The Mammoth Book of SF Wars

by Ian Whates

  Spear? Well, he could make that. It would be useless at any distance, but would be a handy thing at close range, if he ever got to close range. Making one would help keep his mind from wandering, as it was beginning to do.

  He was still beside one of the piles of stones. He sorted through it until he found one shaped roughly like a spearhead. With a smaller stone he began to chip it into shape, fashioning sharp shoulders on the sides so that if it penetrated it would not pull out again like a harpoon. A harpoon was better than a spear, maybe, for this crazy contest. If he could once get it into the Roller, and had a rope on it, he could pull the Roller up against the barrier and the stone blade of his knife would reach through that barrier, even if his hands wouldn’t.

  The shaft was harder to make than the head, but by splitting and joining the main stems of four of the bushes, and wrapping the joints with the tough but thin tendrils, he got a strong shaft about four feet long, and tied the stone head in a notch cut in one end. It was crude, but strong.

  With the tendrils he made himself twenty feet of line. It was light and didn’t look strong, but he knew it would hold his weight and to spare. He tied one end of it to the shaft of the harpoon and the other end about his right wrist. At least, if he threw his harpoon across the barrier, he’d be able to pull it back if he missed.

  He tried to stand up, to see what the Roller was doing, and found he couldn’t get to his feet. On the third try, he got as far as his knees and then fell flat again.

  I’ve got to sleep, he thought. If a showdown came now, I’d be helpless. He could come up here and kill me, if he knew. I’ve got to regain some strength.

  Slowly, painfully, he crawled back from the barrier.

  The jar of something thudding against the sand near him wakened him from a confused and horrible dream to a more confused and horrible reality, and he opened his eyes again to blue radiance over blue sand.

  How long had he slept? A minute? A day?

  Another stone thudded nearer and threw sand on him. He got his arms under him and sat up. He turned round and saw the Roller twenty yards away, at the barrier.

  It rolled off hastily as he sat up, not stopping until it was as far away as it could get.

  He’d fallen asleep too soon, he realized, while he was still in range of the Roller’s throwing. Seeing him lying motionless, it had dared come up to the barrier. Luckily, it didn’t realize how weak he was, or it could have stayed there and kept on throwing stones.

  He started crawling again, this time forcing himself to keep going until he was as far as he could go, until the opaque wall of the arena’s outer shell was only a yard away.

  Then things slipped away again …

  When he awoke, nothing about him was changed, but this time he knew that he had slept a long while. The first thing he became aware of was the inside of his mouth; it was dry, caked. His tongue was swollen.

  Something was wrong, he knew, as he returned slowly to full awareness. He felt less tired, the stage of utter exhaustion had passed. But there was pain, agonizing pain. It wasn’t until he tried to move that he knew that it came from his leg.

  He raised his head and looked down at it. It was swollen below the knee, and the swelling showed even halfway up his thigh. The plant tendrils he had tied round the protective pad of leaves now cut deeply into his flesh.

  To get his knife under that imbedded lashing would have been impossible. Fortunately, the final knot was over the shin bone where the vine cut in less deeply than elsewhere. He was able, after an effort, to untie the knot.

  A look under the pad of leaves showed him the worst: infection and blood poisoning. Without drugs, without even water, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, except die when the poison spread through his system.

  He knew it was hopeless, then, and that he’d lost, and with him humanity. When he died here, out there in the universe he knew, all his friends, everybody, would die too. Earth and the colonized planets would become the home of the red, rolling, alien Outsiders.

  It was that thought which gave him courage to start crawling, almost blindly, towards the barrier again, pulling himself along by his arms and hands.

  There was a chance in a million that he’d have strength left when he got there to throw his harpoon-spear just once, and with deadly effect, if the Roller would come up to the barrier, or if the barrier was gone.

  It took him years, it seemed, to get there. The barrier wasn’t gone. It was as impassable as when he’d first felt it.

  The Roller wasn’t at the barrier. By raising himself up on his elbows, he could see it at the back of its part of the arena, working on a wooden framework that was a half-completed duplicate of the catapult he’d destroyed.

  It was moving slowly now. Undoubtedly it had weakened, too.

  Carson doubted that it would ever need that second catapult. He’d be dead, he thought, before it was finished.

  His mind must have slipped for a moment, for he found himself beating his fists against the barrier in futile rage, and made himself stop. He closed his eyes, tried to make himself calm.

  “Hello,” said a voice.

  It was a small, thin voice. He opened his eyes and turned his head. It was a lizard.

  “Go away,” Carson wanted to say. “Go away; you’re not really there, or you’re there but not really talking. I’m imagining things again.”

  But he couldn’t talk; his throat and tongue were past all speech with the dryness. He closed his eyes again.

  “Hurt,” said the voice. “Kill. Hurt – kill. Come.”

  He opened his eyes again. The blue ten-legged lizard was still there. It ran a little way along the barrier, came back, started off again, and came back.

  “Hurt,” it said. “Kill. Come.”

  Again it started off, and came back. Obviously, it wanted Carson to follow it along the barrier.

  He closed his eyes again. The voice kept on. The same three meaningless words. Each time he opened his eyes, it ran off and came back.

  “Hurt. Kill. Come.”

  Carson groaned. Since there would be no peace unless he followed the thing, he crawled after it.

  Another sound, a high-pitched squealing, came to his ears. There was something lying in the sand, writhing, squealing. Something small, blue, that looked like a lizard.

  He saw it was the lizard whose legs the Roller had pulled off, so long ago. It wasn’t dead; it had come back to life and was wriggling and screaming in agony.

  “Hurt,” said the other lizard. “Hurt. Kill. Kill.”

  Carson understood. He took the flint knife from his belt and killed the tortured creature. The live lizard scurried off.

  Carson turned back to the barrier. He leaned his hands and head against it and watched the Roller, far back, working on the new catapult.

  I could get that far, he thought, if I could get through. If I could get through, I might win yet. It looks weak, too. I might …

  And then there was another reaction of hopelessness, when pain sapped his will and he wished that he were dead, envying the lizard he’d just killed. It didn’t have to live on and suffer.

  He was pushing on the barrier with the flat of his hands when he noticed his arms, how thin and scrawny they were. He must really have been here a long time, for days, to get as thin as that.

  For a while he was almost hysterical again, and then came a time of deep calm and thought.

  The lizard he had just killed had crossed the barrier, still alive. It had come from the Roller’s side; the Roller had pulled off its legs and then tossed it contemptuously at him and it had come through the barrier.

  It hadn’t been dead, merely unconscious. A live lizard couldn’t go through the barrier, but an unconscious one could. The barrier was not a barrier, then, to living flesh, but to conscious flesh. It was a mental protection, a mental hazard.

  With that thought, Carson started crawling along the barrier to make his last desperate gamble, a hope so forlorn that only a dying man
would have dared try it.

  He moved along the barrier to the mound of sand, about four feet high, which he’d scooped out while trying – how many days ago? – to dig under the barrier or to reach water. That mound lay right at the barrier, its farther slope half on one side of the barrier, half on the other.

  Taking with him a rock from the pile nearby, he climbed up to the top of the dune and lay there against the barrier, so that if the barrier were taken away he’d roll on down the short slope, into the enemy territory.

  He checked to be sure that the knife was safely in his rope belt, that the harpoon was in the crook of his left arm and that the twenty-foot rope was fastened to it and to his wrist. Then with his right hand he raised the rock with which he would hit himself on the head. Luck would have to be with him on that blow; it would have to be hard enough to knock him out, but not hard enough to knock him out for long.

  He had a hunch that the Roller was watching him, and would see him roll down through the barrier, and come to investigate. It would believe he was dead, he hoped – he thought it had probably drawn the same deduction about the nature of the barrier that he had. But it would come cautiously; he would have a little time … He struck himself.

  Pain brought him back to consciousness, a sudden, sharp pain in his hip that was different from the pain in his head and leg. He had, thinking things out before he had struck himself, anticipated that very pain, even hoped for it, and had steeled himself against awakening with a sudden movement.

  He opened his eyes just a slit, and saw that he had guessed rightly. The Roller was coming closer. It was twenty feet away; the pain that had awakened him was the stone it had tossed to see whether he was alive or dead. He lay still. It came closer, fifteen feet away, and stopped again. Carson scarcely breathed.

  As nearly as possible, he was keeping his mind a blank, lest its telepathic ability detect consciousness in him. And with his mind blanked out that way, the impact of its thoughts upon his mind was shattering.

  He felt sheer horror at the alienness, the differentness of those thoughts, conveying things that he felt but could not understand or express, because no terrestrial language had words, no terrestrial brain had images to fit them. The mind of a spider, he thought, or the mind of a praying mantis or a Martian sand-serpent, raised to intelligence and put in telepathic rapport with human minds, would be a homely familiar thing, compared to this.

  He understood now that the Entity had been right: Man or Roller, the universe was not a place that could hold them both.

  Closer. Carson waited until it was only feet away, until its clawed tentacles reached out … Oblivious to agony now, he sat up, raised and flung the harpoon with all the strength that remained to him. As the Roller, deeply stabbed by the harpoon, rolled away, Carson tried to get to his feet to run after it. He couldn’t do that; he fell, but kept crawling.

  It reached the end of the rope, and he was jerked forward by the pull on his wrist. It dragged him a few feet and then stopped. Carson kept going, pulling himself towards it hand over hand along the rope. It stopped there, tentacles trying in vain to pull out the harpoon. It seemed to shudder and quiver, and then realized that it couldn’t get away, for it rolled back towards him, clawed tentacles reaching out.

  Stone knife in hand, he met it. He stabbed, again and again, while those horrid claws ripped skin and flesh and muscle from his body.

  He stabbed and slashed, and at last it was still.

  A bell was ringing, and it took him a while after he’d opened his eyes to tell where he was and what it was. He was strapped into the seat of his scouter, and the visiplate before him showed only empty space. No Outsider ship and no impossible planet.

  The bell was the communications plate signal; someone wanted him to switch power into the receiver. Purely reflex action enabled him to reach forward and throw the lever.

  The face of Brander, Captain of the Magellan, mothership of his group of scouters, flashed into the screen. His face was pale and his black eyes glowing with excitement.

  “Magellan to Carson,” he snapped. “Come on in. The fight’s over. We’ve won!”

  The screen went blank; Brander would be signalling the other scouters of his command.

  Slowly, Carson set the controls for the return. Slowly, unbelievingly, he unstrapped himself from the seat and went back to get a drink at the cold-water tank. For some reason, he was unbelievably thirsty. He drank six glasses.

  He leaned there against the wall, trying to think.

  Had it happened? He was in good health, sound, uninjured. His thirst had been mental rather than physical; his throat hadn’t been dry.

  He pulled up his trouser leg and looked at the calf. There was a long white scar there, but a perfectly healed scar; it hadn’t been there before. He zipped open the front of his shirt and saw that his chest and abdomen were criss-crossed with tiny, almost unnoticeable, perfectly healed scars.

  It had happened!

  The scouter, under automatic control, was already entering the hatch of the mothership. The grapples pulled it into its individual lock and, a moment later, a buzzer indicated that the lock was airfilled. Carson opened the hatch and stepped outside, went through the double door of the lock.

  He went right to Brander’s office, entered, and saluted.

  Brander still looked dazed. “Hi, Carson,” he said. “What you missed; what a show!”

  “What happened, sir?”

  “Don’t know, exactly. We fired one salvo, and their whole fleet went up in dust! Whatever it was jumped from ship to ship in a flash, even the ones we hadn’t aimed at and that were out of range! The whole fleet disintegrated before our eyes, and we didn’t get the paint of a single ship scratched!

  “We can’t even claim credit for it. Must have been some unstable component in the metal they used, and our sighting shot just set it off. Man, too bad you missed all the excitement!’

  Carson managed a sickly ghost of a grin, for it would be days before he’d be over the impact of his experience, but the captain wasn’t watching.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. Common sense, more than modesty, told him he’d be branded as the worst liar in space if he ever said any more than that. “Yes, sir, too bad I missed all the excitement …”

  PEACEKEEPING MISSION

  Laura Resnick

  What if North America needs peacekeeping, in a satiric alternity …?

  Father and daughter in the same volume! Laura Resnick is the author of the popular Esther Diamond series, whose releases include Unsympathetic Magic, Doppelgangster, Disappearing Nightly and the upcoming Vamparazzi. She has also written traditional fantasy novels such as In Legend Born, The Destroyer Goddess and The White Dragon, which made the “Year’s Best” lists of Publishers Weekly and Voya. An opinion columnist, frequent public speaker, award-winning former romance writer and the Campbell Award-winning author of many short stories, she is on the Web at www.LauraResnick.com.

  THE WAR BETWEEN Canada and the United States had dragged on for more than twenty years by the time peacekeepers parachuted into Ohio – though sending troops to keep the “peace” in a crazy hellhole like North America was like sending forces to the South Pacific to keep the ocean dry.

  Much of the world had already forgotten (or, in fact, never knew) the origins of this costly war. All that most people knew was that those crazy Canadians and Americans hated each other with a rabid passion that defied all reason. Most of the international community had given up believing there would ever be anything friendlier between them than the occasional brief ceasefire. And, as all the world knew after two decades of watching this insane conflict, all a ceasefire really accomplished was to give those nutty North Americans a chance to rest up enough to begin another round of all-out fighting. War and chaos just seemed to be their default setting.

  We in the Middle East couldn’t understand it.

  As an intelligence officer, my mission was to liaise with local militia leaders in an attempt to end the late
st round of senseless strikes and retaliations. So on 6 June, I parachuted into Ohio with the Mohammed–Moses Brigade a.k.a. the Perilous Prophets, an elite unit of the best-trained peacekeepers in the Israeli–Palestinian Army. The original company had been formed forty years ago, shortly after Israel and Palestine realized how silly it was to have two countries crammed in such a tiny place and decided to unite as one nation and share the land fairly, in peace and brotherhood.

  Why couldn’t those crazy North Americans, who had something like five hundred times as much land, do the same?

  “That’s just how Americans and Canadians are,” said the Druze military-intelligence colonel who had prepared me for my first mission here three years ago. “Incapable of reason.”

  On that occasion, I had been assigned to infiltrate the embattled district of Hollywood, in the decimated wasteland of southern California, in an attempt to help the underground movement there, Filmmakers For Freedom, re-establish communications with their comrades in New York, known as the Thespian Peaceniks. My predecessor on this assignment, a much-decorated intelligence officer from Ramallah, had stepped down a few weeks earlier, reporting that the powerbrokers of the Hollywood community would be more receptive to a Jewish liaison officer. I was sickened by that kind of intolerance, but I put my feelings aside for the sake of the mission and accepted the assignment.

  The Middle East League hoped that the combined pressure of (what little remained of) the coastal American entertainment communities could convince Washington to sit down at the negotiating table. My job was to do whatever it took to bring this about.

  Thousands of miles away, my colleague Khalil Bouhabib was trying to convince the now-impoverished TV community in Toronto to pressure Ottawa to do the same.

  Those goddamn Canadians. They sent Khalil back to Jerusalem in twelve different boxes. Each one with a maple leaf stamped on it. Bastards.

  No one is meaner than a Canadian.