Grendel Unit

by Bernard Schaffer

  He'd applied to Unification Investigations several years ago, after learning that it was a good career path to Grendel. Several former Grendel operatives had begun in Investigations, including Victor Cojo, and on the night he filed his application, he wondered what it would be like to meet the man later on, to work for him, to be assigned to Grendel under his command and remind him, one night over drinks, of the time they'd met. "I saw it in your eyes that day," he imagined Cojo saying. "I knew there was more to you than just being cannon fodder in the Infantry."

  Two months later, his application came back rejected. His aptitude scores were not high enough. His firearms qualifications were much higher than the required score, he saw, which was something he prided himself in, but they had placed in the lower twenty-fifth percentile for linear thinking and strategic planning, and whatever other nonsensical categories they dreamed up to keep real soldiers like him out, and aliens like that mantipor in.

  It's discrimination, is what it is, Warner thought, leaning his head back against the seat. He could feel the ship's engines rumbling through the panels behind him. The only linear thinking and strategic planning a spec-ops soldier needed was knowing how many people to shoot, and when.

  Hell, if he'd gone to Grendel Unit, he'd have been arrested and outcast like the rest of them. Now they were likely dead, and he was only ten years away from a decent pension and enough money saved to start his own business. That was if he left Unification, that is. There were plenty of reasons to stay. He lived and ate for free on the base. He was part of a team, and instead of being stuck behind some desk, he was out in the field, carrying the latest model guns and state-of-the-art combat gear. And women liked a man in uniform. He and a few of the boys wore their uniforms when they went bar crawling, and the women all turned their heads.

  He was lucky he'd stayed in the Infantry, that much was certain. Morons like Vic Cojo didn't even get to wear uniforms.

  "Helmets on!" the Lieutenant at the front of the ship barked.

  The world clarified as he snapped his helmet down on top of his head. Not only was everything he looked at in hyper-definition, he was able to zoom in and pan out just by raising or lowering his eyebrows. Every soldier he looked at was tagged by the helmet's optics, listing their name, specialization, and rank. If he kept his eyes fixed on them, more information would appear, as much as was available on the public databases, for as long as he stayed looking at it before moving on to something else.

  His own biometrics appeared along the right side of the screen, telling him that his blood pressure and heart beat were optimal. He was fully hydrated, and his adrenal-state was listed as slightly elevated.

  Warner felt excitement in his hands and legs, eager to enter the planet's atmosphere and get started. It was the rumble of the ship behind him. The bright streaks of lasers firing across the darkness and the anticipation of battle to come. It was the anticipation of certain victory. His only fear was that it would be too easy.

  He hoped—no, he prayed—that Grendel Unit was still alive. They would learn the true power of Unification. It wasn't found in elite, undisciplined units like theirs. The High and Mighty Grendel Unit was nothing compared to the combined strength of Infantry.

  A whole lot of regular ol' guys with a whole lot of regular ol' guns, and we are coming to stomp you prima donna pansies into the dirt.

  He looked up and down the rows of the ship. Twenty armored warriors lined up on either side of him, a ship of hardened Infantrymen who did nothing but follow orders and kill everything in their way. Their slogan was Join the Infantry. Travel to Exotic Worlds, Meet Strange and Interesting New Species, and Exterminate Them.

  And there were ten ships like theirs, all rocketing toward the armpit of civilization called Pentak 1. All aimed directly at Victor Cojo and his renegade team. Disgraced men who'd pissed all over Unification and everything it stood for. Everything Infantry stood for. Everything many of his fellow Infantrymen had died for, and everything they would most certainly kill for.

  I hope I get to be the one to do it. I hope I get to be the one to put the last round between your eyes, and as you look up, you'll see me. You'll see the lowly guard you once walked past. The one not even smart enough to get into Investigations. But look at that, I'm the one who goes on living, and you'll just be ashes in the wind. So ask yourself, Captain Cojo. Who was really the smartest one after all?

  "Lock in! We're making planetary approach," the Lieutenant called out.

  He pressed his back against the wall, and felt the magnets in his suit activate, holding him securely in place. The ship rattled slightly as its thrusters fired, tilting them toward the bright blue ball beneath. He heard the Lieutenant say, "Infantrymen, ready for insertion! Beginning descent. Let's go get those traitorous bastards!"

  Everyone inside the cabin cheered, even as their voices rattled from the walls vibrating behind them. He was being shaken so badly, the readouts on his helmet began to blur. The soldier strapped in across from him craned leaned over to see through the window behind him. The soldier's eyes widened and he said, "It's falling! That ship's falling out of orbit. What the hell's happening?"

  Warner tried to turn his head to look but the magnets held him firm. The vibrations became so bad his teeth were rattling in his jaw. "What's falling?" he shouted.

  "Mayday! Mayday!" a voice cried out through the radio console. "We lost all power and are inbound. Ship is—"

  The voice vanished over the speaker, but he could not tell if the radio went silent or he could no longer hear it over the shouting of the men surrounding him. The ones who could see through the windows were crying out, "Pull us up! Pull us up!" and "Pull us out of descent you idiot before we go down too!"

  The ship tipped forward, throwing all of them against the right side of their magnetic restraints. He felt lightheaded and swallowed a mouthful of stinging bile. Unable to move, or even turn his head, all he could see were the men in front of him screaming and the blur of bright blue light filling up the cabin as they entered the planet's atmosphere.

  They were dropping freely, he realized. A straight fall. There were no engines. He heard nothing but wind battering the sides of the ship. He smelled smoke, and saw thick, black streams of it blowing past the ship's windows. "We're on fire!" someone gasped. "I can see flames!"

  Slowly, the intense heat of burning hull began radiating through the panels behind Warner. He was starting to feel it creep through his suit, into his skin. He could not move, no matter how much he wrenched to get away, or any of them screamed to be let out.

  32. MOONAGE DAYDREAM

  Victor Cojo opened his eyes slowly, groggily. He'd been pulled from a sleep so deep he might have been dead. It was the kind that went down beneath the surface of his mind and plunged into depths some do not return from. He stayed there for a moment, awake, breathing, surprised to be back in his body.

  "Darling, are you all right?" a woman's voice said softly. "You were talking in your sleep."

  The blankets were thick and heavy and woven of something so soft it seemed to melt through his fingers, but he did not recognize them. He had never slept in anything so luxurious, even before entering the military. After that, he'd spent more time in utility bunks than beds. Fingers draped over his bare chest, stroking him, then moving slowly downward beneath the blanket. Vic turned his head and stared at the woman lying at his side. Her bright yellow eyes gleamed beneath thick eyelashes, fixed on him hungrily. "I was hoping you'd wake up soon," she purred.

  He looked around the room, unsure of it. It was massive and decorated with artifacts that spanned the entire galaxy. Works of art and weapons of the sort that could only be found in books. The kinds of things he'd never have the money to buy. There were swords displayed on the walls that had come from early Earth. He could smell the leather wrapped around their handles, amazed to find it was not synthetic. He saw a metal shield hanging on the far wall, the painted crest faded and dented in battles where men fought in armor. There were
guns encased behind glass, each of them lit from beneath, each from a different time period and civilization.

  The far wall was completely transparent, letting him see the tall pine trees beyond it, and the animals lazily passing through them. A deer stopped and looked back at Vic, it's enormous rack of horns grown so wide they curved inwards, and he realized that he was back on earth. And not in one of the city tenements where he'd spent most of his life before escaping into the service.

  He turned back to the woman, moving her hand away. "What the hell is going on?" he asked.

  "Whatever are you talking about?" she laughed.

  Vic sat up and pressed his hands against his head, still feeling dazed from sleep. He threw the sheets away and got to his feet, realizing he was naked and the woman was looking at him. He turned away from her and tried to think. The last thing he remembered was being in the barn on Pentak 1, bent over in front of Yultorot. The bastard had shot him, over and over, and his blood was spilling out between his fingers. Vic touched his stomach, checking for wounds. There was nothing but his own, unscarred flesh.

  Yultorot had been looking down at him, his twisted mouth of burnt flesh smiling cruelly, when it was Vic's turn to laugh. He'd seen Monster coming up the ladder, ready to finish the fight. Everything had gone dark and warm, then he'd fallen down into that deep place and not returned.

  Until now.

  The woman slid out from under the blankets as well, her body curved and perfect, naked in the room's soft light. She came toward him on all fours, "Come here. I want you."

  "No," Vic said, backing away. "Something isn't right."

  Her yellow eyes flashed angrily as she sat up. "Not this again, Victor."

  "Not what again?"

  "Let me guess. You don't remember anything after being shot. Have you been taking your medicine?"

  "What medicine?"

  "Your medicine!" she said angrily, reaching across the bed toward the nightstand. She grabbed an ornately engraved wooden box there and held it up to him. "The medicine you promised me you would take so this doesn't happen anymore."

  "I have no idea what the hell you are talking about!" he shouted.

  "Here," she said, opening the box slowly. She touched the side of the box, and it glowed with flame, sending curls of smoke up from its confines. "Come here, my love. Sit next to me and breathe this in. Everything will make sense in a moment."

  She lowered her face toward the box and breathed deeply, closing her yellow eyes, and drinking in the smoke with her nostrils. As the smoke touched her, Vic saw it distort the skin around her face, revealing bright green scales and her stunted, amphibian nose. Her forked tongue flicked between her teeth greedily as she inhaled, before lowering the box and sighing, "I hate seeing you so needlessly upset."

  "I'm sure," he said, forcing himself to smile.

  As he moved toward the bed, he studied the long handle of the antique sword hanging on the wall. He whirled to grab it and ripped it from its lacquered scabbard, then swung. The woman vanished into the smoke just as the edge of his blade caught her neck.

  The smoke swirled around him until he could not see the room any longer. The sword turned to smoke in his hands and he staggered around, naked, trying to find something to hold on to. In the distance, he could make out two hazy figures. "I told you he was too strong," the smaller one said. It was the woman, hissing when she spoke now.

  "Try again," the other figure replied, the voice nearly as familiar to Vic as his own.

  "Wolmar," Vic growled, racing through the smoke to try toward them.

  "He sees us!" Wolmar said. "Do something!"

  Vic glared through the fog at the two figures backing away from him. The reptilian woman was an Ischion, he saw, with smooth green skin and long, dark hair. Her yellow eyes shined through the haze as she raised both hands toward Vic and uttered a word in her native tongue. A blast of energy shot out of her hands, striking him so hard that he was thrown back through the smoky air, falling into the blackness from which he'd emerged.

  He felt a hand press against the side of his face, cupping his cheek and chin. There was a warmth and softness there that he had not felt before. A woman's voice, different from the one in his vision, said, "Your fever has broken. That is a good sign. I changed your bandages. They were put on improperly."

  Vic's eyes opened slowly, and he turned to look at her, wincing at the pain that radiated across his stomach. His hand swept against the thick bandages wrapped tightly around his midsection, keeping his insides together, and groaned. The woman tilted his head up, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out, feeling her slide the soaking wet pillow from beneath his head and replacing it with a new one. She wiped his forehead with a cool cloth. "Can you sit up? I need you to drink a little water."

  "No," Vic muttered, shaking his head.

  "Here," she said gently, "Open your mouth. It's all right. I won't spill any."

  His lips were dry and cracked, and she helped peel them apart with her thumb. He felt the cool nozzle of a metal can's spout tip down between his lips. The first drop of water splashed against his lips and tongue. The cool wetness awakened him slowly, bringing what was dry and dead back to life.

  "I've used all the supplies from my ship. I think I will go to yours and look around, when no one is there, of course," she said, smiling with embarrassment. "What do you think your friend the medic would say to that?"

  He stared at her, seeing her long dark hair and large dark eyes. The creamy cinnamon color of her skin, and his eyes narrowed in recognition. The rest of the room was right, he knew that much from the glimpses of it he'd seen in between bouts of fever and the fire in his guts from where Yultorot's bullets had plunged into him, and Frank's shaking hands had pulled them back out. He was in someone's bedroom inside an old house. There were lace curtains on the windows and the walls had been hand painted long ago. He smelled furniture made from real wood, and his own stink emanating from the sick bed. Even the water had felt wet and relieving. Everything was perfectly real and perfectly realized, except the woman leaning over him.

  "Nice try, Wolmar," Vic laughed bitterly, and laid back on the pillow. "Get the hell away from me, lizard."

  "What?" she said. "What do you mean?"

  "I said get the hell away from me," he snapped, looking up at her angrily. "You think just because you figured out a way to fix your eyes I would fall for it?"

  "You can't be hallucinating," she said. "You don't have a fever anymore."

  She reached out to touch his face and check his temperature, but he snatched her hand at the wrist and squeezed until she cried out. He pushed her hand away, "I will tear out your heart and eat it if you touch me again. Go back and tell Wolmar that nothing can stop me. I will find him, I will kill him, and then I will kill you too."

  The woman slid off the bed and backed away from him.

  Vic pushed himself up, gasping in wretched pain, but fighting through it. "You made a mistake," he said through clenched teeth. "I'd have believed you were anyone except her. Get out!" He grabbed for her, struggling to get out of the bed. She cried out for him to lie back down, that he'd rip out his stitches, but he would not stop. His eyes blazed with hatred as he shouted, "Liar! Lizard! Get out! Tell Wolmar I am coming! Tell him I am coming!"

  She escaped through the door and pulled it shut, holding it tightly by the metal knob. She heard him collapse onto the bed and yelp in agony, but her hands were shaking too badly to move.

  33. ARE THE GOOD TIMES REALLY OVER?

  That day, like many since the day they'd crashed in that godforsaken place and his ribs had finally begun to mend, Bob Buehl took a walk. He walked the farm lands surrounding Jebediah Strong's house, and the prairies covered in tall, swaying grass, and he walked the well-trod dirt roads of the settlement, with bars and stores and its one bank, and he looked for a way to escape.

  Not all of the people who lived on Pentak 1 had crashed there, he soon discovered. Many had been born there, descending from lo
ng lines of the original settlers. Some had even come willingly.

  They displayed their decision proudly, using mementos of their old lives as decoration. He found several small one-seater spacecrafts that had been repurposed into tool sheds. There were burned out flight consoles serving as the frames for flowerbeds, with roses and geraniums now sprouting out of the thrust controls.

  People nodded to him in the streets as he walked past, none of them calling his name, but all of them polite and friendly. That day, he ventured further than he had before, deciding to see what lay at the borders of the settlement. How did these people survive in a constant state of such boredom, he wondered. There was nothing to do but work, and work was done strictly for survival. Even if someone made a profit, there was nothing to buy except bare essentials. A bar of soap was considered a luxury, and how many bars of soap could a man use?

  He'd tried dozens of times to rewire the Samsara and get something working on it, using all of his skills in a vain attempt at seeing the briefest flicker of light on one of the consoles. They were all hopelessly dead, and he'd given up trying. In a place like Pentak 1, he was less than useless, he realized. The world was meant for people who'd abandoned technology, and that was all he knew.

  He passed stores selling different kinds of grain and hay that must have had different purposes, but he could not tell any of their differences by looking at them. He walked past butcher shops where hefty men wore brown-smeared aprons, carving enormous flanks of beef. The raw beef dripped under their knives, and Bob had to look away. He'd never seen butchering before, and had only had actual meat a handful of times in his life, and only when away on missions where they could not find better quality food.