“Stay here,” the Death Priest ordered irritably. He activated his phase-shift generator and began to flicker in and out of sight as he raced to the jungle edge with the last of his strength. The remaining primitive froze at the tachistoscope image of a demon coming at him and started to shriek. The priest did not allow him to finish. One strong, bandage-swathed hand shot out to grip the native by the throat.
From his belt, the Death Priest pulled a special gauntlet with a huge, rounded knob. A thick syringe protruded from the middle. With practiced ease, he impaled his victim’s chest on the spike, which sank deeply into the man’s flesh. A monofilament line unspooled into the human’s chest cavity and began lashing about, turning his innards to a viscous liquid. The priest pinned the thrashing, dying human to the ground and expertly reached behind his back, finding the correct hose leading from his life-support unit. The hose clamped onto the gauntlet, and the feeding began.
The jellied nourishment that had once been the man’s internal organs flowed through the syringe, into the gauntlet, and back into the life-sustaining pack. As the man’s body slowly collapsed inward, the Death Priest felt a renewed surge of strength.
“For the glory of the God-king,” the priest said, beginning his prayer ritual. As he strengthened, his mental powers were returning to their usual acute levels. He had not realized how dangerously weak the battle had made him until this moment.
“Slayer!” the priest called. “Do not kill any more of the natives!”
With a dry rustle, he pulled the gauntlet and its syringe free of the husk that had been a human being. The Death Priest looked around, his senses sharper now.
“Holy one, why not? You ordered me to get slaves to repair the spaceship.”
“We must act slowly,” the priest stated. “These two were easy kills, but above us orbits a battle station that was strong enough to destroy a Shard. We must proceed cautiously until we determine how strong these natives are.”
“At your orders, holy one,” the Slayer rumbled.
The Vorack was setting on the distant horizon, plunging the overgrown land into darkness—a darkness suitable for what the Death Priest had in mind. He had railed at the time it took to land his damaged spaceship, but now he saw how the God-king’s blessing followed him.
Priest and Slayer moved quietly through the night, alert for any movement. The few animals they encountered were inadequate for the priest’s purposes, and he skirted more than a dozen villages, certain the jungle held smaller bands of primitives who would not be immediately missed.
And he found them.
* * *
“The entire patrol searching for Consuela?” José Villalobos’s eyebrows rose. When she had not returned to the rendezvous point by noon, José had become worried. He had sent most of his soldiers back to the rebel headquarters in the city of Comitan but had continued to wait until well past dusk, occasionally sending out a small patrol to sweep the jungle for any signs of Consuela. The raid on Puerto Madero had been successful, but he had to know to what extent that was due to Consuela’s decoy attack with the Cyclops and how well the Neo-Sov bioweapon had deployed. But most of all, he could not afford to part with his most valued lieutenant. To gain supplies and lose Consuela would be a Pyrrhic victory indeed.
“We have not lost an entire patrol to the Union in months,” he said.
“It couldn’t be to the Union soldiers,” Mary Stephenson stated. “They are pigs. They root about, make too much noise, and then fall out among themselves over the spoils. They could not possibly take an entire patrol without leaving any sign of struggle. No, this is something more, a greater threat. I just wish I knew what it was.”
“If a Union patrol did not kill our people, what did?” José asked, perplexed.
“Maybe one of the Cyclops turned on Consuela, then went on the rampage after our patrols,” suggested Gunther. “Let me go hunt it down.”
“Consuela took only the one mutant,” José said. That wasn’t entirely true, of course. She’d also taken the demon weapon.
“We have to move on soon,” Mary said. “Flaco is almost finished camouflaging the booty from the Puerto Madero raid, and it’s too dangerous for us to stay any longer.”
“Consuela knows where to find us,” José said, still worried but knowing Mary was right. “Come. Let’s return to Comitan and continue preparations for the big attack.”
“Revancha?” Gunther smiled wickedly.
“We must plan every detail of that raid,” José said. “If we succeed, we can wrest control of Chiapas from the Union once and for all.”
“We will kill all of them!” cried Gunther.
“To Comitan,” José said, repressing a sigh. Gunther hurried off, but Mary hung back. “What is it?” José asked her.
“The missing patrol, the one sent to look for Consuela. What are we to do?”
“Rest and regroup, prepare for Revancha . . . and pray that Gunther does not jump the gun. We cannot spare men to search for the patrol. If they still live, they will meet us at Comitan.”
Mary nodded, her lips tight, and faded into the jungle. José waited a while longer, despite the risk of being discovered by Union patrols—and whatever else was out there—hoping Consuela would miraculously appear. But he was not surprised when she did not.
War was hell, and living with the consequences was even worse.
José started through the jungle toward Comitan, wary of the animals and the Union—and whatever it was that had prevented Consuela from returning from her mission.
9
* * *
Alex Allen stopped just outside the garrison gate and tightened the handkerchief around his forehead in a vain attempt to stop the perspiration from running into his eyes. He wondered how the MCF soldiers managed not to sweat to death in this sultry jungle. It was still early morning, and already the heat was boiling the flesh off his bones. The induction of the Earth into the Maelstrom had resulted in dramatic weather changes, causing the jungle temperatures to soar, but the heat of this place must have been unbearable even before the Change.
It was almost enough to make him reconsider his mission, but he knew he was doing the right thing. After all, the colonel had told him not to report until he was ready, and he would not be ready until he had tracked down the chunk of space debris that had crashed the previous day. His repeated attempts to contact the battle station had failed, but some quick work with the reconnaissance display in his Ares—before he’d had to switch all available power to maintaining life support—had given him a fix on the landing site. Villalobos had thought it might be a bomb, but the radiation signature was like nothing Allen had ever seen on earth—which to him meant an alien genesis.
And, possibly, a ticket out of this tropical hellhole. Allen was no fool. The Union brass might have told him the purpose of his visit was to evaluate Villalobos’s competence, and that was probably true, but he knew the real reason for sending him down here: punishment duty after the debacle in Alaska.
If he ever hoped to remove the black marks on his service record, he would have to produce something truly spectacular—like some exotic new energy source, something the scientists at HQ might find valuable.
He hefted the Pitbull rifle he had finagled from the corporal in charge of the armory and then checked his battle vest to be sure he had all the equipment essential for a successful scouting mission. He had tried to get an Aztec cycle, but the motor-pool sergeant assured him they were easy targets for every guerrilla in the jungle. The man could not be talked into releasing a Hydra or any other vehicle, so that left Allen on foot. He certainly didn’t want to get into any more of those Ares suits!
He had slung so much water in his backpack that he gurgled loudly as he walked. He would need a lot to replace the moisture he was sweating away. An automated first-aid kit, a GPS so he could find his way through the alien jungle, some food, ammo, the battle vest, and boots designed to slog through mud and heavy vegetation—with all this, he could pr
obably take on the guerrillas singlehandedly and win. Not that that would take much effort—anyone who would bother to fight over this worthless piece of land was almost too stupid to be any threat.
Like the colorless Colonel Villalobos. Now he understood why Mexico City disliked the man so much. Allen, like most soldiers in the former United States, had a pretty low opinion of the Mexican forces; coming to Chiapas had, if possible, lowered it even further. True, Villalobos had acquitted himself reasonably well against the Cyclops, but his post was sloppy, underequipped, and undermanned. Worse, his soldiers were incompetent; and the man himself was dull-minded. Why, he’d been so obsessed with the green goo that had disabled Allen’s Ares that he hadn’t even asked if the suit had picked up anything on the explosion in the jungle. And that was just fine with Allen.
All day he hiked, until the afternoon sunlight slanted down and seemed to boil the life out of him. Now he understood why everyone, including the enlisted men out on punishment duty, took their precious siestas until the worst of the heat had died away.
But he was above such malingering; duty required him to be alert every minute of the day. Allen knew about slovenly soldiers who did not share his commitment. He had commanded a company of them in Alaska, and they had let him down. His men could have held the line against the growler attack as the creatures came rushing across the glacier, but they had turned and run at first contact. That was the only possible explanation for how quickly the growlers had ripped through the defensive line and penetrated to his command post. He had barely had enough time to find the Aztec and beat a retreat before the growlers exterminated him. To stand and fight was futile after his soldiers had failed so miserably.
Every man and woman in his command had been slaughtered—everyone but Captain Alex Allen, thanks to his uncanny knack for survival. The board of inquiry would have loved to court-martial him for deserting his post and leaving his men to die, but with no survivors to contradict his testimony, the evidence had been too sketchy. Allen growled deep in his throat at the notion that he was somehow at fault for retreating when all those under him had failed. Just like these indolent MCF troopers. Fools. Idiots. Incompetents.
He had to show Union Command how capable he was if he was ever going to get reassigned to a decent post. This was exile, Allen knew, until his superiors could figure out what to do with him. He had to use this opportunity, this fugue in his career, to win approval, or he would be buried forever in dead-end garrisons.
Allen had only to look at Diego Villalobos’s career to know what lay ahead of him if he failed.
He drank more water than anticipated and seemed no closer to the crash site in spite of hurrying and taking only short rest breaks. With his legs and back killing him, Allen sank down and rested against a tree to reassess his mission.
He fiddled with the GPS, knowing it did no good to take new readings every few minutes. That only made the hike seem longer. But he was certain he would discover something so spectacular the brass would have to sit up and take notice of him again, and this made him overly eager. This time it would be done right. He would be the hero because he had done it all on his own and had not depended on lesser soldiers who betrayed his trust in them.
“Incompetents, all of them,” he grumbled, then took one last drink of stimulant-laced water. Allen let the drinking tube slip from his fingers as he reached for his rifle beside him on the ground, ready to move on.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” came a soft voice by his side. Allen yelped and shot to his feet, fumbling to get his rifle at the ready.
A tiny peasant girl stood by the tree, gazing up at him. The urchin had slipped up on him, and he hadn’t even noticed her until she spoke. Allen hesitated, then lowered his rifle. He felt foolish holding a gun on a child who barely came up to his chest.
Besides, a native guide might be useful in this hellish jungle. He gave the girl his best winning smile and motioned her to come closer. But as she limped toward him, he revised his estimate. She was a woman, and she was injured. Bruises and cuts covered her face, and rags were wrapped tightly around her left ankle, which was swollen to twice its normal size.
“What happened to you?” he asked, indicating her leg.
“It was awful,” she said in a tiny voice. “I . . . I do not know what happened. There was a terrible screaming in the sky, and then—this.” She gestured at her injuries, then reached up and tentatively touched the drinking tube at his left shoulder that led to the water in his pack. “Please, sir, I have had no water for so long. I am very thirsty.”
“Go ahead,” he said, offering her the tube of a medicine-laced bottle. With the condition she was in, it looked like she needed the antibiotics fast. She drank greedily, giving him a chance to study her up close. Allen decided that under the dirt and blood she was not bad-looking. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, with a submissive manner that appealed to him.
She wiped the last drop of water off her lips and limped back a few paces, studying him as carefully as he had studied her. He offered her some of the stimulant-water, and she drank that bottle dry as well.
“You are a very important man, no?” she asked. “I can tell. And kind. You are kind to share your water with me.”
Allen puffed up a little at the notion that even a native scrabbling out a pathetic living in this jungle could see how important he was.
“Let me see if I can fix that ankle of yours,” he said avuncularly. “There’s a good chance of infection setting in, you know.”
Consuela held still, breath hissing through her teeth, as he carefully unwrapped the rags, which had cut deeply into the swollen flesh.
“Hmm, yeah, I can do something,” he said. “I’ve got an auto-med kit that can take care of most of this swelling.”
Allen pulled out his first-aid kit and broke open the seals on the small device before strapping it to Consuela’s ankle. “This will hurt a little, but it will really help,” he explained carefully. She flinched, then settled down as the auto-med worked to repair what it could. In a few minutes a tiny beep signaled the end of its duty cycle.
“It . . . it feels better,” she said, flexing her foot. She looked into Allen’s eyes and smiled shyly. “I feel stronger. There was medicine in the water? And a pick-me-up drug?”
“Glad to help,” Allen said. She was a clever girl to understand exactly what he had given her.
“How can I repay you?” Consuela said. “I have no money, and you are a rich, powerful Union officer with marvelous machines to help you.”
“I can think of one way,” Allen said. “You know your way through the jungle?”
“Of course. And I can help you stay away from the guerrillas. They are not so far from here.”
“Where?” Panic seized Allen. He could not allow those unwashed, uncouth animals to steal his secret. Whatever had crashed into the jungle had been tiny, and yet it had radiated more energy than he would have thought possible. To harness that would mean an unlimited supply of power in the field, a gift to be cherished by any combat officer.
“Not so far. You can avoid them. I can help.” Consuela lowered her head demurely. “I do not even know your name. I am Consuela.”
“Captain Allen,” he said.
“Un capitán,” she said, her dark eyes wide. “You are a very important man. I knew it. And you are kind.”
“How many guerrillas were there?”
“Oh, not many. No more than fifty or sixty. They move entire companies through this region. They are so powerful—it makes us all afraid.”
“I can imagine,” Allen said. “Look, I’ve got a GPS fix on a site not more than two klicks from here.” He showed her his handheld GPS unit. “Can you help me get through the guerrilla patrols so I can reach this place?”
Consuela studied the GPS and the compass setting, frowned, and then brightened and nodded slowly. “I know the place well. Something fell there from the sky yesterday morning. Is it one of your powerful missiles?”
“Uh, no,” he said. “That’s why I’m investigating.”
“You do not command other men?” Consuela asked.
“Not this time,” Allen said hastily. “Let’s go.”
“Come, and stay low,” she cautioned. Together they moved off the trail and into the jungle, her ankle obviously well on its way to recovery. Consuela slipped easily through the thick vines and tangled undergrowth while he blundered along as if he had one foot in a bucket of concrete. More than once she motioned him down, often into anthills or other exasperating spots where bugs or nettles stabbed and gnawed at his flesh.
At last she held out her hand to slow his advance but did not call out a warning of nearby guerrillas.
“There,” she said in a whisper. “I have never seen anything like it before.”
Allen double-checked his GPS. Consuela had led him directly to the impact spot. He thrust the compass into his vest pocket and unlimbered his Pitbull rifle. If he ran into any guerrillas, he would eliminate them and claim the prize for himself—and for the Union.
“What’s that sound?” he asked. He looked around the small clearing where the jungle had been blown away by the impact, hunting for the source of the crunching sound. Or was it a crumbling noise? He couldn’t quite make it out, but it was like nothing he’d ever heard.
Consuela shrugged. “I see only what you see.”
“Stay here. I’ll check it out.” Allen advanced in a crouch, his Pitbull swinging to and fro in a short arc in front of him. He emerged from the thick jungle and stepped onto a glassy, dark plain.
He whirled as he caught a flicker of gold just out of the corner of his eye. He scanned the jungle, hands tight and sweaty on his rifle, but saw nothing. Then his attention was claimed entirely by the crater, and the brilliant beam of energy emerging from it. Whatever was the source of those noises, he had to get closer to the energy source, to examine it and figure out how to transport it safely back to the base.
Hell Heart Page 8
