by David Hardy
He fired one, aiming at the laser on the crest of the hopper. If possible, he wanted to keep the man operating the hopper alive for interrogation.
Before the missile reached its target, the laser raked across Butler’s chest. Butler’s scream seemed to go on forever, although it was probably only a few seconds. Time slowed down. Marshall’s scream joined with Butler’s, forming a duet of agony and rage.
Marshall’s missile skimmed across the top of the hopper, a direct hit on the laser. The impact spun the hopper around but didn’t disable it. The rockets fired. Somehow the soldier operating the hopper managed to control his descent and land facing Marshall.
Marshall fired again. This time his missile hit the hopper in the right knee. The detonation shattered the joint. The hopper slowly crumbled in the low gravity.
The sound of voices penetrated Marshall’s awareness. Romanova and Montoya. He looked up to see the lieutenants fire missiles at the second hopper. It had definitely been damaged by the explosion of the Pershing. The left arm hung useless at its side. Both missiles hit the hopper, one in the knee. The other hit the foot. The impact detonated the rocket fuel. That explosion propelled the hopper into and partially through the side of the dome behind it. Marshall doubted the operator survived.
He turned his attention back to the operator of the hopper he’d disabled. The operator was trying to release himself from the harness, a task complicated by the fact he was facing the ground.
Romanova landed next to him. Of the four of them, she had always the most proficient with her rockets. Montoya was heading towards the dome to confirm the other soldier was no longer a threat.
“Keep an eye on this guy while I check on Butler,” Marshall said.
“Roger that.”
Marshall fired his rockets, but his landing wasn’t as smooth as Romanova’s. He landed a couple of paces from Butler and nearly overshot him as he moved towards the injured man. A gash crossed most of Butler’s chest. Frost formed on it as the water vapor froze in the escaping air. Frost was also forming on inside of Butler’s faceplate. Not all of the frost was white; some of it was red.
He switched his radio so that he and Butler were on a private channel.
“Travis? Travis, can you hear me?”
“Yeah. Tell Susan I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m going to make it to the wedding.”
“Tell her yourself. We’re going to get you taken care of.” Marshall began trying to apply patches to the gash in Butler’s suit.
“Don’t bother.” Butler coughed, and more red mist froze on his faceplate. “The laser missed my heart but got me in both lungs. Drowning in my own blood. I’m not long. Tell Susan I love her and that I’m sorry…I’m sorry we’re not—”
Butler coughed again. When he resumed speaking, his voice was much weaker.
“I’m sorry we’re not going to be able to grow old together.”
The last word was barely more than a whisper.
Marshall didn’t need the suit’s telemetry to tell him that Butler would never become his brother-in-law.
○●○
Marshall Tolliver IV looked up at the three story tall statue of his ancestor Lance Tolliver in the plaza in front of the Planetary Defense Headquarters and drew in a lungful of the icy air.
The statue was carved from dark grey granite. The frost gave it a two-toned appearance that Marshall found pleasing. He’d always wanted to live up to his ancestor’s record of heroism. It looked like he might be about to get his chance.
“You wanted to see us, Major?”
Marshall turned to greet Captain Luis Montoya and Captain Serina Romanova.
“Yes. I hope you two don’t have plans for the weekend.”
“Nothing that can’t wait. But the weekend is still three days away. What’s up?”
Marshall turned and began walking across the plaza, taking care not to slip on any icy patches. The breeze brought the hint of more snow with it, and he wanted to launch before any coming precipitation hit.
“We’ve been given our next assignment, and it’s a doozy.”
“What, are we going to run a sneak attack on Earth?”
Marshall grinned, and it wasn’t a pleasant grin.
“Not exactly, but since you bring it up…”
About the Author – Keith West
Keith West has been a fan of the science fiction, fantasy, mystery, horror, and historical adventure genres for more years than he's willing to admit. By day he teaches impressionable young people his bad habits (of which there are many) and by night he tells lies for fun and profit (more fun than profit). He commits dayjobbery in the field of Physics where in addition to teaching he occasionally writes cross genre documents known as grant proposals, consisting of science fiction (the proposal), fantasy (the budget), and horror (the reviewers' comments). He and his wife make their home in West Texas with their son (adopted from Kazakhstan) and two dogs (adopted from the animal shelter). He denies having an addiction to using parentheses. Keith can be found online at www.adventuresfantastic.com.
A Hamal in Hollywood
Martin L. Shoemaker
The sirens didn’t disturb Lucine Zakaryan as she snipped at Mr. Eddie’s curly gray locks. Sirens in Hollywood were almost as common as Spider-Man players, nothing for her to take note. She had enough to worry about with her salon. Her salon, after all these years. It wasn’t much, just three black vinyl chairs plus a wash stand, but it was all hers. Anya and Julia were gone for the night, and as soon as Lucine was done with Mr. Eddie she could leave as well. So she didn’t worry about what was out on Sunset Boulevard.
But when the flashers and spotlights speared through the posters and signs on her shop’s front window and splashed across her ceiling and walls, she knew the chase was coming to this strip mall. In the nineteen years she had lived in Los Angeles, Lucine had seen chases and arrests and crimes. She had even seen the Dahan ship on the night that they arrived. She knew that violence was never far away – farther here in America than in Armenia, perhaps, but still near. And the door...
Lucine had the door open to let in the cool twilight air.
When she was just a little girl, Lucine’s hayr had taught her: when danger is near, move today, wait tomorrow. “Mr. Eddie,” she said, tearing the smock from his shoulders, “I’m sorry, I cut your hair tomorrow. No charge. We do not want to be in this.” Mr. Eddie nodded, his eyes wide and white, his dark face turned ashen. “You go out the back door. The alley will take you out to La Brea.” Mr. Eddie nodded again and ran to the back door.
Lucine didn’t wait to see him leave. She was older than when she had arrived in America, and at least twenty kilos heavier (well, maybe thirty), but she could still move fast in an emergency. And this was one. She brushed her straight blonde hair out of her face to see better and ran to lock the door.
But before Lucine could lift the doorstop, a large man barreled through the door. Lucine caught only a brief flash of jeans and a gray shirt before he ran into her. Despite Lucine outweighing him, his speed gave him strength to push her back, knocking her to the white tile floor. “Sorry,” he said, even as she fell; but then as she hit the ground, he missed his step, kicking her in her left side with his left foot. It didn’t seem intentional, but it hurt like hell. And then he tripped and fell directly on top of Lucine, his right knee landing in her stomach.
“Owf!” Lucine shouted, half from pain and half from loss of wind. The man rolled into the salon, trapping and crushing Lucine’s hand before he freed himself from her. He tried to regain his footing, slipped twice on the polished tile (Lucine always kept the floors spotless), and finally grabbed the check-in station to pull himself upright. He ran for the back door just as Mr. Eddie had.
And then Lucine felt something behind her. Or maybe its shadow tipped her off, but somehow she knew something was in the doorway. Still on the floor, she turned and looked up.
There, looming over her, was a giant, hairy shape. With the police lights behin
d it, Lucine could not make out any details, just two legs, two long arms, and a short, broad head. Her mind flashed back to stories her tatik had told of the great beast, the piatek: a wild creature with strong claws and a giant beak which would rend bad little girls into gobbets. The creatures had haunted her nightmares, crawling forth from an unnamed, unknown island, and she often woke up screaming until hayr had promised that there were no piateks, and he would always keep her safe because she was his little girl.
But now, sprawled on the floor amid the sirens and the confusion, Lucine could believe in monsters from a lost island.
Then the creature leaped over her and into the salon, and she saw that it was no piatek, but something perhaps worse because it was real. It was a hamal, one of the silent servants of the Dahans. It was a white and gray tower of patchy fur, half again as tall as a tall man if it stood upright; but it crouched in a fashion that made it look now like an ape, now like a great cat rising up to sniff the air. But its face was neither ape nor cat nor anything from Earth: big black eyes set too wide and almost on a level with its mouth, no nose or snout, and a mouth rimmed with hard red ridges that flexed in and out. The face turned down toward Lucine, and despite herself she winced and held her hands before her face.
Then the creature made a wheezing sound and turned toward the back of the salon. The man in the gray shirt leaned against the back wall, favoring his left leg. His dark, curly hair was matted with sweat. His skin was light brown, almost the color of his eyes, but flushed with exertion. And those eyes... They looked into the hamal’s, and they shone with moisture.
The man’s left arm held him up against the wall as his right dug into his jeans pocket. Lucine looked away, sure that the man was drawing a weapon and just as sure that the hamal would tear his arm off before he drew.
But when there was no sound of slaughter, Lucine looked back. The man reached his hand out. In his fingers he held a large bronze coin. “Hamal...” he said, panting. “Please...”
The... monster... The hamal stood as if mesmerized by the coin. It raised one massive arm, and Lucine saw that instead of piatek claws, its arm ended in a large, pulsing bulb. The bulb stiffened and expanded into a cone nearly a foot across, and the cone stretched out toward the man’s hand.
Lucine wasn’t sure what would happen if the two touched, and she didn’t get to find out. More sound came from the doorway, this time a loud, low hum. She turned around, and an angel stood in the door.
It wasn’t really an angel, of course. Lucine had seen the Dahans on TV, so she knew they were aliens who had discovered Earth and had landed to... Well, she didn’t really understand why they had landed. The news was full of diplomatic this and trade that; but Lucine had seen enough news shows to know when they were full of kak. Even when she was young and the Soviets ruled Armenia, she could see through the news, and she’d grown wiser (and wider) with age. The government might know why the Dahans were here, but the news people didn’t.
But this Dahan, like the ones on TV, looked like an angel. Lucine did not know why creatures from some other planet should look like humans, especially such beautiful humans. They should look wrong to the eye, like the hamals, but the only thing wrong about them was they looked so perfect. Julia said they must have the best plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. This Dahan was tall, muscular, and male (assuming they had male and female, Lucine wasn’t sure). His skin was pale, almost Nordic, and his hair was a white-gold shade that made Lucine’s own look shabby despite the expert dye job she sported.
The Dahan stood on a floating platform like a large silver serving tray. A white glow rose from the tray and surrounded him like a shroud of light, adding to his angelic look. He floated into the salon. Then he raised one hand, pointing to the hamal, and the glow flowed outward as if it had to contain the Dahan without touching him. He shouted something in a language unlike any Lucine had ever heard.
Lucine turned again to the pair in the back of the salon. The hamal’s cone collapsed into a loose, pulsing bulb once more. It raised its arm, smashing it down upon the man’s hand. The man screamed in pain while the coin flew away, clinked off the wash stand, fell to the shiny white tile, and rolled to the back of the shop.
The Dahan spoke again, and the hamal advanced on the man. It raised both arms, and two bulbs flared out into cones, then wrapped themselves around the man’s arms and stiffened into strong bands that gripped the biceps. The hamal lifted the man from the floor. Lucine thought he should have been afraid, but his face showed... resignation? He said something, but she couldn’t hear it over the sirens.
Mercifully, the sirens stopped then just as a short African-American LAPD officer stepped into the salon and shouted, “Halt!”
The hamal stood motionless. The officer stepped aside, letting two more enter behind him as he knelt down. “Sergeant Briggs, ma’am, LAPD. Are you all right?”
Lucine probed at her side and her stomach. She was sore, but it was fading. “I am all right, Sergeant. Just...” She looked around, and she wasn’t sure how to finish.
“I understand, ma’am. Logan, Tyler, help the lady up.” The two junior officers helped Lucine to her feet as Briggs rose and turned to the Dahan. “Tell your creature to put him down.”
The Dahan answered in English, “The human is unharmed, but I will not permit him to escape. We must interrogate him and search him.”
Briggs shook his head. “My captain tells me that the feds tell her that we have to help you collect your stolen item – which would be easier if you told us what it is – but that doesn’t mean you can assault American citizens.”
“I believe diplomatic immunity says I can.” The Dahan smiled. That disturbed Lucine: for the first time, he looked alien. That mouth wasn’t made to smile.
“Fuck diplomatic immunity.” Briggs’s hand hovered near his holster, and Tyler and Logan moved quietly away to cover him. “Just because I can’t arrest you doesn’t mean I can’t stop you. Put. Him. Down.”
The Dahan spoke again in its language, and the hamal gently lowered the man. But it did not release its grip.
“Now, Sergeant,” the Dahan said, “I shall escort the prisoner to our compound so that I may search him for the item.” The Dahans had established a base on the only available land in this part of LA: right on the hillside overlooking Hollywood, underneath the famous sign. That slope was not buildable, by human means, but the Dahans had some trick. In mere days, they had erected a small collection of buildings sticking right out from the slope. As if gravity were optional, one reporter had said.
“No, sir,” Briggs shook his head. “Not a chance. The man’s still an American citizen. He still has rights, and no one has read them to him yet. And those rights include not being probed by aliens in some secret cell. He’s going to an LA lockup once we dot the i's and cross the t’s. Logan, read the man his rights.”
“Hold, sergeant.” The Dahan held his arms out from his chest, as if he were pleading but did not know how to hold his arms. The bright glow bowed out away from his hands, almost touching Briggs. “We need not hurry. As soon as I contact your ‘feds’, I am sure you shall receive new orders.”
Briggs frowned at the Dahan. “You do what you have to. In the meantime, Logan, it’s Miranda time.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The young officer walked to the back, circled warily around the hamal, and took out his notecard to Mirandize the man.
The Dahan spoke unintelligibly, seemingly to the air, as Lucine slid over to Sergeant Briggs. “Sergeant—”
Briggs turned to her and smiled. It wasn’t a sign of humor, but of warmth and reassurance. “You’re sure you’re not injured, ma’am?”
“I’m not, but he is.” She turned sideways and nodded her head toward the man. He had sagged in the hamal’s grip, but he still put no weight on his left leg.
“I see what you mean. Logan – Oh, crap. You, Dahan, whatever you’re called, can’t you call your creature off and let the man sit? He’s injured.”
The Dahan stopped his conversation. “I will not allow him to escape.”
“There are the three of us up here, plus your creature, plus you. My men have the back alley covered. He’s going nowhere.”
The Dahan made a wriggling gesture with his fingers. “As you wish.” He spoke again in his language, and the hamal picked the man up, carried him to Julie’s chair, and firmly lowered him into it. Then it released him, but it loomed over him, watching.
The Dahan returned to its conversation with the air. Sergeant Briggs’s phone rang, and he answered. He spoke in hushed tones, so Lucine couldn’t hear it, but the conversation did not make the sergeant happy. Tyler went out to the cars outside and told the officers there they could turn off their flashers and spotlights. Logan stood nervously watching the hamal and the prisoner, but he didn’t seem eager to approach the alien.
And Lucine just stood, stunned, in the middle of the strange circus that had been her salon just an hour ago. The last of the twilight faded to black outside. With the police lights off, Lucine realized how dim the rear of the salon had become. She stepped quietly away from Briggs and walked to the rear light panel. She turned on the lights, and Briggs and Logan squinted. Lucine noted that the Dahan did not squint, and she couldn’t see the hamal’s eyes to judge there.
Then Lucine looked past the hamal’s legs, and she noticed a dark pool staining her clean white tiles. A dark red pool.
“Sergeant!” Lucine rushed to the man’s side without even thinking of the alien creature as she brushed past. (Later she would recall that the fur was softer than it looked, and the creature smelled like licorice.) She turned the chair to face her, and the man lay back in the seat, his head hanging back to reveal hideous gashes on both sides of his throat. Blood trails darkened his gray shirt and dripped to the tile. As the chair jerked to a halt, one of Lucine’s straight razors slid from it and clattered to the floor.
