The Eternal Enemy (38 page)

Markos flashed a pure dark blue. He had no idea as to what she had in mind, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He would just have to let it play out. He was telling them the truth. If they chose hot to believe it, that was their problem, not his.

He was prepared to die at their hands.

The Old One appeared in the doorway, blocking Jackson's exit. “What is the problem?” he asked.

“Get out of my way and there won't be one,” Jackson said.

The Old One moved to the side. “Markos? What is this about?”

“Wilhelm is dead,” Markos said, “and they want me to bring him back to life. But I don't know how.”

“Why do they want you to bring him back to life?” the old Haber asked.

“Ask them,” Markos said.

“Cathy Straka? Can you tell me, me why?”

“I can, but I don't see why I should. Will you bring him back if I explain?” she asked.

“It is possible.”

“We want him back because we need his presence. We all cared for him. He shouldn't have died, especially under those circumstances. His death is a waste.”

The Old One leaked a little violet tinged with white. “You are a selfish people,” he said. “I, I have always tried to understand why you have this hatred for a change that has to be. Death is a positive step—”

“I don't hear Wilhelm saying that. Bring him back and we'll ask him.”

“Wilhelm means much to me, me, too. This caring does not mean that I, I want him back, though. I, I am glad he has found peace at last. He is no longer afraid of those things he did not understand.”

“Sure,” she said. “Death does that. He no longer cares about anything. He no longer is.”

“You are wrong, Straka. Not only are you wrong, you are selfish. You fear his death was brought about by you. You have no idea of what Wilhelm experiences now. If you did, you would want to let him rest.”

“He isn't resting,” she said. “He's dead.”

“Let him stay that way.”

“You won't bring him back?” she asked.

“And you still want me, me to?”

“Yes. You brought back Markos on Gandji. You can bring back Wilhelm, too.”

“The Old One might be right,” McGowen said.

Straka wheeled around. “Are you serious? Let him stay there, like that? I'd do the same for you, McGowen.”

McGowen shook his head. “No thanks. If I get it, I get it. I've lived enough for two people. I'm not greedy.”

Straka shook her head. “Have it your way. But I still want him back.”

“I don't,” De Sola said.

“What's the matter with you two? Are you crazy?”

Markos couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw McGowen grin.

“No, Straka, we're not crazy. And we're not crazed. We don't need to live forever. But I want you to know that if you should get it, I'll do everything I can to revive you,” McGowen said.

“I want you to know the truth, too, Cathy,” Markos said. “I can't revive Wilhelm. I just don't know how. When it comes to something like that, I guess I'm not really a Haber.”

“No, you're not!” she shouted. “You're a freak!”

Jackson appeared in the doorway. “He's loaded on board the wedge. Are you ready?” he asked.

Straka rushed forward, almost knocking Jackson out of the way.

“Wait a minute!” Jackson shouted.

But she kept going.

“I think the plan is off,” Markos said.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with the Hydran, then?” Jackson asked.

“What were you planning to do with him?” Markos asked.

Jackson didn't answer. Markos hadn't really expected him to.

“Put him back where he was, Jack. I'll question him in a few minutes.”

Jackson looked to the rest of the crew. Markos followed his gaze. They were leaking red from their eyes, nodding slowly. Markos was back in control, for whatever that was worth.

Markos approached Straka's cabin with great trepidation. There was no predicting her mood, and Markos feared the worst. He stood outside the door for a moment, hand touching the strange Terranmade bulkhead, a stress-formed piece of alloy its creators had never imagined would be touched by a creature like him. He wondered what NASA 2 would think if they knew where their ship was.

Markos braced himself as he entered the cabin. Straka was on her bunk lying on her back, hands tucked beneath her head, legs crossed at the ankles. Just like a human, Markos thought. She did nothing to acknowledge Markos's presence.

“I'm sorry. I liked Wilhelm, too,” Markos said.

Straka unlaced her fingers and sat up. “About what the Old One said in the rec room …”

“Yes?”

“I didn't want Wilhelm to die. I feel responsible for his death.”

“Could you have saved him?”

“Maybe.”

“Really?”

“There were so many of them, and there was so little time. I keep thinking that he would still be alive if we hadn't gone down there to get that prisoner.”

“Perhaps,” Markos said, “but there's no real way of knowing that. Sometimes I think I did the wrong thing by changing all of you. I think it might have been better if I'd just given the
Paladin
back to you and forgotten this insane war with the Hydrans.

“There was no need to involve any of you. If I hadn't put you in that pen, Wilhelm might have been alive now. There are just too many ‘ifs.'
If
I hadn't been changed myself,
if
I had let you go,
if
I had left Kominski behind,
if
I'd insisted the Old One stay behind. It doesn't do us any good. That's all past. We've got the future to consider.”

“All but Wilhelm.”

“True. But what about the rest of us? What about the inhabited planets throughout the Galaxy? There are the Hydrans, and they still must be dealt with. You're going to have to put aside your grief and guilt. We've got work to do. This planet has been seeded, and we're wasting precious time here. We either move on or go down to the surface for the Terrari. But the decision must be made now.”

Straka looked away from Markos, looked at the deck, and Markos knew what he had to say.

“I was wrong, Cathy. And I'm sorry.”

“Huh?”

“It's
my
fault Wilhelm is dead. I divided us. I created a rift. If we're ever going to get anything done, we have to work together.

“Let's get that Terran down there. All of us. We'll work as a team. You have my complete support.”

She looked at him.

“Really.” Markos extended his arms in a gesture he hadn't even considered for years.

Straka threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. Markos could see that the edges of her eyes were tinged with red. He was never happier to see that color.

The first thing they did was link up. Markos felt it was necessary to bridge the gap that had opened between them all. They stood in a tight circle. Everyone aboard the
Paladin
was there, the bridge unattended. The last real linkup had occurred long ago and, more importantly, had occurred before Wilhelm's death. As the old Haber touched hands with the others, he said, “Watch for our friend Wilhelm.”

When the Old One grasped the last two hands firmly, the linkup was complete. At first the strange ceremonial type of communication held nothing new, but as Markos felt the others' barriers melt, felt their thoughts mingle with his, he could see Wilhelm in his mind's eye. He could detect Wilhelm's presence in the group, just as if Wilhelm were alive, standing next to Straka or Martinez. He was still with them.

The grief they each felt mingled and mixed together, diluted and dissipated slowly until it completely disappeared. Markos could feel the difference in Straka. The barriers dissolved completely and their egos disappeared. They were in contact with each other's essences, mingling their selves and raw primal instincts, baring parts of their minds normally hidden. There was no horror felt, nor was there shame. They were what they were—no more, no less—each an individual, unique in countless ways, and yet identical to each other, sharing countless aspects of life.

When the linkup was over, Markos released his grip on the others. He looked around; something was wrong, out of place. He couldn't quite place the feeling, but as he scanned their faces, he saw that they shared the same feeling. And then he realized what it was.

Wilhelm.

Wilhelm wasn't there anymore. But his spirit, his soul, his essence had been so real, so tangible, as solid as anyone's had been just a few moments before. It had felt solid, and when he'd broken contact with the others, Markos had expected to see Wilhelm standing there among them. It hadn't been a conscious thought, but the feeling of his being there had been so strong, so real, that his mind had played a horrible trick on him. He had forgotten Wilhelm's death. A quick scan of their faces had shown Wilhelm's as missing. Markos saw the realization dawn in the rest of their eyes.

“The pain is gone,” Straka said. She turned to the Old One. “I'm sorry for what I said. I feel him now, and I understand a little more.”

The Old One flashed red.

“Well? I believe we have some planning to do?” Markos said.

30

Markos's ship, H-4, was the last to land. It fell to the ground with a bone-jarring crash, a landing designed to take no time. They needed to take the Hydrans by surprise as much as possible. He and Jackson ran for the bay door even as the last reverberation of the landing traveled through the ship's hull.

Belts switched on, bodies hard, lasetubes in hand, they leaped to the planet's surface. The others were already engaged in a fight.

The ships had settled on a smooth section of land, one of the Hydran launch sites. The prisoner had been to the area where the Terran was kept, and this mental image provided them with an accurate picture of the area. Thanks to a quick linkup before leaving the mother ship, each crewmember shared this picture of the launch complex.

Markos was repulsed by how the Hydran thought of the imprisoned Terran. Virtually every Hydran on the planet knew of him, and some traveled great distances to see him. The image this Hydran had of the Terran was distorted, though, transmitted by word of mouth. It had never seen the Terran itself, so there was no way of knowing just how he was being kept. But there was no doubt that the lost NASA 2 pilot was still alive.

Hydrans were pouring out of the surrounding buildings. The landing party was formed into a small group, lasing down the advancing Hydrans in rapid bursts. Markos and Jackson made their way to the group as quickly as they could.

A quick flash of greeting, a quick flash of encouragement, and they were off, heading toward the largest building. They moved in wedge formation, a wedge with a laser's cutting edge. Markos was on the left flank, directly behind Straka at the point, slicing creatures in half, severing heads from torsos, amputating legs from bodies, slicing, slicing, feeling nothing inside but a need to get this horror over with.

The Hydrans may have been blameless, but they were totally without conscience. He was doing what had to be done. And yet he knew deep down that lasing them down would be another good reason to get the mission over with as quickly as possible and settle into a quick, quiet, meditative death.

A glance over his shoulder showed the rest of the wedge intact, with hundreds of Hydrans swarming over the Haber ships. Let them pry at the seams, scratch at the hull, he thought. They won't do any damage.

Straka was leading them directly for the building that housed the Terran. Markos had to turn his attention to the post as Straka brought them closer to the building. Hydrans were starting to amass a defense of sorts—if a wall of Hydran shell and flesh could be considered any kind of serious defense, Markos thought. Those crew-members near the front of the advancing wedge helped lase as many bodies as possible.

When they reached the doorway, it was blocked by Hydrans, most of them dead. Markos stepped over them, on them, around them as if they had always been there. The floor of the building was slippery with their dark blood. Lasers were not always the clean weapons you wanted them to be, he realized. They didn't always cauterize the holes they made, nor did they always make neat incisions.

There was a slight reddish tint to the light in the hallway, and Markos adjusted his eyes to shift the spectrum slightly. The walls were ornate, though not artistic. It was aesthetically unappealing to him, and he had no idea if the uneven surfaces were supposed to be functional or decorative. The floors were not level, but they were covered with something—it was impossible to even hazard a guess with the soles of his rock-hard feet.

Hydrans in the building constantly tried to stop them and accomplished nothing but adding to the piles of corpses scattered about. Markos had learned a lot from the prisoner Straka had taken. The Hydraris in this complex were of a different social level, the elite of the race, those individuals directly concerned with the race's expansion, with the colonization of space. They did research to determine the most efficient ways of ensuring the race's survival.

The ceiling was higher than Markos was used to. He glanced upward and was amazed at the complexity of the building's structure, but had to turn his attention back to their constant advance almost immediately. They were nearing the room occupied by the Terran—this was no time to let his mind wander.

Straka stood before the door, a thick slab of metal slightly recessed from the wall. Fewer and fewer Hydrans were advancing on them, but Markos had no idea why. Perhaps their ranks were thinning, perhaps this area was taboo for them, perhaps for some other reason. He was just glad for the break in the slaughter.

Straka pushed, pulled, then tried to slide the door open. After a few seconds she placed her palms flat against the metal and the door slid to the side.