Ravers didn’t blink. “We wanted Anna to be part of this. Because of your past relationship together. The Sels knew you loved her and would fight for her.”
“That’s why they tracked her down on Freedom,” Mars deduced, distantly satisfied that some measure of deductive reasoning was returning. If he could think, he could figure a way out of this nightmare. If he could do that, then he could fight.
Ravers nodded. “The Sel Aliens and our government reached a compromise early on after contact. We play in their War Games and they wouldn’t destroy our planet. Because, John, that’s what the Sels basically do. Conquer worlds first, then determine if they need to be destroyed or spared, based on the Sel merit standard of existence. Diametrically opposite to the philosophy of the prime directive in Star Trek, that says nonintervention is sacrosanct. To the Sels, that’s horseshit, and not really convenient to universal domination by the Master Race.”
Mars listened without comment.
“It’s so cliché to spell things out by way of Hitlerian insanity, but at this stage of the game, what’s a cliché or two?”
“My god,” was all that Mars could mutter after a moment.
Ravers smiled in amusement. “We felt cooperation with the Sels was more than advantageous to the world.”
So there it was. Mars’ worst nightmare had been realized with these last words. True, there was alien intelligence outside of Earth’s solar system. As bad luck would have it, that intelligence was aggressive and megalomaniacal. Monumental despair crept through every fiber of his body.
We felt cooperation with the Sels was more than advantageous to the world, the words echoed over and over again in Mars’ head. More advantageous than what? Slavery? Indiscriminate murder? His plane carried more than five hundred innocent souls who were eliminated without even a fraction of human thought. Statistics, or more accurately, encumbrances to the Sel’s ultimate prime directive: conquer, manipulate and experiment with new alien life forms.
Mars, for the first time in his life, considered his own death a viable option. Non-existence suddenly held a new, foreign appeal. The fleeting thought vanished as Raver’s voice droned on from someplace a million miles away.
“In any case, “Ravers continued, “you’re helping them learn about us, John. That’s what they wanted from the beginning. To learn.”
“Learn. Learn what?”
“When you destroyed their long-range robot probe on the moon, the Sels preserved a holographic record of the event. To them, you represent the quintessential human warrior.”
Mars glanced from Ravers to the motionless faces of the Sels, still in holographic suspension behind his once best friend in the world. “My plane. Why kill all those people?”
Ravers looked down. “They -- they wanted to see how you would react. Then, subsequent to that, how you would defend yourself and the survivors. Part of the criteria for the Game.”
Ravers stepped forward, and for the first time, he looked almost conciliatory. “You’re an asset to the human race, John. An expendable asset, but an asset nevertheless. You’re why the aliens didn’t simply obliterate Earth. Here, on this world, we want you to do what you do best.”
“That being?”
“You’re the last of a dying breed, John. A hero. I’ve always found it somewhat demoralizing there are so few heroes left...”
Mars closed his eyes, fighting off yet another wave of pain from his racked body. Ravers was talking again. “Refuse to die, John. That’s what you do best, Colonel Mars. Give them the fight of their bug-eyed lives.”
Mars spit in Ravers’ face. “Go to hell.”
Ravers wiped the spittle away from his eye, then threw down a pulse rifle he had been carrying. “In the end, it won’t matter, John. You have no choice.”
Ravers turned, and walked into the darkness. The holographic image of the Sel collective winked out of sight. Mars was alone. Suddenly, whatever held Mars suspended in mid-air, released him. He slammed into the rock floor, his hands somehow finding the discarded pulse rifle. Instinctively, he clutched it, and propped himself to one knee. He looked around. Nothing moved, nothing hissed.
Somewhere, through a long hall-like alley, a light source shimmied through the blackness. There was also a sound, a whine, artificial, like the high-voltage scream of electric cables that interconnected with steel towers, feeding power from dams or powerplants to cities in need. The whine grew gradually louder, with variations of volume and power so subtle that its tone didn’t increase abruptly. It merely increased, amplified as it were, to become a steady focus of attention. It drew Mars on like a magnet. The tunnel he was in seemed to lengthen, widen and soon he found himself inside some kind of massive vent, hexagonal in configuration. The whine continued.
There was little else for Mars to do but follow it.
Keep me alive long enough to kill Ravers, Mars repeated over and over again in his mind. Instant recrimination pounded back at him, and he realized that given the opportunity, he would never cold-bloodedly kill Ravers for his participation in selling out the human race. But, by Christ, I’d love to beat the hell out of him, just for five minutes. Shit, three would do it.
As Mars moved down the passageway, he thought back of the years together with Ravers; the missions, the hopes and dreams for NASA’s future, the good times on and off duty. The friendship had seemed inviolate, scared even. Ravers was the only other combat veteran in NASA to make the switchover from military to civilian duty. Yet this Ravers today -- the one whom he knew nothing about -- was a creature Mars could never have imagined.
What happened to him? Who got at him?
Mars kept moving, and as the light source brightened. Concurrently, the odd whine now increased in volume. Twin mysteries, most likely Mars speculated, filled with the promise of death or torture somewhere down the line.
The light source was beaming through what appeared to be some kind of diaphanous membrane, the Sel equivalent, Mars guessed, of a port hole or large window. Probably created for his own personal edification, Mars thought. The vent continued forever, an endless chasm of dim light, its final destination either deep inside the earth or … perhaps the surface? That he was underground, he had no doubt. As he paused mid-stride, he contemplated whether or not he should just continue following the vent to its indubitable end…
Of course, he suspected that the Sels knew exactly what he as thinking and planning. Whatever decision he made, they would know about it first.
“Quite right, John,” the voice of Ravers echoed from somewhere above. “Yes, we’ve been monitoring your thoughts, however, that practice will discontinue in a few minutes.”
“How?” Mars asked automatically.
“Remember your moon encounter? The implant shot into your body was not only a transponder for the Sel’s to find you within Earth’s atmosphere, but also a cerebral translator. It would bore you to hear the technicalities of how it worked, but suffice to say that your thoughts are instantly translated into the Sel idiom. They’ve found it ... fascinating.”
Mars’ fury began to grow again. “And why now do they plan to stop eavesdropping on the way I think?”
“Because, it wouldn’t be fair,” Ravers answered enigmatically.
Fair! Mars laughed. What a concept, here in an alien land, a million light years from the nearest fairness counter. And fair for what?
The voice of the disembodied Ravers echoed through the vent interior once again. “Yes, John. Fair. The Sels are fascinated with the concept. You taught them that. Aren’t you proud?”
Mars said nothing. He was again pondering the diaphanous window just ahead.
“Look,” Ravers’ disembodied voice continued from above.
Mars glanced through the membrane, which now focused into crystalline clarity. What Mars saw filled him with icy dread.
Rows upon rows of Sel spacecraft, all being fueled or maintained by the grizzly Sels themselves. Mars estimated that there must be a thousand such ships housed in the chamber he viewed;
the chamber seemed to disappear out of sight. The Sels moved uniformly around one another, each individual serving a separate and crucial function toward invasion. Mars was reminded of a colony of ants, all independent entities, yet part of an inexorable collective, programmed for the greater welfare of the colony itself.
Robot Sels, the likes of which killed Mars’ crew in the mother ship, and which Mars himself encountered on the moon, assisted their living counterparts. Both robot and alien worked effortlessly together.
“Over a thousand Sel ships, John,” Ravers’ voice said. “All about to be launched for Earth.”
Mars looked up. “Earth? Why?”
“Colonization,” Ravers said softly. “The Sels have promised not to eradicate the strongest members of the human race. In fact, with some enhanced genetic priming, courtesy of Sel technology, Earth will soon be populated by only superhumans. Sickness, death, disease ... all a thing of the past.”
Mars nodded, this time several steps ahead of Ravers. “And as for the old, the infirm, the sick, or the weak, those who are unable to amuse or contribute to the super-society to come, well, too damn bad. Am I right?”
“Perfectly,” Ravers said, and this time Mars thought that he heard something close to regret in his old friend’s tremulous voice.
“Congratulations, Ravers. You’ve just endorsed selective euthanasia as an alternative future for the human race.”
Ravers was silent for a moment. As if in contemplation of what Mars had just said. Then: “You’ll never understand, John. Do you see now why we could never have brought you on board in the beginning?”
“Completely,” Mars said. “Because my first initiative would have been to shoot you and the other traitors the same day you sold out Earth.”
“We may have saved Earth, Colonel,” Ravers countered.
“Believe that, if it helps, Chase. Bottom line, though, is that billions of people will die once the Sels move in. For no better reason simply because they weren’t genetically superior, or at least genetically acceptable to the Sel culture,” Mars said, all acrimony gone from his voice. He was suddenly very tired.
The transparent membrane again fuzzed over, and the scene of the apocalyptic alien flotilla disappeared before his eyes.
“Good luck, John,” Ravers said cryptically. “You’re going to need it.”
Then something reached out for him from behind.
Mars wheeled, gun up, ready to kill something, almost relishing the prospect at this point.
Barry moved back a foot or two, eyes wide with fear.
“It’s me, Captain Mars. Really. Please don’t shoot,” Barry said, his voice teetering into a sob.
Mars’ gun did not lower. Last time he had seen Barry, his head had blown apart, and a Sel alien burst out of the mucilaginous remains of the boy’s body.
“Please,” Barry said softly again.
Mars walked toward him very slowly, then reached out and touched the boy’s arms, chest and neck. Barry froze where he stood, allowing the cursory examination. Satisfied that Barry was the real deal, Mars lowered his weapon.
“What happened to you?”
Barry shrugged. “I -- I walked out of the airplane, and something grabbed me. Next thing I knew, I was hanging in mid-air in a room with no light.”
Mars nodded. “Right. I know the feeling.”
Barry, confident that he was now out of danger of being blasted by Mars, stepped forward. “What -- what’s happening, Captain? Where are we?”
Mars had no better answer at the moment: “We’re in hell, son. Or the closest thing to it.”
The answer didn’t seem to surprise Barry.
“Let’s get out of here,” Mars said at last.
But no sooner had Mars spoken, then both he and Barry became again airborne. But this was no stationary stasis; they were being dragged upward, by some invisible force field, like two stray feathers riding the air, out of control, drifting. The sensation was not uncomfortable, but it was irritating, simply because there was nothing either Mars or the boy could do to stop the upwards thrust of their journey.
It was impossible to tell how fast they were going. Mars glanced up and saw that a pinpoint of light was approaching fast. The doorway out, he guessed. Or a doorway into yet somehow maelstrom of horror…
But to where? The surface of the planet, perhaps. Or yet some different alien realm. He remembered Ravers’ last words to him: Good Luck. Mars was sure the best wishes did not harbor good things to come.
The wet, humid air of the planet’s surface could begin to be detected, as the acceleration upwards decreased. He glanced down below his feet; Barry was just below him, trying to resist the force that had him captured. The boy twisted like a ragdoll, hopelessly hooked in the infernal windlock.
Mars continued to clutch the pulse rifle Ravers had given to him. Well, wherever it was they were sending him, he would hit the ground running -- and firing. If they wanted a fight, they’d get one.
Mars took a breath, as daylight loomed ahead.
All Wes Simpson remembered when he regained consciousness was a vague sensation that he’d been dragged like a lashed steer across rocks and undergrowth. The experience was not one he’d soon repeat, but as he focused on the Sel alien that John Mars had rescued on the mother ship, Simpson concluded quickly that his life had been saved by such treatment.
The Sel turncoat (he’d even given her a name at this point -- Sally) continued to monitor the horizon. She had dragged Simpson away from Raver’s destructive onslaught back at the cave; she had been closest to him when the firing had begun, hiding in the trees, serving as an unofficial protector to Mars’ group of survivors. The attack by one of Mars’ people had come as a surprise to Sally. She could not comprehend the idea of same-species treachery. Whatever could be said about the Sel collective, it was fiercely loyal to its various subparts. Only she -- a mutant malcontent -- had been consigned to experimentation and ostracism. Yet for her to consider even bringing harm to one of her own kind, deliberately or otherwise, could not be fathomed. It was, quite simply, an alien concept.
Sally had no concept either that the Controller had manipulated everything.
When the firing began, she did not hesitate or freeze with inaction. Wes Simpson had been in imminent danger, and he was the only one she could effectively save within the group. The big man had jumped clear of one of Ravers’ attacks, rolled and was preparing to crawl for some inadequate shelter. She moved at that point, delivered a relatively puny blow to the human’s skull to render him quiescent and thus transportable. She then dragged the semi-conscious Simpson to safety.
Now, they were alone together. Simpson had been awake for more than an hour, and chatted incessantly at Sally. But Sally remained conspicuously silent. Her communication was reserved primarily for John Mars. She could not say why she preferred it this way; she simply found no reason to communicate with Simpson. She had rescued him, because he was part of John Mars’ unit.
“Sure don’t say much, do you?” Simpson said, perhaps for the third time in the hour.
Sally turned her huge warped head to him. Her lips curled ever so slightly, and fangs were briefly barred. It was, Simpson surmised, at least some kind of acknowledgement.
Shut up, why don’t you? the eyes seemed to say. I’m busy trying to keep your big Texas ass safe. Simpson shrugged. He looked up at the mid-day suns and moons and green-purple hue of the Sel sky.
“Well, that’s fine. Now what the hell happens?” he said, to no one in particular.
Suddenly, Sally crouched on all eight legs, and her focus strained outwards over the cliff. Simpson walked up beside her, and looked in the direction of her gaze. He saw nothing. Just rolling chunks of rock, vegetation and oddly shaped trees that looked positively dead in appearance.
“What is it? What’s out there?”
A low growl came out of Sally’s throat. She then turned to Simpson, and picked him up in one powerful claw.
“Wha--” Simps
on choked, as he was manhandled and twisted in mid air.
He suddenly found himself on Sally’s back, mounted there cow-boy style. She rotated her massive head 180 degrees, to face him. Her lips curled once again, and this time the fangs were shown in full.
Simpson nodded. “Got it. Hang on and we’re going for a ride. Hey, my moma didn’t raise me stupid,” he said. Sally turned her back around, and her muscles tensed. “Ridem’ cowboy,” Simpson said, holding on tight to two armpits in front of him.
Sally bolted off the cliff, thirty feet to the next ledge. She bounced once, and then took off on a run. Simpson didn’t hoot and holler. He simply hung on for dear life, trusting Sally’s sense of direction -- and sense of purpose.
John is dead.
The three words pounded into Anna’s head without let up. The Sels had appeared quickly after Ravers’ treachery, and the three women, Edna, Lisa and herself had been corralled together and taken here, to this place.
And what exactly was here? She saw nothing more significant about this patch of ground, short of the volcanic upthrust twenty feet in front of her, some kind of vent from beneath the surface, she guessed. Yet the Sels -- two robots, and two of their serpentine living counterparts -- remained stationary, as if waiting for something to appear.
Anna glanced at her two companions; Edna’s eyes were glazed over. She had that look Anna had seen before in people - the look of willful detachment from reality. Edna had made a decision to go “someplace else.” Anna couldn’t say she blamed the poor woman. Lisa Maynard, sitting against a raggedy looking tree, simply looked exhausted, though Anna suspected that the young woman was more mentally resilient than she appeared. They were roughly the same age, healthy and strong, but of all of them, Anna still feared for the two civilians, simply out of confidence in her own superior training and stamina. She thought this way, because for some time now, she had been nurturing one other word in her mind that made all this bearable: escape.
They’d have to make a run for it sooner or later. Whatever the Sels had in mind for them, it couldn’t be to their best interests. Where they would run to, how they would hide, in what manner they would get off this nightmare of a world were issues that would be addressed later. Right now, running was the only option that was pertinent.
Mars, The Bringer Of War Page 17