Hell Heart

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “There are too many to fight,” he said finally. “Even if we snipe at the tanks from the safety of the jungle, we will still be vulnerable to those cannons. We have to assume they are functioning. I don’t know how we can . . .”

  Diego held up a hand, and José trailed off. Diego almost had something—it was glimmering just at the edge of his memory . . . Then he had it.

  “We do have one weapon we could use against them,” he said. José raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “The green goo,” Diego said, with just a touch of smugness.

  “Of course!” Consuela exclaimed.

  “You know what effect it had on our Ares,” Diego told her. “I saw some of those tanks close up, and I’m certain they’re made of metal. Ditto for the ship. It would almost certainly have the same effect on the aliens—assuming you have any of the stuff left.”

  José nodded reluctantly. “There are two more canisters, hidden in the jungle,” he said. “I have been unwilling to use them—some weapons are too dangerous to risk. But if it will stop these aliens from killing our people . . .”

  “One problem,” Consuela said. “The spray is a short-range weapon. We would have to get it up close to the ship for it to have any effect, and anyone carrying it would be killed long before we could get there.”

  “What if we used the SPEAR missile to carry it?” Diego asked, liking the idea better and better as he spoke. “I don’t know if it would work, but if we could rig one of the warheads to carry a canister instead of the explosive—”

  “I think it could be done, sir,” BJ interrupted. “But we’d need to get it here and experiment.”

  Diego looked at José. “How soon could you get the canisters here?” he asked.

  “They are hidden not far from here,” José replied. “We can have them here within a half hour.”

  “Do it,” Diego said. “I’ll take one of my men and get back to San Cristóbal to retrieve the SPEAR. In the meantime, we need to see if we can come up with a backup plan—just in case this doesn’t work.”

  “It will work,” Consuela said confidently.

  “I hope so,” Diego said under his breath. He and José stood up simultaneously, he to find Suarez and José to fetch the cylinders. He just hoped it wasn’t already too late.

  * * *

  Diego and Suarez rode the crimson-and-gold Aztec cycle into the post at San Cristóbal just after dusk. They had made good time from the village along deserted, dusty roads. Frightened by the carnage of the past few days, the campesinos were staying hidden indoors, and while their fear saddened Diego, it also made his job easier for the moment.

  Diego was disturbed when no sentry challenged him. He knew the post was currently guarded by a only a skeleton crew, but security had clearly grown lax under Allen’s “command.” He would have to work hard to restore discipline—assuming any of them lived beyond the next few hours.

  Diego dropped off the ag cycle, followed in short order by Suarez. “Find a weapons tech and get the SPEAR loaded into the missile launcher,” he ordered his lieutenant. “And make it quick. We haven’t got much time.”

  “Where is everyone, Colonel?” Suarez asked, pushing back his visor and squinting as the bright light from the security lamps shone directly on his face.

  “We don’t have time to worry about it now. Get over to the launch center,” Diego repeated. “While the tech is preparing the missile, check the Ares suits. See if they were cleaned and if we can use them.”

  The last report Diego had seen wasn’t too promising, but even if the suits were ruined, knowing how much damage they had sustained from José’s lethal bioweapon would still be useful. It might give them a better idea of what effects the goo could have on the alien ship, not to mention the wheezing life-support systems worn by the undead human slaves.

  “Colonel?” came Suarez’s voice over Diego’s helmet commlink.

  “Here, Lieutenant,” he said, hastily activating his mike.

  “There’s not even a puddle left of those fancy assault suits. The acid chewed them up pretty well. A few spare parts survived, but that’s all.”

  “Understood. See to the Aztec,” Diego said, and signed off. He gazed at the ruins of his command—how had Allen managed to wreak so much havoc in so short a time?

  No sentries had been posted, but Diego knew the post was still occupied. He strode to a barracks and kicked open the door. Three men on their bunks jumped guiltily on seeing his insignia shining in the bright light and scrambled to get to their feet and stand at attention.

  “Who’s in command of this post?” Diego asked coldly.

  The three exchanged looks, and then as one shrugged and shook their heads. Diego could hardly believe that Allen had left the garrison without passing along command to someone. If he’d already run through his entire roster of officers, he should have breveted a couple of sergeants and let them run the place till he got back. But to abandon it!

  Allen had put the post at extreme risk. If the man were still alive, Diego thought he just might have killed him personally.

  With difficulty, he swallowed his anger. He had no time to spare on recriminations. The best he could do now was to act to protect the post and hope it was enough.

  “How many soldiers do we still have in fighting condition?” he asked, none too surprised when the soldiers could not answer.

  “Secure the perimeter, if you can,” he ordered. “If you can’t, fall back and fortify the command and control center. Roust all the troops you can find and concentrate on defending it.”

  “Who’s going to pay attention to us?” one man protested.

  “You’re all promoted to sergeant,” Diego said with exasperation. “Pass along my orders to any other noncom you can find, and if there aren’t any, you three are in charge. Any questions?”

  The first soldier blanched, his mouth opening and closing like a fish washed up on the ocean shore. “We’re supposed to hold the entire post? Even if the guerrillas attack?” he asked.

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Diego said, amused in spite of himself. From outside the barracks, he heard the high-pitched whine of the Aztec. Suarez must have finished rigging the missile.

  “Defend as much as you can,” he said curtly. “Carry on.”

  Diego did a smart about-face and left, hollow inside. He hated to leave his post in such inexperienced hands, but he had done the best he could. His job was to try to deal with the alien menace—everything else would have to wait until later.

  If there was a later.

  * * *

  The Death Priest emerged finally from the jungle into the clearing with a feeling of overwhelming relief. There before him lay the beautiful silhouette of his ship, the Destroyer for the Faith, outlined in artificial light to counter the growing dark. Nearly all the damage had been repaired, and he could see the dark bulk of the Slayer outlined against the shining surface of the ship, barking orders backed up by the menacing hum of his ever-present energy weapon.

  The Pharon strode forward confidently, gesturing impatiently for his slaves to follow. They did, slowly, staggering under their burden. Far too many twisted, pathetic remnants littered the trail for kilometers behind them, but they had succeeded in their mission. Millions of them could die, for all the priest cared. He had the Vor-stuff!

  He would need to keep the sphere outside, still held in abeyance by his force beams, until he was certain the cargo hold’s force shields were in place and operational. One failure could tear the entire ship apart, and take everyone aboard with it.

  But in a matter of hours, he would have left this accursed planet behind forever—or at least until the Pharons saw fit to conquer it for the glory of the God-king. Once they had harnessed the power of the Vorack, this world, and every other world in the Maelstrom, would be easy pickings.

  “Slaves, assist the others on the repairs,” the priest ordered. He had a headache from urging the almost-mindless slaves along the trail. He longed to
return to the homeworld, where the slaves were less recalcitrant and did not require constant supervision.

  Still, at least they obeyed, even if too slowly. The few survivors stumbled toward the ship and began working on the last of the hull damage.

  The Pharon ordered the swaying slaves holding the litter to set it down—gently. With the last of their strength, they complied—and then simply disintegrated from the force of the radiation. Ordinarily that would have exasperated the priest, but nothing could perturb him now. Escape from this noisome world was imminent. By the grace of the God-king and decent repairs, the Death Priest could be in court with his magnificent tribute before the ninety-first anniversary of the God-king’s ascension.

  He could hardly restrain his anticipation.

  27

  * * *

  Sir, we’re detecting movement along the perimeter defenses,” came BJ’s sharp report. “You want us to fire when we acquire a good target?”

  Diego glanced at the battle display and saw that the four approaching blips were making no effort to hide. He checked heat signatures and made a preliminary ID.

  “Weapons down,” he ordered. “It’s Viejo.”

  Within another few minutes, the four figures came into view. José and Consuela led the way, carrying a large plastic cylinder between them. Following were two more guerrillas bearing a similar canister. They carried the cylinders gingerly, as if afraid of their contents. And with good reason, thought Diego, remembering with a shudder what just one of those cylinders had done to his Ares suits.

  “Were you able to get us the SPEAR?” José asked Diego, setting the cylinder carefully on the ground and stretching as if his back hurt.

  “Affirmative,” Diego answered, gesturing to the Aztec now outfitted with his last SPEAR missile.

  “Then we may have a chance,” José said.

  “Sir!” BJ called from by the battle display. “We’re picking up a significant surge of energy from the alien ship. It looks like they’re powering up—maybe getting ready to take off.”

  “Suarez!” Diego instantly snapped. “Get to work on fitting one of those cylinders into the warhead. We don’t have much time—let’s make the best of what we’ve got. And be careful.”

  Suarez and two Union soldiers edged past the guerrillas and gingerly picked up José’s cylinder from the ground.

  “Anything they need to know?” Diego asked.

  “You probably know more about it than I do,” José answered. “The Neo-Sovs weren’t particularly forthcoming with details. What about the creature? Your officer said it is ready to take off?”

  “About five klicks away. I sent out RPVs with cameras for recon, but the mummy-things snuffed out every one as they got close. I finally started lofting message rockets with cameras. They give us only a quick look, but Suarez is good at interpreting what they see.”

  “And what have they seen?” Consuela asked. She had followed Suarez and the Union soldiers over to the Aztec and was watching with interest as they retrofit the missile.

  “The last one we sent up wasn’t good,” Suarez told her. “It looks like they’ve just about finished repairs on the ship’s hull. That probably means it won’t be long before they’re ready to take off.”

  “And taking our people with them,” José said grimly.

  Diego knew how he felt. Seeing the campesinos turned into grotesque, undying slaves was horrifying enough; the thought of them being stolen away to some alien world to labor for the rest of their unnatural lives in the service of those monsters—that was not to be borne. They had to stop the alien ship before it took off and sent those poor people to their final rest.

  Diego strode over to the ag cycle and peered into the guts of the missile payload. Wires dangled everywhere as Suarez labored to squeeze the Neo-Sov aerosol sprayer into a space not designed for it. If the cylinder ruptured, it would kill them all.

  Suarez was beginning to look uncomfortable about his commanding officer breathing down his neck, so Diego backed off to give him room to work. Suarez knew how important his task was; hovering would accomplish nothing.

  “Diego,” José said in a low voice, “have you considered that if we blow up the ship with that energy ball inside, the explosion might destroy much of the jungle?”

  “And take countless campesinos with it,” Consuela added.

  “We thought of that,” Diego said. “I’ve got BJ targeting the area directly outside the ship. Hopefully that will spread the green mist far enough to disable the ship and kill the aliens, but won’t hit with enough force to destroy whatever is holding that thing in check. I’ve got no interest in finding out just how powerful it is.”

  “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be, sir,” Suarez reported, powering down his handheld laser and backing away from the Aztec. The jury-rigged missile looked crudely assembled, but it would probably hang together long enough to reach the ship and do what needed to be done.

  “BJ, launch another message rocket. We need to see what we’re targeting,” Diego ordered. The stocky lieutenant complied, and the tiny rocket soared into the air, carrying a surveillance camera with it. The people on the ground squinted to follow it as it disappeared into the dark night sky. A few seconds later, BJ reported, “Target achieved.”

  “Suarez, what did we get?” Diego asked.

  “We’ve got about a dozen zombies outside the ship,” Suarez said. “Both of the alien things are outside, too. The globe is nowhere in sight—looks like they’ve already loaded it into the ship.”

  “That’s as much luck as we can hope for,” Diego said, and José nodded in agreement. “Suarez, launch the missile.”

  Everyone backed away to a safe distance. Suarez made one last check of the weapon, and then took a deep breath and punched a button on the battle console. With a roar that set the ag cycle trembling, the SPEAR missile shot into the air, carrying their best hopes with it. Diego traced the outline of his crucifix and sent a quick prayer after it, and for a moment he thought he saw José doing the same.

  In a few seconds, they would know whether they had succeeded or failed. Diego sincerely hoped it was the former. Failure at this stage meant death.

  * * *

  The Death Priest worked at the controls of the force-beam equipment, intent on the slightest power variation, the merest hint that something might fail. Painstakingly precise, he moved the speck of virulent matter into the center of Destroyer for the Faith’s hold. The slaves had finished the hull repairs. The ship’s engines were in decent condition, and once the Vorack mote was secured in the hold, the priest would be in command of more power than any other Pharon in history.

  “For the glory of the God-king,” he murmured as he manipulated the globe into the hold’s acceleration dampers. The crystalline sphere surrounding the mote continued to crack and leak out energy at distressingly high levels. The Death Priest wasted no time turning on the internal force shields once the valuable mote was in place.

  Giving a silent thanks to the God-king, the priest at last shut down his makeshift console. He had isolated the power source for the hold’s force shields from the rest of the ship. In case any of their hastily made repairs failed on the way back to the homeworld, he did not want the force field around the Vor-stuff failing as well. He was not interested in witnessing a supernova from the inside. The hold’s generators were now entirely self-contained within the force field. The priest was confident it would withstand even a catastrophic hull breach or a complete power failure.

  “Slaves,” ordered the priest, “into the ship. Take your positions.” They obeyed, but with maddening slowness. He felt the pressure of time wearing on him. Too many natives of this world had seen him, and he had already wasted far too much time battling their primitive efforts to stop him. He wanted no more delays. He was so close to escaping this noxious place he could almost taste his anticipation.

  “Slayer!” the priest called, and the huge warrior hurried over to him.

  “Orders, holy
one?” he asked.

  “Gather the remainder of the slaves into the ship and prepare for takeoff,” the priest ordered. “We are ready to leave this cursed world behind.”

  The Slayer clacked his enormous battle claw with pleasure at these words. “At once, holy one,” he said in his hideous, ruined voice.

  He hurried off to collect the few remaining slaves, and the priest turned to enter the ship. He needed to get to the control room and supervise the efforts of the slaves there. He was dissatisfied with the level of training he had been able to give them, but had lacked the time for much more. Once safely back on the Pharon homeworld, he would see to it that they were disciplined properly.

  Suddenly, a droning shriek split the air, and the priest whirled clumsily in the hatchway to see a pinpoint of light descending from the sky. Reflex took over, and the priest dived through the hatch, which slammed shut just as the missile impacted.

  * * *

  The explosion as the missile hit could be felt even five kilometers away, where Diego and the others stood.

  “Report!” Diego snapped.

  Suarez was busy at the battle console, intently studying the display. “Dead on target, sir!” he said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “The SPEAR hit just outside the ship. Readings indicate the bioweapon is spreading throughout the clearing.”

  “Do we know yet how many casualties?” Diego asked.

  “Looks like . . . yes! The readings on the slaves indicate the bioweapon is disintegrating their life-support tanks. At least a dozen have ceased movement.”

  “What about the monsters?” Consuela asked urgently.

  Suarez’s smile disappeared. “We scored one hit,” he reported somberly. “But it looks like the other one made it inside the ship before the missile impacted.”

  Diego swore under his breath, and Suarez looked up from his displays. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said. “That ship isn’t going anywhere. The green goo is starting to eat away at the hull. In a few minutes, it won’t be spaceworthy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it ate out the propulsion systems as well. There’s enough metal there to keep the goo busy for quite a while. Eventually, it’ll eat its way into wherever the other alien is hiding, and that will be that.”