“It cannot be,” the alien said. “I only lost visual contact with him for a moment. He could not...”
Before her, Jason stared at George in surprise. She watched George step forward and viciously backhand Jason across the mouth, then seize him by the waist in his massive hands and hoist him against the wall so that his feet dangled in the air.
What's happening? Desperately she tried to make sense of the scene as George whirled and smashed Jason against the wall. He vanished in a puff of smoke.
As she watched, George Darron's eyes met those of her image and lingered. Then Stella saw him move forward and embrace her, press his lips passionately to hers.
“YOU HAVE DECEIVED ME,” the alien screamed in outrage. “WHICH ONE ARE YOU? STEP FORWARD AND REVEAL YOURSELF AT ONCE.”
Stella turned. The Scaleys were looking at each other in confusion, gesturing frantically in an effort to identify the impostor. She whirled back, just in time to see herself throw her arms around George Darron's broad neck as he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
“HE'S CONCEALING HIMSELF AMONG YOU!” the alien roared, his astonishment changing to fear. “FIND HIM AT ONCE! DO NOT PERMIT HIM TO GET NEAR ME! HE INTENDS TO DESTROY US!”
One of the Scaleys moved forward and its weapon rose to send a beam narrowly past her. She heard a scream, a shrill, agonized one unlike any she had heard before, and turned to see the alien start to dissolve in bubbles of boiling protoplasm. Higher and higher the scream rose, a thread of hypersonic agony that threatened to snap as the beam probed and darted and sliced, seeking a core, an inner sanctum to breach.
Above, a device of some kind descended.
The Scaleys now looked crippled, their heads and limbs jerking like broken puppets as the figure in their midst swung its weapon from side to side. Turning back, she saw that the device above had now descended halfway to the floor, and that it was a shield.
She leapt forward and braced herself beneath it, pressing her hands against its dark surface. It continued relentlessly downward. If she didn't stop its descent, the alien would be saved, severely injured but intact. If that happened, all they had fought for would be lost.
She had to stop it.
She pushed back with all her might, her muscles straining as the weapon's beam swung and cut and the alien's scream rose still higher. Despite all her efforts, the now groaning shield continued to descend, forcing the Scaley to hold its fire. Centimeter by centimeter, Stella was driven to the deck.
On her knees, she remembered the wounded soldier in the corridor she had wanted to help. He had been in such pain, and she had promised him she would return. If she didn't stop this shield...
The soldier's eyes pleading in her mind, she found a cache of untapped strength and strained even harder, striving for just a millimeter of progress. Slowly, in agony, she felt the shield retreat before her fingers. She was forcing it back! Now she was off her knees, rising, pushing the shield still higher as the weapon whined and the alien's scream
Stopped.
An instant later, all the Scaleys ceased their movements and collapsed. The sound of their armor striking decks throughout the ship was deafening, a colossal din that ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Trembling, Stella released her grip on the shield locked in place above her. The tall figure deactivated the Scaley weapon by pressing something on its side and then raised its hands. Slowly, it removed its helmet.
George Darron looked at her, his gaze frank and direct, just as it had been in her cabin. Stunned, Stella met his eyes, seeing him as never before.
“George,” she finally said, “I'm glad you could make it.”
Then all seemed chaos as a thousand things happened at once. Nick peppered George with questions as George checked Brett's and Morner's conditions. Stella herself was on the comlink to Sloan, ordering that units be deployed to secure all sectors of the enemy ship.
“You think the Scaleys are all dead, don't you, Stella?”
She glanced at George, who was bent over Brett, examining her eyes. “I think so, but assume otherwise. And Sloan?”
“Yes, Commander?” His voice quivered with excitement, barely restraining the triumph she herself fought to suppress.
“We have an enemy ship now, Sloan,” she said. “Our very first. Since we can't control it from within the singularity, I want you and Jason to plot vector and coordinates for sending it through first.” She grinned despite herself. “We're going to find a way to take this baby to Loran Base by ourselves, Sloan. Lay it right in their laps to study.”
A pause, longer than she'd expected. “Are you all right, Sloan?” she finally said.
“Uh, yes. Great idea, Stella. Our whiz-heads can study the Scaley technology, suck it dry. Thanks to you, we can win this war!”
“Stella, they look fine,” George said, rising from where Brett rested on the deck. “A good sleep and a little psy-con, and they'll be fit as a fiddle.”
She met his eyes. Licked her lips. “That's great, George.”
“Commander,” Nick said.
Stella glanced at him, only to see that he was staring over her shoulder. “What is it, Nick?”
“Ser, I thought it was dead.”
She turned and studied the huge, ruined pulp, which even now was beginning to smell. What did Nick mean? Of course the thing was dead. Anyone could see that.
Something stirred inside it, rippled across its ravaged surface.
“Stella,” George said, “don't go any closer.”
“Why not?” She glanced back and forth between them. “It's dead, isn't it? You killed it.”
“I think I did. Let me make sure.”
He stooped to pick up his weapon.
Stella nodded and turned back. Approaching, she knelt an arm's length away from the alien's corpse and leaned forward for a last look. When she did, she saw it move again. As if it had been waiting, it surged forward and reared up over her face.
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* * *
CHAPTER NINE
The alien came down, striking Stella and sending her flying, and even her quick reflexes weren't sufficient to keep her on her feet. She landed hard, her skull and arm rammed violently against the deck. Even before she finished skidding, George burned the alien at full power, searing deep grooves and gashes in the heaving protoplasm. Stunned from the impact, Stella struggled to her feet.
This can't be! Her mind protested. The thing's dead. I know it!
At its now semi-dissolved, liquescent base, a slimy object appeared, writhing and struggling to get free. It reminded her of-a baby!
Could the alien be female?
No. That was impossible.
Fighting a headache, she activated all channels and turned to George. “Don't shoot!” she screamed. “Stop!”
George cut the power, and Stella clambered to the object, which continued to fight in its womblike prison. Kneeling, Stella took it in her hands and gently but forcefully wrested it free.
She wiped away the decomposing tissue that clung to the faceplate, seeing pleading eyes behind it.
“Bloody Scaley!” George said above her. “It's Thunderheart. He's still alive!”
“He won't be,” she said, “if he doesn't get some air.”
“What?” George knelt beside her, examining Thunderheart. “Damn, you're right. The ox unit must be damaged.” His hands tried to open the faceplate and then turn the helmet. “Shit, plate's fused, and the lock's broken too!”
“Let me.” As Thunderheart's mouth strained in agony, Stella gripped the helmet and tried to turn it. No good. She could do it but only by breaking the lock and Thunderheart's neck as well.
Beneath her, Thunderheart's body convulsed in its final crisis. She had only seconds left.
She must do something.
Clutching his helmet on both sides, she tried to pull the helmet apart into two hemispheres. Too little force, and the helmet wouldn't open. Too much, and she knew the abrupt shock could ki
ll him.
She closed her eyes, whispered a prayer.
With a clean snap, the helmet divided. George instantly pressed a hypospray against Thunderheart's carotid artery.
But his face didn't change. It remained calm and still, gripped by death.
“He's not responding.”
“Give it a chance,” George said.
She gazed down at the soldier. He had been so brave attacking the enemy with just his hands. Come on, damn you, breathe! She thought crazily of seizing Thunderheart by the ankles and holding him upside down, slapping his backside to make him breathe. If he didn't do something soon...
Suddenly Thunderheart's chest heaved and he gulped air. Another breath and he gave a lusty cry!
“Good,” George said. “The peraxodine's taking effect. He should live.”
George's prognosis proved conservative. Within thirty seconds Thunderheart pulled himself away and stood upright. Though shaky, he was clearly alert. Stella had heard reports of the phenomenal recuperative powers of the Emperor's Arm, but until now had not seen proof.
“Thunderheart, are you all right?”
“Yes, my Commander.” He shuddered and shook his head. “As you command, ser. I am ready.”
Brett and the others had recovered their helmets from the dead Scaleys and now Stella took hers from Nick. “You can wear mine, Thunderheart,” she said, passing it over. “The plate's nicked, but you can use your breather tube. Beyond this bow, you'll need it.”
“But ser...”
“I don't breathe,” she said, glad for once that it was true.
Thunderheart looked at the helmet, then at her. “My life for yours, Commander. My soul's blood.”
“All right,” she said, turning away from his gaze, “let's vacate this area, get the hell back to our ship.”
George put his Scaley helmet on and placed the breather tube between his lips. “That's the best damned idea I've heard all day,” he said. “Just do me a favor, Sloan, will you?” he said, speaking now to the Spaceranger. “Tell the crewmen that if they see a live Scaley anywhere on this ship, not to fry it. Because it'll be me!”
Excited laughter burst through from the other end. “Duly noted and already done, Doctor! I've notified them to let you be. You're one damned Scaley everyone's gonna love!”
Stella laughed with the others, aware that her headache was almost gone and that she too sounded giddy and drunk. She fought to regain her composure.
“See you soon, Sloan.”
“Aye, aye, ser.”
“All right,” she snapped. “Let's move.”
The bow portals proved closed, and for a second Stella feared they would have to break out. But Morner stepped forward, turned the recessed handles, and pushed the doors open.
“Good work, comrade,” She smiled.
He grinned. “Yes, ser!”
They entered the corridor and almost immediately reached the imager before which “George” stood. This time, Stella was careful not to look at it.
“Dr. Darron,” Brett asked in awe. “How did you manage that?”
George grinned. “Easy. When the Scaleys didn't react to me, I figured they couldn't tell I was human. I just walked up to one who was alone, indicated it should open its faceplate, and juiced it in the snoot with this.”
He held up a small hypospray.
“What's that, ser?” Nick asked.
“DL-Prime. I took it from my armor when I changed suits. It causes death within two seconds and total somatic rigidity in ten. The Scaley was so stiff, it couldn't collapse, so I propped it up in front of this thing.”
“How did you know it would work?” Stella asked.
George looked at her, and then shrugged. “I didn't. But when it did, I tried it on some others. And I kept movin’ fast as I could, hoping that whatever was watching would lose me like a needle in a haystack. We tried it with the kaleidoscope when we were on the Spaceranger, but the multiple images of the ship didn't fool the enemy. This time the method worked.” He turned, glanced at the imager, then away. “It was all a lucky stunt, a stab in the dark. I had no reason to believe it would work, but I had to try something.”
“An ‘extra variable,’ I think you called it,” Stella said. “Why weren't you caught by this thing?” Her eyes averted, she gestured blindly at the imager.
Sounds came to them-crewmen from the Spaceranger were approaching. “I almost was,” George said gently, “but my training helped. It's a variation on the Sensory Multi-phase Amplifier or what we call ‘Mind Maze,’ which we use to extract information from criminals. This thing here"-he smiled at the swirling, ever-changing device, then looked away, slightly disoriented-"This, uh, thing here is a very elaborate, supremely refined version of the principle.”
He turned to it again.
“Careful, ser,” Thunderheart said, pulling him away.
“You're right,” George laughed in embarrassment. “It does lock onto you, doesn't it? See, Stella,” he said, giving her a sidelong glance. “Anyone can be mucked up by this, even me, and I know how these things work.”
They headed down the corridor, meeting soldiers who nodded at her and gaped at George. Stella smiled at their uncertainty. One part of their minds was conditioned to hate and fire at the enemy on sight; the other respected George as their main health officer and now, surprisingly, as a fellow soldier in his own right.
The best moment of all was when George, dressed in Scaley armor, stopped a medtech and told him the alien's remains were just ahead in the bow. “I want a complete workup,” he ordered. “An A through R2 series. Blood, bone, brain, balls, you name it. Have a report on that Slug on my desk in twelve hours.”
“Yes, s-ser,” the medtech sputtered as he struggled to cope with George's appearance.
“What the freaking hell are you waiting for?” George shouted. “An engraved invitation from the Emperor? Get your ass in gear.”
“Yes, ser!” The medtech shambled away, clanking in the unfamiliar armor.
“I wish I could see that look on his face again,” Stella said. “It was priceless.”
George looked at her, and then shifted his eyes. “You can,” he said. “The ship's recorders got it from both our scanners.”
They continued on, turning left into a side corridor, the same one where they had killed a group of Scaleys while losing five of their own. Soldiers poured past them, and a few medtechs examined her dead crew and loaded their bodies onto suspension cribs. Others took samples from Scaleys, inserting silvery-blue skin tissue and thin green blood into plastic tubes.
They turned left again, into the main corridor by which they'd entered. Human and Scaley bodies stretched ahead, medtechs and others milling around them, looking for survivors. Their approach, especially George's, drew a few stares, but Stella was glad to see that the slain and wounded comrades constituted their first concern.
Halfway to the entrance, she remembered the wounded soldier who had pled for help and her promise that she would return. Now, unbelievably, she had.
Through the shifting figures of her crew, she spotted him. Yes, it was the same one, his body half buried under others, and his hand outstretched as before on the floor. Could he still be alive?
Leaping nimbly where she could, she maneuvered her way to the soldier and lightly pressed his shoulder. Pale eyelids fluttered open.
She smiled at him. “I told you I'd be back.”
She beckoned to George and Thunderheart. “I want the bodies on top of this soldier removed so I can carry him to the ship.”
George frowned. “Why not let our crew do it?”
“Because I made a promise.” She looked at Thunderheart, who had been staring at her as if mesmerized.
Thunderheart stiffened. “At once!”
She watched George determine that the two bodies covering the soldier were indeed dead before they removed them. Then she stooped to pick up the soldier.
“Wait, Stella,” George said. “Moving him's dangerous. I'l
l get a suspension crib.”
“He's already got one,” she said.
Carefully, she maneuvered her fingers beneath the soldier's body and rose to her feet. Gently, with a smooth precision, she bore him toward the portal by which they'd entered, and into the Spaceranger's docking bay.
Perhaps a hundred soldiers waited for her there, and when she saw them, she remembered her shame. Jason and half her crew must have witnessed her disgrace, seen her most secret fantasy stripped bare for the humiliation it was. She shifted her fingers on the soldier she carried and defiantly raised her chin.
As George and the others followed her, those in the docking bay stepped forward, but instead of the laughter she half expected, they spontaneously started to shout. It took several moments to recognize what they were saying, over and over again.
"McMASTERS! McMASTERS! McMASTERS!"
On and on it went as the full significance of their accomplishment sank in. For the first time ever in the Human-Scaley War, humans had prevailed in battle. And not only prevailed, but completely routed and destroyed the enemy. She wanted to turn, to tell them that they were the heroes, not just she, but knew there would be time for that later.
With the thunderous syllables of her name chanted in praise behind her, she carried the promise she had kept to sickbay.
* * * *
After the soldier was taken to surgery, a hundred things seemed to happen at once. Sloan and half the navigational crew arrived at sickbay soon after, and a spontaneous victory cheer rang out. People kissed and embraced each other indiscriminately, several fastening on Stella until Thunderheart, backed by George, pushed them off.
“Let her rest,” George shouted. “Can't you see she's exhausted?”
Thunderheart's ebony features gleamed in the bright room, glowering at those who still sought to embrace Stella. When his expression registered, they withdrew, and Thunderheart assumed a post at the entrance to prevent other visitors.
“Stella,” Sloan said, “Jason and I have already charted a course for sending the Slug ship through the hole. We've secured it for transport.”
Slug? Where did that come from?
“Excellent,” she said. “I want to send it through within twelve hours. The sooner we get it to Loran Base, the better. Also, we'll all need to meet as soon as possible so we can determine just what we've learned about the Scaleys-or Slugs-so we can present it to Command.”
Beyond Those Distant Stars Page 9
