Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

“We...we have to...” He tried to rise, but again nausea overwhelmed him.

  Linda grasped his hand and the tension drained away. Her grip delivered a magical elixir that soothed and distracted. “All is being taken care of. We need you strong, so rest until it’s time. Okay?”

  He closed his eyes and nodded, felt her leave. Pheromone therapy, O’Brien had told him. Nayork med worker’s were genetically enhanced to calm troubled patients by their mere presence. He tried to dwell on that, to focus on something inconsequential, but his thoughts wandered to those important to him. He drifted at the edge of sleep. Baider’s revelation of his love for Heather troubled him, because he hadn't seen it coming. Obtuse came to mind. And Lauren. There was so much more there too. How could he dismiss her signals so easily? Hard to think he could be that self-absorbed. So, how did he feel about Lauren? Could he make a life with her? If he could only talk to her, it would be so much easier to decide, or would it? Pondering this, sleep stole him away.

  *****

  Punctuated by the clink of metal, thump of boot steps, George heard someone speak in a hushed tones. The deck lurched as something heavy shifted. Beyond the sleepy murmur of the ventilators, a cold, intermittent draft coursed through the bunkroom, but George didn’t mind. The chill on his face helped to dispel the drug-induced fog and further assuaged his nausea.

  “George. You here?” A woman's voice, weak, forced.

  His eyes snapped open. “Lauren?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Fighting vertigo, George pushed his blanket aside and slowly sat up. The cabin reeked of meds, but the deck was warm on his stockinged feet. Feeling better and mindless of his injuries, he twisted his torso right to ease the kinks in his back, and thrust his arm cast into his lap. He jerked his arm free, swallowed a scream and gently rested his wounded limb on his thigh. “Where are you?”

  “Here.”

  A feeble hand rose from a bottom bunk across the cabin.

  “You okay?”

  “Nope. Shot.”

  “Forgot to duck?”

  She chuckled, but it caught in her throat and ended in a wheezing cough.

  “Bad, huh?” His throat constricted. Panic quickened his heartbeat.

  “Doc says I’ll live. I caught one under the arm, and it didn't even nick the body armor.”

  “Sounds like a damned lucky shot."

  "For who?" Her giggle was a cracked whisper.

  “Rest, Lauren. Next time you wake, everything will be the way it was.” It wasn’t too late. He would save her. He would save them all! Exhausted, he lay back, mindful of his cast.

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Don't...don't die.”

  He heard her breath slow and deepen. “Not on your life,” he whispered.

  Soft footsteps approached, but ended at the lounge hatchway. “Captain Schumer?”

  “Yes?”

  She sounded young, but it was difficult to tell. That was the trick with the people of Nayork. A young voice could come from someone over two hundred years old.

  “We’re ready for you.” She stepped over a supine figure and came closer. “Do you need help?”

  “Please.”

  She grasped him by his right elbow and shoulder, and guided more than lifted. Surprisingly strong, she slipped beneath his arm when he was upright, and half carried him over the sleepers. In the lounge’s dim illumination, George saw blanketed victims sandwiched together. Against the far bulkhead, someone moaned. From a corner, a painful cough ended in a wheeze.

  The woman guided and supported him through the cabin and into the cargo hold awash with brilliant light. Accustomed to darkness, George winced and scrunched his eyes. Through narrow slits, he noted tangled silver, gray and black tubing, a grated platform and a con panel surrounded by a waist high red rail. Magnetic pulses fluxed and beneath him, Slinker’s motors thrummed with vibrant energy.

  “It’s almost time, George.” Doomes held up a white polymer envirosuit.

  George fingered the lightweight material in confusion and glanced up at the platform. “What’s this?”

  “The time machine will place you on Mars. Without it, you will asphyxiate in seconds.” Doomes spoke not unkindly, but with an air of gruff authority.

  “Mars? But I thought....” Gently, George pushed away the woman supporting him. He wanted to run. He wanted to be a coward. Flush with dread, he wavered, lost focus, concentrated and straightened. Mars! Damn, he needed a drink! He could still back out, claim his injuries were too severe, pain too debilitating, claustrophobia...dammit! Get a grip! Eyes closed, he heard the woman's panicked uptake. He could almost smell her fear.

  "Colonel, are you all right?" Doomes asked.

  "Yes, no, everything hurts." With a deep, achy sigh, George composed himself. He didn’t want cowardice to become his legacy. What the hell was he thinking? Legacy? If his dad's contraption worked, no one would know of his heroics. Who would believe him? He took a deep, painful breath, slowed his pulse and calmed his jangled nerves.

  Slightly distasteful, the air smelled of ozone and synthlube. The deck canted faintly, tilted back. They were at sea, running submerged.

  "Remind me what I have to do."

  “You must warn Colonel O’Brien. Convince him to bury the artifact. You remember?”

  Memories of his conversation in the arboretum with O’Brien came rushing back. “Yes, sure. He told me some things to say, but...”

  “Then, let’s do it.” Doomes growled. He held out the suit.

  “Sure.” George raised his good arm, but a shout brought him around with a jerk. Pain lanced his chest. He gritted back an angry curse and mentally chastised himself.

  Pasty faced, stricken, a black clad trooper lunged through the forward hatch. “Major! Nayork has been destroyed!”

  “How...” Doomes straightened. The suit hung limp in his hands. The hard-edged look in the officer’s eyes told George the news wasn’t unexpected. George dragged his gaze from Doomes and stared at the soldier, not wanting to believe it.

  “A Cargan ship! The mountain is gone!” Breathless, eyes wild, he took a deep, shuddering breath and gulped. “The damn thing is coming right at us.”

  George glanced at Doomes, noted his stoic gaze. The Major wouldn't know what to do. Horror welled.

  "Lock down everything you can, and brace yourselves!” George rushed past the trooper, painfully aware how close they were to oblivion.

  “Brace yourselves!” he warned. Through the lounge and into the bunkroom, he hurdled over the wounded, giving no thought to his injuries. “Farrell! Go for deep water!”

  “I’m on it, Cap,” Farrell shrilled.

  The deck tilted. The rush of seawater over the hull quickly swelled to a dull roar. A vibration rattled its way bow to stern while the thrum of the magnetron tubes grew to deep, resonant throbs. The illumination dimmed, then blinked to red.

  Riding the edge of panic, George dodged a victim propped beside the hatch and slammed his shoulder into the bulkhead, shattering his cast. Nausea and pain flared, then diminished the enormity of their predicament, a powerful narcotic. He reeled through the hatch and stumbled to the chair beside Farrell, and strapped himself in. His left arm dangled uselessly, shards of polycast clinging to web strands about his elbow.

  Did the Cargans know what they were trying to do? His hands shook, palms sweaty, mouth dry, throat constricted. With Nayork gone, there could be no second chance. He had to save Slinker, no matter the cost. What was it Lauren said? Don't die. No, he wouldn’t. He prayed none of them would.

  “Increase dive angle to thirty-five degrees and push the motors to one hundred ten percent. Add auxiliary boost for good measure.” Not sure he was heard above the cacophony, George glanced over. Farrell was staring at him. His hands hovered over the con, twitching. He made no move to comply.

  “Stand Slinker on her nose?” Farrell asked.

  “We don't...and the Cargans get us.”

&n
bsp; Farrell nodded slowly, then turned back to the con and jammed the control stick forward another inch. The cabin tilted precariously. Fighting the resistance of thousands of pounds of pressure per inch, Slinker popped and groaned and shook, but the bow grudgingly dipped more.

  With cold efficiency, George closed his mind to the screams of the frightened wounded tumbled into a mass of people and blankets. Even the mad rush of seawater over the hull and the ominous drum of the magnetron tubes seemed muted by comparison. Seconds meant the difference between life and death. Seconds!

  “They’re here! Altitude...twelve hundred meters.” With his good hand, George toggled between key strokes, splitting the vid in two: external sensory readings on the left, providing a fuzzy image of the Cargan ship, and Slinker data on the right. Vertical yellow bars measuring various shipboard functions, continued to rise, turning red when they exceeded safety limits. Slinker nudged his mind. George linked in, felt Slinker greet his response.

  “Depth, ten thousand, eight hundred,” Farrell quivered, “approachin’ the seabed at two-thirty-one knots.”

  “Backflow at twenty percent and increasing.” He accepted Slinker’s alarm, resisted the ship’s demand to cancel manual override. “Bring the bow up as quick as you can without fracturing her spine.”

  “Aye, Cap.”

  Farrell hauled back on the helm grips. Slinker shuddered. A loud crack split the air. Axial stress alarms bleeped. Warnings, in crimson block letters, scrolled the bottom of the vids. Warnings from Slinker stormed through George’s mind. He severed the link.

  “Neutralizin’ magnetron flow...backflow initiated. Three percent, seven, fifteen, twenty percent. Seventeen down bubble, one-forty three knots...too sharp and too fast, Cap.”

  “I can read,” George snapped.

  “We’re goin’ to hit hard.”

  “Backflow fifty percent and braking flaps at thirty degrees!” Sweat trickled down George’s spine. In his thoughts, he urged, then begged Slinker to pull out, though he refused to reestablish the link. Stress readings climbed. Forward momentum and descent angle were receding far too slowly.

  “She’ll break in two, Cap!”

  “Do it!”

  The hull rattled and moaned like a man dying. The thrum of the magnetron tubes grew more ominous. Cabinets popped open and deck plating puckered. With a sickening squeal, the forward vid cracked and the chart table legs snapped. A needle thin stream of seawater exploded from above and pierced the navcon an inch from George’s forearm.

  “I’m...goin’...to...puke,” Farrell squeaked.

  Centrifugal forces soared past six g's. George felt he was about to crap out every organ in his body before the bow grudgingly rose and forward momentum tapered off.

  As if outside himself, George heard himself announcing the vid readings. “three degrees down bubble, Eighty knots...Retract bottom brakes...sixty knots...forty...twenty...” Hand clamped on the seat rail, George locked every muscle. "One degree up bubble...shut down the tubes and close the intakes."

  A moment later Slinker slammed violently into the seabed. Amid the clatter of gear torn loose and the hull screeching over bottom debris, George made out the dull thud of bodies flung against bulkheads. God Almighty, hold together, Slinker girl.

  With a slight negative buoyancy, Slinker skittered over the ooze, skipped, and slowed. She swayed, dipped to starboard. As if gripped by a mighty hand, she abruptly sloughed sideways, spun and rocked to a halt, sending George hurtling against his restraints. Shoulder straps bit into flesh. Seat arm jammed into his side, angry, abusive pain left him gasping. Bruised ribs at the least George swore, maybe even a split kidney. And the others. How many died, how many more pushed closer to death? To survive the horrors of the gauntlet to the coast, just to die beneath the sea.

  With a sigh, Slinker sunk into deep ooze with an eleven degree starboard list. Relative quiet invaded the vessel. From aft came distant mechanical sounds, motors idled. Nearer, moans and plaintive demands for help. A thin, but slowly widening, jet of water drilled into the con before George. The air smelled of dust disturbed, smoldering electricals and distressed polyfiber. Even the red battle lighting dimmed, leaving shadows.

  “We made it, Cap.” Farrell leaned back and sighed, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “It’s not over. Look at the vid.”

  The left displayed an energy pulse blotting out the image of the Cargan ship. Seconds passed. Movement aft and voices issuing quiet reassurance. A cough, a groan, a thank you. George locked eyes with Farrell and nodded once. Farrell knew too.

  With mind-numbing vengeance, the seas boiled away, sucking Slinker from the bottom. Caught in the maelstrom, mighty forces twisted and battered her hull. She groaned and shrieked. Alarms rang anew as the tiny ship rocked and spun and quaked and plummeted and surged.

  George hung on, his face bloodied from one violent contact with the con. His arm spit agonizing shock waves across his chest. He prayed to a God he shunned since adolescence and fought to stay conscious. His life flashed through his mind, and then, when he thought he could take no more, a visage appeared before him. Old as time itself, it smiled down on him. The seas calmed.

  Shortly, Doomes staggered through the hatch. “Times up, George. We have to make our move.”

  “Hell, we can't...” George stiffened, unable to quell the screaming in his head. Agonizing pain inflamed his arm and torso. Remembering his firstmed training, he turned in on himself and demanded control of his body. A deep breath and the pain eased somewhat. His logical, structured side quieted his fears and brought order to chaos. He felt Slinker level out, released his restraints and rose unsteadily to his feet.

  Doomes caught him as he lurched against the chart table. It fell away from his grasp and, with a dull thud, settled upside down. Despite his intense desire to crawl into a corner far from the maddening event that held him so firmly in its grip, George straightened.

  "Thanks." The noise in his head faded and, except for a salty trickle of blood sucked from a split lip, his mouth was gummy dry.

  "Don't mention it." Doomes answered.

  Though badly shaken, George pulled himself together. The Cargans could attack again. At any moment. They had to act. Now. He looked down at Farrell, felt an urge to console him, but was reluctant to acknowledge weakness in a key officer while his ship, and its occupants, were in great peril. Without Farrell, they stood zero chance.

  “You know the anomaly's coordinates. Take us there.”

  He shivered. “Aye, Cap,” Farrell croaked, cleared his throat. "Aye, Cap." Blood trickled from a gash on his right cheek. Fear gleamed from within the dark, red-rimmed pits encircling his eyes. His skin was pallid and damp, but he was there, at the controls, holding his own in a situation where procedure no longer applied.

  With Doomes' help, George made it to the cargo hold. He saw wounded heaped in corners, the contents of a medcart scattered, cabinet doors ajar, water spitting from a warped seam. Blood smeared and spattered over the port bulkhead lent ghastly testament to the horror these people had endured. Those able to were carefully separating the less fortunate. Painful moans and whimpers tore at George, but put in proper perspective their needs were secondary and time was at a premium. Banged up as he was, he would only get in the way if he tried to help. He was certain the Cargan's would fire their energy weapon as soon as they acquired a solid contact.

  *****

  With hurried care, Linda pulled together a makeshift sling from microtubing and a towel. Apparently unconcerned with appearance or George’s discomfort, she quickly immobilized his broken arm. Radiating tranquility, she gave him an airpop stimulant and another for pain before wiping the blood from his face. Tears streaked her dirty cheeks, but her eyes shone with the steely determination of one who’d been to hell, and now stood before the gateway to Heaven. She stepped back and smiled reassuringly.

  Doomes and a woman with a bandaged neck sealed George into a snug fitting envirosuit and in no time, Doomes
locked the helmet in place. He shoved a small black polyfiber box under George's arm.

  A flash of panic with the hint of suffocation, but the suit's biosystem kicked in, flooding George with cool, dry, oxygen-rich air. He breathed deeply and calmed, but remained apprehensive. His molecules were about to be thrown through time and space. It would work, he assured himself. It would.

  Buffered by the suit, he could only hear his own breathing and the faint shush of the envirosystem. He faced the machine and every fiber of his being demanded he retreat. Premonitions of his own death flashed before him, but he swallowed hard and climbed up. Through the thick weave of his glove, the blue-sheathed control grip felt hard, impersonal.

  Doomes held a Transrex chip to his throat and spoke. Tinny, mechanical, his gruff voice resounded within George’s helmet. “You remember what O’Brien told you?”

  “Yes.” George checked the flat digital display beside the accelerator grip. It read - 09:20 Hours, July 12, 2057. Beneath this was a series of coordinates he memorized during trial runs with O’Brien. He tightened his grip on the accelerator and took a deep breath. From the corner of his eye he saw Doomes stiffen and salute, heard the ominous rumblings of the sea above.

  George twisted the accelerator. The cargo hold fuzzed over, dimmed and became molten. Darkness like the black side of hell enveloped him, swallowed his voice when he hollered into the void. A faceless terror iced his limbs, spiraled up his core with agonizing exquisiteness that wisped away as sinuously as it had come. Determined not to go mad, he closed is mind, tried to remember why. The old man. New reality replaced the old.

  Chapter Nineteen

  09:20 Hours July 12, 2057 - Mars

  Deep within the underground cavern, Colonel O’Brien shrouded his eyes. In moments the enclave brightened to near daylight. O’Brien and his officers dropped to a defensive crouch and drew their weapons. The scientists just gaped.

  Milky white and near transparent, an apparition coalesced and elongated between O’Brien’s small band and the fresh opening in the cavern wall. He heard shocked gasps as the shape abruptly solidified into a man in a white envirosuit. The suit’s left sleeve hung limp and empty, and tucked under the visitor’s left arm was a small black box.