Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  For long moments, the survivors hesitated, looking to each other, but O’Brien strode to Doomes' side, took the weapon from his unresisting grasp and set it aside. Minding Doomes' more apparent injuries, he slipped under the sergeant's arm and propped him up.

  With a long sigh, Doomes relaxed, relinquishing much of his support to his commanding officer.

  O'Brien grunted under the sudden weight, but shifted to relieve the strain on his back and edged them forward.

  "You okay?" O'Brien asked.

  “No matter. You’re it anyway, not me. I’m dead on my feet.”

  “The alien crew?”

  “Dead.”

  “All of them?”

  “Think so. This was the last place with biosigns.”

  “Can you make it?”

  “Yeah. The lift is there.”

  Doomes pointed with a scraped and bloody finger to an outline on the wall just ahead. High, to its right, was a colorful square. They shuffled the remaining few steps.

  "The square," Doomes husked.

  The lift control glowed red when O'Brien tapped it and the hatch melted away. He half carried, half-dragged Doomes into a roomy blue-crystal lined box, followed by the others. The hatch reformed and melted. They were across from the bridge on the third level.

  Smoke lingered, curling around the upper lip of the bridge hatchway. They staggered from the lift and nearly fell, but O'Brien got under Doomes and righted. Linda rushed to help, but O'Brien waved her back and eased his sergeant to the deck.

  "Where? How bad?" O'Brien asked.

  Doomes' eyes fluttered, but remained closed. A shiver coursed through him. He croaked something and his face twisted in pain. O'Brien leaned closer and Doomes repeated, but it made even less sense.

  "His pouch, Colonel. Look."

  Doomes' hand was in his waist pouch. She gentled his hand aside and discovered the medpatch packets. She tore open two white foil packets and smoothed both medpatches on his blood stained chest. Doomes ground his teeth and squelched an agonized cry. His eyes blinked open, then drifted closed. A shallow sigh escaped his bloodied lips. His breathing slowed to an uneven rasp.

  “You know what to do? To care for him?" O'Brien watched her reaction with concern.

  "Yes I do, Colonel."

  He noted her hesitation. "He needs a place to rest.”

  "I'll look around."

  O’Brien nodded in response and turned to Paider, who was examining an alien weapon. “You and Garson. Take Doomes' lasgun and that alien rifle, and get to the Mars Explorer. Lasguns, meds, water and IDRs. Be damned careful. We can't trust that all the crew is dead. Got it?”

  “Sure, Colonel." Garson gave him a sloppy, two finger salute and slung the alien weapon underhand. "Paider?”

  “I’m with you.” Paider pushed off from the bulkhead and followed Garson into the lift. The hatch wisped shut. Inside the bulkhead, a weak hum emanated momentarily.

  “Holy mother of God!” Tammer exclaimed, standing just inside the bridge.

  O’Brien came up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Looks like Doomes captured us an alien space ship. This could be the story of the century for some lucky vid-barker.”

  Tammer, hands on hips, legs positioned for balance, surveyed the battle scene, and didn't respond.

  Looking past Tammer, O'Brien understood why. The bridge was shot to hell. Giant, grievously maimed corpses sprawled where they died. Doomes deserved a silver star for this one, if not a world medal. O'Brien chuckled to himself. The change had been slow and devious in coming, but this was clear evidence he was more staff officer than he would ever admit to. Doomes would find a thick Venison steak and a keg of dark ale a more appropriate reward.

  “Tammer. Your vidmate still on the ship?”

  “Indeed, Colonel, but alas, I shut it down some time ago.”

  “Why?”

  “It works on microwaves...an easy sensor read. We wouldn’t...” Tammer looked down.

  “It's okay, Tammer. I know. This is all damned unsettling for you, so you don't have to buck-up all the time."

  "I'm a combat veteran, Colonel." Tammer looked genuinely wounded.

  "A couple decades ago, maybe. Around us," He waved as if to encompass all aboard the ship. "You can give the macho-face a rest.”

  “Is that an order, Colonel?” Tammer’s eyebrows perked up and a sly grin wavered.

  “No. Take it as a suggestion.”

  “I think I will, Colonel. I think I will.” For once, Tammer looked thoughtful, in a non-journalistic way. Frightened and out of his element, seemed a fitting description.

  O’Brien bent down to check Doomes’ breathing. Satisfied the Sergeant wasn’t about to expire, he nodded to Linda, who was on her knees beside him. “Doctor Myer, you’re the closest thing we have to a physician.” He offered her a sad smile in way of apology.

  “Please, Colonel. Linda will do.” Pale, her eyes glistening with tears, she tried to act strong, but failed miserably. Her lip quivered and she looked away.

  O’Brien cleared his throat and stood, his thoughts turning to their immediate future. He returned to the bridge where Tammer was struggling to free an alien handgun from the grip of a severed arm. Without lessening his grip on the weapon, Tammer gagged, gulped and clutched his belly. His usually ruddy cheeks paled. He comported himself and turned back to his task. With a growl and sudden, unexpected violence, he shook the weapon loose from the arm.

  O’Brien let the grim ordeal play out, surprised the journalist could muster such aggression. Their eyes met and he nodded. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  “We sure do, Colonel.”

  O'Brien wasn't taken aback by Tammer's easy agreement. The journalist was showing some gumption. He inspected the weapon with inordinate care. Good.

  Tammer stroked the shiny silver weapon. “But, thanks to Doomes, it’s a job I won’t mind doing at all.”

  Chapter Seven

  17:53 Hours, July 12th, 2386 - Earth

  A spasm jerked Lauren out of her stupor. She shivered in the chilly, wet blackness. Diffused, yet cloying thoughts melted away as she struggled to focus on the glowing green oval on her wrist. She had been dreaming, no…empirically analyzing the sequence of events that brought them into this strange world. She had lost touch, for several minutes. Her wristwatch confirmed it. What kind of aircraft could boil away billions of gallons of ocean? It wasn't her field of expertise, but hanging with George and the other specialists lent her a wide and vastly disparate knowledge base. She was certain that level of technology was not earthbound. Did she dare authorize a sensor sweep? Was the UFO — what else could she call it — still up there? Four hours at the bottom of the Pacific without contact should be enough. It had to be. Back when Slinker surfaced to enter the cove, she had noted the absence of the gentle thrum of the fresh air induction pumps, but distracted, forgot to follow up on it. Now she worried it could prove to be a fatal error.

  She drew in long, deep breath, her throat quivering from the strain, then slowly exhaled. Her mouth felt gummy and sour. The moisture laden air left a brackish aftertaste. She brushed her fingers over the console, not at all surprised when they came away wet. It was time. They would soon begin to hallucinate, their lives measured in minutes while they succumbed to the poisonous air.

  What about the shore crew? Surely they were fairing better. Baider was hard as nails, but sweet in his own way. She was reasonably sure he and Heather were a secret couple. If they weren't — what were the odds of that — the big lug would look out for her anyway, because she was a beauty. Not that Baider was as shallow as that implied. That aside, when did her feelings for George go beyond friendship? The poor goof didn’t have a clue how she felt about him. Why should he? She had meticulously kept their relationship warmly professional, despite the close quarters. Maybe..., and, oh, then there was Wendell. Wendell was such a dear. She worried about him. A brainy child in the exquisitely sculpted bronze body of a god.

 
“We goin’ to head up, Lauren?” Farrell’s hushed question boomed in the silence.

  Startled, she shook her head to clear it, mildly disturbed she'd drifted so effortlessly into the beginning stages of asphyxia.

  “Um, we need to tap into the ballast tanks to replenish the air. How much can we spare?"

  Don cleared his throat. "Can't tell without instruments."

  "Let's, uh, bring the refreshers online and start with a six minute replen cycle. Okay?"

  Don cleared his throat. Sinus congestion rendered his voice a octave lower than usual. “I think we should do a sensor sweep first.”

  “That would be a smart move.” Lauren nodded, then felt foolish. They couldn't see her in the pitch dark.

  “Owen, you still with us?”

  “Sure thing. Just sitting here wondering what the hell I’ve done to deserve dying twelve thousand feet under the Pacific.” Muffled, like he had spoken into his chest.

  “Not going to happen. Owen, bring the auxiliary power generator online and the refreshers, would you please? Don, do a sensor sweep, full circle, but keep it short. Farrell, prepare to surface.”

  The welcome hum of the generator sent a subtle surge through the ship, flushing Lauren with hope. Battle lamps issued a diffused red, dispelling the darkness. Thin rivulets streaked the moisture pimpled bulkheads and cons. The illumination dimmed when Don powered up his con and brought the external sensor array online. Lighting brightened when the sweep ended.

  “Nothing to report.” He glanced at Lauren.

  She grinned back, pleased to be able to. Another brush with that UFO...well...they might not be so lucky.

  “Once more, but give it more time, and boost the gain.”

  “No problem. Wide scan sweeps slowed to twelve seconds, gain to plus 60 percent.” Don tapped in the parameters. "Nothing life threatening, only subdued clutter. Atmospheric sonar detects nothing airborne. Clean and clear, Lauren.”

  “Good enough. Farrell. Blow ballast. Owen, juice up the primary power matrix, and bring the magnetron tubes online as soon as we’re clear of the muck. Let’s go topside and see what’s what.” Lauren swiveled until she faced Farrell’s back, feeling much better as she inhaled warm, dry air. “Take us up slow, Farrell. We don't want to excite whatever it was we brought down on us.”

  “Aye, Captain, Ma’am. Slow and steady as she goes.”

  Slinker shuddered and groaned as positive ballast and the directional motors, miniature versions of the magnetron tubes, fought to overcome the suction of the cloying muck. The bow broke free with a sucking sound that reverberated through the ship, then the stern squirmed clear. Slinker lunged upward in a stomach jarring rush.

  Lauren snapped a look at Farrell. White-knuckling the cyclic one-handed, he punched in commands and glared at the monitor. Slinker's upward acceleration eased and the magnetron tubes abated to a subdued, comfortable thrum. The offset lighting switched from battle red to white, and gradually improved until the cabin reached optimum illumination. Farrell relaxed his shoulders. His pasty pall gave way to a rosy pink.

  Turning to her own con, Lauren keyed on systems diagnostics and scanned the figures thus displayed. Slinker was coming through its deepest dive, apparently with few, if any, ill effects. Breathing became easier long before she realized it.

  “Angle of ascent approachin’ seven degrees, acceleration increasin’ to forty knots,” Farrell’s tone reflected his renewed sense of well being.

  Lauren glanced about at her fellow crewmen. Owen and Don appeared to agree with Farrell’s assessment, as did she. They were underway, doing what they were trained to do. For the moment, nothing else mattered. Sitting on the bottom in total darkness waiting for the UFO to finish them off was unnerving, but the experience came with a small reward. Slinker had made a record breaking dive with only half her crew. No manned submersible, other than cramped one or two man spheres, had ever gone that deep. George would be proud. She smiled as Slinker glided from the depths.

  “Nearin’ periscope depth.” At once gleeful, Farrell flashed a smile at Lauren and returned to his task.

  “Up periscope.” Hoping she sounded more confident than she felt, Lauren initialized the periscope vid. “Full sweep at break-water.”

  The bioputer responded. The first visual showed choppy, black seas. Slinker leveled out fifteen feet below the surface.

  “Periscope elevation, up ten degrees.”

  The new view revealed brooding darkness and the faint luminescence of cresting waves.

  “Periscope. Night-vision.”

  The image faded to black, then to green. Within the optical sensor's range, the ocean appeared bereft of life.

  “Periscope. Infrared.”

  Green faded to black, then to pale red.

  “Periscope. Full overhead sweep.”

  The bioputer complied and the image morphed to a blood red visage, the sky thickly overcast. Nothing untoward appeared.

  “Periscope. Any non-visual anomalies present?”

  There are no hidden anomalies present within the scan range. The bioputer response was faintly feminine. George programmed it that way. Naval vessels and most commercial carriers used strong, male voices, while cruise liners and coastal shuttles had warm, feminine voices. Neither particularly suited him. It took weeks to synthesize one that he jokingly described as 'genderless female'. Why had she resurrected that particular memory now? Because the bioputer sounded, remotely, like her.

  “Okay, guys, looks like we’re safe...for the moment. Farrell, whatever you do, do not attempt to contact that damned satellite again. Got it?”

  “And go through that again? Not a chance.”

  “How about we check on the guys?” Don asked.

  “Good idea. Anybody got them on the scanners?”

  “Yup. The tracers are just bleepin’ away.” Farrell looked up and grinned. “Body heat, normal. N-o-r-m-a-l. Four hot bods on a ice cube.”

  “Thank God!" Lauren silently fretted about seeing George again, though she was careful not to let on.

  Don sighed and leaned back, rubbing his belly. “They’ll be fine. George is as good as they get and Baider’s a real tough mother. On a tastier subject, bottom sitting has made me hungry. Anyone up for chow?”

  “You cookin’?” Farrell asked.

  “It’s on me...sure. Any suggestions?”

  “Whatever,” Owen quipped without looking up. Lauren and Farrell answered ‘ditto’ at the same instant, then chuckled together. With a wink, Farrell shot her with an imaginary gun and she fell back, feigning a chest wound.

  “Okay, I’m going aft. Mac and sharp cheddar with fried sausage.” With a flourish, Don released and rose, stretching his arms until his fingertips touched the ceiling. He exhaled noisily and left the cabin humming a sea ditty.

  There were times when Don's penchant for good cheer and assigning light-hearted sentiment to intense matters bothered Lauren, but not now. No matter how desperate the situation, Don always found something positive about it, and often came up with simple solutions that escaped the more serious thinkers among them.

  She ran her fingers through her damp hair, and wondered how dreadful she looked. “Speculation, guys?”

  “I say what we saw was definitely of alien origin.” Farrell brought the autopilot online and swiveled to face her. “Nothin’ on Earth could do what that thing did.”

  He would get no argument from her. “You think it’ll come back looking for us?”

  “Only if we give it enough reason.”

  “Lay low, use minimal power, that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah, Lauren, yeah. I’m even thinkin’ callin’ up the guys might be enough.”

  “When we do...call the guys...we’ll stay over deep water, just in case.”

  “Darn good idea.” Owen’s baritone rumbled from where he sat scrunched up before the vid, staring at his steepled fingers. “Meantime, we can analyze the data...see if we can get some dope on what we’re dealing with here. That thing
that attacked us, alien or whatever, must have something to do with what else is going. Whatever this is all about isn’t half as important as where we are...in time.”

  Lauren toyed with her restraints, not sure she wanted to entertain a concept so outlandish as to deny every law of physics known to man. “Agreed. It’s hard to accept, but unless the heavens have dramatically accelerated their outward drift...we’re three hundred years in the future...a cold and ugly future.”

  07:13 Hours, July 16, 2386 - Earth

  On the edge of the horizon, diffused sunlight peeked briefly through a slit in the solid gray overcast while George and Baider shared breakfast with the hill people. Beyond the tight circle about the fire, sheep bleated, children played, tin scraped tin. A damp log ignited, shooting sparks into the air. The peaceful scene evoked a movie set, staged for the benefit of the vidcorders. Wendell and Heather were nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t cause for alarm. Their captors gave them no reason to be fearful, though their guards were ever present.

  A scream brought them to their feet. From a nearby hut, Angel dashed into the open, naked from the waist down and barefoot. A trickle of blood traced a crooked path down her inner thigh.

  “Wendell fickey, fickey me bad! I no tell ‘em ‘kay!” She burst into tears. The wail drew Hanover from his hut. Others came on the run.

  Behind her, Wendell dashed out of the hut. “She’s lying! I didn’t touch her!” He was fully clothed, but bootless.

  Within moments, half the villagers were there with more arriving. Two men came up behind Wendell and shoved him toward the middle of the gathering crowd while Hanover pushed his way through from the other side. Angel ran to Hanover and cowered in his arms.

  “Is this true, Angel?” Hanover held her close and stroked her hair. To George it seemed he was playing to the villager's sympathies, embracing his role as the tribe's fatherly icon. “Did he have sex with you?”

  “Hurt me. He hurt me bad. I no wanta. He make me!” Imploring eyes awash with innocence, she sniffled and fingered a reddening scrape on her cheek. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.