by Ben Bova
In my haste to examine the equipment I put the communicator down on the snow beside me, alongside the other gear I had pulled out of the pouches. I went on yanking them out, trying to determine what they were for, how they worked — to no avail.
Except for the last one. That one was obvious. It was shaped like a pistol and holstered at my right side. Its barrel was a crystal rod circled by metallic cooling fins. Its grip bulged slightly in my hand and felt warm to the touch; no doubt a power pack of some sort was built into it. I curled my finger around its trigger, pointed the gun straight up, and squeezed slowly. It hummed softly for a moment and then fired out a blood-red beam so bright that I had to turn my eyes away from it. For several moments the afterimage burned in my vision. I almost welcomed it, a relief from the deathly white that covered the world around me.
I tried it again, this time averting my eyes from looking directly at the beam as it lanced through the snow-filled air. The beam disappeared in the gray clouds. I got the impression that it could bore a hole through the armor I wore, or through a mountainside, for that matter.
As I slid the gun back into its holster I heard a chirping sound which quickly turned into a steady little whistle. I pulled out the gun again and checked it over; it was neither vibrating nor making the noise. For a moment or two I thought it might have been my ears, perhaps the aftereffect of firing the pistol. But then I glanced down at the various bits of equipment scattered in the snow around me. Already the freshly falling snow was covering them with white — all except the communicator, I saw.
I snatched it and brought it to my ear. Not only was it slightly warm, but the tiny electronic wail was coming from it. The red pressure pad was glowing! Someone was trying to make contact with me!
I punched those buttons and jabbered into the little device for what seemed like hours. No use. All I could get out of it was that steady shrill whistle. I got to my feet, thinking that perhaps voice or picture transmission was being blocked by the snow bank I had huddled against. No difference, except that when I turned around, the whistle changed its pitch.
Squinting against the howling wind, I slowly turned a full circle. The whistle whined up and down the scale, strongest in the direction I had been originally facing, weakest and almost inaudible when I was turned exactly away from that direction.
A directional beam, I told myself. Or, with a thrill of hope bubbling inside me, a direction finder. I knelt down to scoop up the rest of the equipment from the snow, stuffed it into the various pouches at my waist, and then headed off in the direction that the electronic signal indicated, bent almost double against the raging, icy wind.
I trudged through drifts that almost reached my armpits. Fortunately the suit I wore kept me warm and dry. The hair on my head was a brittle mass of ice and I could barely see through the icicles that closed my eyes to slits. All feeling had left my cheeks, my ears and nose. But I could still breathe, and I pushed on, hour after hour, growing hungrier and weaker with each painful, plodding step.
The storm did not let up in the slightest. If anything, it seemed to be growing in strength. But through the swirling snow I began to make out the dim gray form of a massive bulk of rock. The directional beam was leading me toward it, and as I struggled through the blinding snow, I could see that it was a looming cliff of granite, scoured clean of snow by the furious wind, jutting stubbornly up from the snow-blanketed landscape, standing jagged, raw, and dark against the gray, snowy sky.
I floundered through deep drifts, stopping only to check my communicator every few minutes, to make certain I was still following its electronic guidance. My strength was ebbing fast. The cold was seeping into me, leaching the energy of my muscles, numbing my will to press on. Each step became more difficult. My booted feet felt as if they were shod with lead and weighed a ton apiece. All I really wanted to do was to lie down and rest in the soft, comforting snow.
I remembered seeing pictures from some distant era of Eskimo sled dogs curled up happily in little holes they had dug for themselves in the snow, their bushy tails wrapped around their noses, their dark eyes peeping out from a world of white and cold. I stopped for breath and turned to look back at the trail I had broken through the deep snow. Already my tracks were being filled in, obliterated, by the howling storm. The stern gray bulk of the mountain frowned silently down at me as I stood lost in a world of white, totally alone in the universe, as far as I knew. It was time to rest, time to lie down and sleep.
Even my fingers were growing numb, despite the gloves and the suit’s overburdened heating system. I let the tiny communicator slip from my fingers. It landed in the snow, its one red square glowering at me accusingly.
“You can glare all you want to,” I said to it, in a voice raw with pain. Each breath I took was agony now; the air was so cold that it was burning my lungs.
“I’ve got to rest,” I said to that red light.
It stared back at me, unblinking. The tiny electronic wail cut through the blizzard’s howling.
“All right,” I rasped. “I’ll take ten more steps. Then, if there’s no shelter in sight, I’m going to dig a hole for myself and get some sleep.”
I forced myself through ten more steps. Then ten more. Then five. The granite cliff seemed as far away as ever. The storm grew in fury.
“There’s no point to it,” I said to the inanimate little box in my hand. “There’s no point…”
A blinding red pencil-beam of light lanced past my head. I plunged down into the snow instinctively and fumbled for the gun at my hip.
The beam streaked out again, and I could hear the air around me crackle.
Friend or enemy? I asked myself, and then almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the question. The enemy was this storm, the cold, the bitter agony of the ice that surrounded me. Anyone who could fire a gun must have heat, and food.
I raised my pistol and fired it straight overhead. That eye-hurting brilliance ought to be visible for miles, even through the storm.
Peering toward the granite cliff, I saw an answering beam angling up into the clouds. I headed for it, adrenaline pumping through my aching body and my limbs flailing through the snow with every last ounce of energy in me.
I saw, up ahead, a dark cleft in the rock, the mouth of a cave. Several people were standing there, clad in the same kind of white armor that I wore. They saw me, too, and began waving frantically, encouragingly. But they did not leave the safety of their shelter.
I plunged ahead, waving my own arms foolishly over my head, yelling hoarsely to them.
“Come on, you can make it!” one of them called.
“Only a few more yards,” yelled another.
I staggered toward them, wondering far in the back of my mind why they would not come out of their cave to help me through those last few yards. But that question was swamped by the joy I felt at finding others like myself in this endless desert of ice and snow.
The storm winds had sculpted the snow banks around the base of the cliff into smooth ramps of white. I slithered down one of them, sliding and slipping on the ice until I staggered into their welcoming arms.
They grabbed me, held me up, grinning and laughing happily at me. Beyond them, deeper in the cave, I saw crates of equipment and a big electric radiant-heater glowing red and warm.
“Hey!” one of them said. “He’s not from our unit!” Their laughter froze and their grins disappeared as they held me in their arms.
“Just who the hell are you, anyway?”
“What unit are you with?”
“I didn’t know there were any other units operating in this sector.”
“Come on, buddy — who are you and what are you doing here?”
I had no real answers for them. My body sagged in their arms, every last bit of energy totally spent. My eyes closed and the world went dark.
CHAPTER 34
When I opened my eyes, I saw the ceiling of the cave, rugged slabs of granite, far above me. I flexed my fingers and toes,
then turned my head slightly. I saw that I had been stripped to the waist; my armor suit was gone and I wore nothing but a pair of briefs.
But I felt warm. The sensation was delightful. I reveled in it for a few moments, then propped myself up on my elbows to take a better look around.
They had placed me on a cot that seemed to be suspended in midair. It felt like a hammock; it swayed with every move I made. But I could see no supports holding it up. The others were grouped together deeper inside the cave, gathered around what looked like a desk. I could only see their backs. Most of them had removed their suits of armor, and I could see seven men and five women dressed in gray coveralls. Someone was seated at the desk, but I could not tell whether it was a man or a woman, because the others were clustered around so tightly.
“How are you feeling?”
I turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, so quickly that the hammock’s swaying nearly dumped me to the floor of the cave.
“I’m all right… I think.”
She was a good-looking woman with blonde hair and a pert little nose. She grinned at me. “I thought you’d be in for a fierce case of frostbite when you staggered in here, but the computer checked you out fine.”
“I feel fine,” I said, realizing that it was true. I felt warm and safe. I was not even hungry.
As if she could read my thoughts, the woman said, “I pumped a couple of vials of nutrients into you while you were sleeping. Whatever happened to your helmet? Good thing you had the emergency communicator. And using your pistol as a distress signal! What put that idea into your head? What unit are you from, anyway?”
I stopped her staccato questions by raising one hand and saying, “I think I can get up, if you’ll hold this thing steady for a second.”
She laughed and grabbed one end of the floating cot. “It looks great back at headquarters; all you need is a grav disc and a length of fabric. Travels light. But none of the desk jockeys ever tried to sleep on one of these monstrosities!”
I got to my feet, glad to be off the cot. I saw that a tiny metal disc lay on the floor beneath it. Somehow it canceled gravity and allowed the cot to float in midair.
“My name’s Rena,” said the woman, proffering her hand. “Technician and biowarfare specialist. Naturally, they made me the squad’s medic.”
I shook hands with her. She was barely as tall as my shoulder and as slim as an elf. She looked at me expectantly with eyes as blue as a distant snowclad mountain.
“Orion,” I said. “My name is Orion.”
“Unit? Specialty?”
I shook my head. “None that I know of.”
Her smile faded into a look of concern. “Maybe I ought to run the diagnostic computer over you again. It has a neuropsych program…”
“Rena, put some clothes on him, for god’s sake!”
A man strode up to us. His coveralls bore silver emblems on the collar and a nameplate sewn above the heart: Kedar. On the shoulder of his left sleeve was the symbol of a bolt of lightning. His face was grim. He had the strong, lean build of an athlete, but I noticed that he limped slightly.
“Yes, sir,” Rena said, snapping her hand to her brow in a military salute I thought there was just enough emphasis on the sir to make it slightly mocking.
She pointed me farther back in the cave, where stacks of plastic cartons stood lined in neat rows. “Clothes in here.” She yanked open the side of one carton and I saw a pile of gray coveralls. “Helmets and equipment in those rows back there. Help yourself. One size fits all.”
I took a pair of the coveralls from the bin. They looked much too small for me as I held them in my outstretched hands. But I shrugged and tried them on. They seemed to mold themselves to my body, stretching as necessary to fit comfortably without being too snug.
Rena peeled the blank nameplate from the chest of my uniform and took a light pen from her pocket.
“Orion,” she said, tracing my name onto the fabric. As she handed it back to me, she whispered, “Be careful of Kedar. Just because he’s a power tech he thinks he’s above the rest of us.”
I nodded my thanks and slapped the nameplate back where it belonged, just above my uniform’s breast pocket. Then we went shopping for a new suit of the white plastic armor that Rena said they all wore outside the cave. And a helmet.
I felt a little like the squire to a medieval knight, carrying a double armload of armor and equipment as I followed Rena back toward the front of the cave.
Kedar intercepted us. “Well, at least you’re properly outfitted,” he said, eying me up and down. “Come on, Adena wants to ask you a few questions.”
For an awkward moment I stood there, my arms full, not quite knowing what to do. Rena solved my problem by taking the stuff I was carrying. She could barely peep over the top of it once I had loaded it all on her. But she gave me a friendly wink as she staggered off toward the area where the cots were.
Kedar led me to the desk where the others had been clustered before. A woman stood at it, her back to me, bent slightly over the desk as she studied a map displayed on her video screen.
“Here he is, Adena,” said Kedar.
She turned, and the breath caught in my throat. It was she. As young and vibrantly beautiful as I had first seen her, so many long ages ago. Her hair was cropped short now, shorter even than mine. But it was thick and shining black, curling around her ears and across her brow. Her eyes were the same profound gray, warm and deep and knowing.
She flicked a glance at the name stenciled on my breast.
“Orion?” Even her voice was the same rich resonance.
I nodded. “And you are Adena.” The insignia on her shoulder was a clenched fist.
“What are you doing in this sector? What unit are you with?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I found myself lost in the blizzard out there. I can’t remember anything further back than a few hours ago.” Unless you want to count other ages, other lifetimes, I added silently.
She frowned at me.
Kedar said, “Obviously he’s not from the transport team.”
“Obviously not,” Adena replied. Looking back at me, she asked, “What’s your specialty?”
I had no answer.
“Biowar? Chemicals? Energy weapons? Power? Communications?” Her voice rose slightly as I stood there mute and befuddled.
“You’ve got to have some specialty, soldier,” Kedar snapped.
“I’m on a special assignment,” I heard myself reply. “I’m an assassin.”
“A what?” Kedar glanced at Adena, his brows arching almost up into his scalp line.
“My assignment is to find Ahriman and kill him,” I said.
“Ahriman? Who in the name of the twenty devils of the night is Ahriman?”
Adena’s voice was softer. “There’s no one in this unit by that name.”
“Ahriman’s not one of us,” I said. “He’s a different kind of creature, intelligent but not truly human, dark and powerful…” I described the Dark One as closely as I could.
Their faces grew more surprised and nonplussed with each word I spoke.
When I stopped, Adena said, “And your special assignment is to find this person and kill him?”
“Yes. That’s why I was sent here.”
“By whom?”
“Ormazd,” I said.
They looked at each other. The name obviously meant nothing to them.
“Do you know of Ahriman, the Dark One?” I asked. “Do you know where I can find him?”
Kedar’s expression turned into a bitter smirk. “Just stay here for another day, Orion. As soon as this blizzard ends, you’ll see more men like the one you described than you’ll ever want to see in your entire life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you know that we’re at war with them?” Adena asked.
“War? With… with whom?”
“The man you described,” she said. “This whole planet was covered with people such as he.
We’re here to eliminate them.”
“But we’re cut off from our other units,” Kedar added before I could draw a breath. “They’re gathering out there in the snow — hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. They’re going to attack as soon as the storm stops. They’re going to eliminate us.”
But his despairing words barely registered on my attention. Within me, my mind was racing. The War! This must be The War!
CHAPTER 35
Adena and Kedar soon turned me loose. There was not much they could do with a man who was obviously either insane from battle or feigning insanity to avoid battle. They turned their attention to defending the cave against the attack that they knew was coming as soon as the storm died down.
I made my way to the mouth of the cave, feeling the eyes of the other soldiers on my back. The wind still raged out there, bitterly cold. I shivered and retreated back to the warmth of the radiant heaters.
Rena took me in tow once again and led me to a small circle of men and women who were heating prepackaged meals in what looked to me like a portable microwave oven. We ate in gloomy silence. One by one, the soldiers got up and went back to the ridiculous floating cots, where they grimly checked out their weapons.
The only halfway-cheerful person in the squad was a youngish man who introduced himself as Marek, communications specialist. He showed me the portable consoles and screens that were his responsibility.
“The brutes are jamming all our outgoing transmissions, somehow,” he said in a pleasant voice, almost as if he were describing how the equipment worked. “I don’t know how they do it, but they’re doing it damned well.”
“The brutes?” I asked.
Nodding, he replied, “The enemy, the guys with the gray skins and red eyes.” He hunched forward, pulling his neck down and raising his shoulders, then shuffled a few steps, scowling as mightily as he could. For a slim human youngster it was a fairly good imitation of the one I knew as Ahriman; “Anyway,” Marek went on, relaxing again, “they’re jamming our outgoing calls, so we can’t tell the commanders up in the orbiting ships where we are or what we’re up against.”