Guardsmen Of Tomorrow Part 5

The computer finished its a.s.signment. Dawes reached out for the trigger.

Yet again he fell through fold-s.p.a.ce, seemingly alone without walls or s.h.i.+p to surround him. Yet, strangely in his mind this time he felt a presence, that purring, and knew his isolation was false, that he had a companion.

The stars resolved themselves once more in the view screen. As if antic.i.p.ating him, Hookah stared outward and relayed the magnificent vision into his brain. Dawes caught his breath.

The Archangel had emerged into normal s.p.a.ce near the Spider Nebula. Looming gigantic off the s.h.i.+p's port bow, its great glare lit the abysmal darkness. Staring into its heart was like staring into a furnace.

Around that blazing heart clouds of dust swirled in constant motion. Particles collided, exploding in twinkling bursts. At its edges, great tenuous columns of stars rose up in weblike strands, light-years thick, to stretch and s.h.i.+mmer across the black firmament.

Even with only the muted shades of Hookah's vision, Dawes gaped in silent awe. Another man might have missed his own eyes more acutely in that moment; instead, he gave thanks for those borrowed ones he had.

"We've seen the Temple of G.o.d," he whispered to his pet. Oddly, he thought of Donovan and wished his friend was with him.

The Archangel's computer spoke his name. They were now within one pa.r.s.ec of the congregationalists'

cryo-s.h.i.+p, it informed him, and speeding straight for it. It detected no sign of the remaining Kaxfen vessel.

"Keep searching," Dawes instructed. "And resume control of the cryo-s.h.i.+p's computers. We may have to move fast." He realized with a mixture of irritation and amus.e.m.e.nt that he was addressing the computer as if it were a teammate. In a very real sense, it was.

In only a little time, the Archangel came abreast of the Via Dolorosa. The vessel glimmered dully in the reflected light from the Spider Nebula, an immense metal ball with conventional fusion drives jutting from its rear. Compared with the sleek designs of translight vehicles and with his own s.h.i.+p, it was an ugly monster without grace or beauty, a relic from another age.

And yet, though it crawled across the star trails like a slug in its sh.e.l.l, there was n.o.bility in its ugliness, for it carried within it men and women who were explorers, adventurers, and world-builders, the seed of mankind, the carriers of Humanity's torch. For all that he disdained their means of transportation, Chilson Dawes admired the people within. As if possessed of a sense of pride, the Via Dolorosa slowly rotated, showing itself off.Then with a start, Chilson Dawes discovered where the Kaxfen s.h.i.+p had been hiding. It hung in docking position attached to the cryo-s.h.i.+p's hull. Through Hookah's eyes, he saw it clearly.

And the Kaxfen saw him. Trailing a tangle of umbili-cals, it ripped itself from the hull and turned.

Still without weapons, Dawes swallowed hard before settling himself in his chair. He couldn't destroy this alien s.h.i.+p with a fold-s.p.a.ce ripple without destroying the Via Dolorosa as well. What to do?

He ran a bluff.

Placing one palm on the communications console, he hailed his foe. "Kaxfen s.h.i.+p," he said calmly. "I've destroyed your five companion s.h.i.+ps. Don't force me to make it six. This ancient vessel and my own are now outside your claimed territory. Go home."

He waited, either for an attack or for an acknowledging voice on his console. Neither came. The Kaxfen s.h.i.+p took no action at all. It seemed to hang in s.p.a.ce, watching him, waiting as he waited. Dawes wondered what went through the alien mind of an uncertain star captain.

The answer was an anticlimax. The Kaxfen s.h.i.+p banked away and sped back toward Burnham s.p.a.ce.

Dawes breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, Hookah," he said to his pet, "I guess we know the color of their stripes, eh?"

With the little Mintakan creature purring in his ear, he maneuvered the Archangel toward the port where the Kaxfen had docked to discover any damage caused by their sudden departure. Laser burns on the hull revealed how they had blasted their way through cargo air lock doors. Through the rent, he could see drums and crates floating, prevented from escape into s.p.a.ce by networks of secure webbing that bespoke an admirable foresight on the part of the s.h.i.+p's occupants.

But why hadn't the Kaxfen simply destroyed the Via Dolorosal Their lasers were powerful enough.

What had they sought within?

He decided to find out.

There was too much damage at the cargo air lock, so he searched for another. Hookah wiggled on his perch while Dawes worked the controls. A gentle thump s.h.i.+vered through the hull as docking clamps took hold. Dawes rose from his seat and moved through a series of corridors, pausing at a weapons locker to select a pistol and a communications link that would keep him in contact with Archangel. This he slipped onto his wrist like a wrist.w.a.tch.

With Hookah's eyes showing the way, he moved into the air lock and crossed an umbilical bridge into the Via Do-lorosa. Hookah seemed to sense what Dawes needed, and kept its attention focused forward. Indeed, without speaking or giving instruction, Dawes seemed able to direct the creature's eyes as if they were his own. It took but a little concentration-as long as Hookah felt calm.

The air was stale. His bootheels rang in a pa.s.sageway that had not known sound in twelve years. Inside the Via Dolorosa's air lock, a dozen pressure suits hung limp and empty on their racks, ghostly in the darkness. They seemed to watch him, and Dawes felt suddenly bleak and lonely in their presence, like an invader walking where he didn't belong. He found himself stroking Hookah, and was somewhat gladdened when it purred and rubbed his jaw.

Fluorescent lighting panels shone dimly and illumined what seemed to be miles of dull gray corridors. The s.h.i.+p's engines were silent; the Via Dolorosa sped toward its destination on inertia; its pa.s.sengers slept without even the throb of machinery for their lullaby.He had entered at an air lock near those engines. Seven levels above, and for seven levels above that, five thousand men, women, and children slept in liquid nitrogen coffins. Another deck above those were sperm and egg banks, frozen genetic legacies from another five million donors who would never know their offspring.

Did they dream, Dawes wondered, thinking of those people, of their G.o.d or their resurrection in a new world? Or were their dreams smaller ones, of blue skies and gra.s.s, of birds at dawn, of friends left behind? This he knew: they had a faith beyond his understanding, and he who believed in little envied them.

He had to see them.

A core-shaft elevator ran the length of the s.h.i.+p from bow to stern. He found it and ascended. When the doors opened, he nearly didn't get off. He hesitated, considered closing them again, then stepped forward.

He'd never seen the inside of a beehive, but he knew it was something like this. The central chamber was vast, overwhelming, deep. It curved around the core-shaft, blurring into gloom, reappearing again, Armor-gla.s.s coffins lined the walls, side by side and stacked one on top of the other. Through the misty s.h.i.+mmering ice that clung to the containers, he could make out pale outlines of naked bodies, their arms outstretched as if crucified.

A chill s.h.i.+vered down Dawes' spine, and he found himself gasping. He hurried, stumbling, back to the elevator. He'd never considered himself a coward; h.e.l.l, here he was, a blind man fighting to defend these people. Yet, what they were attempting was so far beyond his definition of courage that it left him beggared. No, he'd never understand these people. They were as alien to him as the Kaxfen, and standing in their presence, he felt an unfillable emptiness.

He stepped back into the elevator and ascended to the command deck. Nothing there but empty chairs at empty stations, and computers, their lights winking in the yellowish gloom. He spoke to Archangel through his corn-link. "How much extra time did we add by rerouting the Via Do-lorosa?"

Their journey would take an additional twelve years. Total time to their new paradise-one hundred thirty-three years. Through fold-s.p.a.ce he could get them there in the twinkling of an eye.

And blind them in the process.

He checked each of the stations on the command deck, then all of the computers, a.s.suring himself everything was operational. Then stepping back into the elevator, he descended, intent on making his way back to his s.h.i.+p and heading for home.

When the elevator doors opened once more, he stepped out. Then he paused. The fluorescent lighting panels, dim as they were-why were they on at all? He'd been too creeped out to notice before. But with everyone asleep, the Via Dolorosa should have been tomb-dark.

Pistol in hand, Dawes softened his tread and headed for the air lock. Maybe his presence had activated the lights. Maybe the Kaxfen had done so. Hookah's many feet dug into the fabric of his s.h.i.+rt as he hurried back the way he had come.

From ahead, the metal barrel of a pistol glinted. Barely in time, Dawes flung himself aside. An energy beam whined past his head. Deep in his brain, he felt a shock of pain, and the lights went out. Stretched on the floor, he fired his own weapon wildly.He didn't see the beam.

In sudden terror, he grabbed at his shoulder. The little creature wasn't there! The lights hadn't gone out at all-he was blind!

"Archangel!" he shouted into his corn-link. Archangel had control of the cryo-s.h.i.+p's computers. Maybe his foe couldn't see in darkness any better than he could. "Turn off the lights! On every deck!" Through his fear, he tried to think. The Kaxfen s.h.i.+p had left one of their crew aboard. With no other way to get home, the alien had made its way to where the Archangel was docked. In a more controlled voice, he whispered into his corn-link. "Withdraw the umbilical and move away to a distance of one mile."

A moment later, he felt a vibration through the deck as the Archangel withdrew its docking clamps.

He was alone with the alien then, but his thoughts turned to Hookah. He groped on the deck, aware of his vulnerable position, but unwilling to retreat without his pet. At last, he found the furry body; it didn't stir when he poked it, nor move when he picked it up. Tears stung his blind eyes. Angry tears, he told himself.

He fired a shot up the corridor, then rolled to the opposite wall. The alien returned fire, aiming for his old position. Even without sight, the whine of the pistol told Dawes what he'd hoped for. He spoke into his corn-link again. "Archangel, seal the interior air-lock door!"

The soft, sliding sc.r.a.pe of metal within a metal track made him smile. He sat up in his private darkness and hugged Hookah against his body. His exploring fingers found scorched fur. The little creature wasn't moving, hanging limply from his hand.

His anger grew. He hadn't gotten a look at all at the Kaxfen. His first contact with an alien species, and it was trapped beyond an air-lock door not a hundred feet away. His curiosity should have been eating him up-but it was anger that consumed him. He raised the corn-link once again.

"Archangel." His voice was hard, cold as s.p.a.ce. "Open the outer air-lock door."

He waited. And waited. He slipped Hookah's body inside his s.h.i.+rt, feeling its fur against his skin, hoping for some sense of life from it as he waited.

At last, there was no point in waiting any longer. Rising, he steadied himself with one hand on the wall as he moved toward the air lock. He summoned Archangel, and felt the impact of its docking clamps, the vibration of the umbilical bridge attaching itself. He tried to remember the layout of the air lock's interior; he'd have to make his way across it. He waited again while Archangel repressurized the chamber. Then, he opened the door and cautiously began his way across.

Something struck his wrist and he dropped his pistol. Thickly gloved hands seized him. He felt himself lifted and tossed through the air to strike the deck clumsily, painfully.

The pressure suits! The alien had taken refuge in one and saved himself.

He felt those thick hands on him again, felt himself lifted to his feet. But this time he reacted, catching one of those hands, twisting hard as he swept with one foot at the suit's ankles. The alien fell, metal helmet slamming on the deck.

Dropping to his knees, Dawes groped desperately for his pistol. He spied it suddenly, just inches beyond his fingers. s.n.a.t.c.hing it up, he fired as the Kaxfen, on its feet again, lurched toward him.

He burned a precise hole through the center of its chest and watched as it staggered and collapsed.Chilson Dawes sat back panting. Then, with a surge of joy he realized he'd seen! He'd seen the pistol, seen the Kaxfen die! He felt for Hookah. His s.h.i.+rt had been ripped open; the little mind-worm's head poked out curiously.

Dawes rocked back and forth as he stroked the creature. "You had to be alive," he murmured. "I knew it; I felt it!" He held the creature up and nuzzled its fur with his nose. What he saw, though, was his own face close up, beaded with sweat, but strangely joyful. He laughed softly.

"Archangel," he said into his corn-link, "we're going home."

As he climbed to his feet, he paused over the fallen Kaxfen. He couldn't leave without a look under that helmet. Odds were very good he'd started a war. He had to know the face of his foe.

With Hookah's eyes to guide him, he bent and removed the helmet. For a long time, he stood there looking. He knew why it hadn't fired its laser pistol; the gloved fingers wouldn't fit inside the trigger guard. Disappointment mingled with relief as he turned away and crossed the umbilical to the Archangel.

"It wasn't alien at all," he explained to Colonel Straf when he was home again on Mars. "The Kaxfen were a hoax perpetrated by pirates to keep the Guard away from their strongholds." He shook his head, still filled with a cer-tain disappointment. An alien species! Surely somewhere among the stars... But where?

He was glad he hadn't started a war.

Straf poured two more cups of coffee and set one in front of Dawes. "For my parents and myself, I thank you, Chil. Given everything, it's a miracle you saved those people."

Chilson Dawes groped for his cup with one hand. With the other he stroked Hookah, who was curled purring on his lap. He had an amusing view of the underside of Straf's desk, numerous secret wads of chewing gum, and his own crossed legs.

"I never believed in miracles," he said after a thoughtful silence, "but the blind were made to see."

WIPING OUT.

by Robert J. Sawyer

Robert J. Sawyer's novels The Terminal Experiment, Starplex, Frames.h.i.+ft, and Factoring Humanity were all finalists for the Hugo Award, and The Terminal Experiment won the Nebula Award for Best Novel of the Year. His latest novel is Calculating G.o.d. He lives near Toronto; visit his Web site at www.sfwriter.com.

They say flashbacks are normal. Five hundred years ago, soldiers who'd come home from Vietnam experienced them for the rest of their lives. Gulf War vets, Colombian War vets, Utopia Planitia vets-they all relived their battle experiences, over and over again.

And now I was reliving mine, too.

But this would be different, thank G.o.d. Oh, I would indeed relive it all, in precise detail, but it would only happen just this once.

And for that, I was grateful.

In war, you're always taught to hate the enemy-and we had been at war my whole life. As a boy, I'dplayed with action figures. My favorite was Rod Roderick, Trisystems Interstellar Guard. He was the perfect twenty-fifth-century male specimen: tall, muscular, with coffee-colored skin; brown, almond-shaped eyes; and straight brown hair cropped short. Now that I was a Star Guard myself, I don't think I looked quite so das.h.i.+ng, but I was still proud to wear the teal-and-black uniform.

I'd had an Altairian action figure, too: dark green, naked-like the animal it was-with horns on its head, spikes down its back, and teeth that stuck out even when its great gash of a mouth was sealed. Back then, I'd thought it was a male-I'd always referred to it as "he"-but now, of course, I knew that there were three Altairian s.e.xes, and none of them corresponded precisely to our two.

But, regardless of the appropriate p.r.o.noun, I hated that toy Altairian-just as I hated every member of its evil species.

The Altairian action figure could explode, its six limbs and forked tail flying out of its body (little sensors in the toy making sure they never headed toward my eyes, of course). My Rod Roderick action figure frequently blew up the Altairian, aiming his blaster right at the center of the thing's torso, at that hideous concavity where its heart should have been, and opening fire.

And now I was going to open fire on real Altairians. Not with a blaster sidearm-there was no one-on-one combat in a real interstellar war-but with something far more devastating.

I still had my Rod Roderick action figure; it sat on the dresser in my cabin here, aboard the Pteranodon.

But the Altairian figure was long gone-when I was fifteen, I'd decided to really blow it up, with explosives I'd concocted with a chemistry set. I'd watched in giddy wonder as it burst into a thousand plastic shards.

The Pteranodon was one of a trio of Star Guard vessels now approaching Altair III: the others were the Quetzal-coatlus and the Rhamphorhynchus. Each had a bridge shaped like an arrowhead, with the captain-me in the Pteranodon'?, case-at the center of the wide base, and two rows of consoles converging at a point in front. But, of course, you couldn't see the walls; the consoles floated freely in an all-encompa.s.sing exterior hologram.

"We're about to cross the orbit of their innermost moon," said Kalsi, my navigator. "The Allies should detect us soon."

I steepled my fingers in front of my face and stared at the planet, which was showing a gibbous phase.

The harsh white light from its sun reflected off the wide oceans. The planet was more like Earth than any I'd ever seen; even Tau Ceti IV looks less similar. Of course, TC4 had had no intelligent life when we got to it; only dumb brutes. But Altair III did indeed have intelligent life forms: it was perhaps unfortunate that first contact, light-years from here, had gone so badly, all those decades ago. We never knew who had fired first-our survey s.h.i.+p, the Harmony, or their vessel, whatever it had been named. But, regardless, both s.h.i.+ps were wrecked in the encounter, both crews killed, bloated bodies tumbling against the night-human ones and Altairians, too. When the rescue s.h.i.+ps arrived, those emerald-dark corpses were our first glimpse of the toothy face of the enemy.

When we encountered Altairians again, they said we'd started it. And. of course, we said they'd started it. Attempts had been made by both sides to halt the conflict, but it had continued to escalate. And now- Now, victory was at hand. That was the only thing I could think about today.

The captains of the Rhamphorhynchus and Quetzal-coatlus were both good soldiers, too, but only one of our names would be immortalized by history-the one of us who actually got through the defensessurrounding the Al-tairian home world, and- And that one was going to be me, Ambrose Donner, Star Guard. A thousand years from now, nay, ten thousand years hence, humans would know who their savior had been. They would- "Incoming s.h.i.+ps," said Kalsi. "Three-no, four- Nidichar-cla.s.s attack cruisers."

I didn't have to look where Kalsi was pointing; the holographic sphere instantly changed orientation, the s.h.i.+ps appearing directly in front of me. "Force screens to maximum," I said.

"Done," said Nguyen, my tactical officer.

In addition to my six bridge officers, I could see two other faces: small holograms floating in front of me.

One was Heidi Davinski, captain of the Quetzalcoatlus; the other, Peter Chin, captain of the Rhamphorhynchus. "I'll take the nearest s.h.i.+p," Heidi said.

Peter looked like he was going to object; his s.h.i.+p was closer to the nearest Nidichar than Heidi's was.

But then he seemed to realize the same thing I did: there would be plenty to go around. Heidi had lost her husband Craig in an Altairian attack on Epsilon Indi II; she was itching for a kill.

The Quetzalcoatlus surged ahead. All three of our s.h.i.+ps had the same design: a lens-shaped central hull with three spherical engine pods s.p.a.ced evenly around the perimeter. But the holoprojector colorized the visual display for each one to make it easy for us to tell them apart: Heidi's s.h.i.+p appeared bright red.

"The Q is powering up its TPC," said Nguyen. I smiled, remembering the day I blew up my Altairian toy.

Normally, a tachyon-pulse cannon was only used during hypers.p.a.ce battles; it would be overkill in orbital maneuvering. Our Heidi really wanted to make her point.

Seconds later, a black circle appeared directly in front of me: the explosion of the first Nidichar had been so bright, the scanners had censored the information rather than blind my crew.

Like Peter Chin, I had been content to let Heidi have the first kill; that was no big deal. But it was time the Pter-anodon got in the game.

"I'll take the s.h.i.+p at 124 by 17," I said to the other two captains. "Peter, why don't- Suddenly my s.h.i.+p rocked. I pitched forward in my chair, but the restraining straps held me in place.

"Direct hit amids.h.i.+ps-minimal damage," said Cham-plain, my s.h.i.+p-status officer, turning to face me.

"Apparently they can now s.h.i.+eld their torpedoes against our sensors."