The Eternal Enemy (30 page)

“How?”

“It should be a simple matter to probe its physical being, a far easier task than trying to alter its mental state. We could alter its joints so that they no longer bend.”

“Good, Markatens. Good idea. Can you do it?”

Markatens eyes flashed red as he reached over to touch the Hydran. Straka watched, fascinated, as Markatens' eyes began to dance with colors. She was glad Markatens was part of their little assault team—his mind worked differently, came from a different cultural perspective, from a different race, and his approach to problems was unique, a positive addition.

The Hydran remained passive and after a few seconds Markatens broke contact with it.

“It is done,” he said.

“Good,” Straka said.

“Insect statue,” Wilhelm said.

Kominski laughed.

“What do you plan, Straka?” Markatens asked.

Straka shook her head. She wasn't really sure. She knew she was starting to tire, that the strain of keeping her body hard, of activating her lasetube, of running through the muck after the fleeing Hydran, was wearing her down more than she actually felt. She wasn't sure they were capable of facing fifty to seventy-five Hydrans. She wasn't sure they would have enough energy to power their lasetubes for an extended confrontation. She wasn't sure their belts would work that long either. They were continually drawing on their stored energy, their own bodies, and they would need to rest and rebuild for a long time.

“I know this, Markatens: Whatever we do, we must do it quickly. We aren't strong enough to enter a long, drawn-out battle. We're all tired and we're constantly draining ourselves.”

“This is true,” Markatens said.

“Our best chance is to walk at a rapid pace toward the ship. We may get ten or twenty meters before they actually do something. When they start firing on us, we run straight for them. We can lase them down at close range, getting as many as possible.”

“And if something happens?”

“Then something happens, Wilhelm. We know we can't sit here, and Markos isn't going to drop out of the sky to save us. Our radio's in the ship, which doesn't do us a lot of good here. Markos doesn't even know what's happened. We could wait, and he'd come eventually, just as we prearranged. But we've got our prisoner, and we run the risk of being discovered just waiting here. The one thing the Hydrans don't expect from a Haber is offense.”

“True,” Kominski said. “And I like that thought. Taking them by surprise.”

Straka wished that Kominski hadn't agreed. She was starting to distrust everything the newly changed Kominski thought.

“Well, if we're going to do it, let's get it over with,” Wilhelm said. “Just sitting around like this is draining me more than fighting would.”

They left the swampy vegetation behind, walking in single file, stretching their legs out and moving as quickly as they could without running. They headed directly for the ship, for the mass of Hydrans. As they walked, Straka flashed on the thought that this plan was almost suicidal, that it probably would have been smarter and safer to just wait for Markos to come to their aid. But deep down she knew why she was risking herself and the others—some atavistic urge, some drive that made her become more than just Cathy Straka, surfaced when she was faced with death. She felt the larger-than-life quality to her being, the unreality in facing down so many Hydrans.

She was surprised they hadn't been spotted yet. They had covered more than thirty meters.

And then the real reason why she was doing this struck her. She was flirting with death in a way she'd never been able to before. She was risking more than her life—she was risking immortality. It would have been far safer to sit and wait, but she'd somehow known, she'd somehow understood what Markos had once told her about the way Habers lived. They chose to die. Immortality would be nothing if she was afraid to live, to take chances, to get the most out of every waking moment.

Even if those moments were numbered.

Fifty meters, and still no sign from the Hydrans.

That in itself confirmed her suspicions that the Hydrans assumed they were still on board the ship: They were all facing H-1, waiting for the creatures inside to make their appearance.

Still, those Hydrans facing away from them would spot them soon enough.

Sixty meters.

“Let's run,” Straka said.

They ran. They made another ten meters before the Hydrans spotted their approach. Straka expected an immediate laser attack and was surprised to see them moving around instead of firing.

Those on the far side of the ship were emerging from around the ship's sides, grouping up with those Hydrans whose backs were to the advancing crew. The Hydrans were forming up in a single, wide line.

Straka couldn't believe their luck. She saw an opportunity and grabbed it.

“Pour it on,” she shouted.

They ran at full speed, closing as much distance as possible. They were fifty meters away from H-1 when the line of Hydrans opened fire.

The beams were deflected by their belts.

They continued to run.

The Hydrans continued to fire.

The ground around them popped and crackled as the lasers cooked what little moisture was there, sealed it over in a fused shell.

“Hold up!” Straka shouted.

They stopped running, aimed their lasetubes at the line of Hydrans, and just sliced them down, from left to right. It was over in two seconds. They stood there, staring at the toppling bodies.

Kominski was laughing softly, almost chuckling.

All they had done was point their weapons, activated them, and moved down the line, slicing Hydran after Hydran in half.

It had been too easy. Too fast.

Straka went numb with the shock.

“Cathy?” Wilhelm asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Straka said. “Fine. I just didn't expect it to go like this.”

“I'll go back for the Hydran,” Markatens said.

“I mean, it was over in a second. They didn't have a chance.”

“Cut it out, Straka. You saw the crystals. You saw what they did to the Habers. Unarmed Habers.”

Straka seeped red from her eyes. “I saw, but I'm not sure I really believe.”

23

Markos docked H-3 first. He wanted to be on board the mother ship when Straka and her crew unloaded the Hydran. He wanted to see the Hydran close up, give it the benefit of his past training and recent firsthand experience in xenobiology.

Up until now, all knowledge of the Hydrans had been gleaned through the information contained in the crystals—nothing solid enough to help plan a campaign against them. Soon, though, it would be different. Questioning the creature would be enlightening, if not a little repulsive. He remembered the problems he'd faced breaking through the language barrier with the Habers. Markos hadn't been sure they could communicate verbally. With the tools NASA 2 had provided, with the rudimentary translation techniques, finding a way to communicate with the Habers had been slow and painful, a hit-or-miss process until one Haber pointed to itself and said, “Haber.” It had touched Markos and had learned his language.

Now, with his ability to penetrate the Hydran's mind, snake his way through whatever thoughts the Hydran had, translation would be unnecessary. All he would have to do would be to touch it, let his electrons flow along its neural pathways, or its equivalents. Once he'd accomplished that, he would have the answers to the Hydrans.

He stood beneath the docking bay, waiting for the hatch to open. It opened slowly. He saw the face and upper body of Markatens framed in the opening. “Have you got it?” Markos asked.

Markatens flashed red, then eased himself down through the hatch. He turned to receive the prisoner. Someone's hands were passing the Hydran out through the hatch, and Markos was puzzled. The Hydran was as stiff as a piece of the bulkhead.

“Did it give you trouble?” Markos asked. “Is it dead?”

“No. This one is alive,” Markatens said. “We had to make sure that it was incapable of motion, though. I touched and changed its joints. After it is properly guarded, I can change it back.”

Markatens propped the alien against the bulkhead. Its three legs formed a tripod, though the legs were not spread apart far enough to support it. From the way it was arranged, Markos surmised that it had been lying down when Markatens had frozen it.

Kominski and then Wilhelm exited H-1. They both greeted Markos, and neither looked any worse for their mission. Kominski seemed to be highly animated, enjoying himself, while Wilhelm tried to ignore Kominski. Wilhelm immediately put a little distance between himself and Kominski. Straka was the last one out of H-1, and she eased herself onto the deck of the mother ship silently. She looked once at Markos, then turned and walked away. Something had happened.

“What's the matter with her?” he asked.

“She is deeply troubled by what occurred on the surface,” Markatens said.

“She'll be okay,” Kominski said.

“Maybe,” Wilhelm said.

“What the hell happened?” Markos asked.

“It was an unpleasant experience,” Markatens said. “I am not sure that Straka fully understood about war.”

“Keep an eye on her, will you?” Markos asked Markatens. “See if you can do anything for her.”

“I will try, but she remained within herself throughout the return trip.”

“Do what you can. Wilhelm, will you give me a hand with the Hydran?”

“Sure.”

“Let's get him to the lab.”

Markos picked up the legs and Wilhelm held it by its head. “Is it still alive?” Markos asked.

“Seems to be,” Wilhelm said.

They carried the Hydran through the passageways toward the lab. They walked in silence for a few moments, then Markos asked, “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“On the planet. What happened?”

Wilhelm said nothing.

“Wilhelm?”

“Kominski went over the edge again. We had two prisoners, but he sliced one up. Then we ran into a rather large suicide squad of Hydrans, hell-bent on being lased down.”

“Explain it to me,” Markos said, coaxing with his eyes.

Wilhelm told him what had happened in detail. By the time they had placed the Hydran on a lab table, he had related most of the experience.

“What about you, Wilhelm? Are you upset?”

“Upset? Most definitely. But
upset
isn't the right word, man. I'm disgusted—disgusted by the role I played in the little battle, by the way we had to slice them down like trees. I'll live with it, though. They were armed.”

Markos flashed red.

“But then there's Kominski. I don't like him anymore. I want you to know that, man. He's sick. Really sick. Whatever you did to him, he's worse now. You should have heard him laugh when we sliced them down. He may not be the same kind of sick he was before, but he's just as sick as ever.”

“That's probably what's bothering Straka,” Markos said.

“Ask Straka, man. That's what's bothering me. I'm going to eat something and then get some rest. I'll be in my cabin.” He turned to leave, walked a few steps, then stopped. He faced Markos again. “Oh, yeah. If you don't change Kominski, I will.”

Wilhelm still clutched the lasetube in his hand. Markos understood.

As soon as Wilhelm left, Markos turned his attention to the Hydran. The problems with the crew dissolved as he looked at the shiny black creature. It was a little smaller than what it should have been, compared with those he'd seen in the crystals. Its shiny black covering was not artificial, like a spacesuit or battle armor. It was most probably an exoskeleton, which supported the insect analogy that much more. There were small holes in the shell covering the head. There were slitted holes along the neck, with tiny hairs rimming the insides of the slits. The hairs moved in and out as the Hydran breathed. On closer visual examination Markos found these hair-rimmed holes at the point where the torso met the legs and also at various spots along the arms and legs.

The Hydran was emitting a constant odor, similar in scent to the odor Markos was familiar with through the crystals. Perhaps their primary method of communication was through pheromones, he thought.

He was fascinated by the creature, reveling in the process of deduction and speculation about its biological makeup. That was what he'd been trained to do as a Terran, using methods that were primitive in comparison to those he now had available. It had been so long since he'd done this—so many years, so many miles traveled, so many changes seen. Doing this was like putting on a comfortable old shirt, something familiar, something he knew how to do well.

But there was an added depth to his abilities now, an added tool for measuring, for deducing correct answers. He looked at his hands, at his palms, their red and green and orange translucent skin, and placed them on the Hydran's chest. He let his mind relax.

The interaction started almost instantly as he felt his hands and its chest mingled. There was little to be learned from its exoskeleton—the shell was made up of a proteinlike molecule and a combination of common minerals. It was not yet fully formed, though. He could tell that the growth process was still taking place as he reached the inner level of the shell.

He delved deeper, finding the internal organs of the creature. They had strange functions and an interdependence that would take him a long time to unravel. But one point was painfully obvious: None of the organs was fully formed, either. The growth rate seemed abnormally fast. Either the Hydran's metabolism was extremely high in certain areas of its body, or else it was still growing.

He pressed deeper, trying to gain more substantial information. He found what passed for neural pathways, connecting fibers that linked one organ with the others. He touched it, allowed himself to be there, to travel down its layers, peeling them back one at a time.