed, splayed out on the nearest couch flexing his recovering limb.

  Strategically, O'Brien's thoughts focused on his Sergeant. It appeared Doomes had gone undetected. Swarthy and deeply tanned, Doomes’ chiseled features and barrel-chest blended well with his muscular 1.8-meter frame. He joined the Marines at seventeen, became a tank commander, and nine years later trained for space-security aboard Earth-orbit space stations. He was one of fifteen chosen by O’Brien from a list of several hundred veteran Marines. The best of the best.

  O'Brien had little doubt the Sergeant would try to take the ship by force. Alone if necessary. The situation, he believed; warranted it. Though the ship's contingent was unknown, the vessel didn't appear to be military. The corridors would be teeming with crew and soldiers. A patrol vessel would be lighter manned, but still busy. Perhaps science or exploration. Either would explain the empty corridors.

  The aliens understood human physiology and spoke English, yet they annihilated the activators of the beacon, sight unseen. In a direct contradiction, here they were, sequestered, creature comforts provided. He had to agree with Tammer's assessment. If this was a science vessel, it was likely they could end up on an alien autopsy table, or locked in cages. In that case, his time would be better spent learning the limitations of the energy barrier. Decision reached, he drew Garson and Paider into his whispered confidence and headed for the barrier.

  *****

  Inside the shipping container lying beside the Mars Explorer’s burned out hatch, Doomes blinked sweat from his eyes, and waited. The air grew fetid. Moisture condensed to droplets on the container's inner surface. He flexed his arms and wriggled his feet to stave off cramps. When he could stand it no longer, he cracked the lid sufficient to fill his lungs with fresh air. A blue light flooded the cargo deck and along with it, voices. He lowered the lid. Before long, the bay quieted.

  Minutes fled. Confinement became intolerable. Doomes pressed the safety release and raised the lid a few centimeters. Fresh, life-sustaining air thinned the rank odor of sweaty heat. Only an occasional settling creak from their crippled and useless vessel broke the silence. Satisfied he was alone, Doomes lifted the lid and set it aside. Stiff and unsteady, he stretched and worked his muscles from neck to toes. Before long, he felt more like his old self: strong, confident, his emotions locked away for the duration of the crisis. He had but one goal in mind — subdue the crew to rescue his comrades.

  "Like fighting blind in a dark sack," he murmured, quoting a certain brigade major. Doomes knew dark sack fighting. While he explored the alien ship and dealt with the crew, deck by deck, cabin by cabin — he could not reason out an alternative — he would discover what he needed to know. He prayed it wasn't
a military vessel, teaming with troops.

  He made his way to the second deck, ducked through the hatch, and opened a locker containing several diagnostic and sensory tools. He strapped on a webbed utility belt and selected a bioscanner and a techport.

  Treading quietly over the ladder rungs to the third deck, he went for a lasgun, but the weapons locker was secured. From a personal locker, he retrieved two knives in Zipstrip calf-sheaths, pried the locker open and pocketed a lasgun for backup. He preferred knives for their quiet and efficient simplicity. His were designed for throwing, their heft sufficient to penetrate thick hides.

  Following a quick check for anything useful, he returned to the Mars Explorer's cargo deck and approached the hull breach with bioscanner extended. He detected no life forms in the immediate vicinity, pocketed the scanner and brought out the techport. Its thirty-millimeter display screen offered a continuous diorama of relevant data. He stepped to the threshold of the burned out hatch and swept the interior of the feebly lit bay.

  Minimal trace emanations were consistent with white light. Either the bay wasn’t being monitored or the aliens were using a technology that produced no particulate emanations. He swept the bay again, taking his time. A minute swelled to two. No guards stormed into the bay, nor armed automatons. He sniffed. Now that his nostrils were free of the odor of his own sweat, he noted the antiseptically clean freshness of the air. Not a hint of synthlube.

  Reassured, he eased over the side and stepped away from his cripple vessel. Despite the dim light, the aging diamond of Earth's solar shuttle fleet, with crumpled panels and a gaping hole in her side, looked bedraggled. He felt a mild surge of pity for the craft, but like a pet, spaceship life spans are short.

  A techport sweep revealed a thin disparity in the integrity of the nearest bulkhead. No more than a whisper on the wind, Doomes dashed across the open expanse with techport outstretched. Approaching the bulkhead, the techport registered fluidic action. He froze. A portal to a corridor materialized before he thought to bring up his weapons. Slow, he chided grimly. A glimpse either way revealed an empty corridor.

  He stepped through and felt the deck give a few centimeters, and smiled thinly. His footfalls wouldn’t give him away. Pocketing the techport, he visually inspected the passageway: seamless maroon deck, silver-gray walls and subdued lighting. The corridor was smooth, without disruption. There were no obvious vid or aud devices.

  Thirty meters up the corridor, Doomes came across rectangular scarlet outlines spaced meters apart on the left. The right bulkhead was bare to the bend, meters beyond the last outline. Doomes retrieved the bioscanner from his waist pouch and approached one of the thin red outlines. A hatchway, like the invisible portal in the cargo bay. He assumed the hatch was automatic, and held back. His hand device registered two life forms beyond. Redundant sweeps of the corridor disclosed no other threats, mechanical or organic, in adjacent cabins. He secured the bioscanner and retrieved both knives. The element of surprise was all he had if the aliens were armed. He hefted his knives and poised to throw. If he was to take the alien ship, it would be over the dead bodies of the crew. He saw no alternative short of disabling the ship, but that would leave them stranded. Such a strategy was best left to the realm of last resort.

  With practiced ease, Doomes leaped and landed squarely before the outline. The hatch melted away, revealing two aliens in deep discussion near the middle of a modest, antiseptically clean cabin. They glanced up, curiosity giving way to alarm. Arm back, knife poised, Doomes let fly with finely honed skill. His perfectly balanced weapon slammed point on into an alien chest, hurtling the intended victim to the floor, but failed to penetrate the skin-tight black uniform. Doomes switched hands and threw before the other alien could react. The blade sliced neatly into its neck. Red founts spurted from the wound, drenching the alien as it tottered against a table. Desperately grasping at the knife hilt, the giant jerked around, splattering a crimson path across the soft-gray deck and white bulkhead. With a gurgling cry, it sprawled across the table, its upturned face twisted in terror until its eyes glazed over.

  Doomes lunged, but the second alien jumped to one side and chopped down hard on his back. Only Doomes’ quick action dulled the impact as he dove for his knife and rolled beyond reach. He launched himself from the deck and into a fighting crouch, his blade gripped to throw. The alien feinted left, then right and in. It leaped back when Doomes flipped the blade to his right hand, slashed, then backed off to gain throwing distance.

  Their eyes locked. Doomes saw fear and uncertainty. The alien was no combatant, but it was an agile and intelligent opponent. Doomes feinted and it dodged aside, putting a table between them. A bleeding gash across its palm left a smear print on the table's glossy white surface. A simple, momentary, distraction.

  Doomes was ready. His knife leaped from his hand and buried itself to the hilt in the alien’s left eye. Croaking unintelligibly, the alien staggered back and fell to its knees, clutching at the leather grip with both hands. Arm and chest muscles knotted beneath the black sheen. It dredged an agonized roar from the core of his being, jerked Doomes' knife free and tossed it aside. Blood oozed from its mangled eye socket, dripped from his chin and glided down his uniform's repellant surface. The bright crimson stream pooled in the impression made by its knees on the smooth, yet pliant deck. Blood spatters erupted on the tabletop as the huge humanoid rocked back and forth, moaning, its good eye angrily transfixing its assailant.

  Cold, efficient, Doomes reached it in two strides, recovered his knife and faced the alien in a menacing crouch. It was staunching the flow of blood with both hands, and in agony. Doomes lunged behind his victim and slit its throat in one swift motion. Its nearly severed head lolled to one side. The corpse fell heavily to the floor and lay still. Blood pooled and spread, framing the torso and arms in a garish maroon crown.

  Spattered with blood and bruised from the blow to his back, Doomes dropped to his knees and took several deep breaths. He stared at his grisly handiwork, his thoughts chilling in their utter inhumanity. A shudder coursed through him. Duty to mission. They killed humans without provocation. He was taught that such apathetic arrogance was a weakness that affirmed equal or more debilitating weaknesses. His foe was intelligent and physically strong, but if these two were any indication, with little or no combat skills. He shook his head and retrieved his other knife. A habit, he wiped both blades across the alien’s back, but the darkening blood merely smeared on the slick black material. Undeterred, Doomes resheathed the gore-encrusted knives and made a cursory inspection of the cabin. Six by ten meters, it appeared to be a lab, with tall, opaque white tables and strange equipment. A cursory search revealed nothing that resembled a weapon or a bioputer con. Better move on. He shrugged his shoulders to ease the strain building in the bruised muscles of his back, and reentered the corridor. The hatch sealed behind him.

  Moving cautiously, Doomes scanned six outlines in turn, then approached an alcove where five life forms lit up his bioscanner display. His techport registered an energy field sealing off the alcove. It could be his people, but if so, they would be unarmed. Unarmed personnel were a liability, not an asset. He turned back to a cross corridor and continued his hunt.

  It had to be the alien's arrogance that kept them from discovering he was aboard. With indications the crew compliment was light, Doomes was reasonably confident he could immobilize the entire crew before one of them stumbled across a body. Implants automatically set to combat mode the moment he emerged from the cargo container, Doomes was in his element, willingly immersing himself in urban combat skills since adolescence. Hunt, target, kill. Duty to mission.

  It took the better part of a half-hour to thoroughly search the entire deck. Down wide corridors and two crossways, he found nothing threatening or useful. He was about finished when he came to an outline larger than the cargo bay hatch. The techport measured a tremendous energy source. He concluded it was the engine room and moved on. If there were crew inside, his
instruments couldn't differentiate.

  At the last scarlet outline, the techport registered a hollow column beyond. It appeared to be an access tunnel. To one side of the hatch, at eye level for the aliens, was a multi-hued square. He touched it and a two-meter by one-meter panel slid open to the right. Inside was a dimly lit shaft with rungs on the back wall spaced apart for the average three-meter alien. Seven meters up, he came upon another portal that wisped open when he reached for it. Here, the deck was dark blue and the charcoal gray bulkheads and ceiling brightly lit. He heard voices, the language undecipherable, and ducked back until they passed.

  Cautiously he reopened the portal and stepped into the corridor. The voices were fading to his right. He went left. He hurried to the first juncture and pressed himself against the bulkhead when he heard muffled foot falls approaching. An alien came around the corner and startled, jumped back. Doomes whipped out a knife and lunged, knocking them both to the deck. Jerking a knee beneath him for support, he stabbed, but the beings uniform deflected the blade and tore it from Doomes’ grasp. He lost his balance and fell hard, sprawling across the alien's chest.

  Before he could regain his footing, the alien tossed him aside with ease. Doomes twisted, taking the brunt of the fall on his right side and rolled onto his back. Swearing in a guttural rush, the giant wasted precious seconds scrambling to its feet, giving Doomes an edge. He snatched his knife from his calf-sheath, splitting the Velcro seam with a harsh rip, and thrust upward with swift surety. The blade tip glanced off the uniform, and sliced into the fleshy underside of the chin and lodged in the alien's jaw. Doomes jerked the blade free and pulled back to thrust anew when steel clamp hands spun him around and tried to pin his arm to his back.

  Doomes stabbed backwards with unerring accuracy, driving the blade deep into the alien’s temple. A crimson flood gushed down his arm. He twisted the knife and pulled it free. The alien reeled against the bulkhead, issuing a strangled cry. Doomes leaped back, prepared to strike again, but his ankle twisted on the soft deck. He fell against the bulkhead, gained his footing and easily side stepped the lunging giant. Eyes dulling in death, it slumped to the deck and lay still.