Alien Wars

by Vaughn Heppner

  The ecosystem, at present, allowed the Kresh and unmodified human servants to live in the deep valleys. The air had congealed thickly enough down there to breathe unaided. Perhaps as interesting, Zama Dee and others had released wild humans onto the sparse uplands. The wilds lived like primitives and indulged in ancient superstitions. A quick study of the situation on Jassac had taught Dagon Dar that some of the human tribes possessed psionic-able shamans.

  Dagon Dar scratched his jaw harder. Allowing psionic individuals among the primitives struck him as rash. Yes, the thirst for understanding, to fulfill the Codex of All Knowledge, drove every right-thinking Kresh to a lifetime of diligent study. But to give unleashed humans such an edge . . . it struck him as wrong.

  What propelled Zama Dee to do such a thing?

  He hissed, telling himself he had other quarry. There would be time enough to delve into the . . . the stupidity of Zama Dee and her compatriots.

  During the past three weeks, Dagon Dar had scoured Jassac, collecting data. He had visited Zama Dee’s city, seen the destruction to the Operant Tower where her technicians and mentalists had attempted to pry open the intellect of this Anointed One.

  The humans certainly develop complicated myths. It must be a by-product of their emotion-driven reason.

  Because of their emotions, the rebellious humans had driven a captured shuttle into the tower. As commandos, they jumped out and slew many, apparently freeing the key specimen. Soon thereafter, they took the shuttle into orbit. There, it appeared, they captured Zama Dee’s Attack Talon. The vessel had promptly disappeared.

  As Majestic Interrogator, Dagon Dar began asking questions, probing, searching. Where had the attacking humans originated? He had found the wreckage of a grav-sled in the Jassac uplands. The sled’s design pointed him to High Station 3. The artificial habitat orbited Pulsar several million miles from Jassac. A quick search through Zama Dee’s Orbital Central records showed him that Chengal Ras the 109th had trailed a stealth vessel from High Station 3 to Jassac. Presumably, Chengal Ras destroyed the craft. Some of the craft’s occupants obviously used the grav-sled to escape onto Jassac. In any case, Dagon Dar had backtracked for information, traveling to the habitat. At High Station 3, he interrogated the Earthlings, those that still lived. He had walked through the Teleship named Discovery. The name implied curiosity among the Earthlings. Clearly, they were intelligent. They had invented a star-drive, where the Kresh had not.

  Dagon Dar could give credit where credit was due. He prided himself on the rare ability. Kresh had captured the Teleship several cycles ago when it first appeared in the outermost asteroids of the Fenris System. The humans had fought with cunning, and the captured crew had provided interesting specimens for study and later, for dissection.

  Yes . . . he had probed and questioned the Earthers, and questioned captured High Station 3 Resisters and then—

  He had found two facts of amazing utility. One, a Special named Cyrus Gant had escaped confinement and later escaped from High Station 3. He had piloted the stealth-craft to Jassac. The Earthling had also no doubt recruited upland Jassac primitives, using them as soldiers during the tower attack in the city. That was the origin of the deadliness: the Earthling.

  A new problem asserted itself. According to Earther records, this Cyrus Gant possessed weak psionic abilities. How then had he masked himself sufficiently from routine Bo Taw mind probes to perform these prodigies? The answer had given Dagon Dar priceless information. He believed it might propel him from FIFTH to FOURTH.

  Among the High Station 3 Resisters was a red-haired female. She practiced a mind trick called a null. That null allowed a psi-able sentient to disappear from psionic tracking. Clearly, the woman taught Cyrus the trick, and Cyrus must have taught the freed Anointed One. That’s how the hijacked Attack Talon had remained invisible these past few weeks.

  Resister lore told of a human savior. What a conceit indeed. The Anointed One would possess fantastic extrasensory perception great enough to defeat every so-called enemy. As if humans could live well-adjusted lives on their own. Study after study proved they needed Kresh guidance to lead meaningful lives of worth. Still, the one named Klane seemed to have extraordinary psionic abilities, and he must have used the null to make the stolen Attack Talon disappear long enough for the rebels to reach a hiding place.

  The logical place of hiding, given the various parameters, was in the highest clouds of Pulsar.

  Dagon Dar grinned, revealing gleaming teeth in a crocodilian snout. Others could practice the null. Yes, his strongest adepts took turns on each spaceship, rendering them invisible to the Anointed One. Surely, as a precaution, the so-called savior human kept watch around Pulsar for Kresh ships. Now, because of the null, Klane would not find them, even if he were many times stronger than the most powerful Bo Taw.

  Dagon Dar eased upward onto his hind claws, a sign of eagerness. He had many questions, many tests he wished to perform on Klane. And oh, he had devised gruesome punishments to practice on this Cyrus Gant, the Kresh Killer. That one would face many agonies before he expired in hideous payment for his crimes.

  As the cylindrical Battle Fangs approached near Pulsar orbit, it would simply be a matter of time until someone visually spotted the stolen craft. Yet he had to do this precisely or the gas giant would claim the Humanity Ultimates. Well, the actual killer would be the massive gravity. He had to keep the humans from diving deep into the planet in a last act of rebellious suicide.

  Dagon Dar hissed. He would not allow the rebels such an easy death. Oh no, he had too many streams of data he wanted to tease out of the interesting specimens. And what he wanted, the Majestic Interrogator got.

  3

  Cyrus opened his eyes with a start. He sweated as he lay on his pallet. His mouth was parched, and a terrible sense of doom filled him.

  Clenching his teeth, he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He must have slept for hours. With the rest, he could now see after a fashion. A few splotches were in his vision.

  He noticed that he still wore his boots. Jana must not have come in. She would have tugged them off his feet for him.

  His was a small chamber, about the size of his sleeping quarters aboard Discovery. The journey from Earth to the Fenris System seemed to have taken place a lifetime ago.

  He stood, and his head throbbed. Probably, the best thing would be to continue sleeping. He couldn’t, though. Staggering to a box, he rummaged in it and took out a clean shirt. He needed to shower, but water was limited aboard the Attack Talon.

  How much longer can we hide down here?

  He would have shaken his head, but that would have hurt too much. The dream, the vision—

  He looked up and suppressed a groan. From his early days in the Latin Kings gang, he’d learned to hide weaknesses of any kind. That was so long ago those times in bottom-level Milan, in Italia Sector. Would he ever see Earth again?

  Cyrus wondered if he’d just had a precognitive dream or vision. Those often came true. He’d never shown an affinity for those, but maybe his strange adventures on Jassac had rattled something loose in his mind.

  He couldn’t remember his dream, the details. An overpowering sense of doom filled him. It was vague and unformed, but it was there. Doom . . . death . . .

  Yes! He felt the immediacy of death. That constricted his throat. He’d faced death many times, and he’d cheated death on each of those occasions.

  Am I doomed to die soon? Is that what I’m sensing?

  He tried to swallow but couldn’t. His mouth and throat were still too parched.

  Digging in his box, he picked up a bottle. Using his teeth, he eased out its cork. He took a swig, swallowing alien whiskey. That made him cough, and it warmed his throat, his chest, and finally his stomach. He took another, longer swallow.

  This was good stuff. He corked it, shoving the bottle under his clothes. Jana hated him having w
hiskey because she didn’t like him drunk. He searched inside the box until he pulled out a knife.

  The sheath was some kind of alien leather, the handle, bone. He drew out the blade. Inspecting its razor sharpness, he grinned. Sure, it wasn’t a vibrio-blade, but it was a good knife. He used it to cut people in Milan when they hadn’t paid on time.

  Flipping the knife, Cyrus caught it by the tip. Yeah, he felt groggy and unsteady, but knives were an extension of his reflexes. Most people liked guns better, and for distance work, pistols were superior. But a knife could often beat a gun in close quarters. For one thing, most people became nervous when faced with a knife. It had psychological advantages, and it took a certain kind of fighter to go blade-to-blade against someone else.

  Cyrus twirled the knife for two rotations. He caught it neatly by the handle, and he flipped it again. He began doing it unconsciously, twirling it three rotations and catching it by the handle.

  The premonition of death returned. It throbbed in him like a heartbeat, and he knew the sense was true. Could he beat a precognitive dream?

  I mean, what good are they if you can’t fight them?

  Cyrus snarled, and he twirled the blade four rotations, catching it by the handle. He’d flipped knives thousands of times, maybe ten thousand, one hundred thousand.

  As he flicked the knife, he tried to remember the dream. No. All he got was darkness, black doom, death.

  He spun the knife and it twirled as he tried to catch it. The razor tip slashed the tip of his thumb. With a jerk, he yanked his hand away. The knife clattered against the deck plates.

  Cyrus stood there, watching bright red blood ooze from his fingertip. He didn’t love getting cut, but it wasn’t a big deal. Missing the catch, though—

  Is that a sign of bad luck? He snorted. Of course it is. I’m going to die. I’ve dreamed of my death. That’s why I can’t remember it exactly.

  He could find Niens the mentalist and ask the man if that was right. Niens would know. Yet that would be cowardly, right? It would admit he was scared, and Cyrus never admitted that to anyone. He’d learned long ago that a man had to face his fears head on, or he had to run to fight again another day. What he never did was let others know he was frightened. That was the great sin against survival down in Level 40.

  Cyrus wiped the blood on his pants, picked up the knife, and shoved it into its sheath. Then he opened his shirt and tied the blade against his side. It was always wise to have a hidden weapon.

  He needed food, water, maybe a talk with Jana. How much longer did he have to live? No. That was the wrong question. If he’d been marked for death, did that mean the others would necessarily perish? He had to figure that out and make sure they lived.

  Yeah. He wanted to get back to Earth. Well, he wanted to save Jana and the others. He wanted to free the humans under the Kresh tyranny. He also wanted to warn Earth about the Kresh, the Chirr, and most of all, about the cyborgs from one hundred years ago who had escaped into space. Earth needed to know about these enemies.

  Stepping into the corridor, it occurred to him he should talk with Klane. If anyone could figure out his dream, maybe help, it would be the Anointed One.

  The walk helped clear his head a little. Few people were aboard, so it didn’t surprise him the corridors were empty. There was the shuttle crew, some Attack Talon techs, a handful of Berserker Clan warriors, a soldier, Klane, and Cyrus himself.

  While he walked down the Attack Talon’s corridor, Cyrus heard groaning. Concerned, he rushed into the nearby chamber.

  As if he were a priest kneeling before a pope, Klane knelt before a holoimage of the Fenris System with his face buried in his hands. The youth—he was a few years younger than Cyrus—was naked from the waist up, although he wore black pants without shoes. Klane was thin and pale, with reddish, puckered scars crisscrossing his frame. A greasy junction-stone dangled from his throat, held by a twist of Tash-Toi hemp.

  Long ago, in a Bussard ramjet generational ship, Klane’s ancestors had come to the star system from Earth. The Kresh had captured the vessel and the colonists within. The aliens had then availed themselves of every female egg. Some they’d gene-warped and others had only been slightly altered, fertilized in test tubes. The people on Jassac’s uplands had been slightly modified with rugged bodies and cavernous lungs.

  Klane had been something different, possibly a failed Kresh experiment. As a baby, the Kresh had deposited him on the sands near Clan Tash-Toi. He’d grown up as a seeker’s apprentice, weaker than the other children, but possessed of psi-powers. The junction-stone had been a crutch to help him focus his abilities. Maybe that’s why he still wore it now.

  As Klane knelt with his hands pressed against his face, he groaned once more.

  Cyrus wondered if he should back away and leave the man in peace.

  “No,” Klane said.

  Cyrus’s head swayed. “You’re reading my thoughts?”

  With his face still buried in his hands, Klane nodded.

  Cyrus understood that he had a weak talent. But he hadn’t thought anyone could read his mind without him being aware.

  “It’s easy once you know how to do it,” Klane said.

  “Sure, if you say so.”

  Klane looked up. His blue eyes were dry. Yet even as he stared at Cyrus, a grimace twisted his features.

  “What’s wrong?” Cyrus asked.

  Klane thumped his chest.

  “Did you exercise too much? Overdo it, maybe?” asked Cyrus.

  Klane shook his head.

  “What do you think—”

  “I’m still linked with Timor Malik.”

  “You mean the soldier on Heenhiss, on Fenris II?” asked Cyrus. “The one whose body you inhabited a while ago.”

  “Yes . . .” Klane groaned, and he collapsed, hitting the deck plates with his chest.

  Cyrus rushed to him. He knelt—

  “Don’t touch me,” Klane said as he pushed up to a sitting position. He breathed deeply and he exhaled. “It . . . it’s happening. It’s really happening. The sights, they overpowered me for a moment.”

  “What sights are you talking about?”

  Klane’s head snapped higher, although his eyes became unfocused. He moved his lips, but no sounds issued.

  Cyrus glanced at the holoimage of the Fenris System. The blue-white star burned hot. It was bigger than Sol by twenty percent. Around it circled a Mars-sized planet in a Mercury orbit. The sphere was burnt nickel-iron, mountains and valleys of it. Heenhiss and Glegan were Earth-like planets in a temperate orbit. The Kresh used hundreds of millions of modified human soldiers to battle the Chirr underground in their tunnels on Heenhiss. Timor Malik was a soldier there, a gene-warped Vomag; Klane had inhabited his mind and body several weeks ago.

  With his unfocused eyes, Klane blinked slowly. His lips moved again. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered.

  “What do you see?” Cyrus asked.

  “Not me,” Klane whispered. “Timor Malik is seeing this.”

  “And you see what he sees?”

  “That, and feel what he feels . . .” Klane said, lapsing into silence.

  4

  Timor Malik was a Vomag solider in Cohort Invincible. A First Rank in charge of a squad, he was short and stocky with arms dangling almost down to his knees.

  He wore a helmet, a torso plate, and tough synthetic breeches. Today, he had perimeter duty, carrying a heavy repeater, with extra ammo in his pack. He led a squad, ten soldiers much like him. They guarded testers, a trio of technicians with long seismic devices, searching for secret Chirr openings.

  The spires of tall, equatorial jungle trees towered in the distance, darkly green with purple trunks. Buzzbirds circled, occasionally dipping down, no doubt trying to spear howlers gathering spire-nuts. Closer to the squad were gigantic sand towers blasted in half, former Chir
r vents that had helped cool the deep nest.

  The 624th Army to which Timor belonged had dropped onto an equatorial nest. Heavy crawlers and five-man attack-cars—flyers—had sprayed death-chemicals first. Then special jumpers in battle armor had cleared the jungle zone of warrior Chirr. Afterward, the troop dirigibles arrived from the northern polar region. Timor had debarked, part of the Tenth Underground Assault Division. They had lost thousands battling their way deeper into the tunnels with sister divisions doing likewise in a circular area. After that—Timor had a gap in his memories. The gap troubled him. He’d led soldiers deep into secondary Chirr tunnels. He could remember that much. Then, nothing: blank, and he’d awoken on the surface, having no idea how he’d gotten there.

  Naturally, the commanders had processed him through endless inquires, mind-probing by a Bo Taw until he stood before a loud high-officer demanding answers. Timor must have satisfied them, because the high-officer had assigned him to a new squad that had perimeter duty. Well, this was an equatorial nest raid. If he’d been in a polar region, they would have put him in confinement for sure. In the equatorial regions, every soldier carried a weapon, even those under punishment duty or arrest.

  At the moment, the majority of the 624th Army’s one hundred thousand soldiers rushed deeper underground, battling toward a Nest Intelligence. The rumors coming out of the hole were that the Chirr had grown thicker in numbers and more ferocious, a sure sign the assault divisions neared the Nest Intelligence. There had even been some surface attacks. The Chirr had come up somewhere. This patrol was one of hundreds to discover the location.

  A roar of sound in the sky caused Timor to glance up over his shoulder. A squad of flyers raced somewhere, sleek attack-cars with flamer canisters underneath.

  Timor shook his head. The Chirr must be crazy to attack aboveground. They never won a fight on the surface. Why did they bother now when they could do more decisive damage underground?