Issue In Doubt

by David Sherman

  Damato and Witek fired into the mass of charging aliens from opposite sides of the pylon, but to little effect.

  “He better get here soon, or we’re screwed,” Witek shouted.

  “We’re screwed.” Damato swore softly. He hadn’t looked in the direction of the Squad Pod, but he knew that Lummus should have reached it and been on the way by then. But he didn’t hear the pod’s engine—he knew it wasn’t coming.

  Downtown Millerton

  Corporal Day was the closest to PFC La Belle. He pulled the wounded Marine away from the door where he’d been shot and grimaced at the blood coming from several holes in his shirt. He glanced at La Belle’s face; it was pale, and his eyes were rolled up—shock was setting in.

  “Stay with me, Jim.” Day wrenched La Belle’s first aid kit from his belt and reached into it for the self-sealing bandages. He tore La Belle’s shirt open and grimaced again when he saw the wounds. Working feverishly, he did his best to cover all of the punctures. Blood welled up around the edges of the bandages. Day guessed at exactly where the holes were, and poked a finger into the bandages in those spots. He got three out of five on the first attempt; the synthetic material of the bandages sank into the wounds and began to do their job, speeding a coagulation agent. By the time Day found the other two holes, blood had stopped welling out and La Belle wasn’t breathing.

  “I told you to stay with me, man!” Day slapped La Belle.

  “Let’s go,” Sergeant Timmerman snapped, gripping Day’s shoulder.

  For the first time since he began tending to La Belle, Day was aware of the sound of gunfire from inside the building; the other Marines had been firing at whoever had shot La Belle.

  “We’re going back to the Squad Pod,” Timmerman said.

  “Right.” Day stood and bent to lift La Belle over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

  “Move it, people!” Timmerman shouted at his squad.

  Lance Corporal Caddy and PFC Ozbourn stopped firing out of the windows and followed Day at a sprint to the rear of the building. Timmerman brought up the rear.

  Outside, they were almost to the Squad Pod before they ran into trouble. Fire erupted from the building they’d just exited, and the one they’d first entered. The first shots were wild and missed. Day reached the pod and dove in, hauling La Belle as far from the hatch as he could get.

  Caddy fell through the hatch, shot in the back of his neck. Day turned back to pull him inside. Then had to reach outside to help Timmerman get Ozbourn, who also was shot, inside. Timmerman suddenly pitched forward with his legs dangling outside the pod. Day dragged him in the rest of the way, then slapped the “close” button to shut the hatch. He crawled over his squad mates to the front of the pod and took the controls.

  It was several minutes later, when the Squad Pod was arrowing to orbital altitude to rendezvous with the Spirit, before Day was able to turn his attention from piloting the pod to checking the other Marines.

  They were all dead.

  How did they spot us?

  Nearing Jordan, East Shapland

  “I have movement, two o’clock, one seventy-five,” Corporal Williams said from the point position.

  “Hold.” Staff Sergeant Harrell’s order held his Marines in place, facing outward, weapons drawn. “Moving where?”

  There was a pause before Williams answered. “Whoever it is seems to have stopped, my motion detector isn’t showing anything now.”

  “I have movement, nine o’clock, one fifty,” Corporal Casamento said a few seconds later. “Approaching at a slow walk.”

  Harrell thought about it: Someone stationary was 175 meters to the right front, someone else 150 meters away was approaching from the left, through the rows of corn rather than between them. They could be aliens, or they might be survivors. For that matter, they could be farm animals, starving or well on the way to turning feral. He checked his own motion detector to see exactly where the object to the left was. He stood. Using his magnifying face shield, he could make out movement in the tops of the corn in the right direction and distance. A cow? A pig? It wasn’t tall enough to show above the stalks. It could be a child.

  “Increase interval,” he ordered. “We’ll take the one coming from the left. Stay alert to everything else. Let me know if you detect anything.” He listened for the string of “Aye ayes” that told him his Marines heard and understood. A barely audible rustling told him his men were shifting their positions from ten meters apart to fifteen.

  In just under two minutes, the approacher reached them. It passed through the last row of corn three meters from Sergeant Gray. It was bent at the hips, its torso parallel to the ground. It had a short snout that gaped open slightly, showing many dagger-like teeth. Feathery structures protruded from the backs of its arms and legs, ran down its long neck and spine, and formed a jutting tail. It wore leather webbing studded with pouches. It was armed.

  Gray and Casamento moved reflexively as soon as they saw it; they dove at the alien to tackle and restrain it. It saw them almost as soon as they saw it, and let out a loud screech as it dropped its weapon and slashed at Gray with talons that hadn’t seemed to be on its hands seconds before. Gray screamed in agony, and fell onto his side, clutching the intestines that boiled out of his abdomen.

  Before the creature could do anything else, Casamento slammed into it, bearing it to the ground. Lance Corporal Jacobson dashed up and jumped over Gray to get to the alien. He grabbed an arm that was swinging at Casamento, talons extended to rip the Marine’s face from his head. The alien was strong, its arm swing sent Jacobson tumbling—but its bones were fragile, and one snapped. It shrieked in pain, and the broken arm flopped.

  Harrell dove in. He grabbed the alien’s head, twisted it and pulled its neck straight so it couldn’t get to Casamento to bite him. Jacobson recovered from his tumble and pinned the alien’s thrashing legs. In an instant, he had a tie-down wrapped around the creature’s lower legs, preventing it from kicking out. Casamento managed to wrestle both of its arms behind its back and bound its wrists. Then he wrapped another tie-down around its muzzle to keep it from biting.

  “The one at two o’clock is running this way,” Williams shouted.

  “Jacobson, check Gray,” Harrell ordered. “Williams, Casamento, get ready.” He checked his motion detector, and drew his sidearm, aiming it in the direction his detector showed the rapidly approaching jinking movement.

  The second alien burst through the last row of corn and staggered to an abrupt stop, shrieking as it saw the other, bound alien.

  And just that fast, the three Marines fired at it.

  Two pistol and one rifle bullet struck it. It reared up, stretching its neck high, mouth wide as though to scream. But only a weak caw came out. The alien toppled to the ground. Harrell put another bullet in the thing’s head.

  “I want its weapon and gear,” the squad leader said. “Be careful, it might have post mortem spasms.” Then to Jacobson: “How’s Gray?”

  “I think he’s dead.” Jacobson’s voice was thick.

  Harrell knelt next to his assistant squad leader. Blood flowed slowly around the loops of intestine that had fallen through the deep gashes in Gray’s belly. His eyes were open and glazed. Harrell checked for breathing and a pulse and found neither. He sighed.

  “Put bandages on him to seal his gut,” he told Jacobson. “Then we gotta get out of here.” He looked at the alien that was now bound with more tie-downs, the alien that had killed a friend of his. “Bring the prisoner,” he said, gritting his teeth. He didn’t say he’d rather kill the monster. But he thought it. He didn’t need to say to bring Gray’s body; that was automatic.

  Aboard the NAUS Monticello, Leaving Troy Space

  The Force Recon mission was a disaster. Eight squads, forty highly skilled Marines, had made planetfall. Close to thirty of them had died. Two squads had been completely wiped out, and their bodies not recovered. Most of the other squads only had one or two survivors; all except one squad
that had a survivor had managed to bring back their dead. Only fifth squad had lost but one Marine. The mission would have been a failure as well as a disaster if fifth squad hadn’t captured one of the aliens.

  Who were these aliens?

  Chapter Three

  The War Room, Supreme Military Headquarters, Bellevue, Sarpy County, Federal Zone, NAU

  Secretary of War Hobson’s eyes swept the room as he strode in. Everyone he had called for was already gathered around the conference table: Chairman Welborn and Major General de Castro, as well as Army Chief of Staff General John C. Robinson, Chief of Naval Operations Admiral James J. Madison, Commandant of the Marine Corps General Ralph Talbot, Force Recon Commander Colonel Aquilla J. Dyess. Simultaneously least and not nearly least on the military side was Staff Sergeant Harrell, whose squad had captured the alien on Troy.

  The civilian contingent was much smaller: Secretary of State Walker sat to Hobson’s right. Next to her was Secretary of Extraterrestrial Affairs Orlando E. Caruana. Jacob F. Raub represented both the medical and exobiology communities. Special Assistant to the President Ignatz Gresser rounded out the gathering.

  Harrell was the only one who rose to his feet when Hobson entered.

  “Seats!” Hobson barked.

  Harrell dropped into his chair at the foot of the table and sat at attention, looking nervously down its length at the Secretary of War. He was comfortable enough with the flag officers, but found the high-ranking civilians intimidating.

  “Before we begin,” Hobson said in a gravelly voice, “I want you all to understand that everything said here is classified Top Secret, and is not to be discussed with anybody not here without specific permission from me or the President. Violation of that will land you in a federal prison so fast your head won’t have time to spin. If any of you don’t find that acceptable, you can leave now and submit your resignation.” He stopped to fix the civilians with a glare. “By authorization of the President, that applies to you as well.”

  The civilians looked shocked, and Walker opened her mouth to protest.

  Ignatz Gresser’s adam’s apple bobbed as he cleared his throat to interrupt her, and said, “That is what the President said, Mary. He told me himself right before I left the Prairie Palace to come here.”

  “He can’t do that!” Caruana of Extraterrestrial Affairs objected. His normally fair complexion seemed to turn whiter. “That’s not—”

  “He most certainly can,” Hobson cut him off. “He’s invoked the Alien Threat clause of the War Powers Act. To refresh your memories in case it’s slipped your minds, basically what that means is that Albert Leopold Mills can do just about anything he pleases so long as it has something to do with the alien threat.”

  “But...” Walker objected weakly, her fingers fluttering at her throat. She shook her head and said more firmly, “I’ll take this up with the President when I see him next.”

  “You do that,” Hobson told her. To the group; “Does anybody want to resign?”

  They all shook their heads, murmured negatives.

  “Good, the President and I would hate to lose any of you.” He neither looked nor sounded relieved. “Now to the business of this meeting.” He turned to the sole enlisted Marine in the room.

  “Staff Sergeant, I’ve already heard about it from the Commandant and J2, as I imagine everybody else here has. Now I want to hear about it from a man who was there. What the hell happened on Troy? How did more than two dozen Force Recon Marines get killed on one quick in-and-out mission?” He didn’t sound angry, just baffled.

  Harrell cleared his throat, then spoke in a firm voice befitting a Marine non-commissioned officer. “Sir, it was like they were expecting us. They hit us from ambush, except for my squad...”

  The basic telling only took a few minutes, then the questions began. Hobson was the first.

  “Have you seen the after-action reports from the other squads?”

  “Yes, sir. And I’ve talked to the other survivors.”

  “All of them?” Robinson asked, incredulously.

  “Yes, sir. Every one of them.” Harrell repressed a shudder at how few of the Force Marines had survived what should have been a simple in-and-out.

  “And you didn’t see any people?” Walker wanted to know. “Any of the citizens of Troy?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ah, I mean no, ma’am. We didn’t see any people.”

  “You’re absolutely positive that you didn’t see any people?”

  Harrell looked at her sharply, but his voice was level when he answered. “Ma’am, neither I nor any of the other sur—” He paused to swallow. “Any of the other Marines saw any people.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “We didn’t see any body parts, either. Although we did find old marks that were probably blood stains.” He was gratified to see the Secretary of State flinch—he’d been offended that she’d seemed to doubt his word.

  “What about alien corpses?” Welborn asked.

  “Sir, the only aliens we saw were alive. Except for the ones we killed,” he finished harshly.

  “Different topic.” Madison’s fleshy cheeks and jowls testified to the many years he’d spent skippering a desk. “What did you see of enemy aircraft or space vehicles?”

  “Sir, you’d have to ask Commander Schonland about spacecraft. On the ground, we didn’t see any aircraft.” Harrell saw a question in the eyes of a couple of the civilians, and added, “The captain of the Monticello.”

  “I know who Schonland is,” Madison growled.

  “I know you do, sir. I wasn’t telling you.”

  A corner of Talbot’s mouth twitched, as close as he’d allow himself to a smile at how smoothly the Marine staff sergeant put that overbearing squid in his place. Talbot looked every bit the former recruiting poster Marine he had been.

  Madison glared at Harrell, but went stone-faced when his eyes flicked to Talbot and he recognized that he wasn’t going to get any satisfaction from the Marines over that enlisted man’s impertinence.

  Neither Madison’s question nor Harrell’s answer meant anything at this point; Schonland had already been debriefed by Hobson and the Joint Chiefs. There had been no sign of spacecraft—or atmospheric craft either—in Troy’s space. So far as the Monticello’s sensors could tell, Troy was a dead world, not home to any sentient life, and its space was empty of anything not to be found in any similarly lifeless planetary system.

  “Did you see any structures?” Raub, the exobiology representative, asked Harrell. “I mean alien structures, that is.”

  “No, sir. Only what was left of the human structures built by the colonists. Damage ranged from severe all the way to totally demolished.”

  “And you’re speaking for all the survivors when you say that?”

  “Yes, sir. Force Recon Marines take careful note of our surroundings. Nobody saw anything that wasn’t obviously human-construction. We have the vids from all eight squads. None of them show anything that could be an alien structure.”

  “So where did the aliens that attacked you come from?” Raub’s Ichabod Crane-like face jutted forward on his thin neck, obviously hoping for something that would give him a clue about the aliens. “Did they have any, what do you call them, dug-in fighting positions?”

  “Sir, every alien any of us saw was on his feet and running at us.” Harrell shook his head in wonderment. “We have no idea where they came from. None of our detectors picked them up, either, until right before they attacked.” He held up his hand. “Excuse me, sir. There were two snipers that fired from inside human buildings. Otherwise, all of them that we saw were in the open.”

  Raub shook his head, but in disappointment rather than disbelief.

  De Castro cleared his throat and asked, “Your squad was the only one that was able to secure any alien artifacts and bring them back?”

  “That’s right, sir.” Harrell took a deep breath to quell the tremble that suddenly threatened to overcome him. “The others had to withdraw under heavy fire
.” He hung his head for a brief moment, then continued in a strong voice. “The only other Marines who got close enough to an alien to get their weapons or equipment died in hand-to-hand combat.”

  De Castro nodded in sympathy. “I understand, Sergeant—Staff Sergeant.” He corrected himself, remembering that to Marines a “sergeant” had three stripes and no rockers, a sergeant with a rocker under his chevrons was properly addressed as “Staff Sergeant.” “You have my most profound sympathy.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Secretary Hobson looked around the room. “Does anybody else have any questions?”

  In murmur or strong voice, they all answered, “No.”

  “Then you are dismissed, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” Harrell stood, came to attention, said, “Thank you sirs, ma’am,” and marched out of the room.

  Hobson looked at Colonel Dyess and nodded—the Force Recon commander wouldn’t be needed for the rest of the meeting, either.

  Dyess stood. “Thank you, sirs and ma’am.” He followed Harrell out.

  When the door closed behind the two Marines, Hobson turned to Raub. “What do we know about the aliens, and what were you able to learn from the items that brave Marine brought back?”

  Jacob Raub, the NAU’s top expert on extraterrestrial lifeforms, made a face. “Not a lot. At least not much of interest to anybody who isn’t an exobiologist. The harness is made from leather from an animal that we can’t identify, although we’re fairly certain it’s native to the aliens’ homeworld.”

  “What about the weapons?” Commandant Talbot interrupted.

  Leave it to a Marine to want to know about small arms right off, Madison silently groused.