The Eternal Enemy (17 page)

He lowered himself to the ground, gripping the lasetube tightly in his hand, his eye clusters at peak receptivity, tuned to the planet's rhythm and flow. The group would appear within scant moments, and he braced himself for the confrontation.

There!

He froze for an instant, then changed the handle on his lasetube, activating it by sending a steady stream of electrons through his hand into the unit. The thin, tight beam cut the advancing line of Hydrans down like a giant scythe, separating their bodies in two sections. They toppled in a heap, exuding a powerful stench.

He had killed, and it had been easy.

But there was chattering activity coming from the camp now. He could hear it, like the screeching of metal against metal, like the smashing of thousands of panes of glass. He rushed to his feet and advanced.

There was a small group of trees on the fringe of the camp's perimeter and he ran for their cover. He made swift progress; before his body had exhausted its reserve energy, he was by the trees, watching the flurry of activity in the camp. The stench was incredible, an instinctive odor emitted by the Hydrans as they went onto battle, a call to arms. But he had expected the smell.

The metal huts spewed out Hydran after Hydran, their black, three-legged bodies a churning mass of motion. Some were larger than others, some moved more quickly than others, but they were all armed.

They still hadn't discovered Triand there, close by, waiting to mow them down like inanimate targets. They were organizing into small groups. If he put off his attack much longer, his chances of surviving would decrease drastically. The less organized they were, the better.

He got down on one knee, pointed his weapon into the camp, and activated it.

He managed to lase down twenty or so before they could return his fire. The tree beside him burst into flames as beam after beam struck it and the surrounding grass. For an instant Triand wondered if the beams had struck him and had been deflected by the belt, or if the Hydrans were just bad at aiming their weapons.

He fired back, burning a few more, then sought safety behind another tree. So this is killing, he thought. What's so difficult about it?

The Hydrans scattered. Two of the groups started to run toward him. He lased down the first wave easily, and the second wave of Hydrans stopped, falling to the ground for cover.

One of them got off a good shot as Triand left the sheltering tree for a better position. The beam had been deflected. The unit worked. He thought of testing the belt further, offering himself as a target.

He recognized the need for immediate retreat, before all the trees around him burst into flames. He knew he was protected from their lasers, but burning trees presented a different problem. As did falling trees, or the flames leaping up from the grass around him.

He fired a few quick blasts to keep the Hydrans' heads down, then sprinted out of concealment, heading back toward the ship. The group of Hydrans rose to their three legs and started pursuit.

Triand ran as fast as he could, pumping his legs up and down with all his strength, but his body had limitations. It hadn't been designed for running, and the Hydrans were catching up. He scanned the immediate area as he ran, searching for some cover.

Another grove of trees lay ahead about thirty or forty meters away. He tried to remember what Markos had taught him, going over and over bits of information, searching for the answer to this wrong situation, but nothing came to him.

He glanced behind as he ran and saw they were closer yet, less than twenty meters and closing. He thought he saw about ten of them.

He would never make it to the woods. He angled off to his left, running through the tangled undergrowth, away from the woods and his ship.

The Hydrans followed.

A burst of laser fire surrounded him, split and rejoined in front of him, charring the grass in his path. He altered direction again.

Another burst of fire.

He realized he would have to make a stand. He flung himself to the ground, making his body hard as he hit the ground, and came up firing. He burned half of them away before they could stop their headlong rush.

But the other five continued to advance, now less than ten meters away. He could smell them, smell their battle frenzy, hear them chittering and clacking. They split up before he could get off a well-aimed shot, two Hydrans to the right, two to the left, while one continued its straight-on advance.

Triand immediately lased the single, oncoming Hydran. The beam neatly sliced off its head, and momentum caused the head to roll within a meter of Triand.

Where were the other four?

Two to the right, two to the left, probably going to try to encircle me, take me from the flanks. If I stay here and wait for them, I'll be caught in a crossfire. I can't watch both groups at the same time.

He rolled onto his back, sprang to his feet, and ran between the enclosing groups.

He might have gotten away if he hadn't assumed they were trying to surround him. He was running full speed into a waiting Hydran. The Hydran fired. The beam split around Triand. Triand fired back and burned a gaping hole through the Hydran's thorax. The smell of charred flesh mingled with the evil odors of the battle.

He was tiring too quickly. He realized he wasn't thinking clearly and had lost his edge.

Something caught him around the foot, and he went down hard, like an animal caught in a snare. His lasetube fell from his hand, rolling out of reach. He kept his body hardened, draining precious energy away from his senses, and turned over onto his back. It was a Hydran, holding him by the ankle. It must have hidden in the undergrowth instead of coming around his flank.

Its other hand held a blade poised above Triand's midsection. The blade plunged downward and snapped in half as it made contact.

He brought his hardened hand down with all his might, aiming for the alien's head. The blow glanced off. He tried again while the alien clawed at his chest and tried to pierce his skin with its clawlike fingers.

He put all his energy into one eye-beam hoping to at least blind the Hydran for a moment. The white light pierced the night, and the alien let go of Triand to shield its head. Triand took this moment to roll for his lasetube. He grabbed it and wheeled around, activating it and shooting the Hydran at close range.

The Hydran let out a horrifying shriek that echoed in Triand's mind.

He saw that his protective belt had come loose, that it dangled from his chest. He sat there and tried to decide whether to strap the belt back on when he smelled the other three Hydrans right on top of him.

Markos released his death grip on the crystal. It dropped to the floor. He knew what had happened next, even though the act itself hadn't been recorded. Triand had been lased by one of the remaining Hydrans before he could adjust the deflection belt.

Seeing the battle Triand had fought made him face what he had to face, but with great reluctance. The realization was inescapable. The farther he ran from it, the worse things would get.

The children were soldiers, could be warriors of consummate skill, though they would require many runs through training courses, mock battles, and real skirmishes. But they could never win this war by themselves.

They lacked too much in cultural experience or aggression. Even their lives on Aurianta did more harm than good. And worse, they didn't understand the meaning of death the way a Terran understands, and understanding was the thing that made good fighters.

The Old One had reentered the room at some point while Markos had been involved with the crystal. He sat across from Markos, waiting.

“It's no good, Old One,” Markos rasped painfully. “It's not going to work the way I'd hoped. If we send any of the others out, they'll die too.”

“I, I understand. Alpha and I, I have discussed it.”

“Good. I only wish that Triand had killed less and survived more.”

“He did what he could.”

“Yes, Old One, you're right. Now we must do what
we
can. We must let the Terrans die.”

“Die?”

“Yes. Dead humans don't argue.”

14

Dawn. The morning light was feeble, creeping through the building's windows. Straka stirred, shifted position on the hard floor, and blinked her eyes open. In the faint light everything looked gray.

Her hips hurt, bruised from the long nights she'd spent sleeping on the bare floor. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her stomach was empty, a bottomless pit harboring a restless, tiny monster growling furiously with the first light of day. It had kept her awake long into the night as it searched for something to digest other than itself. Her eyes were gritty, her mouth tasted foul, and she stank. She was coated with caked-on dirt and grime; it covered her like a second layer of skin, trapping her body heat, sealing her pores, smothering her beneath its sealed surface.

McGowen wasn't in the building; he was probably up and around, walking the camp's perimeter or sitting on the grass watching the sky come to life. She could hear the large man's humming filter in through the doorway while the rest of the crew slept on fitfully.

As Straka moved back to prop herself up against the wall, her ribs hurt. The edges of bone felt tender, as if they were disintegrating. She winced in pain as she touched them.

She rubbed her face with her hands, trying to remove the mask of sleep and dirt, only making matters worse. She ran her tongue over her chapped, cracked lips. They hurt, and when she touched them with her fingertips, they felt hot and swollen.

There's no reason we should be this far along, she thought. We've been here for nine or ten days. I can't remember exactly. But we've been without food for only two days now, and this will be our second full day without water. It doesn't make sense.

But then, what does on this planet?

Her eyes burned and she was forced to close them. It felt like there was a thin layer of fine sandpaper on the insides of her eyelids. She rubbed them gently with her fingers, trying to get her tear ducts to give them a little bath. It helped a little and she was thankful her body still had some fluid to spare.

She opened her eyes to find it had grown lighter, and the dingy, overcast feeling had lifted from the room. Maxwell was sprawled on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, groaning softly. He hadn't been right since he'd swallowed that native grass yesterday. Had it only been yesterday? Straka wondered. How could she have gotten so much worse overnight? She doubted Maxwell would make it to sundown.

Kominski was less round than ever before. His cheeks were deep hollows in his face, his eyes sunken, rimmed with dark circles. But we all look like that, Straka thought. Even McGowen.

Straka tried to stand. She pushed with her arms and legs, using the wall as a brace, a third point of leverage, but she wasn't strong enough. She got onto her hands and knees easily enough, then put her right foot flat on the ground, forward of her left leg as if ready to break from a sprinter's starting blocks. She could manage to stand this way, and she rose unsteadily to her feet. The room spun for a moment and she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. She was all right after a few seconds.

Sure, we're all right, she thought. All we need is a few steaks, some potatoes, and maybe a nice salad to hold us over until the ship gets here.

Her stomach churned and she regretted her sarcasm. Just thinking about that kind of food sent her digestive system into overdrive.

She moved toward the door like a tired old woman, shuffling one foot forward, scuffing and sliding it over the ground, placing her weight on it as if afraid to trust its ability to support her. Her hips shrieked with pain. She shifted her weight and slid the other foot forward like an ancient woman. Waiting for the end, she thought. A woman in her thirties, waiting for death.

She stood in the doorway looking out over Aurianta's magical beauty. The alienness of the world was inescapable, far too obvious to allow self-deceit. She felt cheated, betrayed by fate, by her own desires and greed. The planet was draining her of life, soaking up her remaining will to survive.

McGowen was sitting a few meters away, back to the building, staring at the grazing animals in the distance.

“Morning, McGowen,” Straka said. She couldn't bring herself to say “good.”

McGowen turned and got up easily, fluidly. He walked to Straka's side and slipped an arm around her waist. He walked her over to where he'd been sitting.

“Doesn't it ever rain here?” Straka asked.

McGowen smiled but said nothing.

“Not much strength left,” she said, settling onto the grass. “I'm glad one of us has some.”

McGowen continued to smile.

Straka took a closer look at his face. He looked almost as bad as the rest of the men. His cheeks were as sunken as his eyes, and he had the same unhealthy pallor. But at least he has some reserve strength, she thought. He must have been in better shape than the rest of us. With the geltanks, we were all in pretty close to perfect health. But then, how could he have eaten that grass yesterday without any ill effects?

She knew her mind was working slowly, was missing points that should have been obvious, but she was thirsty and hungry. Weak, tired, thirsty, and hungry.

It must have something to do with what the Haber did to him—his healing, she realized.

The realization came to her suddenly, and she was shocked she hadn't seen it immediately, yesterday, when she'd spotted McGowen chewing on the native grass. That had to be it. The Haber had somehow changed McGowen's body chemistry.

As the adrenaline surge subsided, her weakness returned. The feeling of helplessness and confusion had left her, though, and this new understanding, so simple and obvious, buoyed her and rekindled her thirst for life.

She reexamined the last nine days, recalling things she'd observed but had been too tired or weak to consider at the time. Things like the huge man not having been involved in a fight or even a loud discussion with Jackson since he'd healed. And McGowen had always been volatile. Especially when Jackson was around. Here conditions were perfect for them to be at each other's throats all the time.