Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

“So far, so good.” Trim and athletic, like all of Nayork’s offspring, Tammer’s great, great, adopted grandson’s wavy nut-brown hair shone in the unusual brightness of the day.

  Seated up front in a flyer hovering to the left and above the convoy, O’Brien squinted at Lieutenant Mathers. “You know better.” While frigid gusts sought to circumvent their protective attire, thin golden sunbeams had burst through narrow fissures in the high cloud cover, heartening O’Brien some.

  “Yes, sir. I do. Can't help but hope though.”

  Arrayed a hundred feet apart, the heavily loaded haulers hugged an ancient, overgrown highway coursing down the middle of the narrow river valley. Skimmers and flyers ranged ahead and to either side. The convoy had closed to within two miles of the coast.

  From the shadows along the northwest slope of the valley, tuffs of white smoke appeared. Gunshots rippled off the hills. Long-winged black birds took flight. Two skimmers peeled away and converged on the tattering white streamers. Narrow yellow beams lanced out and down. Four red beams responded from the surface, bathing the lead skimmer’s shielding in a glittery orb. A small explosion aft and the skimmer hurtled to the ground.

  “Damn!” Mathers steered their craft down and away, out of immediate danger.

  O’Brien’s com link erupted with the chaos of overlapping voices. “Hold your positions,” he ordered, then nudged the comlink from his throat. “What’s on the scanners?”

  Matters studied his instrument with knitted brows. “I’ve got a mass bioreading about one point five miles to the north, but nothing closer.”

  Scanning ahead with an eyespy, O’Brien noted fresh patches of white smoke dissipating along the southern ridge and high on the northern slope where the downed skimmer lay. Scattered gun shots punctured the stillness. It disturbed George that the gunmen were not revealed by the sensors, and troubling there was no movement around the downed silver craft.

  “No readings on the guys that just shot down our flyer?” O’Brien asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Explanation?”

  Mathers shrugged. “Must be using biomask technology.”

  O’Brien pocketed the eyespy and ran a hand over his short-cropped pate. "Damn. They’ve got hardware they shouldn’t have. With Hanover dead, I'd lay odds Fieldman’s banded the patrols together. Either could have provided such technology." He suffered a flash of anger, directed at himself as much as the two rogue field agents. "Should have recalled them long ago."

  The convoy stalled to his right and below, waiting for his orders. O’Brien brought the comlink back in contact with his throat. “Wolkowski, what’ve you got?”

  The comlink buzzed gently in his right ear. Nothing up here, Colonel. All quiet.

  “Braston, take two flyers and join Wolkowski on point. Do a low-level sweep, and stay sharp. Shoot anything that moves. Anything.”

  Yes, sir.

  Two flyers appeared from the rear of the convoy and sped west, dipping down to treetop level past the lead troop hauler.

  “Inger. I can't get bioreadings from the downed flyer. Check it out for me.”

  Aye, Colonel. Their drive shielding must have ruptured.

  A skimmer broke away and others spread out to fill the gap.

  “Move out,” O’Brien ordered.

  Slowly the haulers accelerated. Several flyers swooped down along the valley and up the slope like crazed silver bugs. Inger’s craft landed beside the downed flyer. Two figures emerged from the smoke and dashed toward safety. Shots rippled above the intensifying whine of hauler turbines and the gentle hum of flyer and skimmer drives. Yellow lasers responded. A survivor reeled and fell. His partner turned his weapon uphill, ending the exchange with a long burst.

  Ahead, the valley narrowed and twisted south. A perfect spot for an ambush. Caves were numerous along the craggy, forested slopes, along with granite outcroppings large enough to conceal dozens of armed combatants. Despite repeated sorties, no other viable routes for the ground-hugging haulers had been found.

  As if God had a hand in it, broad golden sunrays suddenly spilled through jagged openings in the cloud cover, casting shadows where none had existed for centuries. George took it as good omen, though he knew this day would be drenched in blood. Some of it his own.

  “Alderman, take your flight and blanket sweep the slopes where the valley narrows. Incinerate everything. Leave nothing to chance.”

  Yes, sir.

  Four wide-bodied flyers armed with twin, twelve centimeter lascannons arced gracefully from formation, then zipped past. They reached the bend in seconds and began systematically sweeping the hillsides with lasbeams. Blown to splinters, once proud evergreens rained down amid dislodged boulders. Plumes of dirty gray smoke burst upward. A cacophony of rapid gunfire joined the thunderous roar and thin red rays lanced out from opposing overlooks. Hit amidships, a flyer faltered and spiraled down, but stayed aloft long enough to stagger to the ground not far from the lead hauler. Its five occupants righted the craft and continued firing its cannons into the expanding debris haze.

  “Mathers, bring us over the southern ridge.”

  “Is that wise, Colonel?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, sir.” Resolute determination replaced Mathers’ questioning look. His jaw hardened, lips compressed to a thin line.

  Glistening shielding deflected the wind, such that there was little feeling of motion as the flyer plunged toward the southern ridge. Trying to keep up with the fast forming confrontation, O’Brien studied the frost spattered landscape, noted Mathers’ wingman holding a supportive position several yards behind and to their right.

  “Parker, get your cannon ready,” O’Brien ordered. “Target the lasbeams.”

  Within range, the shield bubble blinked out and Parker opened fire. A thick yellow beam coursed over the enemy gunners. Smoke and debris gushed upward. Mathers guided the flyer over the enemy positions, then swung the craft up in a wide, sweeping turn. Parker brought the lascannon about and continued firing until they were well away.

  Eyes wide, Mathers brought the flyer around, ready for another pass. “Geez! Did you see that?”

  “Hold up, Mathers.”

  The flyer banked to the right and slowed to a crawl.

  O'Brien eyespied the northern ridge, then spoke into his comlink. "Major Doomes.”

  A bullet spent itself on the flyer’s shielding, then another. Far below, a red ray climbed skyward, but fizzled several yards short.

  Colonel.

  “Doomes, we’ve got upwards of a hundred shooters on the southern slope at the bottleneck. I count four lascannons. And Doomes, the goons are wearing biodeflectors.”

  How the hell...

  “You ready?”

  Coming at you.

  From the east, a phalanx of troop flyers leaped over a low ridge and rapidly gobbled up the distance between them, their glistening silver skins reassuring. Behind them, the sky rippled.

  “Nayork.”

  Willard here.

  “You fired the pulse cannon?”

  Yes, sir.

  “I saw an atmospheric disruption.”

  We were attacked by Cargan ships. Appeared out of the east without warning. We damaged two. One is attempting to establish a high orbit, the other headed east, losing altitude. Just passed beyond sensor range. There is a third, Colonel.

  “Location?”

  Skipped right over us before the other two showed, then took a looping course past and around to your location. Descending from twenty-one thousand feet. You should see it in half a minute, from the southwest.

  “Can you intercept?”

  Atmospheric resistance near ground level wipes out the pulse containment field after about twenty-five miles. That ship will have to get a lot closer for us to take it out.

  “It’ll be right on top of us before you can do us any good.”

  Best we can do, Colonel.

  O’Brien understood the design limitations of Nayork’s weapo
ns, but while the pace of upgrades leaped ahead, corroborating stat reports often lagged. And the weapon had never been battle tested. “You charged and ready?”

  Yes.

  “You’re cleared to fire when the target is in range. And Willard,”

  Colonel?

  “Don't miss.”

  Without a doubt.

  “All craft go to ground. I repeat, go to ground.” O’Brien shot a look at Mathers. “Pull back.” Instantly the flyer came about in a tight turn and dove. Across the valley, flyers disengaged, clearing the way for the pulse cannon atop Nayork.

  This crisis had shown up in all the back steps. If the Cargan ship reached them before Nayork’s cannon could neutralize it... The impulse to flee his pending death, to wrap himself in Jessica's loving embrace, surged. O’Brien tasted her sweet lips, savored the warmth of her tawny skin and inhaled her musky fragrance. Sadly, he shook off the vision. He clung to the belief that George would reach Mars and dissuade him from activating the alien beacon. He shook his head to clear the doubts from his troubled mind. No time to be distracted.

  Across the valley, the sights and sounds of battle faded. Clouds gathered in a roiling tempest and darkened. Dry lightning laced the sky and crackled the tense air. Giant oak and ramrod straight pines trembled. Rocks shaken loose tumbled down the cliff face. The haulers swayed erratically. Temporal displacement caused by the arrival of the Cargan ship disrupted natural magnetic patterns, knocking anyone on the ground off their feet. Out of the clouds, a towering black domino surged — massive, breathtaking.

  Heart thumping in his throat, O’Brien gaped, then snapped his mouth shut. Unlike space, where size is often indeterminate, the close proximity of the Earth gave dimension to the vessel rushing towards them. Sweat trickled down his sides. The air crackled. Short hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. Shielded, the air crews would not be affected, but O’Brien worried those on or near the ground could be put out of action if they hadn’t sought protection.

  A blinding flash. A cobalt pulse with the power of a hundred thousand mass-movers slammed into the ship, stopping it cold. Writhing blue tendrils of raw energy flowed over its shielding, seeking weakness. The massive vessel shuddered and pushed sluggishly forward. Though it seemed an eternity, mere seconds passed as the thunderous exchange faded and the translucent glow enveloping the vessel vanished.

  The Cargan ship lumbered to port. A second pulse smashed into the denuded hull and seethed through the vessel, sending it reeling away from the valley like a drunken sailor. Flames soared from massive ruptures. The stricken starship broke apart, pelting the southern ridge and valley with monstrous, smoldering debris. Thunderclaps echoed off the hills when the larger remnants of the once mighty vessel detonated to the northwest. Mushrooming plumes of boiling gases shot skyward.

  *****

  Though outwardly implacable, Doomes watched in horror from the southern slope of the bottleneck as a house-sized, smoldering black fragment tumbled towards the convoy. From every craft, lasbeams lanced out in a frenzied attempt to slow its descent. With an earth-trembling lurch, the segment shattered a rocky outcropping and slammed to the ground two hundred yards from the convoy, where O’Brien’s flyer hovered – crushed before Lieutenant Mathers could react.

  Sergeant Will Penbrow, crouched beside Doomes, clapped a hand on his superior’s shoulder. “It’s up to you now, sir.”

  Doomes had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but the probability had been near absolute. “I see that, Sergeant.”

  As the sonic concussions rolled away, the rain of fiery remnants diminished. Violated only by the crackle and hiss of laser and debris-spawned fires spreading across the valley, numbed silence ensued.

  Doomes leaped to his feet, gripped by a blind rage. He closed his eyes and shook clenched fists at the heavens, consumed with impotent despair. Three hundred years they had planned and plotted together. O’Brien was more kin to him than any of his blood. The Colonel’s death increased the odds of failure exponentially. “Why!”

  His anguished wail propelled his troops forward. They answered with a single, hate-filled roar and surged up the ridge. Lasrifles spit anew. The crackle and pop of enemy weapons responded, rippling across the valley amid the cries and screams of the wounded.

  “We’ve got to get airborne, Major.”

  “Yes,” Doomes answered flatly.

  Oblivious to the whine of bullets splitting the air and ricocheting off the stony soil, he snatched up his lasrifle and jogged down the slope towards the nearest flyer. Vision tinged with red, he tasted the bile of revenge and boarded the flyer. O’Brien’s death mattered more than he’d thought possible, despite their pre-knowledge. It was up to him now, to see the mission through.

  The flyer streaked skyward. High above the carnage, smoke obscured the battlefield, but it was all too clear the enemy fighters were prevailing. Disabled flyers and skimmers lay scattered amid the smoldering wreckage of the Cargan ship. Dismembered bodies in black jumpsuits and armor dotted the frosted soil. Red rays concentrated on his troops struggling up the ridge over all too exposed terrain, and still more fire poured down on the convoy from the northern slope of the valley. With nearly all the lascannons silenced, hand to hand combat was inevitable. Doomes’ troops were well trained, but he estimated they were outnumbered four to one.

  “Take me there.” Doomes pointed to a dark wave surging over the northern ridge.

  The flyer sped toward the growing stain. A column of gray smoke rising from the scorched hillside quickly enveloped them. They burst out of the semi-darkness directly over a throng of gray-clothed gunmen, their weapons blazing away at the enemy concentrations along the northern ridge.

  Doomes recognized Piker waving madly to avert a strike from the closing flyer. “Pull up. It’s the hill people.”

  Corporal Allan obeyed. “Sir?”

  “Hill people, Corporal. The cavalry. The Colonel put the word out the moment we had Captain Schumer safely tucked away.” A grim smile creased Doomes’ face as the legion disappeared into the thick haze. “Penbrow, order your men to ground. Find cover.”

  Major?

  “Piker’s people are storming the northern ridge.”

  Yes, sir!

  Through clouds of drifting smoke, Doomes watched the battle turn. Caught in the crossfire, the enemy fusillade melted. Red lasbeams lanced out in all directions, no longer targeting the convoy or Doomes’ troops. Within minutes the gunfire dwindled to random bursts. Fewer red beams split the air.

  “Take us back to the convoy.” With the immediate threat over, Doomes laid his lasrifle aside. His thoughts turned to dealing with the dead and wounded, and getting the stalled convoy moving.

  “Yes, sir.”

  *****

  Beside the last hauler, George vented a deep, resonating sigh. His weapon and spare energy packs were drained and his heart sown with grief. All about him lay the shattered husks of the men and women of Nayork. Smoke so clouded the convoy, he could see little beyond the next hauler, but moans, whimpers and cries for aid gave ample testament to the slaughter.

  He peered into the smoky mist in hopes of finding his comrades. At the first enemy salvo, Don had leaped overboard and begun firing, but a powerful blast buffeted the hauler and George lost sight of him, along with Owen and Baider. A second concussion yanked him off his feet. Blood dribbled from his nose and ears. Without the hauler’s energy shield, he would have been killed.

  With the battle waning, George climbed aboard the hauler, retrieved a medkit and leaped to the ground. His hands shook as the last vestige of adrenaline spent itself. He knelt beside the hauler’s pilot, her face and chest seared and blackened. Her eyes were burned away and from her mouth, a barely recognizable slit, issued a faint plea for mercy. He pressed a hypotube of opiates to her neck and moved on.

  He did the same for a trooper with a smashed skull, his head horribly swollen and misshapen, then dressed a scalp burn for a man who had no idea where he was. A fitful breeze c
ut through the haze. He treated and packed a leg wound, then stumbled upon Don's body, torso ravaged by a lasblast to the chest. Just beyond lay Owen, eyes wide, mouth frozen in a twisted sneer. Numb, George stared without seeing until bumped by a badly burned woman dragging a legless man to the evac site. Through a rift in the smoke, he caught a glimpse of Major Doomes talking with Piker, but he didn’t see O’Brien. The Colonel was no doubt somewhere in the middle of things.

  After walking shell-shocked Randall Olsen to the evac haulers, George came across Baider carrying a limp young woman. They acknowledged each other before Baider shuffled past, his eyes dull and red-rimmed. Dark blood oozed from a scalp wound running from his forehead to the base of his right ear.

  With sickening finality, the magnitude of the violence washed over George. He fell to his knees, clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut in fitfull defiance, and prayed fervently that the worst was over. His breath came in harsh gasps, palms sweaty and hands shaking, but his rigid stance stymied the revulsion gathering in his belly. He cleared his throat and made to stand. A reassuring hand gripped his shoulder. Forlorn and disheveled in bloodied blouse and mud-spattered slacks, Linda Jeffries knelt beside him.

  He met her eyes. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She shivered and gulped. He stood, and she rose with him, her bare hands in his gloved ones. The battlefield had grown quiet, but for the intensifying hum of hauler turbines powering up.

  “Time to move on, George.” Her timorous smile dredged up the remnants of his humanity.

  “Yes.” His throat, dry and constricted, resisted. “I...I...we...we must.”

  “I shouldn’t be out here, but I had to tend to the wounded,” she explained. “I have to go back.”

  He tried to smile, but failed. “You’re shivering.”

  “I’ll be fine in a minute.” She released his hands and stepped back. “Be careful.”

  George squared his shoulders. “I will.” He snapped a salute, and held it until she turned and hurried to a transport overflowing with casualties.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  Doomes appeared at his side.

  “If you’ll join me.” His voice flat, emotionless, his face a blank mask, Doomes waved him towards a flyer hovering nearby.