A Season for Slaughter watc-4

by David Gerrold

  We were hastily evacuated back down to ground level. A makeshift floor of paneling had been laid out, and large pieces of mylar from the collapsed gasbags were being rigged as shelters. In the distance, I could see lightning, and at one point, I heard rain pattering around us; but wherever they'd stashed me, it was mostly dry: Some kind of tent. I was strapped to a board. I couldn't see who was on the cot next to me. Later, I found out it was Benson. His chest had been crushed by a sliding crate, and he could barely breathe. He was on a maintenance box, and his breath rasped in and out like a dying engine.

  Emergency lights had been strung, and from time to time, Dr. Meier or one of her assistants passed through and clucked appreciatively over me and sadly over Benson. There wasn't really a lot they could do for either of us but keep us warm and wait for morning. Nobody would answer my questions about the whereabouts of Lizard or the rescue choppers, and I got the feeling that something terrible had gone Wrong somewhere.

  Later, Shaun stopped by to give me a canteen and some P-rations. "What's going on?" I asked him. At first he wouldn't answer, but I grabbed his arm and said, "Goddammit, I'm not a baby! You don't have to keep secrets from me. Where's General Tirelli? Where are the choppers?"

  "They're still looking for survivors. The choppers will be here in the morning."

  "Who's looking? And what about the choppers from Yuana Moloco? The ones that were delivering all that helium?"

  Shaun looked pained. "Everybody's looking. But there's a column of worms heading toward us. They're following the trail we left for them all the way from the mandala. The choppers are laying down smoke and aerogel. If that doesn't work, they're going to use fuel-air explosives."

  "How far away?"

  "They could be here before morning. We're going to have a fight on our hands."

  "Get me a torch and put me on the line-"

  "I'll tell Lieutenant Siegel."

  "I gotta see him, Shaun."

  "I'll tell him. He's awfully busy."

  "He's never been up against anything like this. He needs my help-"

  "Captain-" Shaun was extraordinarily polite. "Listen to me. You're sensitive to central nervous system depressants, so we've got you on a PKD-series. You're drugged to the gills, you're hallucinating like a video display, and putting a torch in your hands would be one of the stupidest things we could do."

  "Thanks for your vote of confidence. I feel fine."

  "That's the biggest hallucination."

  "Shaun, I gotta find Lizard."

  "Captain, why don't you trust somebody else to do their job once in a while? You can't do it all yourself-"

  "Because they'll fuck it up! Shaun, I'm the only one who knows-"

  He pushed me back down onto the bed. "If you try to get out of that bed, you'll lose your leg. If I have to, I'll strap you down myself. And then, when I have you safely strapped down-" He leered at me salaciously. "Is that enough of a threat to make you behave?"

  "Shaun, please!"

  "No," he said. He was angry. "You listen to me. Everything is under control-"

  "I don't believe you."

  "Then fuck you!" he said. "I'm trying to help you, goddammit!"

  "This isn't helping me! You really want to help? Get me a crutch, a cane, anything!"

  "The hell with you-" He reshouldered his weapon and ducked out of the tent. His weapon? What the-?

  Later, I heard alarms and sirens. I heard explosions and the sounds of torches and rocket launchers. I thought I smelled smoke. Somebody went running by the tent, but they ignored my cries. I was alone with my terror, my worst imaginings, and the dreadful rattle of Benson's labored breathing.

  When an adult jellypig is injured or killed, the body is flooded with triggering hormones; the unborn jellypigs within the adult become extremely agitated and begin eating their way ravenously out of the body of the parent.

  A baby jellypig is incapable of telling the, difference between the flesh of its parent and, the stomach lining of the predator that devoured its parent. While this suggests that millipedes and gastropedes are liable to suffer serious internal injuries from eating jellypigs, we have not yet seen any evidence to confirm this. Further investigation remains necessary.

  It should also be noted here that the swarming behavior of infant jellypigs is not always triggered by an injury to or the death of the parent. If an adult jellypig slows down or becomes inactive for any reason, its offspring will also begin hatching.

  In other words, if and when a jellypig reaches such a size that it becomes fat and lethargic and unable to move itself vigorously, its children will eat it alive from the inside out.

  —The Red Book,

  (Release 22.19A)

  Chapter 74

  Lopez

  "The manual only makes sense after you learn the program."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  I was looking around for some way to pull myself to my feet when Lopez peeked in. "You okay?"

  "No, goddammit! Nobody's telling me anything!"

  "What do you need to know?"

  "What's happening? Where's Lizard? What was all that shooting? Where are the choppers?"

  Lopez took the canteen down from where it was hanging and handed it to me. "You want some water?"

  "No. I want some answers." I took the canteen anyway. I

  "Look, I know you're upset-"

  "Spare me the hand-holding. Just give me a straight status report."

  Lopez took a breath. "Okay," she said. "We haven't found General Tirelli yet. We're still looking. It's kinda hard to get to where the forward lounge was. It's all crumpled up, and it's caught at the top of a very high tree. But we're not giving up. She's not the only one missing, and we're still finding people-"

  "And bodies?"

  Lopez nodded uncomfortably. "We've got a morgue, yes. And everybody's identified. Believe me, we're going to find everybody before the choppers arrive. They're pulling everyone out as fast as they can. As soon as the sun comes up. But the whole ship is spread across the jungle canopy, and it covers a lot of territory. You know that. We've rigged some stairs and ladders to get up into it, so we can pull down the things we need, medical equipment, ordnance, food, water, blankets, cots, everything-but it's a crazy situation. Most of the ship is at a thirty-degree angle, parts of it are tilted as badly as sixty degrees. And there's a lot to do, and not a lot of us left to do it." I thought for a moment that she was going to add, "So please be patient," but she didn't.

  "What was all the shooting?"

  "Worms. Only a few. Probably locals. The jungle is fairly thick between here and the mandala, and the ground is rough. There's also a couple of big rivers in the way. That's slowing down the bulk of the column. You heard about the column of worms? We've got spybirds tracking with them-they're not moving as fast as we thought. But they are headed directly toward us."

  "How reliable is this information?"

  "We've got communications buoys up." The buoys were tethered balloons with silver-metal skin and studded with rightangle dimples to create a maximum radar image. The things looked like inflated golf balls, only all the dimples were threesided, as if they had been poked in by the corner of a cube. Any beam hitting the dimple would bounce directly back to its source and generate a bright solid blip. The tether doubled as an antenna for transmissions. The ground anchor was a six-week power supply. A communication buoy was always visible to any network satellite above the horizon.

  "Defenses?" I asked.

  Lopez nodded. "The contingency plans you wrote-for the most part, they're working. You did good. We're spraying aerogel. We've got prowlers and mines. We've got twelve torches and fifteen rocket launchers. We're okay-"

  "Uh-huh. And how many worms in the column?"

  "At least sixty or seventy thousand-" She patted my hand. "It's not as bad as it sounds. The choppers have been bombing them all night long. That's slowing them down. They won't be here before tomorrow afternoon. By then, we should all be gone."

  "We'
ve gotta find Lizard-"

  "We will. I promise you." She looked uncomfortable. "Look, I gotta go. There's still some worms prowling around-"

  "Lopez-?" I said it flat.

  She stopped, one hand on the flap of the tent. "What?"

  "What is it you're not telling me?"

  She looked away, looked back, looked uncomfortable. "Sorry. I didn't want to say anything yet-"

  "'What?"

  She lowered her eyes. She was embarrassed to say it. "Siegel bought the farm."

  I was PKD'ed. I didn't feel a thing. The words slammed into me and shattered.

  "How?" I barely got the question out.

  "A worm. Don't ask."

  "He got adventurous, didn't he?"

  She shrugged. "It's still out there. We put a harpoon into it and we're tracking it. I'm going to kill it."

  "Don't be stupid, Lopez. Let it go-"

  She shook her head. "It's not your call, amigo." And ducked out, leaving me alone again. More alone than ever.

  Just before dawn, I woke in a cold terrified sweat. It was too quiet. And then I realized why. Benson's noisy breathing had finally stopped. I called for help, but no one came.

  Continuing explorations of the mandala nests reveal the incredible richness of life within a fully established Chtorran colony. It is becoming increasingly apparent that the intricacy and scope of life within a living nest is probably the most amazing manifestation of the entire invasion.

  Some individuals have compared the mandalas with ant or termite nests, or have described such settlements as underground cities. While such comparisons may be useful, they are vastly misleading images.

  In actuality, the Chtorran nest is a great living system that grows itself out of various component species. All of the plants and animals that live and thrive within the mandala system are servants of the nest. Even the gastropedes-the presumed masters of the nest-are servants of the process.

  —The Red Book,

  (Release 22.19A)

  Chapter 75

  Shreiber

  "Reliable information lets you say, 'I don't know,' with real confidence."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  The pain was a steady presence, but it had lost its power to hurt. The PKDs were potent, if nothing else. But they only dulled the physical pains; they didn't dull the emotions. They didn't stop the feelings from flowing. That still hurt.

  I couldn't do anything but lie on my cot and think. Uncomfortable thoughts grabbed hold of my chest and squeezed so hard I couldn't breathe. What if she was dead? That one pressed down onto me like the weight of the universe. How could I go on without her? What would I do? Where would I go? I thought about dying. But I'd already promised her that I wouldn't kill myself

  The idea terrified me, that I would have to go through life alone, never having anyone again to share with or laugh with or simply hold on to in the middle of the dark cold night when all the demons of the mind came prowling around the edges of the bed. I would never again know the taste of her lips, the dance of ecstasy of her body against mine. I lay there on the cot, wanting her more than anything-the one person I needed most in the world to be with was the one person I couldn't have. Just let me know that she's alive somewhere, I prayed. But no one answered. I thought about the smell of her hair, the soft noises she made in the back of her throat when she was comforting me. I thought about the way she made me feel, and the ache grew louder and louder inside of me. I was plunging headlong into my worst nightmare. I could see my life laid out before me. Empty. Already, I was a dying shell. The sunlight ebbed away as I grew old alone, unloved, forgotten—until finally, eventually, I shriveled up and blew away in the wind, an empty dried-up husk of memory.

  If I could just reach backward, quickly, for just a moment, somehow stop time, somehow change it-but the memories were a closing window, rapidly receding into the distance. The present, and all the futures hiding behind it, slammed into me like a mad hallucination.

  I cried in my cot. I lay on my back, and the tears ran out of my eyes and into my ears. I choked on my own sobs. Nobody came. Nobody cared. I had never felt so helpless or trapped in my entire life-because I was finally, completely trapped inside the circumstances of my life, and this time I couldn't get out. This time, it was for real. The dust would sweep across the bones of the world. I would wander in rags. It was over and done. Lizard was dead and I was alone.

  I hurt so badly. And no one and nothing could help.

  What hurt the most was the frustration; the not being able to get up and do something. Anything. At least let me be a part of it! Something was going on and nobody was telling me. I could hear it in the distance. Shouts, purple noises, prowler sounds, occasional explosions, and only once the sound of a chopper and then the muffled roar of a torch.

  The more I lay there, flat on my blistered back, the more frustrated I got; the more frustrated I got, the less I wanted to stay still. By the time they came to take away Benson's body, I was crazed. I grabbed at their arms. "What's going on? Where's Lopez? Has Lizard been found? When are the choppers coming? Let me help. Get me a phone. Get me a remote. I can run a prowler from here. Let me do something-"

  Finally, I got so frantic that someone called Dr. Shreiber in to see me. She had a spray-injector in her hand.

  "Where's Dr. Meier?" I demanded, trying to sit up. Shreiber pushed me back down.

  "She's not available-"

  "What do you mean? What's going on?"

  She let out her breath in exhaustion. "Look, I'm sorry. Everything's falling apart. There's a big nest of shamblers somewhere nearby. The tenants keep swarming. The choppers can't get in. Two of them are already down. They're not going to try any more landings until we find the nest and burn it. We've got the prowlers out searching now. And if that isn't enough, we're attracting worms."

  "Where's Lopez?"

  "I don't know. The worms overran part of the camp. There're a lot of people still unaccounted for."

  "Who's running the SLAM team?"

  "What SLAM team? They're all dead. Or missing."

  "Jesus Christ-!" This time I didn't let her push me back down. I propped myself up on my elbows. "Who's in charge? What are we doing about defenses?"

  "Dwan Grodin is channeling for General Wainright. The surviving crew of the Bosch are manning the defenses. Dannenfelser is running the prowlers by remote."

  "Oh, God-this is a fucking disaster! You've gotta let me up. Find some way to make me mobile. I can help!"

  "You're not in the chain of command anymore. You're a patient. Now, shut up and be a patient-"

  "Look, Marietta," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "I know we've had our differences, but-please, you have to understand, Wainright's an idiot, and Dwan-well, you saw, you know. I mean, she's a sweet kid, but she can't handle stress. We need someone on-site with combat experience. I'm the only one left-"

  Dr. Marietta Shreiber held up the spray-injector meaningfully. She held it in front of my eyes until I stopped -talking. "Shut up," she explained. "I don't have time for this. Neither does anybody else. I'm going to give you a choice. Either you shut up and stay shut up, or I'm going to put you on sedation until we get you out of here." She lowered the injector. "I'd prefer to save the drugs," she said. "You're not the only one who's injured-"

  "No," I said, a little too quickly. "I don't like drugs. They make the voices in my head mumble. If I'm going to be crazy, at least I'd like to know how crazy I am."

  Dr. Shreiber didn't smile. "You're not funny, McCarthy. You're a goddamn nuisance." She had me. She knew it. And I didn't dare fight back. "You're the most unprofessional person I've ever met. You're a spoiled brat. You use your connections to steamroller people. You get them disgraced, embarrassed, jailed, shafted, and sometimes killed. I don't like you. I don't like what you do. And I don't like the way you do it. And I wouldn't lift a finger to help you right now if the President of the United States personally ordered me to."

  There were a whole lot of things I wo
uld have liked to have said in answer to that. Instead, I held my silence. Dr. Shreiber still held the spray-injector.

  "I'll be good," I promised. "Please don't drug me."

  She didn't believe me, but she put the hypo away. "I'm not going to baby-sit you. And I'm not going to let anyone else waste their time either. You only get one warning. Next time, someone is just going to come along and jab you. And we'll keep jabbing you until we can get you out of here. Understand?"

  "No more trouble. I promise."

  She still didn't believe me. She was right to doubt. "May I have a phone?" I asked.

  She hesitated. She was obviously thinking about what kinds of problems I could create if I got on-line to Houston. Or anywhere.

  "I promise you, I won't do anything to hinder anybody's work."

  "I don't want you going over my head."

  "That's not my style," I said. "I play by the rules."

  Dr. Shreiber snorted. "Sorry. I don't trust you enough." She bent and exited the tent, leaving me to wonder how long we had to live. I doubted we'd make it to the end of the day.

  The tunnels of the mandala are not simply dirt-fined shafts leading down to various storage chambers, reservoirs, and nesting areas; they are in fact, the bones, the marrow, and the skeleton of a complete living organism.

  The tunnels are completely lined with plantbased organisms, fleshy tissue-like constructions that maintain temperature, humidity, and even in some cases, atmospheric pressure. Other structures, thick pipe-like vines that cling to the walls and ceilings, mirror the activities of nerves, arteries, and intestines.

  These living cables contain sophisticated organic pumps to carry fluids, nutrients, and even simple sensory information to all parts of the colony. Other channels function to remove wastes, filtering them, recycling liquids, and delivering them for reuse to other parts of the nest.