Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2) (17 page)

The rest of the squad trampled across something like moss. Malik’s boots sank into the substance. In places, the mossy soil opened up and soldiers plunged out of sight. Wet sounds and painful grunts told of traps. From experience, Malik knew the Vomags had fallen onto poisoned spikes. A single scratch killed. A few soldiers veered into brittle vetch. Maybe they thought to avoid the moss traps. Loud snaps and accompanying groans told of whip spikes that impaled the men through body armor and into chests or stomachs.

Malik roared orders at the others, “Break into the strongpoint!”

The soldiers took out their steel hatchets. The first to reach the crystal wall hacked at it, causing glassy chips to fly. Malik knew and Klane learned that the crystal was really dirt fused with Chirr spit. Even so, it was hardly softer than asphalt.

The defense became active as portals opened above and toxic liquid sprayed out in hosing arcs. Malik leaped out of the way. Others weren’t as fast. They screamed as flesh boiled away. Some had dislodged their masks and coughed black gouts of liquefied flesh and blood. Sickened, Klane had his first true taste of what it was like battling in the tunnels of the Chirr.

More soldiers rushed to the attack. Only a few of the vanguard survived. Malik was among them. With their hatchets, the soldiers hacked out handholds and scaled the crystal wall. Another portal opened. Malik was near enough and scrambled for a grip. He drew himself within and surprised a Chirr worker. With a roar behind his breathing mask, Malik lay about him, slaying the creature with three crunches of his axe. The head fell from the body, with black ichor squirting from it. The worker was a small thing like a dog, with mandibles for a mouth and brittle tentacles instead of arms and legs.

More soldiers squirmed through the portal and into the chamber.

“Slay them all!” Malik shouted.

With helmet lamps, pistols, and hatchets, the soldiers ran amok throughout this portion of the strongpoint. Battle madness took hold. They kicked down partitions, slaughtered workers, and broke the sprayer pumps.

Then Chirr warriors arrived. They towered over the squat Vomags. The beams of the helmet lamps washed over red things with black eyes like charcoal. They stabbed with lethal braches and spit acid with uncanny accuracy. In the confines of the narrow chamber, the Chirr warriors boiled at them, slashing hatchets, firing exploding pellets, and laughing madly.

“Blow them up!” Malik bellowed. “Avenge our fellow soldiers!”

In fury, the Vomags demolished the first Chirr wave. Then they broke into the many chambers and massacred imps and bantlings. They cut down fecund genetrices with swollen bellies. The Chirr queens were sluggish, monstrous things, surrounded by molds and fungus, likely their food.

Despite the depth underground, fires raged here, making the air smoggy. Anyone without a breather soon sank to the ground, exhausted.

It was a nightmarish battle fought with desperate courage and admirable skill. Klane had Malik’s memories and understanding, but even so, everything around him seemed grossly alien. The sickening reeks, the high-pitched squeals, and the black gore that poured out of the creatures nauseated Klane’s consciousness.

Finally, the vanguard broke into a grand chamber. Malik panted; his limbs ached and the notched hatchet looked more like a saw blade. More soldiers poured in behind him. A barker joined the throng.

“Charge!” the barker roared.

They did, but halfway across the grand chamber a strange lassitude slowed Malik’s step. He found it nearly impossible to keep his axe up. He wanted to look back, but was too tired now. He fought to keep his eyes open.

“What’s wrong with me?” muttered a soldier beside him.

Klane knew with a sudden, grim understanding. The soldiers weren’t suicide fighters because of the bleak tactical situation, but because they fought beyond the protective psi-shield of army Bo Taw. With his heightened senses, he felt the Chirr psionic presence. By then it was too late and he couldn’t keep the body awake.

As Timor Malik attempted to answer the soldier’s question, he—and Klane’s consciousness—went blank.

Malik/Klane awoke with hundreds of other soldiers. They stood in a different chamber. Malik still gripped his notched axe and he wore Chirr-bloodied armor. He couldn’t turn his head, but he heard the breathing and rustle of many cohorts of soldiers. With some of the same lassitude as before, he halfheartedly examined his surroundings.

A shimmering pool of some inky substance lay ahead. A few feet above his head was the ceiling, an odd wattle-and-daub construction. Then he noticed the new Chirr. In ways they resembled the red-skinned warriors. They were thin like praying mantises, holding their sticklike arms in a similar manner. They had long insectile heads with small mandibles and horrid eyes like gigantic flies. Their mandibles moved, but not vertically like a man’s; theirs worked side to side. They chanted, but Malik couldn’t understand the words.

More than anything, he wanted to attack them. He realized with a numb horror that their chants had immobilized him and the others. The Chirr held everyone captive with words. Malik’s eyes widened with true revulsion.

At that moment Klane rushed from the citadel of Malik’s mind to the forefront. He took over eyes, ears, and bodily control, and he discovered that with the takeover came the ability to use Malik’s mind in a limited psionic manner. His consciousness must have altered Malik’s mind patterns just enough.

Klane grew aware that something vast shuffled behind the psionic Chirrs.

Before Klane could investigate that, a new type of Chirr warrior approached. It was tall, red, and massive. Between its pincers it held a metal rod with an electronic device on the end. It raised the rod and spoke in the language of the Kresh. It was an interpreter.

“Men of the Kresh, you have invaded our home-hive. You have killed Chirrs. Now, to your dismay, you have witnessed our newest modification, the magus-Chirr. In olden times, your flesh and blood would have fertilized the hatcheries. Now we have devised a greater use for your flesh. You shall feed the Great One and he shall empower our magus-Chirr. It is a terrible doom, for it will strip your minds in the most agonizing manner possible. I bid you to know terror, men of the Kresh. And know that the greater your terror, the more it delights the Great One. If his delight is great enough, he will teach the Nest Intelligence more and marvelous magic techniques. So, men of the Kresh, the magus-Chirr will force you into the pool in order to extract your combined essences. Think upon your doom. Think upon your helplessness, and let your terrors mature for the benefit of the hive.”

The interpreter scuttled back toward the vast and shadowy shape behind the chanting magus-Chirr. The interpreter chittered in the language of the Chirr to the Great One.

Klane struggled against the psi-induced lassitude. The clatter of body armor told him the others likewise sought greater movement. The mandible chants of the magus-Chirr grew louder and more earnest.

Klane exerted his considerable power, and the lassitude fell away. At that moment, Malik strove to regain control of his own body, but Klane held him down.

After the swift victory, Klane finally felt what it meant to be deep underground the surface. The stench was like rancid water and the psychic weight of the depth pressing against him was crushing to his ego. He found it hard to breathe. He might have shouted with fear, but he didn’t want to give away his ability to control his body.

All around him, the soldiers began to move in a mechanical, puppetlike fashion. Klane glanced at the nearest Vomag. Fear, loathing, and terror twisted the soldier’s features. Maybe because he hated being so deep underground, Klane felt compassion for the man. He needed a friend in this place of horror, because it was easier to deal with horror with a friend beside him. Klane grabbed the soldier’s arm, breaking the Chirr psionic paralysis.

With the touch came knowledge about the Vomag. His name was Turk, and this was his first battle. Ah . . . Turk was Timor’s friend, a third cousin, it seemed.

The rest of the soldiers shuffled toward the shimmering pool. It changed colors, from black to green, to red, and then to an inky color of doom. Within the blackness Klane spied a grotesque creature of vast bulk with many tentacles moving at once.

With a start, Klane realized several things. The creature wasn’t in the liquid. It projected its image onto the liquid. Soon, it would
use
the liquid to drown the Vomags and extract what it considered their essence from them. The creature was a Nest Intelligence, the highest level of Chirr, and a powerful psionic being. It was the Great One.

Magus-Chirr chittered, and the mass of Vomags halted, some already in the pool up to their hips.

The interpreter scuttled forward with its rod and electronic device held up. It neared Klane and the trembling Turk.

“What are you?” the interpreter asked.

“I am a soldier,” Klane said with Malik’s mouth and tongue.

The interpreter turned back to the tallest magus-Chirr. A fast sequence of chitters and clacks passed between them. The interpreter faced Klane again.

“Who are you?” the creature asked.

Klane could feel psionic fluttering against Malik’s mind. He raised a psi-wall, blocking the Chirr.

“There is another mind inhabiting the shell of the soldier,” the creature said. “We want to know who the other mind is.”

“I am Klane.”

“What is a Klane?”

“That is my name. I am an enemy of the Kresh.”

The interpreter stood motionlessly, staring at him. Finally, it turned to the magus-Chirr. They seemed to speak to the Great One.

“Tell us more,” the interpreter said.

“Release these men first,” Klane said.

The interpreter lifted its rod high, and noises emanated from the device.

Klane clapped Malik’s hands over Malik’s ears. At the same moment, magus-Chirr mentally attacked him much more powerfully than earlier. Klane strove to shield himself and his host. He felt the alien Chirrs pressing in, and then Klane’s mental strength failed. Deep in the equatorial nest on Fenris II, Klane lost consciousness and he lost control of Timor Malik’s body.

20

Cyrus Gant sat on a fallen branch, a thick one. He tapped the dirt with a much thinner stick.

Around him, triangular leaves rustled in the cool breeze. He sat alone, the Berserker compound hidden by the forest. Every so often, usually with a shift of wind, he heard a child shout in play or a woman telling the children to stay away from the seeker’s tent. Otherwise, the leaves and whispering wind were his only sounds.

He’d been doing some hard thinking. The seeker’s revelation concerning the transfer was interesting, but he didn’t see how it could help their situation any. It let him know why the seeker understood star mechanics and other technological concepts. The seeker had never seen such things herself, but she had sharp memories concerning them.

Cyrus snorted to himself. What would that be like, knowing things that had never actually happened to you? It struck him as odd.

He rested the stick on his knees and wondered what in the world was going to happen to him next. The clan had debated the critical issue for Skar and him. After the initiation yesterday, they were Berserker Clan members. It seemed silly to force them into clan membership, but the Berserkers either killed “others” or made them slaves. Now, as clan members, they were safe, in a sense. However, because he was a Berserker, Cyrus only had three days left with his mind intact. After that, the seeker or he would have to submit to the psi-burning medicine.

Cyrus took a deep breath. Could he accept the clan verdict? It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense. He had to abide by the custom or run away. If he ran, he was out of the clan. He would be an outcast. Yang would hunt and kill him. Not only Yang; all the warriors would have to give chase.

Cyrus picked up the stick again and tapped the tip against the ground. He’d set up stones to represent Fenris System’s planets and moons. There were Jassac, Pulsar, and High Station 3. There were the Fenris sun and the outer asteroids. Then he’d put in the other planets from memory, the inner ones and the outer ones, the gas giants.

He’d scratched a
C
by Fenris II and one by Fenris III. From what he knew, the Chirr held those planets. The Kresh held everything else. He’d written “CYBORGS” beyond the outer asteroids. The cyborgs were the X factor, the unknown in all this.

Cyrus was piecing together what he knew to see if he could come up with a better plan. The Kresh had
Discovery
and were likely reverse engineering it. They, therefore, had a Teleship. By logical deduction, the cyborgs must have Teleships. Those were the only spacecraft in the Fenris System able to travel back and forth in a matter of a year or two from Sol to Fenris. If he wanted to see Earth again, he had to acquire a Teleship from either the Kresh or the cyborgs.

Yet how logical was it to expect that? Suppose he never did get a Teleship. What had been his original plan on Earth? After reaching what was supposedly the New Eden system, he’d wanted to skip out of
Discovery
, with a pretty woman preferably, and start a family on the surface of an Earth-like planet.

Okay, he was on an Earth-like planet and there was a pretty girl to win, a barbarian princess named Jana. If he couldn’t get back to Earth, would it be the worst thing in the world to live here the rest of his life?

It wouldn’t be so bad except for the Kresh. They might always hunt for him. Then again, maybe they would stop after a time. Yet even if they stopped hunting for him personally, the humans here were always at the mercy of the aliens.

He didn’t want to raise a family and have the Kresh stomp them out on a whim. So, if getting back to Earth was impossible, or nearly so, what was the next best option?

With his stick, Cyrus tapped the dirt in thought. Maybe he should join the Resisters all the way. It was a good fight, a worthy one, and it might be the only hope for his children, provided he ever lived that long. Yet if the Kresh built a fleet of Teleships—

“Yeah,” Cyrus said aloud. That meant getting back to Earth wasn’t quite as impossible as it sounded. The Kresh wouldn’t attack the solar system right away. They’d first build a fleet. That took time. Years. During those years, he might pirate one of the new Teleships.

He needed to think a little more long-term. The needle-ship showed it was possible to use a space vessel here provided one was stealthy enough. That meant a possible plan would be to storm a Kresh ship, capture it, and head to the outer asteroids. How long could he wait for that scenario? Years?

“Maybe,” he muttered.

Okay. Suppose that was the goal: capturing a Kresh ship. How did one go about doing that? The Anointed One was supposed to be able to do incredible things, right? And a whole host of Resisters were out there ready to lend a hand.

With the tip of the branch, Cyrus scratched the dirt, making tight swirls. He didn’t see a way to getting onto a spaceship. Well, he might hijack one of the ice-hauler rockets and go . . . where? He didn’t know exactly where they went. Skar had an idea, but the soldier didn’t know for sure. He didn’t really see a way for two men to free Klane from the Kresh down in the alien city.

Could he do it with Argon? Having the chief monitor along might make a commando raid more possible. Cyrus snorted. He’d rather have the Teleship’s space marines. Now that would be something. Sneaking down into the alien city with the colonel leading the Earth marines. Yeah, he could think about rescuing Klane then. Modern soldiers against the technologically advanced Kresh would give him a chance. Instead, all he had were the primitive Berserkers.

“They aren’t space marines, that’s for sure.”

“What?”

Cyrus spun around as he shot to his feet. Jana stepped out from behind a tree, smiling at him. He wondered how long she’d been hiding there.

“I heard you talking to yourself,” she said.

After getting over his start, Cyrus grinned. She looked better than ever with her water-scrubbed flesh and soap-cleaned furs and leathers. The way she walked . . .

“There,” she said. “That’s what I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Your eyes follow me when I walk,” she said. “Why is that?”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Don’t others watch you the way I do?”

She seemed to consider the question. “Yang does sometimes, but he always turns away when I notice.”

“Sure,” Cyrus said. “The hetman fears you.”

“That’s foolish. Yang fears no one.”

“Maybe fear is the wrong word.”

“You do not fear me,” Jana said. “You watch me. I see the hunger in your eyes.”

Cyrus’s heart beat faster. This was getting interesting quickly. He’d never been truly alone with her before. If he was going to be spending the rest of his life on Jassac, the sooner he found his woman, the better. With that thought in mind, he took several steps closer.

Suddenly, Jana drew his stolen dagger, pointing the blade at him. “I do not permit any to touch me,” she said.

He stopped, and he couldn’t help but notice that the way she was poised made her look even better. “Maybe it’s time to change that,” he said.

She brought the knife a little higher into an attack position.

Despite that, he stepped closer. He couldn’t believe what happened next—she made a stab at him. He barely twisted aside in time.

She laughed, and said, “If you continue to watch me, I will attack you at my choosing when you least expect it.”

He studied her, and he saw her lips twitch. Did she mock him or did she goad him to do more? Maybe it didn’t matter which it was: he was going to hug and kiss her.

She clutched a knife, though, a good one, and it looked like she knew how to use it. He knew it was hard to disarm someone with a knife. Moreover, Jana was a warrior, and she had good reflexes. He needed to trick or lull her.

“If you continue to watch me, I’m going to do something about it,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, letting his shoulders slump and looking away.

She frowned in what might have been disappointment. But she said, “Good. Now we understand each other.”

At that moment, he decided on his game plan. She had a knife, but he had telekinesis. Cyrus moved in. She sliced at him. It was as if someone held her wrist—that was his psi-power—slowing her speed. Despite that, she cut him along the forearm enough to draw blood. Then his fingers curled around her wrist. Cyrus twisted. Her hand opened and the knife fell onto the ground.

“No one can outwrestle me,” she said.

Her eyes told him to try. Even though he bled, he held her. A moment later, his lips sought hers. Jana kissed him hungrily in return.

Branches rustled then. A hidden girl or a younger boy giggled.

Jana gasped with shock, and she kneed Cyrus, breaking free. Whoever was watching yelled and took off running.

Jana stepped away from Cyrus and shook her head, flinging her hair back. “Never do that to me again,” she said.

He stepped toward her, and she skipped back. He stared into her eyes and saw fear in hers. Would she be in trouble for what had just happened? Would he be in trouble?

On impulse, he scooped up the fallen knife.

“That’s mine,” she said.

“Nope, I claim it.”

“On what grounds?” she demanded.

He showed her a cut on his forearm. “Blood guilt ought to work,” he said.

The fear oozed away from her, and she nodded. “Are you always so clever, star man?”

Instead of answering, he flipped the knife before tucking it in his belt.

“I must go,” she said. “Others . . .”

“I understand,” he said.

She smiled then. It was a shy thing. A moment later, she dashed away.

He decided he’d better get the cut on his forearm looked after. There were going to be questions, but the barbarian princess had come to him to get the ball rolling. How about that, eh? With a grin, he headed back for the encampment.

Yang ruled that the knife belonged to Cyrus. Jana had cut him and she refused to tell anyone why, nor had Cyrus given the reason.

Most of the warriors of the council grinned upon hearing the tale. Yang even grinned once, although he remained solemn the rest of the time.

One warrior didn’t grin. He was the brother of Stone Fist, a big man called Grinder due to the strength of his grip. He had spoken against accepting either Skar or Cyrus into the clan.

A meeting took place at noon, with the small sun shining in the heavens. The warriors sat around a fire, with bosk meat dripping fat that sizzled in the flames. Each warrior, including Jana, sat cross-legged in a circle around the fire. The High Station 3 knife lay on a leather cloth before Yang.

“This is Cyrus’s knife,” Yang pronounced. It had taken lengthy discussion to reach the verdict. The hetman turned to Grinder. “The former outlander owes you a blood debt. Will you accept the knife as payment for your brother’s death?”

Grinder had thick slabs for shoulders and rough features. He was good at scowling. He glared at Cyrus now, saying, “I want to fight the outlander.”

“No!” Yang said, banging a fist against the dirt. “He is a Berserker. You may wrestle with him for rank, but you may not fight to kill. Do you dispute my word?”

Grinder glared at Yang. “Have you forgotten that they killed three of ours?”

“They also killed a demon,” Yang said.

“Does that wash out Stone Fist’s death?”

“Stone Fist attacked them. Jana—”

“Don’t talk to me about Jana,” Grinder spat. “She likes the outlander. She wants the outlander’s babies. She—”

Jana leaped to her feet, and she kicked dirt, spraying a sandy cloud into Grinder’s face. “You filthy monger—”

“Hold!” Yang shouted.

Jana whirled toward the hetman while pointing at Grinder. “He insults me.”

“Do you wish to wrestle him?” Yang asked Jana.

“I do,” Cyrus said, answering for her.

“No,” Skar said. “That right is mine.”

“I will wrestle no one!” Grinder shouted. He put a big hand onto the hilt of his flint knife. The scabbard dangled on his chest. “But I will kill outlanders and I will kill those who kick dirt into my face.”

“Do you challenge me as hetman?” Yang asked ominously.

Before Grinder could answer, Cyrus stood. “There’s something I want to say.”

Yang and Grinder continued to glare at each other.

“Hey!” Cyrus shouted. “I said there’s something I want to say.”

Yang scowled, and he turned to Cyrus. So did Grinder. Quietly, Jana sat back down.

“By standing, it means you challenge me to rule,” Yang said. “Are you challenging me, Earth man?”

“No,” Cyrus said, sitting. “But I do have something important to say.” He’d been thinking about the Kresh, the crew of
Discovery
at High Station 3, and Klane. He’d been thinking about strategy and tactics, and he’d interspaced that thinking with thoughts about Jana and him. He also knew that he had one day left before the clan ordered his psi-ability burned out.

“Is this about Jana or about Grinder?” Yang asked.

“Neither,” Cyrus said. “This is about the demons and the Anointed One in their grasp.”

The seeker hadn’t joined the warriors in council, but she must have been listening from a nearby tent. A flap opened and the seeker strode out angrily as she brushed her long hair with a flick of her hand. She wore a bone ring on her middle finger.