by Larry Niven
The aliens had fired on Kosmograd. He had seen that much before all communications were lost. The aliens had fired without warning, without provocation.
An amber light blinked insistently. Pavel lifted the scrambler telephone. "Da, Comrade Chairman."
There was only a soft hiss, then a sudden rush of static. The officers at the command consoles burst into chatter again.
"What has happened?" Bondarev demanded.
"A high-altitude nuclear explosion. Perhaps more than one. The pulse effect has crippled our telephones," Suvorov reported.
"I see." And without communications—Bondarev felt rising panic. The scrambler phone was dead. "Get me Marshal Shavyrin."
"There is no answer," Suvorov said.
"It is vital. Use another means. Use any means," Bondarev ordered. He fought to keep his voice calm. The scrambler telephone remains silent. Is the Chairman in communication with anyone else? Perhaps not. Perhaps we are safe.
"I have Shavyrin," Colonel Suvorov said.
"Thank you." Pavel put on the headset. "Comrade Marshal—"
"Da, Comrade Director?"
"Have you launched any missiles?"
"No, Comrade Director. I have received no instructions from the Defense Council."
Bondarev discovered that he had been partially holding his breath. Now he let it out slowly. "You understand that the aliens have fired on Kosmograd?"
"Comrade Director, I know someone has. Two of my generals believe this a Western trick—"
"Nonsense, Comrade Marshal. You have seen that ship. Neither we nor the United States nor both nations working together could have built that ship."
There was a long pause. Pavel heard someone speaking to the Marshal, but he could not make out the words. "Marshal," Bondarev insisted, "that ship was not built on this Earth, and we know the United States cannot have sufficient space facilities. If they did, they would long ago have defeated us."
There was another long pause. Then Shavyrin said. "Perhaps you are correct. Certainly that is true. What must we do now?"
I wish I knew.
"Immediately before the aliens destroyed Kosmograd, they launched many smaller ships. I say smaller, although they were each larger than Kosmograd. Have you had success in tracking any of those?" "Only partially. Even with our largest radars it is difficult to see through the electronic storms in the upper atmosphere. The aliens have set off many weapons there."
"I know—"
"Also, they have fired laser beams at three of our large radars," Marshal Shavyrin said.
"Laser beams?"
"Da. The most powerful we have ever seen."
"Damage?"
"The Abalakovo radar is destroyed. The Sary Shagan and Lyaki radars are damaged but survive. We have not activated the large radar near Moscow for fear that it will draw their fire."
"I see." Intelligent of him. "We will need information, but not at that cost. Now tell me what you know of their smaller ships."
"My information is not complete. We have lost communications with many of our radars."
"Da, but tell me what you have learned."
"The ships have scattered. Most are in polar orbits."
"Track them. If they come within range of the ion beam weapons, fire at them. Be prepared to fire SS-20 missiles under ground detonation control. Meanwhile, attack the main alien ship with the entire force of SS-18 missiles based in Kamensk."
"Comrade Director, I require authorization from the Chairman before I can do any of this."
"Comrade Marshal, the Chairman has directed me to conduct this battle. We have no communication with Moscow. You must launch your forces against the aliens, particularly their large mother ship. We must cripple it before it destroys us on the ground."
"Comrade Director, that is not possible—"
"Comrade Marshal, it must be made possible—"
"If we attack the alien ship, we will destroy Kosmograd as well. And all survivors."
A strange sentiment for the commander of strategic rocket forces
. "Kosmograd is already destroyed. The survivors cannot be important now." "Comrade Director," Colonel Suvorov shouted. "I have the Chairman."
"Marshal, the Chairman is calling me. Please stand by." Bondarev took the other phone.
There was no mistaking the thick voice. "Bondarev, what must we do?"
"Destroy the alien ship. I would prefer not to, but there is no choice."
"Have the aliens attacked the United States?"
"Comrade Chairman, I do not know."
"They have attacked us," Chairman Petrovskiy said. "Can we defeat the aliens? Can we destroy their ship?"
"I do not know. We certainly cannot capture it. We can try to destroy it."
"Da. Try, then. Meanwhile, we will do what we can. There are reports of severe damage in the harbors. The rail center west of Moscow is in ruins. So is Brest Litovsk."
"But . . ." Bondarev spoke in horror. "The Germans—"
"Da. The Germans may rise in revolt. The Poles as well." The Chairman’s voice rose. "All the Warsaw Pact nations may rise against us. Our harbors are destroyed, harbors and rail centers. We face a new civil war. If the United States remains undamaged—"
"Comrade Chairman, I do not know that they are undamaged. I do know that we must destroy that ship. You must order Marshal Shavyrin to accept my orders to launch missiles at the alien."
There was a long pause. "We must retain enough missiles to prevent the United States from attacking us now that we are weakened," Petrovskiy said.
"Da. I will do that," Bondarev said. "But if we do not act quickly, we cannot act at all." I have never spoken this way to the great ones, not even to my father-in-law. But I must—" Comrade Chairman, there is no time to lose."
There was another long pause. Then "Da. I will give the orders. But—have a care, Pavel Aleksandrovich. Have a care."
11
LIGHTS IN THE SKY
Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.
—Matthew 10:16
COUNTDOWN: H PLUS ONE HOUR
The air was foul and growing fouler; it was like being trapped inside a whale’s lungs. Giorge, gasping and coughing and fighting the soft walls, had finally fainted. The beach ball’s oxygen supply wasn’t designed for two occupants.
It was a hell of a situation in which to try to relax, but Wes tried: he held his breathing slow and steady (punctuated with coughing); he let his eyelids droop (though he had to watch that great armored city in the sky coming toward him!) Half curled toward fetal position, he consciously relaxed his muscles in pairs, as if he were fighting a night of insomnia.
All this, while traveling like a tethered balloon behind their massive inhuman captors.
Naked in the glare of the stars, helpless as a babe, Wes fell toward an alien artifact bigger than the World Trade Center. He saw detail as he neared the thing: a pod on a jointed arm, rectangles of blackness, a jet of blue flame from a cluster of cones. But the air was like soup. His nose was clogged with drying blood. Hold the breathing down, stay awake, there are things you have to see . . . no use. His chest heaved, a coughing fit wracked his body, and everything went out of focus.
* * *
Arvid Rogachev was finding a great deal to awe him, and not much to surprise him. A ship the size of a city: of course, if they hoped to conquer a planet! The aliens: very alien. The attack: why not? Whatever they expected from contact with humankind, it was their safest approach.
Which was not to say that he wasn’t angry.
How would they treat prisoners? Human precedent showed a wide spectrum . . . but wouldn’t they want to inspect the natives more closely? These attackers hadn’t had time to build up a hatred for the enemy, not yet. What they found alive, they would keep alive . . . unless they were xenophobic beyond sanity, or found the human shape intrinsically disgusting . . .
Still, a corpse dead of explosive decompression was not the ideal subject for dissection. Might they p
refer a healthy Soviet executive?
Arvid shrugged off that line of thought. Who still lived? Dawson, of course, and Giorge. Nikolai too had reached a survival bubble. Aliana? The other American, Greeley?
A dozen of the beasts had followed the first, the scout, through the ripped wall, paused briefly to inspect the humans, then gone off into other parts of the wrecked station. The four who remained had enlarged the rip with a series of explosive gun blasts. Now the survival bubbles were being towed toward what seemed an infinite metal wall.
He wished for a better look at the aft end, the drive; but they were approaching from the side. Dark holes showed along the flank, with doors snugged against the hull. Airlocks, or missile ports? Those oval windows: for passengers, or lasers? A sudden narrow string of twinkling points against the black sky: random dust motes reflecting a laser beam? Sure enough, a new star blazed far away, then winked off. Far below, lights flashed against Earth’s night sky. Something blossomed impossibly bright, and Arvid turned his head away.
A nuclear weapon. Whose? And how close was it? He fought real panic. How long do I have to live? Almost he laughed. It had been a long way away, near the Earth’s surface, ten thousand kilometers and more. I have looked upon the cocatrice and survived . . .
Other lights flared far down toward Earth. Light beams stabbed downward through space flecked with dust and debris. Bondarev is attacking the alien ship. Perhaps the United States as well. He had never felt more helpless.
They were close enough to the ship for him to see details. Grooves ran along the spacecraft’s flank, like railroad tracks, but much farther apart. Smaller craft could have been anchored there . . . smaller, but still big, perhaps as big as a pocket battleship. The entire hull might function like an aircraft carrier’s deck. Or—
Arvid felt hampered here. This kind of guesswork was no task for an executive, nor a soldier either. He needed a combination of mechanic and strategist: a mechanic with imagination. Had Nikolai survived, or Mitya?
The ship had become a cubistic landscape.
. . . Rectangular pock, too small to be an airlock . . . No. It was larger than he’d thought. Alien-sized, he saw, as one of his captors moved up against it. A cavity the size of an alien in a pressure suit. Alien 1 disappeared within. The door closed.
The door opened. Alien 2 pushed Arvid’s survival bubble into the airlock. It brushed the sides, but it fit. The outer door closed, the survival bubble sagged, Arvid’s abused ears popped. An inner door opened. Alien 1 pulled the survival bubble out into a corridor . . . a wide rectangular corridor, curved, painted in three tones of green camouflage style, with carpet along two walls. Arvid was disoriented. Would they spin the ship for gravity? Certainly he was still in free-fall . . .
The doors he saw were all closed.
Then an open door, and it was thick, massive . . . as one would expect aboard a warship.
The alien paused. Arvid saw that he was boxed between the two aliens.
They acted in concert. A long-handled bayonet sliced through the side of the survival bubble, a forked tentacle reached in and closed around him. Arvid couldn’t help himself: he screamed and slammed a fist against the alien’s faceplate. Only his fist was hurt. The tentacle birthed him from the collapsed bubble and hurled him into the room. Did they breathe poison? He was breathing it already!
He hit the far wall without the jolt he’d expected. It was padded. The room was big, and padded over walls and floor and ceiling. The air . . . the air was damp, with a smell both earthy and strange. It didn’t smell like it would kill him.
A large, conspicuous glass-faced tube poked through the padding in one corner of the room. A camera.
The aliens followed him in. Arvid tried to relax as they came toward him. One still clutched the bayonet in its tentacle. Dissection? He wouldn’t scream again.
But it was difficult not to fight. One alien held him—it felt like pythons were squeezing him to death—while the other used the bayonet to slice through his clothing: down the back and along his arms and legs. They stripped him naked and collected the ruined clothing and backed out, carefully, as if he might still be dangerous.
He was alone.
His fear edged over into black rage.
Dangerous? When you can see me as dangerous, then I am harmless. This hour or this day, this year or next year, you will lower your guard. By then I will know more.
* * *
Wes had missed it all. His oxygen-starved mind had been fading in and out, catching fragmentary glimpses of alien wonders while his lungs strained at the dirty air . . . as if he were trapped in a burning theater that was showing Star Wars. Half-felt forces pulled him through some kind of strangling barrier into air he could breathe. His lungs clawed at air that was damp and cool, sweet life-giving air, while something sharp ran down his torso and arms and legs, and decidedly queer hands peeled him like an orange.
He was naked. Falling. Spots danced before his eyes.
Where are the others? Is this all of us?
There were other bodies, all naked. Rogachev: white skin covered with black hair, and bright eyes watching him. Giorge: black skin, almost hairless, dull eyes that saw nothing. Another fell past him and bounced against the rubbery wall. Pale skin, joltingly inhuman shape . . . stumps for legs . . . Nikolai. There were scars on Nikolai’s belly. Oh, boy, that had been some accident!
Arvid Rogachev and Nikolai talked in Russian. They sounded indecently calm.
Four. Where were the others?
Giorge was curled loosely in a ball. His mouth was slightly open. Wes took his shoulder and turned him to bring them face to face. Giorge’s eyes were open, but they weren’t looking at anything. "Giorge? It’s all right now. All right for the moment. We’re not in any danger just now. Can you hear me, Giorge?"
Giorge said a word in his own language. Wes couldn’t get him to say any more.
He’s nearly catatonic.
Wes could understand the temptation. It would be easy to curl into a fetal position and close his eyes. Easy but not sensible. They attacked. Without warning, without talking. Oh, God, Carlotta saw it all! She must think I’m dead. Or have they told Earth they have prisoners?
The door opened again. Dmitri Grushin flew among them, cursing vigorously in a high, hysterical voice. Rogachev snapped orders: they had to be orders. Grushin blinked and quieted, and Rogachev’s voice went from authoritative to fatherly. Dmitri nodded.
Now there were five. Seven missing, Including both women.
Arvid Rogachev turned and spoke in English. "You are well, Congressman?"
Wes tested his throat. "I’d want a doctor’s opinion. I’m alive, but I hurt all over. Bends, probably. How are you?"
"The same. Wes, we have seen men exposed to vacuum before. We will live. You’ll see ruptured veins on your face and body—"
"Shit, there goes my career."
Arvid laughed. "President Reagan used makeup. So did Nixon."
"You’re such a comfort. Arvid, what’s going on? I would have—I did bet my life that conquering another planet across interstellar space just isn’t cost-effective. War of the Worlds. Does it look like that to you?"
"I like the phrase your computer programmers use. Insufficient data."
"Is this all of us?"
"I do not know. Dmitri tells me that Captain Greeley is dead. He saw it, after the aliens had him in tow. An alien moved into Captain Greeley’s chambers, in vacuum, mind you. The door was a bit small for the alien, and while it was in the doorway Captain Greeley fired a handgun into the alien, then continued firing through the wall. He must have been firing through his survival bubble. The aliens raked the chamber with explosive bullets."
Wes couldn’t decide how he felt about that. Too many shocks . . . "Sounds like John."
There was a sound, almost subsonic, as if a tremendous gong had been struck. Wes saw a wall come at him: he was falling! He struck. They were all piled against the damp padding . . . and then the thrust eased of
f and left them floating.
"So. We still have some defenses," Arvid said.
"Zapsats?"
"Ground-based beam weapons, I would think. The aliens will know all about it before we do. At least it tells us we can still fight."
"I wish we had a window," Wes said.
I wish we had a suitcase fission bomb
, Arvid thought. Do I? It would end my life too. That will come soon enough. Patience.
* * *
The B-1B flew just above the treetops at near sonic speed. For a while Jenny looked out the tiny crew windows, but there was little to see: just shapes flashing past, an occasional light. Most of the United States was dark.
There was a bright flash off to starboard. Jenny shuddered.
"What?" Jack asked. He touched her hand, then moved his away. She reached for him and brought his hand back and held it in both of hers.
"Another dam," she said.
She listened as the artificially calm voice from Colorado Springs spoke into her earphones. "Spring Lake Dam, near Peoria, Illinois," it said. "They’ve hit most of the dams from there north and west. Floodwaters are rising all along the Mississippi and Missouri rivers. We’re ordering evacuation, but it won’t be in time."
"Isn’t there anything else?" The President’s voice interrupted the Air Force talker. "Get the National Guard out with helicopters—"
"Sir, we’re trying, but we have almost no communications. Most of the reports I’m giving you come from direct observation by Air National Guard pilots flying wherever they see a flash."
We could loose a lot of pilots that way.
"Is there anything more on the Russians?"Jack asked.
"No. Just a lot of damage reports," Jenny answered.
"Then we don't even know if we're at war?"
Jenny gave a short laugh. "We're at war all right. We just don't know who with—"
"Could the aliens be allied with the Russians?"
"Don’t know. I don’t think so," Jenny said. "I’m sure we’d have heard if they were in communication. We’d have heard something. I think—"