Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  “Baider,” Heather whispered gravely.

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful. I can't...we can't...do this without you.”

  Baider hesitated, then leaned down and gave Heather a peck on the cheek. “Sure.” He stalked off along the low cliff, checked the bioscanner, then dashed across the open ground, keeping low and zigzagging until he disappeared into the trees at the base of the knoll.

  Keeping a wary eye on Baider, George went through the motions of dressing Heather's injury without really thinking, until Heather coughed and cried out. A spasm rippled through her. She clutched his arm. “You think he’ll be all right?” The last word was an agonized whimper.

  “Yeah. I wouldn't have let him go if I thought otherwise.” Gingerly, George pulled her bra strap together and secured it with a touch of instaglue, something a more skilled medic would have used to suture her wound.

  “Maybe you should just take my bra off,” Heather moaned.

  “It’ll keep pressure on the bandage.” George held out a closed hand. “Here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pain killers.”

  She took the three red caplets, worked up a mouthful of saliva and swallowed.

  Recalling NASCAP's firstmed training, George checked his handiwork. The bleeding had stopped. In all likelihood, the wound would reopen as they traveled. Rather than soil another shirt, he retrieved her bloodstained undershirt and sweater.

  “This is going to hurt. You must raise your arms so I can dress you.”

  “I know. It’s okay,” Heather hissed through clenched teeth as George maneuvered her injured limb through the sleeves. The cold dampness of the ground had seeped through his pants by the time he had her clothed and her parka cinched about her face. His side ached miserably, but he was sure it was a pulled muscle.

  He rose, then tensed head to toe to smooth out the kinks in muscles and joints, but it was not enough. The adrenalin rush during the firefight left him weary, in mind and body. He needed rest. They all did. He popped two red caps in his mouth. Should be enough.

  From his backpack, he retrieved an enviropad and spread it out, pushing back the yellow grass. He helped Heather lie down and tucked the pad about her. Trapped body heat would have her cozy in minutes. Heather's breathing soon fell into a steady rhythm.

  Satisfied she was asleep, George took bioscanner and eyespy in hand, and edged along the cliff face until he could safely observe the bald-top knoll. Wide, treetop high yellow-orange flames climbed swiftly up its eastern slope. Because of the intense heat, George was unable to collect bioreadings. He set aside the device in favor of the eyespy and scanned the hill in broad sweeps, including the medley of evergreens converging with a dense pine and oak forest to the north. A gradual darkening of the dismal gray pall with the sun a diffused bright spot on the cusp of the western horizon, ushered in twilight, hampering visibility.

  George didn't need the eyespy to make out the flickering yellow lasbeams, nor the tall pines snapping like toothpicks and crashing in great splintering roars. Mushrooming columns of dirty white smoke burned away the thin mist settling into the treetops. The pop of a small caliber shot echoed. Two more followed in quick succession. The lasbeams marched relentlessly upward. Two more shots rang out, all but lost in the monstrous roar of the spreading blaze.

  The lasrifles ceased their terrible destruction as robust flames swept about the hillock’s crown. Baider’s .45 boomed. Its thunderous clap rippled off the hills. More trees fell as the lasbeams erupted anew. A minute slipped past, then another. At last, the yellow beams ended their deadly dance, the great crashing replaced by the crackling of damp wood being devoured.

  The flames raced across the knoll’s bald top, drawing in and consuming the white plumes rising from the tree shrouded slope. In minutes, with the grassy top burned, a dirty pall concealed the peak, undiminished by the resurgence of a feeble breeze.

  A dark figure emerged at the base of the hill. A quick glance through the eyespy assured George it was Baider. With Baider on his way back, George turned to check on Heather, but there was movement in the eastern sky. As soundless as the breeze, two silver, canoe like flyers appeared just below the low-hanging clouds. There were three indistinct black figures in each.

  Dread twisted his gut. Though he was intrigued by the flyers, a part of him feared contact. Heart thumping, breath trapped by a lump in his throat, George grabbed Heather's lasrifle and scurried back to the carved edge of the hill. The flyers dove toward the knoll, then slowed to hover a hundred feet above the seaman. A vertical yellow shaft blinked to life, dimming as it approached the flyers. Abruptly, the craft came about and sped east, climbing until they disappeared into the clouds.

  George heaved a sigh and relaxed his grip. The immediate threat was over. Now all they had to do was keep the elements at bay: three against a world riddled with booby traps and as inhospitable as an Aleutian winter.

  Chest heaving, grimy sullen face a deep crimson, Baider jogged up to George, wavered, dropped to his knees, let the lasrifles go and sprawled face down. Boots caked with mud. Grass, soot and ash clung to his clothing. He rolled over and wiped a damp sleeve over his face, but only succeeded in smearing the grunge. Long, ragged gasps soon shrank to deep, but less violent breaths. Using a lasrifle as a crutch, he sat up.

  “We have to move out.”

  “Heather isn’t in any condition to walk.”

  “We’ll carry her. Those flyers will be back, with reinforcements.”

  George knelt beside him. “They haven’t threatened us. Even though they were out of range, they retreated when you fired on them. Maybe they were here to observe, or to help.”

  “Naive.”

  “Okay, so we disagree. I’ll go along with putting some distance between us and the knoll, but not far. The fire will explode when it reaches the fields, but once the grass is gone, the dampness will keep it from expanding.”

  “We should go north, into the woods. Maybe a mile. They saw us headed east.”

  “I can live with that.” George picked up a pack by its straps and shrugged it on, regretting his hasty action when a sharp stab lanced his side. He staggered to his feet, and offered Baider a hand.

  Taking it, Baider pulled himself up. “The lasrifles are spent.”

  He sounded so matter-of-fact. George wondered what it would take to rattle him. Without the lasrifles, their primary defensive advantage was gone. “We should bury them here. Pick them up later if we come back this way.”

  “Yeah. They’re no use to us.” Baider laid them at the cliff-face and kicked debris over them, then with a solid shiver, shouldered both remaining packs.

  George roused Heather, who grumbled sleepily. Baider joined them and with their help, she rose unsteadily to her feet. She leaned on George and again pain ripped through him. He could use a chest wrap, but resigned to wait until they made camp.

  They tried a step. Somewhat reassured, George helped her take another, and another until they were making slow, steady progress.

  Baider took the lead. No more than two hundred yards, they would make the security of the trees before darkness overwhelmed them. A fire was out of the question. The patrols would spot it easily against the backdrop of the night. He assumed the flyer people had biotechnology as sophisticated as theirs, thus even that step would not conceal them. Still, the enviropads would be enough. In addition to trapping body warmth, the pads blocked their biosigns somewhat. He needed to call Slinker, to let Lauren know they were back on track.

  Chapter Nine

  16:28 Hours, August 15, 2057 - Space

  O’Brien studied the smoking ruins of the bridge. There was little blood, but giant, maimed corpses and wrecked consoles attested to the violence with which Doomes had taken the ship. Though he was loathe to consider his feelings as prideful, he noted that despite their obvious technical supremacy, the aliens had lost their ship to one determined human.

  O’Brien smiled at that, but the thought quickly fa
ded when Linda came on the bridge, gasped and turned away. Trembling, she leaned into the hatch frame and stifled a gag, but with a firm shake of her head she faced him. Her eyes were dull with horror, but her jaw was set and her stance now uncompromising.

  With calm assurance, he offered her his hand. She took it and pressed her face into his chest. They stood there far longer than O’Brien would have liked, but he couldn’t deny her. With his emotions dampened, he could only imagine how unsettling this was for her.

  His brief exploration of the bridge over, Tammer stooped to pry a hand weapon from a disembodied arm, but the massive fingers refused to let go. Frustrated, he grabbed the grisly remains about the elbow and struggled to lift it, and failed. He scowled and straightened, looked to O'Brien, then shrugged and returned to levering dead fingers the size of thick sausages from the weapon.

  Though inclined to help, the manager within urged O’Brien to other action. Thoughts prioritizing, he was about to push Linda away, but the tantalizing hint of musk clinging to her hair gave him pause. For a tempting moment, he wished they were somewhere else. Reluctantly, he eased her from him and took her hands in his.

  “Stay with Doomes, would you?”

  She summoned a timid smile. “Yes, of course, Colonel.” Her lips quivered, but she cleared her throat, pulled her shoulders back and strode purposely from the bridge.

  A cry of victory announced Tammer's success. He offered the prize to O’Brien, who accepted the weapon and looked it over. The gun's matte-silver finish didn't appear metallic. It had a snub-nosed octagon barrel and a square grip too large for a human hand. Along one side, two-thirds of a narrow slit glowed red. He assumed it indicated either the weapon’s charge level or power setting.

  “Where do you suggest we dispose of the bodies, Colonel? Lying about as they are..."

  "There must be disposal units, but for now, we’ll put them in the nearest cabin.”

  “Whatever you think best, Colonel.” Though flushed and breathless, Tammer nonetheless seemed in firm control of his emotions.

  O’Brien’s opinion of him edged up a notch.

  They said little and sweated profusely for half an hour dragging the corpses to what O’Brien assumed was the captain’s ready room. Vid screens filled one wall, an odd, drab, three-dimensional piece of art another. A large auburn desk and matching chairs faced the vids, with an elaborate con to one side. There they lined the alien bodies up morgue style, and removed weapons and technical gadgets adhering to smooth patches on their uniforms.

  Dispassionately, O’Brien examined the remains and made several discoveries. These creatures were oversized humans, but for one glaring difference. They had no visible genitalia, and neither male nor female tendencies. Fair-skinned and firm of build, though slender, they were without blemish: no scar tissue or moles, nor minor bacterial eruptions.

  With the bridge cleared of alien corpses and weapons collected, Tammer left to explore. O’Brien briefly inspected nearby cabins, then looked in on Doomes resting peacefully on a ruby-red blanketed sleeper. There he found Linda kneeling beside an array of black, silver and gray packages and shiny instruments. Maroon deck, soft gray bulkheads, a chin-tall table and four chairs in a corner, and the sleeper. O'Brien noted oblong red outlines on the far wall. Three were open, boxed shelves extended, one stacked with neatly folded uniforms. An officer's cabin.

  "Colonel. Look what Tammer brought me. Watch this."

  Curious, O'Brien knelt beside her. She ran a finger along a packet edge. Folded, flesh-toned squares, clear vials of a white ointment, and red/orange caplets in clear sacks spilled out.

  "Meds." He picked up a palm-sized, open-ended black tube with a tiny blue square similar to the trigger pads on the alien weapons. "What's this?"

  "No idea," she answered. Clear brown eyes gleamed with excitement.

  Holding the device at arm's length, O'Brien pressed the blue square. A glittering gold cone leaped from the hollow end, startling him. The hourglass and slash symbol embossed on the tube's shank showed a surprising similarity to that found on medical equipment on Earth. He passed the conical beam close to a finger and felt a faint tingling sensation.

  “What’ve you got there, Colonel?”

  “Not sure.” O’Brien touched the beam with the tip of his finger. Since it didn’t puncture the skin, he assumed it wasn't a scalpel. He passed the beam over his arm and a small, scabbed scratch on the back of his wrist warmed and receded, leaving a thin purplish line. Dermal regenerators had just become commonplace, but they were still cumbersome and only marginally effective.

  Linda’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

  “Wow is right.” O’Brien handed it to her. “Try this on Doomes.”

  She examined the device from every angle, then rose and approached the sergeant. Several times she flicked it on and off before holding it over a bloody scrape on Doomes’ bare shoulder. Nothing happened until she brought it to within a few centimeters of his skin. In seconds, the abrasion scabbed over and receded to a purplish/yellow patch half its size.

  Reasoning that the other items were also medical in nature, O’Brien placed one of the folded squares on the injury Linda had just treated. The square opened and spread until the wound was covered edge-to-edge.

  "My God! This is unbelievable!" Gathering a handful of the patches and the dermal regenerator, she set to treating the rest of Doomes' injuries while her patient remain unconscious.

  O’Brien returned to the bridge, passing Tammer investigating an array of outlines farther down the corridor. He stepped through the hatchway and lurched to a halt. A small army of shimmering yellow turtles scurried about the damaged console. More worked in teams on the deck.

  “What in the blazes...” Incredulous, he crossed his arms and watched as the bots hovered over bits and pieces of debris, shuffling and turning. Scorch marks vaporized as several moved in ever widening circles, leaving a sparkling clean deck in their path. More arrived from an opening beneath the rear bulkhead, carrying components of varying shapes and colors.

  “Well, I’ll be,” O’Brien muttered. He chuckled and leaned against the hatch frame, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. Slowly the console returned to its undamaged state as the bots removed, repaired and reinstalled quarter-meter square sections. The bots on the deck completed their handiwork and turned their attention to the damaged chairs. Four rose beneath one chair while another hovered beside the pedestal. Precise in their actions, they separated the chair and carried it from the bridge, returning minutes later with a replacement.

  The refuse of battle removed, O’Brien climbed into one of the immense gray and black pedestal chairs and examined the console. A vast array of multi-colored squares, triangles and rectangles spread along the slightly inclined surface stretched across the forward end of the bridge and down the right bulkhead. The labels on each shape looked vaguely familiar. Above the con, a panoramic view of space consumed the bulkhead. Aside from the low-key hum of electronic machinery and tinny blurps and hisses from a pair of yellow turtles, the bridge was eerily quiet.

  A darkened area on the con brightened when he passed a hand over it. Figures, similar to the labels, scrolled upward when he ran a finger down a thin green line to the right. He recognized what he thought were telemetry readings. Curiosity tempted him to touch shapes randomly, but an image of tables larded with fine foods came to mind. The not knowing which were edible and which deadly poison held him in check.

  “It’s a bastardization of Hebrew.”

  So absorbed he hadn't noticed the soft footfalls and laborious breath approaching, O'Brien started. Awfully jumpy. Why shouldn't I be? "Are you sure?" He glanced sideways at the intruder, and beamed what he hoped was calm assurance.

  “Absolutely, Colonel.” Tammer looked amused. O'Brien swiveled towards him, brushing his fingers over an orange square. An unintelligible mechanical voice chimed what sounded like a warning. The square pulsed on, off.

  Fingers dug into a scooped out strip along the chai
r back, Tammer lunged upward and slung a leg across the seat beside O’Brien. He teetered on the edge, turned his foot to anchor him across the bottom and dragged himself up. Grunts turned to deep, sucking breaths, and those subsided soon enough.

  “My father was Jewish,” Tammer continued. “I was required to study the language at great length...far too much I might add...from the Torah, Mishnah, the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Karma Sutra.” He smiled briefly.

  “The Karma Sutra is an Indian sex manual. You funning me?” O’Brien studied Tammer with a quizzical look. The journalist could be playing him or merely attempting to lighten his mood.

  “Of course, of course, Colonel.” The smile returned. “But I swear the first part is true. I’m a Jewish don't-wanna-be. The whole thing was so forced that I grew up denying my heritage. However, the knowledge...including my ability to read Hebrew...remains. May I?” He reached beyond O’Brien and pressed the orange square. The mechanical voice ceased.

  “Somebody has to fly this ship. Since you understand their language, you're it.”

  “I beg to respectfully decline, Colonel. However, I will decipher for you what I can. I am a vid-barker, after all, never served in the military, nor have I the skills of a navigator or a pilot.” Tammer's tone bordered on condescension. Abruptly it changed to a more solicitous timbre. “I go limp when it comes to making command decisions. Other people do that for me now.”

  O’Brien nodded. As a young man, he had struggled with similar complexes. The Air Force Academy changed all that, for which he was eternally grateful. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And yes, I...we...would appreciate your assistance.”

  “You know, Colonel, there are serious theological issues attached to the alien's use of Hebrew. While the language is that of the Tribes of Israel, it's over five thousand years old. We may very well be looking at the original source of this idiom.”

  With a hard twist, O’Brien swung his chair to the right and faced Tammer. “Like the God of Israel was one of these aliens?”