Blood Contact

by David Sherman

  She nodded. "I imagine you're right. Look at those teeth! They could shred a man with one bite."

  The immediate danger past, Bass turned his attention back to the platoon and their current mission. "Listen up," he said into his all-hands circuit. "If there are any skinks in the area who didn't know we're here, they know now. Be alert for them. Also watch for really big, ah, worms." He switched to the squad leaders circuit. "String-of-pearls didn't see anything else it couldn't identify. No point in waiting any longer, we're going to check out the bivouac area. Rabbit, don't move until I get to you." He reboarded the Dragon and gave Hummfree information on what the odd signal was while he rode to the islet with the beaten down vegetation.

  "Find anything?" he asked when he rejoined Ratliff and Schultz.

  "Found a footprint on the next island," Schultz said. "Goes north."

  "All right, we'll follow it. But first let's check this bivouac, see if we can find anything."

  "How are we going to check for booby traps?" Ratliff asked.

  "The skinks don't seem to use explosives or large vehicles. I'll run a Dragon over it. Its weight will either set off any antipersonnel traps or disable them."

  "I like it," Ratliff said.

  Bass flicked to the Dragon circuit to give the order. Before he could tell the Dragon commander what he wanted, he received a message.

  "Skyhawk wants to talk to the Actual. Sounds important." Bass reboarded the vehicle. "Lander Six Actual. Go, Skyhawk."

  "Lander Six, Lima Zulu is under attack," said the voice of the starship's communications officer. "Return to Lima Zulu with all possible speed. Over."

  "Roger that, Skyhawk. Any details? Over."

  "Negative details, Lander. Are you on the move yet? Over."

  "Third platoon, mount up," Bass ordered into the all-hands circuit. He was no longer paying attention to the Fairfax's communications officer; he had a platoon to gather together and move out. If the ship was passing on any useful information, Dupont or the Dragon commander would let him know.

  He was disappointed about not being able to examine the bivouac; it might have information they'd need. But getting back to the knob was more immediately important.

  It took the platoon about four minutes to regroup and get aboard the two Dragons. What they didn't have was much time for Bass to make plans for what to do when they got back to the landing zone. Hell, he thought, I have no idea of what's going on, so what kind of plans can I make? Bass wasn't concerned that they'd run into an ambush along the way. As far as he knew, the skinks didn't have any explosive weapons that could damage the Dragons. The most dangerous time would be when they stopped to dismount the Marines. If any skinks were in the right place, they could do serious damage. They'd have to dismount outside the LZ and approach it on foot. But from what direction? He needed information badly.

  "Raise the Dragons at the LZ," he ordered the Dragon commander.

  It took a moment, but finally the commander said, "Got 'em." He handed the mike to Bass.

  "Dragon Three, what's your situation?" Bass asked.

  "I have you on my monitor and will link up in less than thirty seconds."

  "Say again? You aren't at the Lima Zulu?"

  "Negative. We were ordered to find you and link up."

  "What's going on?" Just then Dragons Three and Four came into view in the Dragon's artificial light monitor. Gunny Bass's jaw clenched at the sight. Parts of the Dragons' armor plating were slagged and he saw a gaping hole in its flank. Suddenly he was glad he hadn't had the time to run one of his Dragons across the bivouac.

  "I have the casualties and the medical team aboard," the Dragon Three commander said. "The pirates are fighting the skinks."

  "How many?"

  "I'm not sure. I think Lieutenant Snodgrass and three or four pirates were still alive and fighting when the lieutenant ordered us to find you."

  "Skinks?" Bass shouted. "I mean, how many skinks?"

  "I don't know. Too many."

  Bass swore under his breath. For the first time on this mission he wished they had Marine Dragons, or at least Marine crews. A Marine could tell him how many skinks were attacking. Maybe he was asking too much to expect a sailor to know that.

  "What direction are they attacking from?"

  "They're all over the place."

  Again Bass swore. That sailor wasn't giving him anything he could use. They were going in blind.

  "Keep moving," he ordered the driver of his Dragon.

  Chapter 27

  Lieutenant Argal Snodgrass spent the hours waiting for the arrival of the Essay strutting about with an air of importance and self-confidence he did not really feel. At first light, when the third platoon had pulled out to follow the trail of the retreating skinks, he'd watched their progress with what was, for him, an unusual degree of trepidation. He did not feel the soaring sense of independence he thought he would as he watched the Marines disappear into the fern trees, because it had slowly dawned on him that truly he was on his own.

  The Dragon in which the corpsmen tended the casualties sat with its ramp down, and another Dragon sat not far away. The pirates had found a clump of ferns nearby that gave enough shade to protect them from the intense sunlight, and they spent the hours there, talking among themselves in low voices.

  Snodgrass whiled away the morning slogging around the clearing, pretending to watch the surrounding forest. The two corpsmen and the crewmen in the closer Dragon offered him only cold and begrudging awareness when he climbed the ramp and attempted to converse with them. And whenever he approached the pirate group, they suddenly stopped talking, and resumed only when he was out of earshot. And he did not like it at all, the way that man, Lowboy, leered at him. He thought the ridiculous little man was probably homosexual.

  Thinking of ridiculous little men made Snodgrass reflect momentarily on some of the things he'd done since they'd been on Waygone, especially when he mistook the pirate Rhys for Dr. Morgan. His face still burned at the thought. That Bass had later openly laughed in his face over the incident did nothing for his self-confidence.

  His unusually self-critical train of thought was interrupted by the Dragon commander's announcement that the Essay was at last inbound.

  Hospitalman First Class Larry Horner checked Clarke's stasis pod for the umpteenth time. Respiration, blood pressure, pulse, all were normal. The stasis devices would keep the wounded men in a state of deep suspended animation until they could be transported to the Fairfax's sickbay, or until they reached port, if Dr. Bynum couldn't repair the damage. He laughed, remembering the story, possibly apocryphal, of the corpsman who'd slept in a stasis pod when off duty. Over the years, his buddies noticed he wasn't aging as quickly as they were. In the end he was court-martialed for "misuse of government property," but the ten years he'd added to his life made the fine and loss of rank worth it.

  He glanced at the ramp and thought about raising it. It was getting hot in the passenger compartment, but since the Essay was on its way, he decided not to. Lieutenant Snodgrass and his pirates would have to come aboard, and that would only mean lowering the thing again in a few minutes anyway.

  On the opposite side of the bay, HM2 Tom Hardesty fiddled with the settings on Dornhofer's pod. "Prettiest girl I ever seen, was smoking thule in my latrine," he chanted softly. His mind was light-years away, where cold beer and warm lips waited for him in a cozy bar in Duma City on Bulon, the Fairfax's home port. "When we get back to home port, Larry I'm gonna—"

  "Danger! Danger!" a tiny voice shrilled.

  Automatically, Horner drew his side arm and whirled toward the ramp, just as a skink charged up and into the compartment. Horner fired from the hip without aiming. The bolt struck the skink directly on its snout. The creature screamed and then flashed into vapor.

  Owen hopped up and down on his ration box shrieking "Woooo! Woooo!" his appendages flapping and his eye stalks bobbing up and down. In the space of ten seconds he flashed through the entire spectrum of visible
colors, but neither man saw it. Nor did either man realize at the time that Owen had shouted the warning.

  "Close the ramp! Close the fucking ramp!" Horner screamed before realizing the crew couldn't hear him. "Tom, cover me!" he shouted as he lunged for the emergency control that would raise it. Tom was already down on one knee, the muzzle of his hand-blaster aimed over the ramp. Horner hesitated to mash the button. No, gotta get the lieutenant on board, his mind screamed. He punched into the onboard intercom system instead. "Get the lieutenant aboard!" he screamed at the Dragon commander. The gunner began acquiring targets and firing at them. The Dragon shook with the crackling of the cannon.

  Hardesty fired his handgun.

  Lieutenant Snodgrass didn't know what made him turn around, but when he did he screamed in terror. Dozens of skinks had crept out of the fernlike forest and they all seemed to be charging directly at him! They were running upright, their bodies slick with mud, some with long metal tubes clutched in their forearms and others holding nozzles attached to devices strapped to their backs. He could clearly see their slender fingers clutching the tubes and nozzles he guessed were the acid-throwing devices that dissolved human flesh. It seemed every one of them was pointed directly at him.

  The farther Dragon didn't appear to be in danger, for now. But some of the skinks had managed to creep up to the nearest Dragon unnoticed and were directing streams of acid on its armor plate. The liquid sizzled on and through the outer plating, and Snodgrass realized that if the machine did not pull out of range quickly, the corrosive acid would eventually eat through. Fortunately, the lowered ramp faced away from the direction of attack.

  Without thinking about it, Snodgrass thumbed his throat mike and screamed, "Dragon! Close the ramp!"

  "Lieutenant, get on board!" the Dragon commander screamed back. The petty officer's voice was so loud in Snodgrass's helmet it hurt his ears.

  "No time! Close the ramp and get out of here!" the lieutenant said nervously. "They're eating through your armor plate! Get out. Get out!" For the first time in his life Argal Snodgrass was thinking of someone else first. He knew he could never reach the temporary safety of the Dragon, and if it did not get away immediately, the eight men inside would be lost.

  "We'll cover you!" the Dragon commander said as his gunners directed enfilading fire into the mass of advancing skinks. Bright flashes marked hits all along their line, but there were too many of them. And the skinks attacking both Dragons now were so close, the gunners couldn't depress the barrels of their cannons fast enough. The second Dragon was fully alert now, but could not fire without hitting the other Dragon. "Essay's ten minutes out!" the commander said.

  Snodgrass fingered his throat mike again, changing channels. "Essay pilot, this is Lieutenant Snodgrass. Abort the landing. I say again, abort the landing. This LZ is hot. We are under attack. Do you hear me?"

  Later the Essay pilot swore he didn't believe the Lieutenant at first because his voice was so calm. "Ah, please say again your message," the pilot responded laconically.

  "Abort the landing!" Snodgrass screamed.

  "Ah, roger that, Lieutenant, we are aborting the landing," the pilot replied.

  Snodgrass switched back to the Dragons' channel. "Both of you, get out of here. Go after the gunny. We will draw the skinks off. Move, move, move!" With that he fired at one of the skinks spraying the closer Dragon, and was gratified to see it flare up into vapor. It was the first time the lieutenant had ever fired a weapon in combat.

  Meanwhile, Snodgrass had quickly been backing toward a deep depression in the earth about thirty meters from the nearer Dragon. His intention was to take cover there and hold off the skinks from that position. He had no idea where he'd gotten that idea from or what made him act on it.

  "The Dragons are leaving! They're leaving us!" a pirate screamed hysterically.

  From just over Snodgrass's shoulder someone fired a blaster. The shooter was taking careful aim. Crack, crack, crack! Three more skinks evaporated. It was Rhys. He really was too stupid to feel fear.

  "Come back," Lowboy screamed at the Dragons. "Come back, the Essay is coming! The Essay is coming!"

  "No, it isn't," Snodgrass said as he joined the small group of desperate and quivering men. "I canceled the landing. The Dragons are going after Bass. We had to get the wounded—"

  With a sickening crack! Lowboy smashed his blaster's butt on the bridge of the lieutenant's nose. Blood flew everywhere as Snodgrass collapsed to the ground, his helmet flying off his head and bouncing out of reach; now they were without any way to call for help. The skinks, momentarily disorganized by the departing Dragons' cannons and Rhys's accurate marksmanship, milled about. Screaming incoherently, Lowboy grabbed Snodgrass by the collar and started dragging him toward where the Dragons had been—and toward the skinks. "Run! Run!" he screamed, dragging Snodgrass through the mud facedown.

  A stream of acid arced out and hit the pirate they called Dufus directly in the groin, splashing onto his legs and torso. He twisted about wildly, screaming hysterically as the substance instantly ate through his clothes and began dissolving his flesh. Momentarily distracted, Lowboy dropped Snodgrass.

  The cold slime had revived the lieutenant somewhat. He rolled over on his back, drew his hand-blaster and pulled the trigger. The little pirate exploded in a bright flash, blood, bone fragments, and guts spraying everywhere. Snodgrass staggered to his feet, a foot of Lowboy's intestines dangling obscenely over one shoulder. He brushed the filthy innards away and waved his gun at the remaining pirates. "Back! Back to the hollow! Now, goddamnit, do it now!" he croaked through his broken nose. Rhys was the first to turn and run for the hollow, and the others followed. Snodgrass stumbled along behind them.

  They piled into the depression, gasping and choking. It was about a meter deep, filled with slimy mud and water. Nobody objected. They wallowed gratefully in the muck and struck their heads cautiously up over the edge.

  "Check your weapons," Snodgrass said firmly. The whole front of his face throbbed with pain and the exertion of the run for cover. He daubed a handful of cool mud over his broken nose and the pain subsided a bit.

  "Four against twenty." Rhys grinned. "I've got maybe twenty bolts left in my piece."

  "Six for me," Labaya gasped.

  "I'm out," Callendar said, tossing his weapon into the mud. He reached down into a boot and took out a knife. Its long steel blade glinted in the sunlight.

  "I have a dozen left," Snodgrass said. "That's thirty-eight shots against twenty, twenty-five skinks. We've got to make every shot count. We can't let them get close enough to douse us with those acid guns."

  "Here they come!" Rhys shouted. He braced himself on the edge of the swale and, holding the butt of his old blaster firmly into his shoulder, began squeezing off shots. The others took careful aim and fired slowly and methodically. Callendar, crouched in the muddy bottom of the depression, took out a whetstone and began honing his knife.

  The skinks twisted and dodged as they rushed forward, and only four flashed into oblivion. But when their ragged line came within range of the humans and some stopped to discharge their own weapons, their aim was bad. Apparently, charging across the open space while taking fire from the Dragons and the men in the swale had unnerved them. But some of the acid splashed into the swale. Several drops spattered the left side of Snodgrass's face, one tiny globule burning off his earlobe and another sizzling into his cheek. The pain was almost unbearable, but he reached down and smeared mud onto the wounds.

  The four men crouched in their hole, breathing heavily, clutching their weapons. Rhys examined his left hand, where a drop of acid had burned all the way through—he could actually see through it. He screamed and plunged the hand into the mud and held it there. "That's better," he sighed. He held up the mud-caked hand and flexed his fingers. "Look, it still works!"

  The surviving skinks dropped into a prone position and tried to drop their shots into the depression. "Jesus, they fight like men!" Rhys cursed. He p
opped up and flashed a skink who had managed to crawl within a few meters of their position. "They're closing in on us!" he screamed, his voice a falsetto.

  "On three we stand up and give them a volley," Snodgrass shouted. "Try for the nearest ones."

  The three desperate men stood as one and squeezed off several shots. Some skinks flashed, but a stream of acid sprayed directly into Labaya's eyes. He screamed horribly and staggered backward. The others watched as the whole front of his face began to dissolve. His screams rose to a piercing high-pitched wail.

  "I've seen this once too often," Callendar said, and calmly buried his knife in Labaya's heart. He reached down and picked up the dead man's pistol. "Two bolts left," he said matter-of-factly.

  "You've got two shots. Rhys?" Snodgrass asked.

  "Three," he answered disgustedly.

  "And I've got—one." Snodgrass couldn't believe the reading on his power pack. "I've got one shot left! How'd that happen? Jesus, we've got six bolts left among the three of us."

  "Shit happens, Lieutenant. When I was in the infantry—"

  "You were in the infantry, Callendar?" Snodgrass said incredulously.

  "Yeah. I was a sergeant squad leader. Anyway, green troops always lay down too much fire. No use crying about it now."

  "Hey! They're moving back!" Rhys announced Sure enough, the nine remaining skinks were crawling rapidly. When they reached a spot about fifty meters away, they stood up.

  "I could hit one from here with this hand-blaster," Callendar said.

  "We can't afford to waste the shot," Rhys reminded him.

  "Yeah, and they know it," Snodgrass observed. "They're just standing there. What's up?"

  "Lieutenant, I think they're waiting for someone," Callendar answered.

  "Who?"

  Callendar shrugged. "Their officer."

  Snodgrass sighed and laid his head down on the lip of the depression. "The longer they wait to finish us off, the better chance we've got that Bass'll come for us or maybe the Dragons will come back and fry them. Jesus, if I ever see that Gunny again I'll kiss him."