Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  "Much. Thanks."

  "No doubt you have questions. Think you're up to it?" He lounged back, but his quick, darting eyes held a hint of puzzlement.

  “What do you know of the alien bombardment?” O'Brien asked. Too blunt perhaps. Though he was skilled at social interaction, he considered frivolous the niceties of polite conversation.

  “Aliens?" Jeffries cocked a skeptical brow and shook his head no. “We assumed Pakistan started it, or maybe the Chinese. They've been making a lot of noise over the UN occupation of Indonesia. Why do you suspect aliens?”

  “We saw the start of it on Mars.” O'Brien noted Jeffries' confident expression shift to narrow-eyed suspicion. He considered elaborating, but decided it could wait. A professional vid-barker like Tammer would relish that opportunity.

  “Oh.” Jeffries picked up his mug and stared at it. He tensed, rolled his shoulders back and relaxed, but avoided O'Brien's gaze.

  “About the bombardment.”

  “Aliens? You sure?” Jeffries waved his hand as if to erase the question. “We registered the first continental impact at nine fifteen a.m., July 12th, at NewMetro. WashMetro right after, then MiaMetro. All comsats went offline minutes after ChiMetro, long range scans in hours, local scan/com links a day later. Our underground optical com links blinked out when Portland got hit at week's end. Half our compliment have...had relatives there." Jeffries ran a nervous hand through his thick brown hair, studied O'Brien for a moment, then looked away, cheeks reddening. He wiped his glistening eyes on his sleeve and choked back a sob. Head bowed, he continued. "Outside temps gradually declined. It's currently twenty degrees under seasonal norms. Our solar collectors, the most up-to-date you'll find anywhere, are converting at less than ten percent.”

  “Who’s in charge? Where's your security contingent?”

  “No one, really. I, sort of. We formed a committee. Our Air Force security detachment numbered forty-two. Maybe out of a sense of...who knows...they pulled duty outside. Before we knew it, they were beyond saving. Almost half the people here carry a military statcard, but rank translates to salary level to them, not authority. It would be appropriate for you to be our GM."

  O'Brien grunted. He expected his rank to give him a voice, but NAORC was United Federal, not military. “What about your civilian administrator?”

  “Our GM, Gerald Callaway, died of a heart attack shortly after ChiMetro. His second, Robert Elsberry, and Security Captain Martinez took off in a tree hopper to make contact with the nearest government or military authority. That was four days ago.”

  “How self-sufficient are you?”

  Jeffries smiled. “Fully self-contained. We design and build prototype systems for undersea and off-world survival. The fusion reactor has enough fuel to last more than a hundred years. We also have expansive hydroponics and earth gardens, some livestock and poultry. Wastewater recovery is tubed through an extensive subterranean aquifer and we've enough meds to support the First Army. That covers the primaries.”

  "O’Brien rubbed his whiskerless chin thoughtfully. "Secondaries?" His face burned where he rubbed. Had to remember that his skin would remain tender until he completed dermal-rejen.

  "Arts to zoology. Just kidding, but not by much. Anything we can relate to what we do, someone is doing something with it."

  "Population, including non-staff."

  “Seven hundred and seventy-four, total current. Of that, one hundred fifty seven came in on their own. Some of them sub-contracted with us before. No one new in a while, which is why we were so surprised when you showed up."

  "How many occupants can this place support?"

  "Over thirty five hundred in residence. Another thousand or so day temporaries.”

  So far, so good, O’Brien mused. “Defensive capabilities?”

  “The armory is pass-coded, no idea what's in there, but weapons lockers located on every level contain five lasrifles and a dozen projectile handguns. There’s some armament top-side, probably anti-aircraft.”

  A Federal research facility with a token military garrison wouldn’t rate much in the way of defensive weaponry. Most likely a twenty-millimeter lasgun. Good enough to take out an air-to-ground missile or a poorly shielded aircraft. Not much of a deterrent, but anything was a plus.

  “Raw materials, manufacturing?”

  “Yes, yes.” Jeffries beamed. “We have kilotons of core materials, chemlabs, a machine shop, a state-of-the-art replicator lab. As a matter of fact,” he leaned forward, glowing with pride. “Professor Maximillian Artose is here with an international team of replicator specialists.”

  The name meant nothing to O’Brien, but he understood the implications. Just as microbiologists had revolutionized recombinant DNA in 2012 to construct new varieties and even new species of plants and animals, the age-old dream of molecular transformation had become a reality in 2055. Rather than disassembling the alien technologies to learn how to duplicate them, replication would allow them to skip the lengthy development process. They would need comparable weapons to fight back.

  O’Brien sipped his warm tea, allowing an extended silence to develop. Instead of nervously blurting something to fill the gap, Jeffries waited with an expectant smile. He wasn’t easy to intimidate. Good.

  “We have to return to the alien ship, soon.”

  “Alien ship?” Jeffries jumped to his feet, splashing tea. “You captured and alien spaceship! We have engineers, scientists who would die to get their hands on...”

  O’Brien waved him down. “What kind of transportation do you have?”

  His exuberance checked, Jeffries swiped at the splotches of brown liquid on his shirt and sank back into his chair. He set his mug aside and rested his hands in his lap. O'Brien noted a tremor of excitement rush through Jeffries as he eyed O’Brien with glazed astonishment.

  “We crash-landed one several kilometers from here.” O’Brien cocked an eye at Jeffries and set his own mug down. The younger man's face was alive with conflicting emotions: concern, excitement, fear, uncertainty, anticipation.

  Jeffries opened his mouth to respond, hesitated, pursed his lips, then answered with near religious awe. “A pair of surface skimmers, a hauler...but Colonel, in your condition...you’ve already been heavily exposed...”

  “You have radiation suits, right? You must, you have a reactor.”

  “Of course, but even they weren’t designed...” Worry and uncertainty furrowed his brow.

  “They’ll do. By surface transport, the wreck is no more than an hour away.”

  Jeffries raised his mug to his lips, but didn’t drink. “May I ask you a few questions of my own, Colonel?” As carefully as before, Jeffries set the mug aside, untouched, and leaned forward. With fingers intertwined, he rocked his thumbs back and forth in a nervous gesture.

  “Of course.” O'Brien replied absently. The focus of the facility would have to change. There was so much to do: redirecting personnel, department reviews, goal projections. Where to begin.

  “Would you mind...I mean could you explain...tell me more about what must have been an extraordinary journey...an alien spaceship of all things...” Jeffries looked up and jumped to his feet. “Uh, good morning, Mr. Tammer.”

  “So, this is where I find you, Colonel.” Tammer eased into the chair beside O’Brien and sized up the tray of delicacies with an appreciative eye. “Enjoying tasteful repast while regaling our new friends with tales of high adventure?” He winked at O’Brien, then nodded to Jeffries. “I hope our dear Colonel O’Brien hasn’t told you everything. I’d truly love to bask once again in the warmth of public adoration...I am a vid-barker, you must know.” Looking somehow mundane in pajamas and cotton robe, Tammer's girth and flowered speech nonetheless inferred a towering presence.

  “No, Mr. Tammer." Jeffries smiled politely. “We were just getting to that.” He sat down and gestured toward the pastries.

  There was only one maple donut and O’Brien snatched it. Pouting, Tammer chose a chocolate éclair and
took a sizable bite just as a pretty girl in a white jumpsuit appeared with a serving cart. She handed him a brown ceramic mug. Mouth full, he nodded his thanks and washed down the pastry with a sizeable gulp.

  "Ack! This isn't coffee." He spewed dough crumbs, and embarrassed, brushed them from his robe and bent to scoop up what had fallen on the floor.

  "Please don't concern yourself with that, Mr. Tammer." The girl smiled warmly. "The auto sweepers will clean that up. No sooner had she spoken and a low, shocking red teardrop glided from beneath the chair and sucked up the crumbs.

  O’Brien perked up. “Jeffries, would it be possible to get a tour of your facility?”

  “At your convenience, Colonel. But it is large, nearly four thousand acres on twenty-two levels built out and a third more under construction.”

  “I’m more interested in the labs and research offices than the farms.”

  “Would you prefer breakfast first?”

  “Real food!” Tammer sprayed the carpet again. “My apologies," he shouted under his chair before addressing their host, "why waylay us with such trivia as this when you can offer a genuine meal at this hour of the morn?”

  “It’s nearly nine a.m., Mr. Tammer. The cafeteria is due to open.”

  “Of course it is.” Tammer shoved the remainder of the éclair into his mouth and made to stand, but groaned and eased back with a pained expression.

  “You’ll have to take it easy until you fully rehab, Mr. Tammer.”

  “Jeffries,” A thought had come to O’Brien while Tammer bantered about food, “we must return to the alien ship soon. Can you arrange that?”

  “In your condition, Colonel, I would not recommend it.”

  “We must, and none of your people know its location.” Though weak, O’Brien felt capable of making the journey in a vehicle. “If we’re to counter the aliens, we must retrieve bodies for autopsy and began a comprehensive analysis of their technology.”

  “Yes, of course, but you should eat something of substance first." Jeffries rose. “We have a fabulous cafeteria.”

  “Delighted.” Tammer groaned and belched involuntarily, but succeeded in rising this time.

  O’Brien pushed himself up with the chair's arms, surprised he could stand without wavering. “You are the man in charge, Jeffries.”

  “We’ve already covered that, Colonel.” Jeffries offered O’Brien a hand. “You now hold that position.” His warm and genuine smile showed no guile. “I have a gravcart waiting in the corridor. This way.”

  O’Brien waved Jeffries hand aside. "Lead on."

  12:52 hours, August 16, 2057

  Though physically warmed by the enviro system built into the radiation suit, a chill coursed through O’Brien as he viewed the landscape. Nuclear winter had withered leaves and undergrowth to a dull, lifeless brown. The evergreens retained color, but their branches and needles drooped. They glided past parked and crashed vehicles: each with a complement of swollen and blackened human cadavers, frigidly preserved.

  From the open deck in daylight, distances seemed quite different. At a point where the graytop lane curved north and down, O’Brien eased the hauler to a stop. The boxy white craft floated centimeters off the ground, turbine drawn down to a low whine. A power line opening in the trees offered a panoramic view of a deep and wide valley. An ugly brown scar slashed the far slope and across the valley floor where the alien ship had smashed and gouged its way to a solid granite precipice. Thick clouds dimmed the sun's glow, removing shadows and obscuring the surrounding peaks.

  “We’ll leave the road here. Fasten your restraints. It’ll get rough.”

  “You say there’s a crashed spaceship near here, Colonel?” Malcolm, the machinist, was a powerfully built man and a full head taller than O’Brien. He and his companion, Ralston, were both strong and agile men with military backgrounds, hand-picked by Jeffries for this assignment.

  “Somewhere along the valley’s eastern slope, under a rock-slide.” With a resounding click, O’Brien locked the breast clasp of his four-point harness in place. He waited until Malcolm and Ralston followed suit, then eased the control wand forward. Adjusted for rough terrain, the hauler rose a meter off the ground and slowly gained forward momentum.

  O’Brien guided the craft down the slope and turned into a narrow, rock-strewn wash, in places no more than a shallow depression, at others a meters-deep gully. Craggy, overgrown walls and unexpected crosscuts threatened to overturn the hauler. Mars training had taught him to control ground vehicles in such terrain, but it wasn’t long before he was sweating and his abused muscles ached. His visor clouded. He auto tuned the suit’s dehumidifier and in minutes, he was dry.

  A half hour passed before they came upon a gravel road winding down the mountainside to where the wreck lay. With a sigh of relief, O’Brien reset the terrain controls and increased speed. They zipped over the well-tended lane and quickly reached the valley floor. Wilted tall-grass meadows and gently rolling hills dotted with the occasional stand of poplar, scrub pine or withered brown thatches of prickly vines stretched into the distance.

  They rounded a rise and the massive brown scar leaped into view. To their left it disappeared into a rockslide of enormous granite boulders. Tucked beneath, black and mutilated and foreboding was a corner of the great ship.

  “That damned thing is huge, Colonel.” Ralston said in a hoarse whisper. His jaws worked, but nothing else issued forth.

  O’Brien slowed and angled off the road. He lost sight of the wreck as the hauler dipped and swayed up the gentle slope littered with huge, craggy boulders and pulverized rock. Still fifty yards from the ship, O'Brien steered the hauler around a rubble pile and looked up, expectant, but not for what he saw. Dismayed, he felt his belly muscles tighten. The huge landing bay hatch was open and partially hidden to its left was a sparkling red, all-terrain sport skimmer. O'Brien recognized the Mountaineer 2300, a less powerful version of his own, tucked away for months now in Buffalo, Minnesota. He stalled the hauler sideways between boulders to block the skimmer’s escape, then idled the turbine and allowed the hauler to sink into the limp, wheat-colored grass.

  "Whoever's in there must be dead," Malcolm said matter-of-fact. "Nobody could last out here."

  "Course not, but they might have shelter and meds. Maybe not as good as ours..." Ralston grinned.

  "Yeah, I guess that's true," Malcolm stared at the skimmer as if he expected it to dart away.

  The driver's door slid into the hull and O'Brien stepped down, unarmed.

  "We’ll take it slow, gentlemen. I don't want a shoot out." O’Brien smiled disarmingly to take the edge off the moment. He pointed to the left of the huge open hatch. "Malcolm stay far to the left and use cover. Come up on the blind, then duck inside to your left. You’ll find a transport about four meters in. Good cover. Don't fire unless I say so."

  He glanced at Ralston. "You stay here, cover us. Don't shoot unless we are targeted. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Malcolm jumped out and jogged the short distance to the ship, showing unexpected agility for a large man wearing a cumbersome radiation suit.

  When Malcolm reached the midpoint, O'Brien stepped off, staying visible to anyone inside the ship. He felt awkward and entirely too exposed approaching the hatch. Ralston alighted and stayed low, lasrifle and head visible above the bulk of their hauler.

  Given the nod by O'Brien, Malcolm slipped through the hatchway while O'Brien approached the portal.

  Two loud explosions reverberated within. Bullets ricocheted off the ship's deck. O'Brien dropped to the ground, certain he was a dead man, and rolled into the cover of the hull. That was a gut reaction, he chided himself. The placement of the shots told him they were meant to threaten, not to kill. He keyed his external voice modulator.

  “We intend you no harm. Hold your fire.”

  “You...you could be aliens.” Muffled and frightened with a tremor in his voice, the speaker sounded like an elderly male. “Take off your head gear
and...and stand where I can see you.”

  O’Brien glanced back at the hauler, more for reassurance than anything else. “No problem. Give me a sec.”

  “No tricks or...or...I’ll blast you.”

  “No tricks.” O’Brien sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re scared, suffering from radiation. We have meds.”

  “Words mean nothing. Show yourself. And...and that other fella who snuck in here.”

  “All right. I’m unarmed. Don't shoot me.”

  Silence. O’Brien released his headgear: a square, white polymer contraption with a rectangular polyfiber face-shield. The lack of peripheral vision had bothered him when he donned the suit, but their envirosuits, with a 210Ú visibility arc, only protected them against particulate inhalation. Since the gunmen was well enough to aim, O'Brien reasoned he either was using a radiation suit or had an underground sanctuary nearby. The voice was natural, not projected through a com device. Had the man witnessed the crash, he wondered?

  “I’m Colonel Kaider O’Brien, U.S. Air Force.”

  A long pause.

  “You’re...you must be an impostor. The whole world knows he's on Mars.” The man sounded troubled, uncertain.

  “Aliens destroyed the Mars base. I escaped with six others. You're standing in the landing bay of an alien spaceship we crashed here. Here's my headgear.” O’Brien slipped his helmet off and lobbed it into the bay. It landed with a hollow thunk. “This world is devastated. Billions are dead. I can't justify us killing each other.”

  “Show...show yourself.”

  There was no longer any reasonable excuse to avoid doing what he said he would. O’Brien strode to the middle of the hatchway, apprehensive, yet fairly confident he wasn't being foolish.

  “I...I can't see your face.” The voice sounded muffled, like the speaker was behind something.

  “Do you have a litemate?”

  “No...yes, but it failed.”

  Slowly, O’Brien faced left. “Malcolm. Put your lasrifle down and come stand with me.”