The Dark Path

by Walter H Hunt

  "Hold it right there," Maisel said, standing up, his pistol trained on the alien. "Don't take another—"

  The alien diverted its attention for a moment and looked directly at Maisel.

  "Die," it said.

  Her body seemed still held in check, but for a single moment Jackie's vision cleared. She watched the alien speak the single word and the tendrils retracted a few centimeters.

  She knew that she could not possibly raise her arm to fire the pistol, but she did have another alternative.

  "Transmit," she said, as she heard rather than saw Maisel collapse to the floor. The gun he had been holding skittered into the corner near the door.

  The alien turned again toward her, its face trapped in a look of surprise as it heard the message being spoken in Jackie's own voice.

  "Mayday," the message said. "Cicero Down is presently under—"

  "You—" it began. The tendrils of light leapt across the intervening distance toward her—

  "—the control of alien beings whose capabilities include, but are not limited to, the ability to assume alternate forms—"

  She felt the tendrils grasp her, hatred flowing through them like electricity. Agony gripped her and she fell to her knees, crying out in pain.

  "There might have been a chance for you to live," the creature said. "There was information you might have provided. But you will perish now."

  "—and to control human and zor minds using Sensitive techniques—"

  The alien came closer and closer as Jackie writhed in pain, every nerve-ending sensitized to the energy the being poured out. Jackie knew that when the alien touched her it would be the end. Images crossed her mind: of Dan McReynolds, of Big Fredericks, of Ch'k'te . . . of the Academy, of home in Stanleytown, of the starry backdrop of space—

  "—Aliens have seized Cicero facilities and are responsible for the death of Admiral Horace Tolliver—"

  Suddenly there was a surge of pain so intense that she could not contain it. It was as if someone had trained a laser pistol at her head and fired it from point-blank range. She could even hear the sound of a blast, and could even smell the awful aroma of cooked flesh . . .

  "—They are also probable culprits for the disappearance or destruction of several Imperial vessels. End message."

  As she began to lose consciousness she perceived a strange image: a silvery globe, hovering in a tank filled with rainbow-colored mist. There was an intelligence in the tank, something aware and malign . . . and it seemed to be registering disapproval.

  The Jackie-alien's body fell to the floor. Its body was already changing, losing its human appearance and taking on the form of an insectlike alien with a hard carapace and mandibles, with tentacles on either side of its distended jaws. It writhed in pain . . .

  . . . And as it writhed, Jackie's vision began to clear. The pain that had moments ago been so direct and forceful was already fading as the creature completed its transformation and stopped moving on the carpet.

  Ch'k'te did not let go of the trigger until he had finished playing the laser over the creature's head. Then, he turned to his commanding officer.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, as Jackie stood carefully.

  "Yes. What about—"

  "Dead."

  She went to Maisel's side and looked for a pulse. "His heart's stopped, but there's a medical case in the closet. Ch'k'te—"

  "Do not bother. The alien shut off his aura."

  She looked up at Ch'k'te, who was calmly reloading his pistol with a spare power-pack from the shelf above her desk. "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means," he said, stopping for a moment, "that the lieutenant's brain has been rendered inert. Even if you restarted his heart it would do no good." Ch'k'te's voice was level, but his hand talons were partially extended; his anger was clearly only barely held in check.

  She clenched her fists as a surge of hatred flowed through her. With a thought, the alien creature had willed the young lieutenant to die—and it had happened.

  "I will have my revenge, Ch'k'te," she said quietly.

  "You shall not stand alone." He switched the pistol from reload to ready. A low-pitched hum filled the air. "Are you—"

  "This is the IS Pappenheim calling Cicero Down. Acknowledge." The voice of Georg Maartens, the Pappenheim's CO, filled the room.

  Jackie exchanged a knowing glance with Ch'k'te. "Computer, verify voiceprint," she said into the air.

  "Verified as Captain Georg Willem Maartens, Imperial Navy."

  "Acknowledge. Open a scramble circuit with this frequency."

  "I assume," Ch'k'te said, "that there is some reason that you did not inform me of this communications circuit."

  "Regulations. Every base commander has one, usually built into some piece of office equipment. Just in case the regular comm gear is jammed . . . or in enemy hands. It's a last resort, to be used in direst emergency. I think this qualifies." She shrugged. "Of course, we probably just alerted every alien on base that we're here."

  Ch'k'te gestured toward the headless corpse strewn across the office carpet. "They may have already received that warning."

  ***

  "Cicero Down acknowledges, sir," the communications officer said, turning to face the captain. "We have a scramble circuit, audio only."

  "This is the Pappenheim. Go ahead, Commodore," Maartens said.

  "Georg, there's very little time for me to describe what's going on. Regardless of previous orders to the contrary, you and the other ships in the belt are to proceed at once to Cicero planetary orbit."

  "Acknowledged," he said. "Do you have further orders, ma'am?"

  "I want a landing party of thirty Marines at Cicero Down on the double. They should go through normal landing procedures, but if they meet resistance . . . have them shoot their way in. Also, I want you to maintain absolute radio silence except when I initiate contact using this frequency."

  "Aye-aye, ma'am," he said.

  "I'm counting on you, Georg. This is a matter of life and death."

  "We'll be there in about four hours."

  "Good luck. Laperriere out."

  The connection terminated. Maartens rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Damn strange," he said.

  "What do you intend to do, Captain?" his exec asked, coming to stand beside him.

  "How long have you been in His Majesty's Navy, Christoph?" Maartens asked, looking up at him.

  "I was commissioned four and a half years ago, Captain."

  "Then the answer should be obvious. Beat to Quarters, son. Comm, give me a channel to the rest of the squadron. Helms man, plot a minimum-time course to Cicero orbit."

  ***

  They crept carefully down the six flights of stairs, avoiding the lift in case the power was turned off. They reached ground level without meeting another living soul of any race. There were several Marines in the lobby, rifles in hand, receiving orders from their squad commander.

  "Ch'k'te?" she whispered.

  "What is it?"

  "Can you induce fear in another person, if that person isn't a Sensitive?"

  "It is most distasteful to do so," he said, concentrating on the scene in the lobby.

  "That's not what I asked. Can you do it?"

  "Yes."

  "And would that person be able to tell where that fear was coming from?"

  "Not unless he or she was a Sensitive. It would otherwise be no more than a feeling of fear."

  "Of you?"

  "Of . . . whatever I chose."

  "Of me?"

  Ch'k'te looked at her. "You are not considering—"

  "We don't live five minutes otherwise. But if I can make them believe I'm . . . If I can take its place, we might be able to walk out of here."

  Moments later, she could feel the hairs at the back of her neck stand up as she walked across the lobby toward the main entrance. The squad commander, a Marine sergeant named Ames, intercepted her near the door.

  "If you would stop right there, ma'am,"
Ames said, drawing a pistol from his holster and aiming it directly at Jackie's chest.

  "What's the meaning of this?" she answered, glancing briefly at Ch'k'te.

  A hint of fear crept into Ames' eyes. "There is—We received a report of an intruder, ma'am. We were told to look for some one . . . for someone . . ."

  Ames' fear was palpable and visible; Jackie had to keep her self from reaching out and reassuring the young Marine. Her stomach churned at using the tactic.

  Ch'k'te turned up the intensity. Jackie prayed that her expression remained grim and hostile.

  "You were told to look for someone who looked like me, I suppose?"

  "Y-yes, ma'am, I—"

  "And who issued this order?"

  "Commander N-Noyes, ma'am."

  "Commander Noyes—" Anger swept through her at the mention of his name, but she restrained herself. "The commander is . . . most efficient. But for the assistance of Commander Ch'k'te, an intruder might well have killed me less than ten minutes ago. You will find its remains on the carpet in my office. Send two of your detail at once to investigate it."

  Ames looked her in the eye, obviously frightened but trying to control himself. Suddenly there seemed to be a flash of recognition in his eyes, as if the mask Jackie had assumed had slipped aside and crashed to the floor.

  And just as suddenly, with half a dozen laser rifles pointed at her, it was Jackie's turn to feel fear.

  "Baker!" said Ames. "Terry! On the double."

  Jackie looked at Ch'k'te. His face remained impassive as the two Marines hustled across the floor.

  "You heard the commodore," Ames said, looking away from Jackie and lowering his pistol. "Go up and investigate. On the double." The Marine squad leader looked at Jackie once more. "Your orders, ma'am?"

  "There might be other intruders on base, Sergeant. I want every entrance and exit to this place covered, airlock-tight. No body in or out, except on my orders. Understood?"

  "Aye-aye, ma'am," the Marine said, standing aside to let her pass. Slowly, without turning, Jackie and Ch'k'te crossed the few meters to the door. As it slid aside they walked into the bright, cold morning.

  ***

  The holo over Georg Maartens' ready-room table showed Cicero Prime as it appeared on the bridge's forward screen. He could see Cicero Op as a tiny pinprick in opposition to the Pappenheim's current position, still more than an hour downrange.

  He looked up as the door-chime range. "Come," he said, looking from the holo display to the door.

  Christoph Kim, his exec, came into the room. The bustle and conversation from the bridge drifted in and then vanished as the door closed. "You asked for me, Skip?"

  "Yes, Chris. I wanted to go over a few things about our deployment."

  "I've filed the tac plan already . . . Sir, may I speak freely?"

  "Of course."

  "Sir, I've been thinking about our orders. Commodore Laperriere has been . . . Well, Skip, she's been under a lot of stress. Do you think she's . . ."

  The young XO's sentence trailed off. Maartens hadn't interrupted but he placed his hands on the table, palms down, and regarded his second in command.

  "Chris, you've been my exec for two years. I've known Jackie Laperriere for more than a dozen. She's stubborn; she's sometimes a little stiff-necked; and Lord, she has a temper sometimes. But one thing she is not, is crazy. If she says there are aliens, then there are aliens."

  "Aliens that can assume human form."

  "If she says so."

  "Aliens that can control minds."

  "If that's what she says. Are you questioning her orders, Commander?"

  "No sir."

  "That's good, because—"

  "No sir." He looked directly at Georg Maartens, taking a step to the left so that no part of the holo display lay between them. "I'm changing them."

  "You're ch—" Maartens looked at his exec, trying to process what he'd said. " . . . ch—" he began again, and suddenly realized he was unable to reply.

  Or move.

  Or look away. Christoph Kim was visible as if at the end of a long tunnel. A hard, sardonic smile crossed the young man's face, and something flashed in his eyes: a glint of some intelligence Georg Maartens didn't recognize.

  You'll belay the order for the Marine drop, the exec's voice echoed in his mind. There's no need for it now.

  But my orders . . . he thought. A profound lassitude prevented him from even completing the sentence. Then he found himself shivering: though he could not look away from Kim's eyes, his peripheral vision told him that the ready-room had disappeared from view—indeed, the entire ship surrounding them was gone. It was as if he were floating in space, with nothing but liquid darkness surrounding him, the sky filled with stars, the vacuum hard and bright and cold—

  Fear gnawed at him, a living thing. He'd just taken a breath: when he exhaled he would suffocate in space.

  God oh God oh God—

  "Excuse me, Skip, but I—" came a voice, and the ready-room materialized around him as abruptly as it had disappeared. He felt the mind that held him in its grip slip just a bit.

  He exhaled.

  "What the hell—" said the other voice. Maartens felt his hand rest on the scale model of the Pappenheim that stood on the ready-room table, a heavy brass thing that weighed five or six kilos. Knowing that he had only one shot, he stood and flung it with all his might at Kim, aiming for the head.

  It must have been a piece of blind luck. The model caught the exec full on the side of the face. He toppled over, one hand extended toward Dante Simms, the Pappenheim's Major of Marines, who had come into the ready-room. He hadn't rung the door-chime—he never did; he must have caught Kim by surprise.

  Simms looked from his captain to the exec, whose features were shifting even as he held an elongated hand to his head. He delivered a sharp kick to the other side of Kim's skull—some thing short of a killing blow, but enough to give Simms a second or two to draw a pistol.

  There was no need. The exec was unconscious, but was absolutely no longer Christoph Kim, the Pappenheim's second-in-command. Three or four of the bridge crew were already in the doorway, responding to the noise. At least one other crewmember had drawn a pistol.

  "Dante," Maartens said quietly, leaning on the table, "if I ever give you a rough time for coming in here without knocking, you give me one good slap to the side of the head. Do you copy?"

  "Aye-aye, sir. Loud and clear, sir."

  "Good. Comm, find Dr. Callison and get him here on the double. Dante, if that—thing—moves a centimeter, you kick it again."

  Chapter 11

  It was strange and frightening to walk among naval personnel on base and know that some of them might be enemies. After years here Jackie knew most of them personally; she returned their salutes, hoping that she appeared calm and in control. She couldn't simply be herself—whatever she had been to her subordinates had been destroyed. She had to be the being that replaced her: feared as well as respected, familiar yet totally alien.

  They must have known, she thought to herself as she and Ch'k'te crossed the parade ground in front of the command center, heading for officers' quarters. They must have sensed a difference, a change in style or tone, something.

  Nothing could replace her so completely and go undetected.

  She watched as a flight of Vindicator interceptors shot into the morning sky, leaving contrails behind them. She had seen it countless times, but now the sight seemed new and unusual.

  How could an alien have truly replaced her? Did her people know her so little, that this—R'ta, this vuhl—could have taken her place without so much as a second thought on anyone's part?

  Poor John Maisel had not known at all until she'd told him. He'd probably not completely believed it until he saw it with his own eyes—just before the alien had killed him with a single casual thought.

  There are deeper questions here, she thought to herself, as she put one foot in front of the other, straining against a stiff w
ind. If R'ta had truly replaced her, what was she now—an impostor? A stand-in for a stand-in? If so, what did it mean? What was her real identity now?

  She stopped walking, reeling with the consequences of her thoughts. Ch'k'te stopped as well, his hand near the pistol of his belt.

  "se Jackie?" he asked quietly, tension evident in his voice.

  "I . . ." She looked at him and then away, toward the low buildings. A breeze struck suddenly, making the flags at the edge of the field snap, their pull-ropes ringing hollowly against the metal poles.

  Even if an alien had not taken her place, the events of the last few days had made her an intruder now. It was almost as if she saw Cicero Down and everything in it through different eyes, eyes that were open to different impressions.

  "se Jackie."

  It was terribly hard to reconcile it all.

  "se Jackie. We are being watched."

  The flags snapped again in the breeze, making a dull, hollow chime in the morning air. Jackie looked at Ch'k'te again, as if she were seeing him, too, for the first time.

  "What . . . What did you say?"

  "We are being watched. I believe we were just probed by a powerful Sensitive. It would be unwise to remain out here waiting to be shot at."

  "Yes . . . yes, you're right, of course." They began once again to cross the field, as Jackie shook her head to clear the thoughts that had been crowding into it.

  ***

  While four vessels dived into the gravity-well, the remainder of the fleet stayed at a distance near the Orionward jump point that Tolliver had used on his exit from and return to Cicero System.

  As the Pappenheim's bridge monitored the deep-radar, which registered mass and jump disturbances, readings would suddenly appear and disappear. Single ships and then groups of several at a time showed up and then vanished.

  There was something out there—something that might be waiting for a signal to materialize. It wasn't comforting to Georg Maartens to have an enemy near a jump point with a large part of the defense fleet deep in the gravity-well. From a tactical perspective it was a frightening prospect.