Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  Drawing in a deep, rasping breath, Doomes latched onto the corpse. With sheer brute strength, he dragged it by its feet to the portal and stuffed his victim through the hatch. He watched the body fall two decks before it slammed to a stop, its limbs twisted at odd angles. Blood smeared eyes stared up at him in silent accusation.

  Shaken, Doomes closed the hatch and mouthed an ancient warrior's lament.

  In death we tossed his broken body

  down a well desiccated by the fires of hell.

  No mother would provide succor,

  his comrades, mine enemies like empty husks

  lay about, rent asunder on the desert floor.

  I weep for him from tearless eyes.

  A hero of his people lay dead,

  A warrior to the end.

  His duty to the fallen assuaged, Doomes hurried on past empty cabins, bioscanner and techport extended. Down an adjacent corridor he came upon two aliens huddled over consoles in a darkened cabin. Neither looked up at his approach and one was dead before the other realized they were not alone.

  With the bodies piling up, the x factor was how much longer before the alarm would be raised. There was no way of learning how many of the beings were aboard, but the evidence indicated the ship was lightly crewed.

  With the exception of five life forms in a forward compartment emanating patterns consistent with a control center, the blue deck was void of bioreadings. Doomes backed off. He was certain it was the bridge, and he wanted to hit that last. Backtracking, he used the access shaft to climb to the next level. Here, pale yellow decking and emerald gray bulkheads colored the corridors. Variations on the theme decorated cabin after huge, empty cabin. Random inspections of the maroon outlines on the cabin bulkheads revealed empty storage lockers. Completing a tour of the main corridors and forward cabins, he went aft and discovered what he concluded were troop quarters. Crouched to one side of the open hatchway, he felt the presence of the ship's powerful drive beneath him, though neither its electrostatic hum nor insipid vibration reached him: only the whisper of air forced through ventilation tubes.

  Soft light emanated from narrow bands along the base of the bulkheads. What bled inside from the passageway proved sufficient for Doomes to navigate. Rows of over-sized bunks, stacked three high, stretched into the darkness. In the seventh row, he zeroed in on a sleeper.

  Cupping the quiescent alien’s mouth with an iron grip, he stabbed downward and slashed the alien's throat. Blood gushed, ebbed, spurted. He pulled back, but slippery with blood, his knife remained, stuck in the alien's spine. Fingers of steel suddenly clamped his forearms. Doomes held firm, though certain the alien was about to rip his arms to shreds. He knotted his muscles and lunged backwards, but he could not escape. Coldly he gazed into the dying humanoid's eyes. He would meet this one again, and he would know it: as he would all the others who died by his hand. At last, the alien's grip weakened and its great arms fell away. Doomes heaved a deep sigh and moved on, leaving the corpse where it lay, arms flung out in a crude cross, blood dripping from splayed fingers.

  Minutes passed while Doomes completed a search of the quarters. He came across storage lockers stocked with packets of various sizes and colors, but no weapons, and returned to the corridor. The next upper deck was a huge, endless, dark-green bay with what appeared to be enormous white weapons arranged in geodesic patterns. With energy emissions at minimum, he assumed the systems were offline. He strolled quickly through the formations, bioscanner out, but detected no life-forms. He returned to the shaft. Down four levels and past where he began, Doomes reached the bottom of the access tube.

  The alien body, sprawled where Doomes had sent it, stared up at him. He paused to close the alien eyes, and for the first time in many years, was acutely aware of his own mortality. He was only one man, moving against an alien force of unknown strength, but comprised of powerful and sufficiently agile beings. Yet, in spite of this, the giants were surprisingly inept at hand-to-hand combat. A shudder coursed through Doomes. He clamped down on his emotions and moved on.

  During the first year of the Afghan War, ignited by an exchange of nuclear missiles between Israel and Pakistan in 2048, he woke often, drenched in sweat, pursued by the ragheads he killed. By the end of the war in 2053, which engulfed all of Asia, the Middle East and North Africa, he was unable to recall just how many times he felt a man’s life ebb away as he choked, stabbed, or beat an enemy combatant into submission. Genetic engineering during boot camp had dulled his emotions, lessening his revulsion to the horrors of war. To his credit, and unlike most veterans, he dealt with the memories with the aid of neither stimulants nor depressants.

  He dropped to the deck, straddling the dead alien. The lower portal opened behind stacks of black crates. Empty handed, Doomes scuttled from the shaft, to the end of the crates. Grouped to the right were four sleek, swept back silver craft with stubby wings, each six meters tall and twenty meters in length. To his left and before him, were two enormous black dominos he assumed were transport ships. Several red carts were scattered among chin-high workbenches, colorful tools arrayed on their broad upper surfaces. The nearest transport floated two meters off the deck, with the help of a flickering blue beam streaming from the top of a small red canister. An alien squatted beneath the ship, half hidden by an open access panel.

  The technician appeared to be alone. In a crouch, Doomes circled away, his senses on high alert. The general hum of machinery filled the bay. Large ceiling panels poured white light over the floating transport and a workbench near the stack of crates, concealing more than revealing. Reasonably satisfied he and the technician were alone, Doomes approached the floating transport from behind the canister. Meter by meter he duck-walked closer, making sure the canister remained between him and the alien. He reached the canister just as the tech, bent at the waist to clear the bottom of the craft, started out from under. Spying Doomes, it pointed and cried out.

  Doomes snatched a drumstick shaped tool from a work cart and smashed the top of the canister. The beam blinked out. The ship slammed down with a thunderous crash.

  Movement at the edge of his vision. Doomes dropped and rolled. A long, thick tube hissed past and shattered the canister. The alien shouted and lunged again. So close he felt the air part, the tube slammed into the deck with Doomes scrambling out of reach. Breath rasping, he hefted a knife and slung it with unerring accuracy, but the alien jerked the tube up and deflected the blade. It clattered off a bench and landed out of reach.

  Though he gave no more ground than he must, Doomes retreated, glancing about for anything he could use as a weapon. The alien lunged and shouted, then lunged again. The tube glanced off Doomes’ shoulder, sending him reeling. White-hot barbs seared his chest. He mouthed a silent curse to the being's god and concentrated on dulling the pain. In full retreat, he dodged behind and around various objects.

  With a victorious shout, the alien lunged and swung again, but with less force and off the mark. Doomes threw himself at the giant's calves, bringing it down in a flurry of waving arms. The tube banged across the top of a cart and clattered away. Now on the defensive, the alien kicked Doomes injured shoulder, then scrambled a short distance and leaped to his feet.

  In agony, Doomes lurched back against a workbench. “Bastard!” In desperation, he latched onto a substantial looking silver tool from atop a work-cart, but the alien leaped closer and kicked, lost its balance and fell heavily.

  The tool flew from Doomes' hand and skittered away. Doomes crouched, braced his feet against the workbench, and sprang. Head down, he rammed the alien as it scrambled to its feet. They crashed to the deck with Doomes’ slashing at the alien’s face and neck. Blood welled, but the wounds were superficial. He punched and slashed, but the alien was quick and deflected Doomes' assault with a giant's strength. Sweat poured off Doomes. His arms and legs felt like cast iron. He failed to block a tremendous punch to his weakened shoulder. Bone snapped. Doomes stifled an anguished cry and slashed, but the alien s
wept the blade aside with a forearm shove.

  An instant later, the alien threw Doomes off like a rag doll. It scrambled to its feet and charged, landing atop him, forcing the air from Doomes' lungs in a great whoosh. With his own death looming, Doomes stabbed at the monster's exposed flesh, and stabbed again. His blade opened a gaping wound in the alien’s throat. Doomes twisted the knife with all his strength, ripping through muscle and sinew. The alien gasped. Blood drenched Doomes’ face. Blinded, he squirmed from under the massive bulk of the dying alien, slashing and stabbing ineffectually.

  Blood gurgled in the giant's throat and it sank to its knees. Horror and disbelief etched its face. It fought desperately to stem the life juice flowing from its thick neck. Pink froth flecked its lips. Its hands trembled as strength waned. Issuing a deep rattling sigh, its great head lolled. Lifeless, the corpse slumped to the deck and lay still.

  For several minutes, Doomes rested on his side. Agonizing pain seared his left shoulder, chest and ribs. His harsh gasps were lost amid the hum of machinery. He tried to stand, but white-hot bolts ripped through his chest. Willpower wasn't enough to get him on his feet, but he had to finish the job, complete the mission. Hunt, target, kill. Duty to mission. O’Brien and the others were still captive, and there were now only two spaces on the ship he hadn’t explored. Both held multiple life signs and both were sufficient to account for the crew of the Mars Explorer.

  Sprawled on his back, Doomes dug a small white foil packet from his waist pouch and ripped it open with his teeth. He spread out a silver dollar sized patch and clapped it to his throat. Relief spread from the patch. Doomes slept.

  When he woke, he sat up with some discomfort. He was angry for nearly getting himself killed, and angrier still he had nodded off. Gingerly, with the flat of his hand, he slit open the zipstrip binding his jumpsuit, and cried out. Slowly, agonizingly, he peeled the suit back until his injured arm was free. The sleeve, torn to the elbow, was soaked in his and the alien’s congealing blood. He knew he must look dreadful and felt worse. His fingers probed until, with a horrific cry, he found the break. Tears streamed down his cheeks, leaving thin, pale trails through the mask of gore. The shoulder socket was shattered. With teeth and his good hand, he ripped his sleeve from his jumpsuit and tore it into strips.

  In tortured spurts, he bound his left arm to his side. Precious minutes fled while he completed the task and psyched himself to continue. He slapped on another medpatch, steadied his breathing and consciously denied the pain until he could stand without wavering. On his feet, he slowly circled outward from the body until he found his knives. Drawing upon his depleted reserves, he shuffled across the bay to the shaft.

  The climb took far longer than he expected, but he was reassured. The alarm had yet to be raised. He knew his luck couldn’t hold forever, but he could no longer afford another physical confrontation with one of the giants. Hand-to-hand combat was out. Keeping the element of surprise by not using his lasgun was no longer an option.

  He reached the third deck breathing in fits, using the pain to stay alert and moving. In fits and starts, he dragged himself from the shaft and sprawled on the cushioned blue deck. Desperately tired, he was, for several minutes, incapable of defending himself.

  He rested, trying with little success to keep his lasgun aimed down the corridor. The respite did nothing to ease his pain, but it was enough to get him to his feet and lurching down the corridor. He saw a smear of blood on the bulkhead where he had killed the alien in the shaft, but thankfully, it wasn't obvious enough to have drawn attention. He kept going, telling himself he had to end it here and now. The risk of discovery was too great.

  At the far end of the corridor, the passage widened and emptied into a hatch seven meters wide. An alien emerged. Spying Doomes, it hesitated. Curious surprise dissolved to shocked comprehension. It lunged aside and snatched an odd-looking silver tube from a bulkhead recess. Doomes fired. His lasgun pulse singed the alien’s chest and knocked it to the deck. To Doomes astonishment, the giant humanoid scrambled to its feet, and, one handed, swung the silver tube around and aimed.

  Doomes fired again, blowing off the top of the alien's head and hurtling the body against the bulkhead. It slumped to the deck, breath hissing past ravaged lips. A jangling horn sounded nearby and quickly spread until it reverberated throughout.

  At the first sharp notes, martial skills honed to instinct drove Doomes down the corridor in a mad rush. He snatched up the alien's blunt, silver weapon and expertly flipped it over to eyeball the firing mechanism; a flush blue oval. He tucked the alien weapon under his good arm, aimed at the bulkhead and fired. A pencil-thin yellow plasma burst melted a basketball-sized hole in the bulkhead.

  With no time to learn the energy weapon’s intricacies, Doomes charged through the bridge hatch. He blasted an armed alien coming at him, severing its left leg. Screaming in terror, it crashed to the deck. Its weapon skittered out of reach.

  A huge console chair swiveled towards Doomes. He blew the back off it, killing the occupant before the being could react. At the far end of the bridge, two crewmen surged to their feet, one wielding a hand weapon. Doomes dove to the right, landing hard on the now comatose, one-legged alien. Pain so agonizing his guts twisted, Doomes wavered on the edge of despair, but instinct sent him rolling out of the way. The armed crewman fired, searing the deck beside him. Palm pressed hard against the blue oval, Doomes laid a staggered pattern across the bulkhead, striking an unarmed crewman in the chest and damaging a console. Smoke gushed from the rupture, obscuring his view of the shooter. On his knees, Doomes fired again, missing the shooter, but blowing apart another chair and destroying the smoking console. Flames broke through, but a foamy white powder sprayed from an invisible nozzle in the ceiling quickly extinguished it.

  Using the smoke for cover, Doomes lurched backward toward the hatch, his body and mind screaming for release. Duty to mission. He silently cursed. So ingrained, even his survival only mattered in the context of rescuing his comrades.

  Doomes' makeshift sling hung in tatters and sweat glistened where his skin wasn't swathed in blood. He sucked air through clenched jaws and flared nostrils, trying mightily to stave off vengeful epithets that would serve only to stomp out what little humanity remained in him. Despite his biomods, rage consumed him. Damned if he was going to die on an alien autopsy table begging for mercy. Not a chance.

  Steely resolve tamped his vile mood. At once, his injuries and worries receded in importance. The alien weapon tucked under his good arm, Doomes took a fighting stance and fired. A thin yellow beam cut through the smoke with two broad sweeps, then ceased. He shuffled back two steps before the giant emerged, yellow energy bolts spitting from his weapon, searing the deck centimeters from Doomes' slippered feet. Doomes stumbled and fell. The silver tube flew from his hands. Racked with pain, he rolled onto his good side and tried to stand, but his trembling legs refused to support him. He slumped to the deck expecting each breath to be his last.

  The alien spoke.

  His tortured body shaking with fatigue, Doomes sucked in a deep, tremulous breath and looked up. What kind of game was this monster playing? Why didn't it just pull the trigger, put him out of his misery?

  It was standing over him, weapon pointed at his chest. It spoke again and the weapon wavered. Lightening fast, Doomes snatched the weapon and lunged away, stumbled, gained his footing and backed against the bulkhead for support.

  Legs spread, arms out, body balanced, the being waited just beyond his reach. It spoke in a placating tone. Doomes' vision blurred. He wavered, began to slide down the bulkhead, the weapon falling away. The alien leaped, but Doomes' survival instinct came to the fore. He brandished the silver tube and fired at point blank range. In an instant, the alien's head and shoulders evaporated. The corpse wavered and toppled, hitting the deck with a resounding thud. It twitched and lay still.

  Drained, Doomes pushed himself up the wall to gain a defensive posture, but his shock-ravaged hands could
no longer hold the weapon. It slipped from his grasp and thumped to the deck. His legs wobbled and gave out. Gravity drew him to the deck. He slumped, his back to the bulkhead and lay on his good side. Deep, prolonged breaths rattled in his lungs. With each rise of his chest, murderous stabs radiated from cracked ribs and shattered shoulder. Pain for air. He couldn’t think of a worse trade-off. At least he was alive and the alien crew dead. It was okay to rest. Colonel O'Brien would understand.

  *****

  Resting on the closest protrusion to the energy wall, O’Brien leaped to his feet when Doomes appeared on the other side. Farther back and talking quietly with Tammer, Myer gasped and cried out. Paider and Garson came on the run.

  With some effort, O'Brien subdued his elation at the appearance of this gore smeared, pale faced sergeant. Doomes' lips twitched in a semblance of a grin, but his eyes bespoke intense fatigue. His left arm was bound to his side with strips of bloodied cloth torn from his uniform, and he carried underhand an oddly shaped silver tube streaked with black. Dried blood, O'Brien realized. The alien crew most likely dead. Guilt over their demise edged his thoughts, but he dismissed it. The alien's actions had dictated a violent response.

  “Stand back,” Doomes croaked.

  They hurried to one side. Doomes lifted the silver tube and fired. A thin yellow beam impacted the invisible barrier and spread, like pancake batter puddling on a hot griddle. When the absorbed energy blossomed into brilliant yellow waves, O'Brien shielded his eyes, but was too fascinated by the technology behind the display not to watch.

  Doomes lowered the weapon. Their prison wall evaporated in a metallic tinkling, but left no debris.

  “I’ll take you to the bridge.” Without waiting for a response, Doomes turned and shambled off in the direction he arrived.