The Eternal Enemy (16 page)

“Spoilsport,” Jackson said. “It was just getting to be fun.”

Straka didn't let the man get to her. She'd had enough run-ins with him to know when she was being baited. If she lost her temper and Jackson felt justified, there would be a fight, and Straka knew who would be the loser. And dinner for the crew.

Maxwell had stopped convulsing and was breathing shallowly, panting, staring into the sky with glassy eyes. De Sola approached and sat beside Straka.

“You think they'll be back today?” De Sola asked.

“The Habers?” she asked, stalling.

De Sola nodded.

“Of course she does,” Jackson said. “Don't you, Cathy?”

Straka shrugged.

“Why don't they come back?” De Sola asked.

“Tell him, Cathy. Go on,” Jackson said.

“I don't know, De Sola. I really don't. I'd like to think they're coming back today. If they don't—”

“If they don't, Cathy, guess who's going to be the first to go?” Jackson asked.

“Shut up, Jackson!” De Sola shouted.

McGowen lay on his back, chewing on the native grass.

Wilhelm and Kominski returned from the edge of the compound.

“You think they will come, though, don't you?” De Sola asked.

Straka nodded. “Let's finish off this water now.”

“But what will we do if they don't?” De Sola asked.

Straka sighed. What
could
they do? It was up to her to come up with some kind of answer that could appease them enough so that they'd restrain themselves from killing and eating each other.

They were taking her advice, looking to her for leadership. Van Pelt had been the real captain, the person no one but Markos had questioned, the one who had been trained to be a leader.

Straka's desire for command may have been self-serving, but she had given the crew a goal, something to live for, a direction in which to move. It had been different then; her taking command had been symbiotic. She helped the crew by taking on responsibility, and they unknowingly helped her by going to Alpha Indi so that she could find Markos and the answer to death.

She had found the wrong answer, though—death by starvation.

And now, when command meant nothing more than responsibility, De Sola continued to force it on her, like the others. Command through default, command through convenience. Command without a ship.

“Cathy?” De Sola asked.

“Huh?”

“What are we going to do if they don't come back?”

“Give me that!” Katawba shouted, leaping on Martinez.

Martinez struggled, trying to fight off the heavier and larger Katawba. Straka saw it for what it was—a fight for survival. Martinez had probably hoarded a small strip of the dried meat and had been caught trying to slip a tiny piece of it into his mouth unnoticed.

Straka, De Sola, and Wilhelm moved as quickly as they could to break up the fight, but it was over by the time they got there. The men were tired and weak, in no condition to wrestle with each other.

Martinez finished chewing, flat on his back, Katawba's tears of frustration and anger slowly making their way down his cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” Katawba sobbed. “I didn't mean it.”

Straka bent over and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “We know you didn't. Don't worry about it.”

“Cathy?” De Sola asked again.

“Oh, yeah. What to do, what to do. Let's see, De Sola. About all I can say is that we've got to keep our heads. We need to keep from killing each other.” Jackson leered at that. “There's a real chance they'll come back today with food and water. And if not today, tomorrow.”

De Sola nodded, then dropped to the ground, shaking his head.

The answer seemed good enough for him, Straka thought. For now, anyway.

13

“I know what I'm doing, Old One,” Markos said. The Old One looked at him, eyes yellow tinged with blue. “I don't want you to worry about this anymore.”

The common room in Markos's house was their command center. One whole wall was lined with crystals; each contained a life-and-death experience of some encounter with the Hydrans. Markos had studied them all and had learned a lot about his enemies.

The Old One rose slowly from his chair and walked to the window. He looked out onto the street, watching young Habers play in their strange, nonaggressive way, listening to the wind whip through the alleys. “I, I have faith in your judgment, Markos.”

“But?”

“Yes, there is a but. These actions are hard to condone,” the Haber said.

Markos flashed red. “I understand. I appreciate your point of view. If we were dealing with any other life-form, I might agree. But they're Terrans, and I know how they think. They're not like Habers at all.

“If these creatures could flash green, they would. You would approach them in friendship, and they would do the same. You would turn around and flash something to another Haber with you. And then they might kill you, while your back was turned. It has happened before. I've learned through experience the best way to deal with them, and trust has its place. But trust is not enough.”

“Very well. I, I only wanted to voice my, my feelings. You do what you must do, as always. I, I understand this. But you must tell me, me how long this will continue.”

Markos looked at the Old One's back. He shook his head slowly, empathizing with his friend's cultural and biological bias, with the Old One's attempts to pick up the way Markos thought, with his frustration and anguish over the senseless deaths that had occurred, that would occur. If only there were some way to make him understand.

“I'll let this situation continue until it's too late. Until they all die. Or kill each other. Until trust is no longer a consideration. Until it's just the right time.” As he spoke these words, he thought of the imprisoned Terrans in the abstract. They weren't the people he'd trained with, traveled to Tau Ceti with, shared the geltanks with. They were simply Terrans, components in some total system, gears within a war machine.

If he had thought of the filth, the hunger, the fear these creatures felt while struggling to survive, he might have said something different, something sympathetic. He might have done something he knew he shouldn't do.

“I know what they're like,” Markos said. “I've seen what they're capable of. You have, too, or don't you remember what they did on Gandji? It wasn't that long ago for you to forget.”

“I, I remember.”

“This is the same group of creatures.”

The Haber turned to Markos, flashing a weak red. “Yes, but creatures change, as do all things.”

Markos shook his head. “Even if there were a chance we wouldn't need them, I couldn't let them go.”

Alpha walked into the room and stood a meter away from Markos. He said nothing, did nothing to disturb him, waiting to be recognized.

“We can't afford to take chances,” Markos said. “If there's a chance, no matter how slight, of winning this war without their help, we'll do without it, and then feed them to Aurianta.”

If the Old One could have shrugged, Markos figured he would have then.

“What is it, Alpha?” Markos asked.

“The crystal is complete.”

“Did he … survive?”

Alpha handed Markos a small, smooth crystal structure. “No.”

Markos said nothing. Triand, the first of his children to meet the enemy, was dead. He didn't want to know what was stored inside. He didn't want to see Triand die. He tasted metal, felt his breathing shift, saw particles of dust swirl through the room with incredible detail and resolution, heard his bodily fluids oozing through his veins.

The Old One approached and laid a hand on Markos's shoulder. Markos looked up into his eyes. The Old One started to speak to him in patterns, in graceful displays of scintillating colors and shapes that sparkled in his mind. He became aware of the fear he'd been suppressing, the grief he was afraid to deal with. It may have been war, but Triand had been his child.

The pain surged and peaked, then was suddenly gone as the Old One did something with his eyes. He felt washed out and tired. The old Haber took his hand away.

“Thank you,” Markos said in a raspy whisper.

“We, we will leave you alone with your thoughts and the crystal. Call if you need us, us.”

“Thank you,” Markos said.

Some of his strength was returning. He turned the crystal over and over in his hands. It was cold and hard, and all that remained of Triand. He watched the old Haber and Alpha leave the common room and disappear around the corner of a tubular hallway.

He glanced at the wall of crystals opposite him. All of those encounters, and I still had to send Triand to Theta Alnon. Alone, as a test—a test that didn't work.

He was starting to shake, and he realized he was gripping the crystal with all his strength. He relaxed his hold on it and dropped it into his lap, shaking his head.

I have to get control of myself, he thought. I can't go on like this. I've got to put my personal feelings aside and find out what happened. That's why I sent him there in the first place. I hoped with all my heart he could survive, but I knew all along.…

He breathed a few deep breaths to prepare his body for the experience.

I've got to face it. It has to be done.

He let his eyes wander and picked up the crystal. He forced himself to touch and change its surface, delve into the depths of its lattice structure. When he saw something move, he was looking through the eyes of his child, Triand.

The ship descended in an unpopulated area. Triand watched the grid on the thin screen before him swirl with colors. The patterns showed him a safe place to land and he guided the wedge-shaped ship down to Theta Alnon's surface.

According to the information Markos had put together from the crystals, this area of the planet should be experiencing the Hydrans' advance. Small splinter groups from the original settlement should have set up distant outposts. These outposts would themselves grow until their population could justify sending a further party out into the planet's wilderness. The Hydrans colonized in leapfrog steps, and this should be as far as they'd settled.

At least he wasn't setting down in the middle of an established encampment, a small city filled with Hydrans. Here, he stood a small chance. If he couldn't win this skirmish, then there was little hope of taking on the larger, more organized encampments.

When the ship's flight systems had been cycled off, Triand rose to his feet and began inspecting his weapons. He had killed living things before. For long months Markos had drilled him and his brothers in the arts of combat. Some of the things Markos taught made little sense, and those things confused him. He remembered the long and tiring discussions in the common room, with Markos patiently going over and over the reasons behind these confusing actions, the ideology behind hand-to-hand combat. He understood as much as he could, but even with that, he was sure he'd missed the major thrust.

Triand was constantly aware of what was expected of him, what his responsibilities were. All he had to do was kill sentient creatures and return home. He hoped he would be strong enough to meet those expectations. He hoped Markos would be proud of him.

He reached down and picked up the crystal and its tiny transmitting device. It was of a different design than those the Habers had used over the generations. Markos had told the Old One what he wanted this crystal to do—transmit a constant record of what happened to Triand while on Theta Alnon without Triand's having to touch and change it—and the Old One made the necessary modifications. It had to be in Triand's immediate vicinity and, since there was no way of telling if he'd be able to hold onto it, he swallowed it.

He grabbed his protective belt and strapped it around his chest. Once it came into contact with his body, it was activated. Within the belt was a photon-deflection unit, which would protect him against laser fire by bending the beam around him. With the unit nullifying the Hydrans' primary weapon, he figured he would have few problems.

He paused from looking over his lasetube. If he did manage to accomplish this task, what would his brothers think when he returned home? And what would the stolid, pacific Habers think? Would they accept him or shun him?

But this was no time for introspection—not with what lay ahead. He remembered Markos's instructions and tried to clear his mind of distracting thoughts.

The bay door opened, and night crept into the wedge-shaped ship. Triand stood on the edge of the deck, looking out over the surface of the planet. It reminded him of Gandji, the planet of his birth. He felt strange, almost as if he were returning home.

He could make out the lights of the aliens' camp almost a kilometer away. It was a sleeping tumor on the landscape, the small metal huts like boils ready to erupt, to spread the Hydran pus over Triand's helpless, slaughtered, innocent ancestors.

He leaped to the ground and tried to become one with the scents, the sounds, the gentle, constantly changing night. The Hydrans must have detected his landing and had probably sent out a scouting party. If they wandered across his ship before he wandered across them, he would be stranded. He set out for the alien camp.

The photon-deflection unit had to be tested under real battle conditions. Markos had assumed the Hydrans used lasers, but he'd only been guessing—all the data had to be deduced from the crystals. The Hydrans appeared to have a military organization, but Markos needed to see them on the defensive, see how they fought when someone fought back. Triand was proud of the role he served: the first real Haber to go into battle.

He had traveled half the distance to their camp when he saw the changes around him. The smell was the first warning and helped him see the subtle changes in the wind, in the vegetation a short distance away. He had found the scouting party.