The Eternal Enemy (15 page)

After the first day she realized that no matter how well rationed they were, their food would run out quickly. She divided up the water so that it would run out at about the same time as the food.

No one was satisfied with the way this worked out. They wanted more food, more water, and managed to blame the shortages on her.

After nine days they were even less pleased. The Haber ship had not returned to restock their supplies. Everyone went hungry as the food and water ran out. The only things they had left were hope and a deep, abiding distrust for each other.

It was night, and Jackson, De Sola, Wilhelm, and Martinez were outside standing watch. Each man stood at a corner of the compound where the posts were driven into the ground. Nothing could come in, nothing could go out, but still they stood watch. All except McGowen. He had refused the duty.

She would have liked for McGowen to stand a watch, too, but what was Straka supposed to do, court-martial him? Put him on report? They had all seen the need to stand watches without having it discussed, and they all went along with it as if it were the normal thing to do. McGowen's refusal to play along with the fiction made them all uncomfortable.

After nine days the alien landscape still looked alien. She couldn't believe that the strange sky and the startling colors would ever appear normal to her. She didn't want to get used to this place, used to being kept alive like an animal in a stockpen.

She knew she couldn't live much longer like this—conditions were unsanitary and primitive. With the food and water gone, she was starting to lose hope. She no longer cared to figure out why the sun never appeared as anything more than a diffuse blob, why the grass was so variegated, why the Habers hadn't come back with more food and water. They were dying, and that was all she could really think about.

If only they had access to the geltanks. If only they could get in touch with Markos. If only she could somehow get aboard the ship, the Habers would never hear from them again. If only, she thought.

Sure, I chase some biological freak across the galaxy to find immortality and look what I end up with. I'd settle for what's left of my life and my freedom.

She sat on the floor listening to the crew breathe. The building smelled like any building that was peopled by humans who hadn't bathed in days. The crew's smell had ripened over the days like rotting fruit.

They were all dying, and they knew it. No one talked about it.

At least they still managed to keep standing those watches. The action kept them sane, anchored in a past to which they could relate. It was something to do, something to keep their minds off what was happening to them, something to help combat the feeling of total helplessness that awaited anyone who truly gave up hope.

Discipline was nonexistent and unnecessary. They all did as they wanted. And what could they do?

She felt some responsibility toward her crewmates, since chasing Markos had been her idea. She felt some guilt—though she had deceived them into chasing Markos for her own purpose, they had agreed to follow her. And since they had followed her, they had accepted her leadership. She felt she owed them all something.

Maybe it was some kind of strange effect of being in command, but she felt a lot more responsibility toward the others than she ever had before. When they were still on Gandji, she couldn't have cared less about any one of them. At that time it was her against Markos—find the freak and get him to talk. Maybe she felt more responsibility toward the others because the others expected that of her, treating her as their leader, looking to her for answers, for suggestions, for guidance.

She felt a bond she had never felt before, a concern for their well-being. Had someone told her she would feel this way just a few months ago, she would have laughed in his face.

She looked around the smelly building, the single, bare room, then rose to her feet. McGowen and Kominski were asleep, side by side, the innocent and the protector. Maxwell was still awake, probably kept up by hunger and discomfort, back propped against the wall, vacantly staring straight ahead. Katawba snored noisily on the other side of the room.

Straka walked to the doorway and stood there, leaning against the doorframe, breathing in the cool, sweet night air. She glanced overhead and immediately regretted it as she was overcome by a deep pang of isolation.

“Can't sleep?” Maxwell asked. He got up and made his way to Straka's side.

“No. You?”

Maxwell shook his head. “Too hungry. And thirsty. It's getting bad.”

“It's going to get worse,” she said.

“It can't get worse.”

“It can, and it probably will, unless another ship arrives.” She looked out over the landscape at the distant city on the horizon. “You know, it just doesn't make sense to me. But then, I'm not a Haber. If they're trying to keep us alive, you'd think they would've given us enough food and water. Nothing special, mind you—no cots, blankets, or medical attention—just the things we really need to survive.”

“That's
if
they want to keep us alive,” Maxwell said. “We're not sure of that. I think it's probably a simple thing, a simple explanation we've overlooked, something either really alien or really absurd.”

“What?”

“Well, I'm not a Haber, either. I don't know how they think. But from what I've seen, I don't think they can just kill us. It's beyond them. They couldn't just march into the compound and shoot us, no matter how much they might want to. So they give us some food to soothe their consciences—enough to keep us alive for a week or two. And then they let us kill each other, or they let entropy take its course.”

Straka nodded, still staring off at the horizon. “Unless they … no, forget it.”

“What?”

“Well, I was just thinking. If they even want us dead, then why did they fix McGowen?”

“Good point,” Maxwell said, a little hope creeping into his voice.

“Maybe something's happened to them—maybe they just can't get back here. Maybe they want to, but they're busy with something else.”

“Like?”

“Like a fight, a war. Yeah, that could be it. You remember what Markatens said when we were on the
Paladin
, don't you? He ordered us to surrender and called us his prisoners. Not exactly peacetime terminology.”

“Okay, then, who are they at war with? Us?”

Straka shrugged. “If it's us, this is one hell of a way to fight.”

“Then maybe it's not with us.”

Straka laughed through her nose, a short exhalation. “Who else is there?”

She stood outside, waiting.

There's only one thing that doesn't change with time or space, Straka thought, and that's being a prisoner. You quickly learn the basics of survival—hoarding food scraps, stealing from weaker prisoners, sneaking an extra swallow of water. If there had been guards, there would have been informants. You watch the others watch you, and then you watch the sky grow dark as another day passes. You wait for the sun to come up and pray your hope rises with the sun. In the still night, when there's nothing but the sounds living creatures make, or the sound the wind makes whipping through the vegetation, you lie there with half-closed eyes, blurred vision, feigning sleep. You wait for everyone else to sleep so that you can creep toward the food stores. Or you stay up and watch and wait and pray no one tries it before you.

None of this would be happening if the Habers had only given them an idea that they would return. The crew could probably survive a few more days without looking at the plump little Kominski with atavistic longing, saliva freely flowing. That was weeks away yet. By then the Haber ship would have to have returned with more food and water. Water was the real concern.

If we're prisoners like Markatens said, then why the hell don't they treat us like prisoners? Straka wondered. What kind of battle is this? An entire planet against nine human beings? We attacked first, but that was on Gandji, and things were different there. And that had been Van Pelt's doing. It was his fight—not ours. Why should we have to pay for his insanity?

She was struck with a numbing thought: The Habers might truly never return; the food and water they'd dropped off was all they'd receive. She may have had those thoughts before, and she may have always feared it was true, but she'd never really believed it, understood it deep down inside until now.

She shivered. Starved to death. And some of us will live longer than others, she thought. That much is for sure. Kominski will be the first to go—the plumpest, the least capable of defending himself, the least capable of functioning. Her stomach churned, and she worked hard to stifle the urge to vomit. Just thinking of butchering Kominski was enough to push her over the edge. Yank an arm out of a socket, like a leg on a roasted chicken. Nothing to it.

But she was panicking, letting her imagination get carried away. It hadn't gotten that bad yet. This was only their first day without food, and there was enough water for tomorrow. They had some time before they degenerated to cannibalism.

She rubbed her gritty eyes and went back into the building.

Had Aurianta's sky been normal, or even close to Terran, sunrise would have been a welcome sight. But the blob of shimmering color that crept slowly off the horizon and into the strange sky only reminded them of where they were.

There were beautiful things to look at, strange vegetation and life-forms to wonder about, to marvel at. There were small animals outside the compound's protected perimeter, grazing animals, food on the hoof waiting to be rounded up and herded into the compound to serve a more noble purpose than simply eating, sleeping, and procreating.

The crew sat on the grass outside the building, too weary with depression to do much more than gaze longingly at the grazing animals. McGowen was chewing on something, and everyone noticed this at about the same time.

Jackson was on him in a second, and Straka braced herself for the worst. McGowen put up no resistance, though, as Jackson worked his way to sitting on McGowen's chest. McGowen opened his mouth and gladly let Jackson remove whatever morsel of food he'd been chewing.

It was grass, in all shades of green.

Bitterly disappointed, feeling cheated, Jackson dug his knee into McGowen's midsection as he rose. McGowen said nothing, and did nothing to protect himself.

McGowen sat upright and yanked another handful of grass out of the ground and started chewing off the tips. Jackson reached down, picked up a few blades, and stuffed them into his own mouth. He spat it out immediately.

“Christ! How can you eat this?” he screamed.

McGowen smiled. “It's good.”

“It's what?” Straka asked, incredulous.

“It's good.”

“How long have you been eating that stuff?” she asked.

“A few days.”

“What?” Maxwell shouted.

“A few days,” Straka muttered. She reached down into the grass growing before her and plucked a few blades. She put them into her mouth and tried to chew. As soon as her teeth broke the outer membrane of the blades, she gagged. She spat the blades out as she collapsed to her side, feeling the dry heaves coming on in a powerful wave.

Maxwell had tried the same thing but had swallowed a mouthful and was retching with such force, his body was out of control. He convulsed with huge spasms.

The others had been smart enough to wait.

McGowen continued to chew and swallow complacently. Straka slowly stopped heaving and managed to sit up. She felt weaker than ever. Maxwell was still convulsing.

“You okay?” Wilhelm asked by her side.

Straka nodded. “Barely. The grass is toxic.”

“That's putting it mildly,” Wilhelm said. He left her to check on Maxwell. He bent over and looked at him, determined there was nothing that could be done, then sat down to wait for the convulsions to subside.

Straka glanced hungrily at the animals. They could be as toxic as the grass, she thought. And then she caught sight of Kominski, waddling up to the barrier.

“Come back here, 'Minski!” Straka shouted with as much strength as she could muster.

Kominski showed no signs of having heard. He stood fifty meters away from the grazing animals. They looked a little like Terran pigs in general shape. Their hides were creamy yellow, their hindquarters covered with a brown, downy fur.

Kominski walked straight into the barrier, attempting to close the distance, then jumped back in surprise. The barrier had given him a small shock—nothing debilitating—just a warning of what would come if he pressed too hard against it. He tried again and recoiled from the shock.

“'Minski!” Straka shouted.

Kominski pressed forward again, this time letting out a little yelp of pain. The crew watched, amused.

“Leave the poor slob alone,” Jackson said. “Let him fry himself. That way we won't have to cook him when the time comes.” He laughed a sick laugh, slightly over the edge.

Straka shook her head, swallowing the bile taste that lingered in her mouth. Kominski was beating against the barrier with his fists, emitting a short cry of pain with each blow. His hands seemed to penetrate the barrier's inner surface, but didn't go all the way through. Perhaps with a concerted effort—

“Wilhelm? Go on out there and give Kominski some help,” Straka said. “It looks like it's giving a little. Maybe with the two of you it might collapse.”

Wilhelm was on his feet and moving toward Kominski before she had finished talking.

“You really don't think that'll work, do you?” Jackson asked. “We tried that four nights ago, while you were sleeping.”

Straka glared at Jackson. “Thanks for telling me, Jack. You're a real sweetheart.”

“Don't mention it.”

Kominski and Wilhelm were working together, trying to break down the barrier. They were getting nowhere with it. “Come on back, Wilhelm. And bring Kominski with you,” Straka shouted.