by Jerry
“Sir,” he pleaded softly. “Please.”
“Your mind’s playing tricks on you, that’s all. You know how I’m sure?”
“How?”
The corporal’s voice sighed. “A pack of Kraven-Hish mercenaries wouldn’t bother to infiltrate us. They’d just wipe us out. We couldn’t stop them.”
That was probably true, Ball acknowledged.
“You take point for a while,” the corporal’s voice said. “It’ll give you something else to think about.”
“Yes sir,” Ball said.
Days passed slowly, and Ball heard sounds:
Slithering. Slavering. Leathery skin. Loose flesh. Popping joints and hisses and groans and grumbles. And moans, most of all. Soft, predatory moans. Sounds like Kraven-Hish mercenaries make.
“Corporal,” he begged. “Please, we have to do something. I can hear it. Oh God, I can hear them.”
“It’s your imagination, Ball,” said the corporal’s steady voice. “Remember what I said before.”
That night Ball lay awake again, his thoughts exhausted and mad.
Kraven-Hish mercenaries. Ball was leading the way to Hatch A and they were following close behind. When the hatch opened, those things would burst unseen and unexpected into those safe stone tunnels.
He didn’t tell the corporal these thoughts.
He was afraid. That his group was being replaced, one by one. That the corporal was dead. That a Kraven-Hish mercenary stood there, somewhere back there, mouthing the corporal’s words.
He was very afraid.
He tried to find Reice, and talk to him away from the corporal. It was hard. Ball didn’t know where anyone was anymore. The footsteps had become soft—almost ghostly, insubstantial—and Reice and the corporal seemed to group close together, always.
“Reice,” Ball said. “You heard it, that night. I know you did.”
Reice’s voice said, “Ball, I didn’t hear anything. Really.”
An uneasy feeling spread over Ball. What if this wasn’t really Reice? Ball decided to ask something only Reice would know. “Back at Fort Deep you—”
“Ball, I’m tired, all right? We might not ever make it back. No one wants to talk about old business right now.”
That was a lie, Ball was sure of it. So Reice was gone, too, probably.
Ball felt very alone. Reice and the corporal and Dimon all dead, replaced by Kraven-Hish mercenaries, monsters that spoke with the voices of friends.
After that, those three voices always grouped close. Maybe they were plotting something.
And Sweezy? Sweezy hadn’t spoken in days. No one had mentioned him. Maybe he’d gotten separated, or twisted an ankle. Ball wished he could believe that—Sweezy, lying back in the rocks, lost or injured, but alive. But something told Ball that Sweezy had been the first to die.
Cataldo? Ball wasn’t sure about him.
“Listen,” Ball told Cataldo. “There are Kraven-Hish mercenaries, close around us. I hear sounds. You hear it, too. I know you do.”
“Leave me alone, Ball,” Cataldo’s voice said. “You’re creeping everybody out.”
“You hear them.”
“People imagine things. Things that aren’t there, in a place like this.”
Ball said, “I have an idea.”
Cataldo’s voice answered quickly, “No.”
“We can power down our suits. Just for a moment. For a second. The last orbital went down eighty minutes ago. The next one won’t be up for half an hour. We can see who we really are.”
“I’m not risking it,” Cataldo’s voice said. “Because you think you heard something? That’s insane.”
“You heard it, too.”
“Forget it.”
“I’ll do it, then.” Ball’s heart beat fast. “I’ll power down my suit. Then you’ll see it’s safe. Then maybe you’ll do it, too.”
Ball stared up into the sky, straight up, to where an orbital attack platform floated, bristling dark with missile silos, waiting to attack, if he was wrong about this. His fingers played over the buttons on his wrist.
“Don’t,” Cataldo’s voice growled. “Don’t even think about it. You wait until the rest of us reach minimum safe distance, then do whatever the hell you want with yourself, I don’t care. But not here, Ball. Not now. You’ve got no right.” Cataldo grumbled and walked away. His voice faded slowly.
Was that really Cataldo? Hard to say.
Ball kept his invisible rifle gripped tight in his sweaty, invisible fingers.
Sometimes, lying on the jagged ground at night, he wondered if any of them had ever been real—Cataldo, Dimon, the corporal—he couldn’t exactly picture their faces anymore. Maybe they had never had faces. Maybe they had only ever been voices. Voices in his head.
Other times, marching exhausted in the sun, he thought about fighting them. He hefted his rifle, which was heavy, huge, and worthless. He could have aimed it, maybe, if he could’ve seen his targets. Without targets . . .
Useless. He might get off a dozen shots, and most would miss. Then they’d close on him—Cataldo, Dimon, Reice, the corporal—and however many more were out there.
So he kept walking, walking and talking, and he didn’t mention Kraven-Hish mercenaries anymore, even though he could hear them.
He kept glancing back over his shoulder, though there was nothing there, not even his shoulder. Why hadn’t they killed him already? Maybe they needed someone to lead them to Hatch A, or maybe not. It couldn’t last, they’d get him sometime, maybe this afternoon.
Maybe during this footstep—this next tired, tortured footstep—this one. But then that footstep was over, and he was still alive. Maybe during the next one then.
The sun sank low and the sky turned dark.
Or maybe tonight.
The group made camp, and Ball settled down on the ground beneath a rocky overhang to rest and brood. Maybe he should run, slip away in the night. But the group was already marching as fast as he could manage. If they knew the way to Fort Deep, they’d reach it before him and make it theirs. He only had a few days of nutrients left. Running away would mean slow starvation, but that still might be better than this.
Footsteps came toward him across the hillside.
“Ball!” Cataldo’s voice whispered. “Ball, where are you?”
“I’m here,” Ball said softly.
“We’re in trouble. Oh God, we’re in trouble. You were right about them.” Cataldo’s voice paused. “The corporal was asking me stuff today: How close are we to the hatch? What security do I think will meet us? Weird stuff like that. The corporal, he knows all that better than me.” Cataldo’s voice got lower. “And you were right, I think. I can hear it sometimes. Those sounds.”
Was it a trick? Ball sat still in the darkness.
“What are we going to do?” Cataldo’s voice said. “What can we do?”
“I don’t know. Let me think.”
Ball thought hard, but said nothing. Finally, Cataldo’s voice grunted. “I’m going to get the hell out of here.” His footsteps stumbled off down the hillside.
The corporal’s voice said, “Reice. Dimon. Sound off.”
Ball tensed, and waited.
“I’m over here,” called Reice’s voice, and Dimon, too, “Here.” Again, Ball had that unsettling feeling, that feeling they were all off together—Dimon, Reice, the corporal—grouped close together, plotting.
“Ball,” the corporal’s voice shouted. “Where are you?”
Ball didn’t answer. The silence was heavy. Finally, he murmured, “Up here.”
“Where?”
“Under the rock,” Ball said. “Under the ledge.”
“Okay,” The corporal’s voice said. “Cataldo?”
Ball waited.
Again the corporal’s voice: “Cataldo? Sound off.”
Long minutes passed.
Then a sound came from somewhere down the hill, a sound like a spine splintering. A sound like a voice—Cataldo’s voice—cough
ing blood and gurgling it and choking on it. A sound like Cataldo dying. It cut off abruptly.
The corporal’s voice called out once more, “Cataldo.”
A few moments later, Cataldo’s voice answered, calmly, “I’m here.”
Ball shut his eyes very tight and tried not to move or breathe. He wanted to be more invisible—so invisible that no one would ever see him again, or ever hurt him. He wanted to be so invisible that he wasn’t even there anymore. He waited half an hour, then stood slowly. He was afraid to go far, afraid they’d kill him too, but maybe . . .
He crept across smooth stones to a narrow crevice a hundred meters down the hillside. He lay there, curled up tight. He wanted to fall asleep and wake again alive. He wanted for the horrible Kraven-Hish mercenaries not to find his sleeping spot. In the morning he awoke.
His rifle was missing.
Ball traced the invisible cord very, very carefully. It had been cut halfway down. He felt around on the ground. He crawled back and forth. He checked again slowly, methodically, inch-by-inch. It was gone.
So they knew exactly where he was. They were mocking him, mocking his pathetic attempt to hide.
The group started marching again, and Ball trudged along with them, defeated. Tears rose up behind his eyes and spilled down his face and he was too tired to stop them. He was still alive and he didn’t know why and the others were all dead.
Reice had been decent and good. He had never done anything to deserve this.
The corporal had been brave, and had tried so hard.
Dimon had been a shit. But what did that matter, out here?
Cataldo had been too angry, too mean. But Cataldo had kept checking on Sweezy, when no one else bothered. That was something.
And Sweezy. Ball had almost forgotten him. Sweezy had been harmless. It wasn’t fair.
Nearby, Cataldo’s voice said, “Ball. I want to talk to you. About last night.”
“You’re not Cataldo,” Ball said evenly. “Kill me if you want, but don’t lie. Not anymore.”
Cataldo’s voice laughed. “Jesus, Ball. Take it easy.”
“I heard Cataldo die,” Ball said. “I heard it. You killed him.”
“I tripped, Ball. It startled me, and I must have gasped, or something. That’s what you heard.”
Ball didn’t answer.
Cataldo’s voice chuckled. “Come on, Ball. I just tripped. Haven’t you ever tripped before?”
“No,” Ball said. “Never.”
And he waited.
And then Cataldo’s voice said: “Well, good for you. I trip sometimes, all right?”
Ball felt weak and dizzy. He closed his eyes and red shapes swam in the darkness behind his eyelids. A long, low moan rose up from somewhere inside him. He said, “I tripped twelve times the first day, and Cataldo was there. He laughed at me. You’re not him. Don’t lie, don’t say anything. I won’t believe you.”
Cataldo’s voice sighed a long hard sigh.
Ball said, “Get away from me. Get away or I’ll shoot. Even if you are Cataldo, I’ll shoot you.”
Cataldo’s voice said, “Shoot me? Without a rifle.”
“I have a rifle,” Ball lied.
“No,” Cataldo’s voice said. “I’ve got yours. I’m pointing it at you. I could pull the trigger, if you don’t believe me.”
Ball backed away. The invisible cord that had held his rifle dangled from his shoulder. He reached for the buttons on his wrist. “I’ll power down my suit,” he warned. “I’ll do it, and the orbital will kill us all.”
“Go ahead.” Cataldo’s voice was unconcerned. “Power down. It’ll make it easier to shoot you.” He paused. “The last orbital went down an hour ago.”
Ball tried to figure if that was true. It was. He said softly, “You need me to lead you to the hatch.”
“No,” Cataldo’s voice said. “Cataldo told me how to get there. Yesterday, before he died.”
Then it was over. “Why didn’t you kill me? Last night. Whenever.”
It was the corporal’s voice that answered. “That’s a good question, Ball.” There was a pause. “Why don’t cats kill the mice they catch right away?”
Ball shuddered. That voice, the corporal’s proud voice. It wasn’t right that it should say such a thing.
“For fun, Ball,” Dimon’s voice burst out. “That’s the answer. For fun.”
Ball waited. They were all together there, all grouped close, arrayed against him.
Reice’s voice assured him, “Don’t worry though, you won’t be killed.”
Ball tried to picture them: a pack of Kraven-Hish mercenaries, standing deadly before him. He couldn’t do it. It was too awful. He couldn’t even imagine it. “What do you want?”
A new voice came, a terrible voice. It was low, hissing and rasping, sickening. It was groaning and gurgling—it filled his ears—the most horrible, wretched sound. It was so wicked, and so horribly cunning, and it said in a voice that seemed barely living: “I want you to see . . .”
Ball waited, tense. Finally, he said, “What?”
“My face . . .” said the thing. “I want you to see my face. Then I’ll let you go . . .”
Ball saw nightmares in his mind. A dozen filmy tongues, and puckered tentacles, and rows of fleshy spines. A bulging skull and rotted cords of muscle, claws and soft innards everywhere. Or rows and rows of teeth-stuffed gums, an oozing carapace, a mad cavern of cerebrum and heavy vein. Or eyes that bulged wildly, off of tubes like eel bodies.
“I’m worse . . .” said the thing. “Whatever you dream I am, I’m worse. But you want to live. I’m powering down my suit . . .”
Ball closed his eyes.
Gunshots fired in the stillness.
Then a long wait. Darkness, eyes squeezed.
Then Sweezy’s voice. “Ball, where are you? Let’s go.”
Ball kept his eyes shut. “Sweezy?”
“Come on,” Sweezy’s voice said. “Move.”
Ball struggled to understand. “You were gone . . .”
“I wasn’t. I was around. Quiet.”
Ball choked, a relieved sob. “And you got them? The Kraven-Hish mercenaries? You got them all?”
“I got it,” Sweezy’s voice said. “The one. It was all of them—Dimon, Cataldo, Reice, the corporal—all their voices.”
“One?”
“A solitary hunter. Like a cat. Intel was right.”
Ball began to open one eye.
“Don’t look at it,” Sweezy’s voice warned, wavering, uneven. “Just turn around, and let’s go.”
Ball turned away, and opened his eyes.
“Walk,” Sweezy’s voice said. “Until we’re over the rise. Don’t look back.”
They walked. Sweezy’s voice didn’t say anything for a while. When it came, it was very weak. “I wish I hadn’t seen it, Ball. Oh God.” It sounded like he was crying. “I don’t ever want to dream again.”
Hard stones drifted beneath Ball, and he counted paces to keep himself from thinking too much. They went over one rise, and then another. He halted then, and collapsed on the ground. Neither of them said anything for a while.
“I tried to tell the corporal,” Ball said finally, softly. “I tried to tell him. He wouldn’t listen.”
“The corporal was dead the second day. That wasn’t him you were talking to.”
Ball hunched over and held his invisible head in his invisible hands.
“Always take out the leader first,” Sweezy’s voice said. “Basic strategy.”
“The second day?” Ball sat unbelieving. “You knew the second day and you didn’t say anything?”
“It would’ve known about me, that monster, if I had said anything. Then I’d be dead. And so would you.”
“But Reice,” Ball said. “The corporal—”
“I saved you.” Sweezy’s voice was sharp. “I could’ve left you there, or started shooting blind, but I didn’t. I waited for my chance, and I saved us both.”
Ball lay
back against the ground and stared up into the orange-dust sky.
“I’m a good soldier,” Sweezy’s voice said. “I always said I was.”
They walked two more days and halted at the top of a high cliff. Safety waited near, beneath Hatch A, just out of sight beyond the darkening horizon. Night fell. Ball lay awake and thought horrible thoughts.
Like—maybe the monster had known about Sweezy, after all.
Ball hadn’t seen the thing’s body, crumpled and lifeless. He’d closed his eyes. Maybe there’d never been a body, maybe that thing was still alive.
Maybe it was . . .
Ball slowly turned his eyes upon the empty spot where Sweezy lay sleeping.
“Sweezy!” he hissed. “Sweezy, wake up.”
There was silence. Finally, Sweezy’s voice said, “What?”
Ball trembled, he couldn’t help it. “That is you, isn’t it, Sweezy?” His voice was pleading, desperate. “It is really you? It just occurred to me that—”
“Yes, it’s me,” Sweezy’s voice assured him. “Go back to sleep, Ball. Of course it’s me.”
Ball took a deep breath. Yes.
He rolled over and closed his eyes. He tried to relax.
Of course it was Sweezy, he tried to tell himself.
Of course it was.
2003
ALIENS LOVE ORANGES
Sue Burke
Lois made it a point to educate customers at her bar. If the three young ladies occupying bar stools wanted to chat about space aliens, Lois Moody had news for them.
“Those people are aliens,” she said. Lois shielded her hand behind some beer tappers and pointed at a nicely dressed couple near the jukebox. “Go listen to them. They have that alien accent.” She slipped one of the girls a dollar. Jessica winked, slapped a serious expression on her face, and walked purposefully to the jukebox. She lingered long over the selections, returning wide-eyed as a Burt Bacharach song bounced out over the speakers.
“They do talk wrong,” she whispered. “They say ‘aboot’ instead of ‘about’ and ‘proh-gress’ instead of ‘prah-gress.’ It’s like they can’t almost speak English right.”
“That’s how you tell,” Lois said. “Aliens can’t figure out how to say the letter O. Have y’all ever heard a body talk like that?”
