War Dogs: Ares Rising

by Greg Bear

I fired my plasma rifle. The first shot exploded the xeno’s chest, but it kept coming. The second shot connected with one of the bladed forearms, blowing the limb clean off. Then Blake and Kaminski were firing too—and the corridor was alight with brilliant plasma pulses. The creature collapsed into an incandescent mess.

  “You like that much, Olsen?” Kaminski asked. “They’re pretty friendly for a species that we’re supposed to be at peace with.”

  At some point during the attack, Olsen had collapsed to his knees. He sat there for a second, looking down at his gloved hands. His eyes were haunted, his heavy jowls suddenly much older. He shook his head, stumbling to his feet. From the safety of a laboratory, it was easy to think of the Krell as another intelligent species, just made in the image of a different god. But seeing them up close, and witnessing their innate need to extinguish the human race, showed them for what they really were.

  “This is a live situation now, troopers. Keep together and do this by the drill. Haven is awake.”

  “Solid copy,” Kaminski muttered.

  “We move to secondary objective. Once the generator has been tagged, we retreat down the primary corridor to the APS. Now double-time it and move out.”

  There was no pause to relay our contact with Jenkins and Martinez. The Krell had a unique ability to sense radio transmissions, even encrypted communications like those we used on the suits, and now that the Collective had awoken all comms were locked down.

  As I started off, I activated the wrist-mounted computer incorporated into my suit. Ah, shit. The starship corridors brimmed with motion and bio-signs. The place became swathed in shadow and death—every pool of blackness a possible Krell nest.

  MISSION TIMELINE: TWELVE minutes.

  We reached the quantum-drive chamber. The huge reinforced doors were emblazoned with warning signs and a red emergency light flashed overhead.

  The floor exploded as three more Krell appeared—all chitin shells and claws. Blake went down first, the largest of the Krell dragging him into a service tunnel. He brought his rifle up to fire, but there was too little room for him to manoeuvre in a full combat-suit, and he couldn’t bring the weapon to bear.

  “Hold on, Kid!” I hollered, firing at the advancing Krell, trying to get him free.

  The other two xenos clambered over him in desperation to get to me. I kicked at several of them, reaching a hand into the mass of bodies to try to grapple Blake. He lost his rifle, and let rip an agonised shout as the creatures dragged him down. It was no good—he was either dead now, or he would be soon. Even in his reinforced ablative plate, those things would take him apart. I lost the grip on his hand just as the other Krell broke free of the tunnel mouth.

  “Blake’s down!” I yelled. “ ’Ski—grenade.”

  “Solid copy—on it.”

  Kaminski armed an incendiary grenade and tossed it into the nest. The grenade skittered down the tunnel, flashing an amber warning-strobe as it went. In the split second before it went off, as I brought my M95 up to fire, I saw that the tunnel was now filled with xenos. Many, many more than we could hope to kill with just our squad.

  “Be careful—you could blow a hole in the hull with those explosives!” Olsen wailed.

  Holing the hull was the least of my worries. The grenade went off, sending Krell in every direction. I turned away from the blast at the last moment, and felt hot shrapnel penetrate my combat-armour, frag lodging itself in my lower back. The suit compensated for the wall of white noise, momentarily dampening my audio.

  The M95 auto-sighted prone Krell and I fired without even thinking. Pulse after pulse went into the tunnel, splitting armoured heads and tearing off clawed limbs. Blake was down there, somewhere amongst the tangle of bodies and debris; but it took a good few seconds before my suit informed me that his bio-signs had finally extinguished.

  Good journey, Blake.

  Kaminski moved behind me. His technical kit was already hooked up to the drive chamber access terminal, running code-cracking algorithms to get us in.

  The rest of the team jogged into view. More Krell were now clambering out of the hole in the floor. Martinez and Jenkins added their own rifles to the volley, and assembled outside the drive chamber.

  “Glad you could finally make it. Not exactly going to plan down here.”

  “Yeah, well, we met some friends on the way,” Jenkins muttered.

  “We lost the Kid,” I said. “Blake’s gone.”

  “Ah, fuck it,” Jenkins said, shaking her head. She and Blake were close, but she didn’t dwell on his death. No time for grieving, the expression on her face said, because we might be next.

  The access doors creaked open. There was another set of double-doors inside; endorsed QUANTUM DRIVE CHAMBER—AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  A calm electronic voice began a looped message: “Warning. Warning. Breach doors to drive chamber are now open. This presents an extreme radiation hazard. Warning. Warning.”

  A second too late, my suit bio-sensors began to trill, detecting massive radiation levels. I couldn’t let it concern me. Radiation on an op like this was always a danger, but being killed by the Krell was a more immediate risk. I rattled off a few shots into the shadows, and heard the impact against hard chitin. The things screamed, their voices creating a discordant racket with the alarm system.

  Kaminski cracked the inner door, and he and Martinez moved inside. I laid down suppressing fire with Jenkins, falling back slowly as the things tested our defences. It was difficult to make much out in the intermittent light: flashes of a claw, an alien head, then the explosion of plasma as another went down. My suit counted ten, twenty, thirty targets.

  “Into the airlock!” Kaminski shouted, and we were all suddenly inside, drenched in sweat and blood.

  The drive chamber housed the most complex piece of technology on the ship—the energy core. Once, this might’ve been called the engine room. Now, the device contained within the chamber was so far advanced that it was no longer mechanical. The drive energy core sat in the centre of the room, an ugly-looking metal box, so big that it filled the place, adorned with even more warning signs. This was our objective.

  Olsen stole a glance at the chamber, but stuck close to me as we assembled around the machine. Kaminski paused at the control terminal near the door, and sealed the inner lock. Despite the reinforced metal doors, the squealing and shrieking of the Krell was still audible. I knew that they would be through those doors in less than a minute. Then there was the scuttling and scraping overhead. The chamber was supposed to be secure, but these things had probably been on-ship for long enough to know every access corridor and every room. They had the advantage.

  They’ll find a way in here soon enough, I thought. A mental image of the dead merchant captain—still strapped to his seat back on the bridge—suddenly came to mind.

  The possibility that I would die out here abruptly dawned on me. The thought triggered a burst of anger—not directed at the Alliance military for sending us out here, nor at the idiot colonists who had flown their ship into the Quarantine Zone, but at the Krell.

  My suit didn’t take any medical action to compensate for that emotion. Anger is good. It was pure and made me focused.

  “Jenkins—set the charges.”

  “Affirmative, Captain.”

  Jenkins moved to the drive core and began unpacking her kit. She carried three demolition packs. Each of the big metal discs had a separate control panel, and was packed with a low-yield nuclear charge.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” Olsen stammered.

  Jenkins kept working, but shook her head with a smile. “We’re going to destroy the generator. You should have read the mission briefing. That was your first mistake.”

  “Forgetting to bring a gun was his second,” Kaminski added.

  “We’re going to set these charges off,” Jenkins muttered, “and the resulting explosion will breach the Q-drive energy core. That’ll take out the main deck. The chain reaction will destroy the ship
.”

  “In short: gran explosión,” said Martinez.

  Kaminski laughed. “There you go again. You know I hate it when you don’t speak Standard. Martinez always does this—he gets all excited and starts speaking funny.”

  “El no habla la lengua,” I said. You don’t grow up in the Detroit Metro without picking up some of the lingo.

  “It’s Spanish,” Martinez replied, shooting Kaminski a sideways glance.

  “I thought that you were from Venus?” Kaminski said.

  Olsen whimpered again. “How can you laugh at a time like this?”

  “Because Kaminski is an asshole,” Martinez said, without missing a beat.

  Kaminski shrugged. “It’s war.”

  Thump. Thump.

  “Give us enough time to fall back to the APS,” I ordered. “Set the charges with a five-minute delay. The rest of you—cállate y trabaja.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  They were nearly through now. Welts appeared in the metal door panels.

  Jenkins programmed each charge in turn, using magnetic locks to hold them in place on the core outer shielding. Two of the charges were already primed, and she was working on the third. She positioned the charges very deliberately, very carefully, to ensure that each would do maximum damage to the core. If one charge didn’t light, then the others would act as a fail-safe. There was probably a more technical way of doing this—perhaps hacking the Q-drive directly—but that would take time, and right now that was the one thing that we didn’t have.

  “Precise as ever,” I said to Jenkins.

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Feel free to cut some corners; we’re on a tight timescale,” Kaminski shouted.

  “Fuck you, ’Ski.”

  “Is five minutes going to be enough?” Olsen asked.

  I shrugged. “It will have to be. Be prepared for heavy resistance en route, people.”

  My suit indicated that the Krell were all over the main corridor. They would be in the APS by now, probably waiting for us to fall back.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  “Once the charges are in place, I want a defensive perimeter around that door,” I ordered.

  “This can’t be rushed.”

  The scraping of claws on metal, from above, was becoming intense. I wondered which defence would be the first to give: whether the Krell would come in through the ceiling or the door.

  Kaminski looked back at Jenkins expectantly. Olsen just stood there, his breathing so hard that I could hear him over the communicator.

  “… and done!”

  The third charge snapped into place. Jenkins was up, with Martinez, and Kaminski was ready at the data terminal. There was noise all around us now, signals swarming on our position. I had no time to dictate a proper strategy for our retreat.

  “Jenkins—put down a barrier with your torch. Kaminski—on my mark…”

  I dropped my hand, and the doors started to open. The mechanism buckled and groaned in protest. Immediately, the Krell grappled with the door, slamming into the metal frame to get through.

  Stinger-spines—fléchette rounds, the Krell equivalent of armour-piercing ammo—showered the room. Three of them punctured my suit; a neat line of black spines protruding from my chest, weeping streamers of blood. Krell tech is so much more fucked-up than ours. The spines were poison-tipped and my body was immediately pumped with enough toxins to kill a bull. My suit futilely attempted to compensate by issuing a cocktail of adrenaline and antivenom.

  Martinez flipped another grenade into the horde. The nearest creatures folded over it as it landed, shielding their kin from the explosion. Mindless fuckers.

  We advanced in formation. Shot after shot poured into the things, but they kept coming. Wave after wave—how many were there on this ship?—thundered into the drive chamber. The doors were suddenly gone. The noise was unbearable—the klaxon, the warnings, a chorus of screams, shrieks and wails. The ringing in my ears didn’t stop as more grenades exploded.

  “We’re not going to make this!” Jenkins yelled.

  “Stay on it! The APS is just ahead!”

  Maybe Jenkins was right, but I wasn’t going down without a damned good fight. Somewhere in the chaos, Martinez was torn apart. His body disappeared underneath a mass of them. Jenkins poured on her flamethrower—avenging Martinez in some absurd way. Olsen was crying, his helmet now discarded just like the rest of us.

  War is such an equaliser.

  I grabbed the nearest Krell with one hand and snapped it’s neck. I fired my plasma rifle on full-auto with the other, just eager to take down as many of them as I could. My HUD suddenly issued another warning—a counter, interminably in decline.

  Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven…

  Then Jenkins was gone. Her flamer was a beacon and her own blood a fountain amongst the alien bodies. It was difficult to focus on much except for the pain in my chest. My suit reported catastrophic damage in too many places. My heart began a slower, staccato beat.

  Six… Five… Four…

  My rifle bucked in protest. Even through reinforced gloves, the barrel was burning hot.

  Three… Two… One…

  THE DEMO-CHARGES activated.

  Breached, the antimatter core destabilised. The reaction was instantaneous: uncontrolled white and blue energy spilled out. A series of explosions rippled along the ship’s spine. She became a white-hot smudge across the blackness of space.

  Then she was gone, along with everything inside her.

  The Krell did not pause.

  They did not even comprehend what had happened.

  PFC MICHAEL BLAKE: DECEASED…

  PFC ELLIOT MARTINEZ: DECEASED…

  PFC VINCENT KAMINSKI (ELECTRONICS TECH, FIRST GRADE): DECEASED…

  SCIENCE OFFICER GORDEN OLSEN: DECEASED…

  CORPORAL KEIRA JENKINS (EXPLOSIVES TECH, FIRST GRADE): DECEASED…

  WAITING FOR RESPONSE… WAITING FOR RESPONSE… WAITING FOR RESPONSE…

  CAPTAIN CONRAD HARRIS: DECEASED…

  This was the part I disliked most.

  Waking up again was always worse than dying.

  I floated inside my simulator-tank—a respirator mask attached to my face—and blinked amniotic fluid from my eyes to read the screen more clearly. The soak stung like a bitch. The words scrolled across a monitor positioned above my tank. Everything was cast a clear, brilliant blue by the liquid filling my simulator.

  PURGE CYCLE COMMENCED…

  The tank made a hydraulic hissing, and the fluid began to slough out. It was already cooling.

  I was instantly smaller and yet heavier. Breathing was a labour. These lungs didn’t have the capacity of a simulant’s, and I knew that it would take a few minutes to get used to them again. I caught the reflection on the inside of the plasglass cover, and didn’t immediately recognise it as my reflection. That was the face I had been born with, and this was the body I had lived inside for forty years. I was naked, jacked directly into the simulator. Cables were plugged into the base of the device, allowing me to control my simulant out there in the depths of space. My biorhythms, and those of the rest of my squad, appeared on the same monitor.

  All alive and accounted for. Everyone made safe transition.

  I had been operating a flesh-and-blood simulation of myself, manufactured from my body tissue. These were called simulants: simulated copies, genetically engineered to be stronger, bigger, faster. Based on the human genome, but accelerated and modified, the sims were the ultimate weapon—more human than human in every sense. Vat-grown, designed for a purpose. Now, my simulant was dead. It had died on the New Haven. I was alive.

  Also by GREG BEAR

  Hegira

  Beyond Heaven’s River

  Psychlone

  Strength of Stones

  The Wind from a Burning Woman (collection)

  Songs of Earth and Power

  Blood Music

  Eon

 
The Forge of God Tangents (collection)

  Sleepside Story Queen of Angels Eternity

  Anvil of Stars Bear’s Fantasies Heads

  Moving Mars

  New Legends (anthology)

  Dinosaur Summer Foundation and Chaos Slant

  Darwin’s Radio Collected Stories of Greg Bear Vitals

  Darwin’s Children Dead Lines Quantico

  City at the End of Time

  Mariposa

  Hull Zero Three

  The Forerunner Trilogy

  War Dogs

  Killing Titan

  Praise for Greg Bear

  “Bear is one of our greatest science fiction writers.”

  —Vernor Vinge

  “Bear remains in the forefront of speculative SF, displaying a genius for portraying the excitement of hard science through the struggles of his all-too-human characters.”

  —Library Journal

  “Bear is one of our very best, and most innovative, speculative writers.”

  —New York Daily News

  “A writer for anyone concerned with the human condition.”

  —Seattle Post-Intelligencer

  “If anyone is the complete master of the grand-scale SF novel, it’s Bear.”

  —Booklist

  Praise for Hull Zero Three

  “Greg Bear’s voice is a resonant, clear chord of quality binding some of the best SF of the twentieth century to the short list of science-savvy, sophisticated, top-notch speculative fiction of the twenty-first. More than a grace note, Hull Zero Three is a compelling allegro in the growing symphony of Greg Bear’s finest work.”

  —Dan Simmons

  “Not for those who prefer their space opera simple-minded, this beautifully written tale where nothing is as it seems will please readers with a well-developed sense of wonder.”

  —Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)

  “Hull Zero Three is a lean, mean, supercharged sense-of-wonder engine.”

  —Alastair Reynolds

  “Hull Zero Three is a grand adventure of scientific discovery in the tradition of Orphans of the Sky and Rendezvous with Rama—by turns chilling and touching, it poses challenging questions about what it means to be human.”