The Eternal Enemy (13 page)

Straka didn't look away from the screens when the door to the bridge opened, flooding the place with light. She figured it was Jackson and knew that if she turned, her pupils would contract painfully.

“Anything yet?” Jackson asked.

“No, Jack. Nothing.”

“How long are we going to wait here?”

“As long as necessary.”

“You really think he's here someplace?”

“Don't you?” Straka asked.

Jackson shrugged and sat in the forward-quadrant control seat. Before him were dials and buttons and a series of small, console-mounted screens displaying the quadrants out of his line of sight. “He could be, or he could be dead already.”

“He's not.” He'd better not be.

“What makes you so sure?”

“I'm not sure of anything, Jack. I only know that until we see his body, we're not safe.”

“So what do we do, then? Just wait?”

Straka nodded. “We have no choice. He'll soon discover the
Paladin's
here. He'll come out to see us, to find out what we're doing, to make sure we don't start killing all his little alien friends.”

“I hope you're right.”

So do I, Straka thought. If only I'd known about that ship the Habers had, I could have stopped this before it got out of control, stopped Markos while he was still on Gandji. But who would have thought those humanoid cows would have an f-t-l ship?

She glanced over at Jackson. Jackson was starting to show his anxiety and his frustration. If he was so close to the edge, the rest of the crew couldn't be that far behind. If Markos didn't show soon, Straka knew she was heading for trouble. Sooner or later the real grumbling would start, and then they'd take the ship back to Terra regardless of what she did or said.

The geltanks had made the four-year chase across the spiral arm tolerable—most of the crew had spent six days in the tanks for every one day out. They hadn't aged much biologically over the two-hundred-some-odd days, and they were still in good enough frames of mind to pull this thing off. As long as Markos showed himself soon.

They were all anxious. They needed to feel ground beneath their feet, breathe fresh air, meet someone different, have their sexual desires taken care of by something more than a geltank. They wanted to go home, to try to live with the changes the years had left them with.

They had all agreed to the chase, all right—as Straka had presented it, they really had no choice. Either chase and catch Markos, or remain on Gandji for the rest of their lives. And what was on Gandji? There hadn't been anything worth staying for. When the Haber ship had left Gandji, the crew had been willing to give up and go home. Straka couldn't afford to let that happen. Not while she still needed information from Markos.

“What's that?” Jackson asked, pointing to a sector of space directly before him.

Straka's face changed as a smile emerged. Her eyes hardened and her cheek muscles knotted beneath her skin. “It's him. It has to be.”

She immediately slapped the alert button, plunging the ship into emergency status. Sounds of activity filtered into the control center as crew members rose from geltanks or left the lounge and took their emergency positions.

Straka threw a few switches, and the pedestal-mounted view-screen before her sprang to life. A tiny, moving dot appeared on the screen, then grew as it was logarithmically magnified. If it wasn't the exact ship Markos had used to make his escape from Gandji, it was close enough.

The navigational computer quickly supplied the ship's estimated flight path and time to possible interception. It was headed straight for the
Paladin
.

Straka spoke to the ship's computer. “Prepare for evasive maneuvers.”

“Maneuvers laid in,” the ship responded.

“Is it him?” Jackson asked.

“We'll see. Now it's only a matter of time.”

The alien ship did not respond to their radio transmissions. Straka wasn't surprised by that, knowing what she did about the Habers' method of communication. There had been a certain amount of risk in letting the ship approach the
Paladin
, but she'd had little choice. The
Paladin
had no offensive weapons; none had been outfitted, and the computer refused or was programmatically incapable of helping them design any. If the alien ship was going to destroy them, it was well within range. After a few nervous moments, Straka realized there would be no attack on their ship.

The crew had strict orders not to fire on Markos when he showed himself. They were to trap him in the airlock, subdue him, then take him to the lab. Straka would oversee the questioning. Straka would get her answers. She would learn what Markos had learned from the Habers.

The tests that she and Markos had run had shown that the Habers were, for all intents and purposes, immortal. More immortal than she could ever be through the geltanks. She was sure that Markos knew how the chemical process worked and had somehow worked it on himself. As the alien ship docked, Straka daydreamed of living forever, of having the time and the ship to explore areas where intelligent, helpful life could be found, life that understood the values of commerce, of power, of control. She was free, but only of Terra and its chains. At the end of her freedom lay death, ready to claim her, to end her dreams and hopes and plans.

A backlit figure stood framed in the bridge's doorway, breathing heavily. “Cathy? You'd better come and see.” It was Wilhelm.

“What is it?” Straka asked, getting to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her system.

“It looks a lot like him, but we can't be sure.”

“Christ. Let's go,” Straka said, rushing up the ramp.

They ran through the passageways, Wilhelm dripping sweat, breathing heavily, muttering curses and invectives at Markos and NASA 2. As they approached the airlock, Straka saw that Jackson and Kominski were already there waiting for them. They stopped before the airlock, and Straka peered through the thick, transparent window. The thing on the other side of the glass looked a lot like Markos.

Katawba, De Sola, and Martinez arrived a few seconds behind Straka.

“Open it,” Straka said.

Jackson pressed the airlock button. The door slid open, revealing more of the Haber.

“Can you understand me?” the alien asked.

Straka blinked, then swallowed. A lump lay in her throat. “You're not Markos.”

“No, I am not Markos. I am Markatens. Are you Straka?”

“Where's Markos?” Straka demanded.

Wilhelm looked at Straka as if she were crazy. “What good will—”

“Shut up, Wilhelm! Which planet, Markatens?”

Markatens's eyes glittered, flickering between violet and yellow. “He told us you might be coming, though he really didn't think you would. Before this goes any farther, I must tell you that my ship is manned and very effectively armed. If I am detained here, the crew has orders to destroy this ship.”

Kominski turned his panic-stricken face to Straka, pleading for a sign that everything would be okay. Straka ignored him.

“There won't be any need for that, Markatens. You're not a prisoner. You're free to leave whenever you wish.”

“I appreciate that,” Markatens said, “but I'm afraid I cannot extend the privilege. Markos taught us a lot since Gandji. Your ship and crew are my prisoners.”

11

The
Paladin
was in a stable orbit around Aurianta, manned by one of the Habers. Straka had had no real choice but to surrender. Markatens had ably demonstrated his ship's weaponry, and the entire crew realized that they had no chance of fighting. The crew had stared at Straka with accusing eyes, muttering their discontent. Their accusations and resentment slowly hardened their expressions. Dealing with Markos and an alien civilization were bad enough—she didn't want to have to deal with the crew too.

The Habers took few precautions transporting Straka and the others to the surface of the planet. Few precautions were needed. Straka and the crew were prisoners as surely as if they'd been chained to the deck. Escape was possible, but there was no place to escape to; leaping out of the alien ship's airlock without a protective suit was suicide, not escape.

There were two Habers aboard. One guarded the crew while they sat in the bay area, while the other one was somewhere in the ship, probably at the controls, piloting them down to Aurianta's surface. The crew glared at Straka, and she glared back, doubly anxious over her position.

“What do you think they'll do with us?” Wilhelm asked Jackson.

The large black man shrugged. “Who knows? Kill us maybe?”

“Kill us?” Kominski asked, wild-eyed.

Jackson nodded. “Probably right after they try us for what we did on Gandji.”

“No! It's not fair!” Kominski cried.

“Come on, 'Minski. Take it easy,” Straka said calmly.

“Who asked you?” Jackson asked. There was enough bite in his voice to cause Straka some nervousness.

“Jack, there's no need to be—”

“I said who asked you. We wouldn't be here now it it wasn't for your screwy plan.”

“But—”

Jackson cut her off. He leaned over and gathered the top of Straka's worksuit in one hand, choking her.

“You just shut up, Cathy. You understand? Shut up. We don't need any more help from you.”

“Okay, okay,” Straka said, rubbing her throat.

“You really think they'll kill us?” Kominski asked.

Jackson nodded. “I know
I
would.”

But you're not them, Straka thought, and that's what counts. Not one slimy creature on Gandji had put up a fight. What makes him think they could kill us in cold blood?

“Why don't you two lay off?” McGowen asked.

Straka was surprised to see McGowen participate. He'd always been a loner by choice, quiet and calm on the outside, but on the inside, capable of clean, efficient violence bordering on the psychotic.

“Why don't
you
just shut up?” Jackson asked.

McGowen smiled without humor. “That's funny, Jackson. I'll tell you what—put me on report and when we get back to Terra, you can have me court-martialed.”

“You really think they'll kill us, Jack?” Kominski pleaded.

Jackson slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. Kominski yelped in pain and surprise. Everyone froze for a moment, startled by the noise. McGowen was on Jackson almost instantly. They rolled on the deck of the alien ship, McGowen pummeling Jackson's face and head with quick, powerful blows. De Sola and Martinez pried them apart before Jackson got on the offensive.

Kominski, crunched against a bulkhead as if trying to melt into it, mumbled incoherently, gibbering. Katawba moved over to Kominski's side, trying to see if he'd been hurt. Straka remained seated, watching as if she had a front-row seat to some incredibly cruel sporting event. This is no time to jump in and get involved, she thought. Not if you like breathing.

“Stay the hell away from me, man!” Jackson screamed, half-crazed. He spat blood and rubbed his split lip with the back of his hand. A thin red gash on his left cheek trickled blood. He shrugged himself free of Wilhelm's grip. “You stay away from me if you know what's good for you.”

McGowen was breathing calmly. Except for the manic gleam in his eyes and his scraped, bloodied knuckles, he seemed the same calm person he had been moments earlier.

“You leave
him
alone,” McGowen said, nodding toward Kominski, “and I leave
you
alone.”

Jackson looked away.

“Did you hear me?” McGowen asked.

“I heard you, all right. Just stay out of my way.”

McGowen smiled, and Straka thought there might be humor there this time. “Gladly,” McGowen said.

Kominski scrabbled his way to Jackson's side, eyes wild. “You think they'll kill us, don't you. We're all dead now.”

Straka watched a thin trail of saliva slowly run down Kominski's chin. Jackson's cheek was swelling, and one of his eyes was starting to close. Jackson glared at Kominski, and Straka could see it was about to happen again. Against her better judgment she decided to say something.

“'Minski?” she asked.

Jackson pointed a warning finger at Straka, but before he had a chance to say anything, McGowen interceded. “That goes for her, too, Jackson.”

Jackson leaped to his feet, hands balled into fists. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

McGowen showed his bright, white teeth.

“They're going to kill us,” Kominski wailed. “I can tell!”

McGowen stood slowly, with controlled power. Katawba and De Sola leaped to their feet and stood between Jackson and McGowen.

“Sit!” came a shout from the ramp behind them. They turned and looked at the Haber, his presence completely forgotten in the heat of the moment. He held a weapon and it was aimed at the group.

They sat.

Straka used the opportunity. “Listen, 'Minski. No one's going to kill us.”

“No?” Kominski asked.

“No,” Straka said.

“If you're as sure about that as you were about finding Markos, then we're as good as dead right now,” Jackson said.

“I'm right, Jackson.”

“Then they're not going to kill us?” Kominski asked, his face a tortured mask of confusion.

“No, they won't,” Straka said.

“How the hell do
you
know? You've been wrong about everything else,” Jackson said, lightly touching his puffy cheek.

“I know.”

“Then they're not going to kill us?” Kominski asked with the fervor of a begging dog.

“No, 'Minski. They won't kill us,” Straka said with a gentle smile, hoping to coax Kominski out of it.

“Oh,” Kominski said.

Jackson shook his head in disbelief. “You know something, Straka? You couldn't have handled this thing any worse. Where the hell did these Habers get weapons, huh? Where's their peace-loving spirit gone to now?”