But it hadn’t been so with Van Pelt or Straka. They’d both known, had been quick to see the potential of Gandji and the differences of the Habers. And they were all bothered by the same point—if the artifact, flashing that green beacon, had been put into space by these creatures, then where was their technology? And what had happened to the manned pod? Why hadn’t it sent a second signal? Why hadn’t it returned to Earth?
With the way NASA 2’s charter was worded, even with its altruistic, egalitarian ideals, Van Pelt was well within his rights to wipe Gandji clean of all life that threatened Mankind’s existence.
Markos figured that Van Pelt had snapped before the Paladin had landed. He’d been beside Markos when they met the Habers for the first time and acted extremely jittery around them. Van Pelt had seen what their eyes could do, the way they entranced and enraptured with their eyes.
Markos realized he’d started walking again, but this time without the slow, aimless steps that had led him here. The Habers didn’t want his help. They didn’t deserve his help.
But they were going to get it.
4
One step at a time, Markos told himself. Ignore the pain and just keep walking.
Every time his right foot made contact with the ground, the back of his leg spasmed. When he put weight on it, completing his step, his hip felt as if its ball-and-socket joint was lined with thousands of shards of broken glass. His left leg provided a different experience. With weight on it the sole of his left foot felt as if it were being punctured by tiny nails, similar to the way it had when his foot had fallen asleep in his old body. His left knee seemed to lack any lubricating fluid or bursa, and each time it bent, slivers of pain shot through the joint.
Still he walked. At least he had somewhere to go. He didn’t know what he would do when he got there, what he would say to his old crewmates or to Van Pelt, but he knew he had to go back to the Paladin, back to where it had all started.
He had to stop every few minutes to let the pain abate. The constant irritation of the pain and fatigue never fell into the background while he walked, and that made it difficult for him to think about anything beyond the immediate goal of reaching the ship. There was something else wrong with his body. It didn’t seem to be metabolizing stored food properly and as a result he was tired all the time, and his body felt as if it were in constant need of repair. It reminded him of how he’d felt after a long run—a few hours rest and his muscles would be as good as new—only the run never stopped and his muscles weren’t recovering.
When he tried to rest, he kept focused on why he was heading for the ship, what he wanted to accomplish once he got there, but with the Habers out of sight, their plight was less immediate. He really wanted to run, to hide in some cave and wait for Van Pelt and the crew to go away. He wanted to find some comfortable safe place where he could deal with the horrible reality of his body. He wanted to let the Habers fight their own battles and to stay well out of the way.
But he knew, deep down, that if he ignored what was going on, it wouldn’t go away, and it wouldn’t get any better. He had no choice but to go back and confront Van Pelt. Not to help the Habers, as he’d originally thought, but rather to show Van Pelt what had happened, to make him realize what he had become.
He’d been blaming the aliens for his condition, while it was really Van Pelt’s fault. The aliens had given him a new life and had asked for nothing in return. It was Van Pelt he’d originally opposed—not the Habers. All they wanted was to be left alone.
Yeah, he realized, it was all Van Pelt’s fault. Take care of Van Pelt and the problems disappear with him too.
He gritted his teeth and set off once again.
The ship glittered in the midday sun, less than a kilometer away, resting at the top of a lone hill. It was like a giant silver egg sitting on top of spindly spider legs. Fearing the worst, Markos used whatever cover he could as he approached: trees; shrubs; the shorter, wild grass. The trick, he thought, was to avoid being shot on sight. He would have to make the last half of the climb, the most dangerous half, in the open.
As he made his slow, cautious way up the hill, Markos realized just how dangerous this was. There was no way to sneak up there—with both the detection screens and the Paladin’s high ground, he would be spotted very soon. If he hadn’t already been spotted. The observation post was unmanned, though.
Van Pelt had put the ship on defense alert before Markos had fled, treating Gandji and its native life as hostile. NASA 2 would examine the Captain’s log and record of actions, and enough would appear in order. The Habers would be described as Mankind’s first real outside threat. And Markos had little doubt that Van Pelt had already convinced at least part of the crew that Markos had been senselessly slaughtered by the “warlike” alien race.
It was almost amusing.
He shook his head, staring at the ship, upset with himself. Here he was, ready to confront Van Pelt, familiar with the Paladin’s layout and its position and unable to figure out how to make a safe approach.
He stared at the ship, then slowly traced the lay of the ground before it, the slope of the hill, and waited for an idea to come. A breeze rustled the grass, bent the thin, top branches of the oaklike trees, felt cool against his leathery skin. A mendil screeched in the distance. His eyes burned as he focused on the soaring creature, now a distant cousin. He ignored the urge to rub his eyes with his fists—without eyelids, it would do little good.
Sneak up on them and you’ll get yourself killed, he thought.
But if Van Pelt spotted him calmly strolling up the hill, out in the open, he’d probably do the same thing he’d done to that harmless group. Either way it was death.
A twig snapped to his left.
Markos froze. Then slowly, a centimeter at a time, he pivoted around. One of the crew? he wondered. If it was, he might be inclined to shoot first and save his questions for the autopsy table.
“Hello?” Markos called tentatively, immediately regretting having said anything. His voice—he’d forgotten what it sounded like.
There was no response from the brush.
“It’s me—Markos. Don’t shoot. Hello?”
“Markos,” a human voice said softly. “Markos?”
“Yes, dammit.”
The grass and bushy undergrowth parted and Kominski stepped out. He took a long, slow look at Markos, not bothering to hide the terror on his face, then raised his weapon and pointed it squarely at Markos’s head.
“You’re not Markos.”
“Hold it! I don’t expect you to recognize me, ’Minski. Not the way I look. But it’s me.” His eyes stung with each word he spoke, and fatigue was catching up with him.
Kominski was trembling slightly, his weapon tracing tight, jumpy circles around Markos’s face. His eyes darted to the ship, then back to Markos. He was unsure—the best Markos could hope for—and that meant he might not shoot.
“The Habers did this to me,” Markos said. Kominski flinched at the sounds. “Please, ’Minski, take me to the Captain.”
“My God,” Kominski said, lowering his weapon, naked terror in his wide eyes. “My God. Is it really you?”
Because he was still unsure, and for the safety of the ship, Kominski had Markos wait outside while he went in to get Van Pelt. Markos sat on the ground, using the time to his best advantage by letting his body recover and rebuild itself after the walk. He wondered how the Captain was taking the news and smiled inwardly, imagining the tall, lanky man’s reaction. Rage? Fear? Or perhaps simple annoyance—another minor problem to deal with? He’d definitely be surprised, though.
Van Pelt appeared at the airlock, looking down at Markos, not saying anything. He stayed that way for several minutes, then finally broke the silence. “Arrest him. Or it. Whatever. Take him up to Markos’s cabin and lock him up.”
Wilhelm and Kominski came out of the ship to escort Markos. As they led him through familiar corridors and passageways, Van Pelt was nowhere to be seen. They we
nt up to the crew’s quarters, and Wilhelm opened the door to the cabin. Markos’s head came up to the middle of Wilhelm’s chest; once, a long time ago, Markos had been five centimeters taller than he.
“We thought you were dead,” Wilhelm said. His tall frame was muscular, healthy, powerful, full of parts which worked right, that knew what to do, that had the ability to back up his libido.
“I am dead.” Markos walked into his cabin. He made directly for the mirror. When he saw his reflection, he knew it was worse than he’d feared.
Surrounding his eyes were little clusters of crystalline spheres, capable of generating cold light. He stared at them, concentrating on trying to detect any sensation but the stinging pain in them, trying to bring them to life, but nothing happened.
“You’re not dead,” Wilhelm said awkwardly.
“No? What am I, then?” Markos demanded, wheeling around to face Wilhelm.
“Does that really matter? You’re alive, and that’s what counts, man. Don’t forget it. Christ, you should have seen what it looked like from above—the boulder, I mean. Man.” He shook his head. “What a mess.”
“I’m the mess!”
“Hey, come on! Calm down, will you? V.P.’s edgy enough already. He hasn’t been getting any better, you know. He hears you screaming and it’ll be over for good. You’ll be okay. The medical people will fix you up okay. Just stay cool and it’ll work out.”
Markos nodded and sat on the edge of his bunk. What was he doing here? What was the sense? he wondered. He got up and started for the door. Wilhelm moved to block his exit.
“Don’t, Markos. I told you to stay cool. The Captain’s getting weirder all the time. Step outside and someone will burn you. And then you will be dead. For keeps. Wait for V.P., man. Please wait.”
Markos looked him in the eyes. He didn’t flinch or try to look away. At least that was something.
The cabin was too confining and uncomfortable; it was as alien to him as Gandji had been when they’d first landed. No one had gone out of his way to welcome Markos back. Coming to the ship had definitely been a mistake. He knew that now. He hadn’t been accepted, much less welcomed, and he was being kept in his cabin under arrest.
He nodded his agreement to Wilhelm and waited for Van Pelt.
Lying down, doing nothing but listening and watching the ceiling, he rarely breathed. Handling Van Pelt was going to be a problem, he thought. Especially in this altered form. Van Pelt will probably keep his distance and be armed, so a physical assault was out of the question.
As he lay there, he tried to figure out just why he had come back. He ground it over and over in his mind. It had made so much sense back on the plain, away from the cold, hard reality of it.
He decided not to breathe when Van Pelt made his appearance, not that Van Pelt would notice.
The cabin door finally slid open. Markos continued to stare at the ceiling. Bare feet slapped the deck, then stopped near Markos’s bunk. Markos took a breath and smelled Van Pelt.
“Jesus. You’re uglier than I thought.”
The sound of Van Pelt’s voice almost set him off. Markos got up slowly, trying to keep his mind and body relaxed, trying to keep his anger and frustration in check, trying to maintain control. He faced the Captain and stared at his face, searching the lines of stress and worry etched there. He’d gotten worse, all right. The Captain. The cool, calm, dissociated human being, always in control, always taking control. Just a few more lines on his face, a little more sagging under his eyes.
It was then Markos noticed the gun Van Pelt had pointed at his chest.
“I am,” Markos said, reveling in the flash of horror that lit Van Pelt’s eyes the moment Markos had spoken.
“You’ve come back. You went out to help those ‘harmless’ creatures and they’ve repaid your good deed. Have you looked at yourself? Have you seen what your harmless little friends have done to you?” he asked, waving the gun wildly.
“I have.”
Van Pelt shook his head, scowling. “Don’t talk. Just nod or something.”
“Don’t you like my voice?” Markos asked.
Van Pelt laughed. His eyes opened wide. “You’re pitiful, you know that? Pitiful. Don’t like your voice? Your voice is your best feature. And now you’ve come back. Come back to share yourself with us. Come back for help, for consolation. Thrown out by those Habers? Well, what makes you think we want you?”
Van Pelt laughed again and started pacing. Markos said nothing. He was afraid to speak, afraid to move for fear of exploding in rage.
“What do you expect, Markos? Pity? You’ve got it. Disgust? You’ve got it. Horror? You’ve got that, too. Or maybe you’d like your old job back, huh? Is that it? Your old job? You’d make one hell of a xenobiologist. Or maybe your old body, eh? How would that be? No, no, couldn’t help you there. All our bodies are being used.” Van Pelt threw back his head and laughed hysterically.
Markos got to his feet.
The metallic taste in his mouth was back, stronger this time.
“Or your old friends, Markos. How about it? Want to go back with us when our relief arrives? Get sent back home to a woman’s loving arms?” He laughed again.
Markos stared at Van Pelt’s gleaming eyes, the desire to leap, to tear out his lungs barely suppressed.
“Well, well, Markos. I made a slight mistake there. Sorry. You’d better forget about women. And the rest of the crew. And your little, slimy, alien friends. ’Cause when relief arrives, it’s going to be all over for you. You mutinied, and then you deserted. Understand? Mutinied! I’m keeping you right here! And when relief arrives, it’s going to be all over. All over, I tell you. I’ll send you back, all right—back for court-martialing. And then, after they’ve put you to death, I’ll see you’re dissected.” The gun pointed at the deck.
Markos shook with rage, but he still couldn’t advance. The rage had awakened something—a new, compelling, overpowering emotion, now just a spark, but a spark that glowed with enough intensity to blot out everything else. It took him by surprise. It warmed him from deep inside, a raging fire spreading warmth and energy. The needlelike pains vanished, the hot and cold spots on his skin were gone. His mind was clear—clearer than he could remember it ever having been. He saw what he would become if he stayed with the Terrans.
He felt taller, larger, deeper, more massive with each passing second as if his feet had roots capable of tapping the power of Gandji. He knew what he was, what the Haber had done. His eyes no longer burned.
They glowed.
“Look at me,” he said.
Van Pelt looked.
The room had been bathed in a glittering, almost blinding display of colored light when Markos had spoken.
“You may not care, but when I woke up after being changed, I was angry.” Reflected beads of light danced on Van Pelt’s corneas. “I resented what the Habers had done. And then, much later, I blamed you. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, what I’d become, but that’s over now.”
Van Pelt was swaying back and forth, his eyes glassy, his gun by his side.
“Do you understand? I know what to do now.”
He stopped to look at Van Pelt, to consider the best way of phrasing what he was about to say, when he realized he’d taken too much time. Van Pelt had stopped swaying, and his eyes were clearing.
Momentarily free of his control, Van Pelt immediately leveled his gun at Markos’s chest. Markos saw his finger tighten on the trigger as if in slow motion.
“Stop!” he shouted.
There was a blinding, intense pulse of light.
And Van Pelt stopped. He went rigid, frozen in position as if dipped into liquid nitrogen, and then went limp in the next instant. He collapsed to the deck.
One flash of an intensity Markos had never dreamed possible had stopped Van Pelt, all right—right down to his autonomic nervous system. The pulse of light must have triggered all of Van Pelt’s neurons to discharge simultaneously, and his neural network pr
obably overloaded. Fried his medulla. The pulse remained with Markos, a visual echo etched into his own neural pathways.
Markos’s body jerked and spasmed for a second. The metallic taste slowly faded, his head and eyes pounded with pain. All he’d wanted to do was to get Van Pelt to slow down, to consider the Habers as sentient creatures—as friends instead of enemies. But with Van Pelt’s body on the deck before him, he realized the idea had been doomed from the start.
Only one path was open to him now. He gathered himself, fought back the still-fresh memory, and opened the cabin door. He found Wilhelm leaning against a bulkhead looking confused and apprehensive. He used his eyes to calm Wilhelm, being careful to control their intensity. Wilhelm escorted him out of the ship.
At the bottom of the hill, safe within a grove of trees, Markos was prepared to face himself, to let remorse and guilt overcome him. He was prepared to face the fact that he’d committed murder. But he only felt good. Complete.
And very much in control.
He walked alone, enjoying the sights and sounds and smells of the planet of his birth, a permanent tourist, a visitor in exile, a newborn child thrust into a world that seemed to be made just for him.
He walked and touched and smelled and experienced things his crewmates could never have fathomed.
Haber settlements were spread across the plains, the mountains, and the forests but he made no effort to find one. Even though he was ready this time for what they expected, he wanted them to ask him directly. And he knew, sooner or later, that they would seek him out.
Eating still presented a problem—he wasn’t sure he wanted to extend his life. He hadn’t yet come to grips with eating on those terms. It was taboo for an adult Haber, and he needed to know what they thought of him before deciding anything else. They would tell him.
The Eternal Enemy Page 4
