The Eternal Enemy Read online

  “I agree with her,” Wilhelm said.

  “You would,” Jackson said. “Well, not me. Don’t try to give me any orders.”

  Straka shrugged and smiled weakly. “That’s fine with me, Jack.”

  “And don’t call me Jack!”

  McGowen smiled.

  What orders could she give? Straka wondered. Try to take over the aliens’ ship? And then what? Even if they could pilot it, where could they go? Back to the Paladin, with an alien aboard? No, they were stuck right where they were for now. At this point the fewer orders given, the better, she figured.

  Just as long as they didn’t tear out each other’s throats before she got a chance to speak to Markos. Alone, and very soon, Straka thought, touching the spidery lines of age around her eyes.

  “They’re going to kill us,” Kominski whined. “I know we’re dead.”

  The other Haber appeared at the top of the ramp and flashed prismatic displays of light to the alien who’d been guarding them. The guard flashed back a series of odd colors, then flashed solid red.

  “What’s going on?” Maxwell asked.

  Straka glanced at Maxwell. He was short, a little over five feet, wiry, and tough. His face was thin and angular, almost too large for the rest of his body. “I’d say we’ve landed,” Straka said.

  “No kidding,” Jackson said. “What gave it away?”

  “Take it easy, Jackson,” Wilhelm said.

  She gritted her teeth. It’s okay, she told herself. They’re not all on his side yet, and if I play it smart and safe, there’s a chance I can maintain control.

  The huge bay door began to swing open, and light from the planet’s surface began to flood the bay.

  “Jesus Christ! Will you look at that!” Maxwell exclaimed, pointing outside.

  “Good God. What is this place?” Straka mumbled as she stared out over Aurianta’s beauty. The planet’s surface was like nothing she’d imagined possible. She’d known that variation from planet to planet could be extreme or subtle, but nothing like this! So much difference in the vegetation’s coloring, the sky’s iridescence.…

  Entranced, the crew rose to their feet and moved slowly toward the bay door. Kominski babbled something while the rest, dumbstruck, stared in silence.

  “Everyone outside,” the Haber with the weapon ordered.

  Kominski was the first to touch the planet’s surface. Wilhelm followed, then the rest leaped down. Straka remained, watching the Haber behind her, trying to see what it would do if she refused to move. The Haber raised its weapon and pointed it at her. Straka jumped down.

  They were on a plain, standing in a field of wild grass the likes of which hurt the eyes. It reminded Straka of a cross between impressionistic, surrealistic, and psychedelic painting, except that everything was in motion. It made no sense—the whole landscape looked aesthetically planned, like a work of art. There was no way the vegetation could have been so varied in hues under normal conditions.

  Kominski was rolling on the ground, facedown, making pleasant sounds that bordered on the sexual. He was rubbing his nose in the dirt, reveling in the scents of natural life. The others milled around as if waiting for something to happen.

  Straka was disappointed. She’d been frustrated at every turn. When the alien ship had approached them in space, she’d been sure Markos was aboard. When he hadn’t come to the airlock, she’d been sure Markos would be waiting for them aboard the alien ship, having sent someone else out to take the risks. But he hadn’t been aboard the alien ship at all.

  And Straka had felt certain that Markos would be here, on the planet’s surface, waiting for the alien ship to land. He should have been there, waiting, ready to meet Straka and the crew.

  But still no Markos.

  There was a small, primitive building not far from the ship. Less than fifty meters away Straka could see a post set into the ground. She turned around in a circle, saw the three other posts, and realized the ship had put down inside some kind of compound. There was no question in her mind—there would be a barrier, a fence of some kind, designed to hold them here.

  Kominski rolled over and stared into the changing sky. “You really think they’re going to kill us?” he asked softly, quietly, a litany that had lost all meaning.

  Straka walked slowly toward the building, hoping she’d find Markos inside waiting for them. The smells of the planet were sweet, fresh and uplifting. After four years in space, it was good to feel real ground beneath her feet again, feel the wind on her face, listen to a place live and breathe.

  She entered the building, glanced around, and saw instantly that it was empty. There was no furniture, and the windows were no more than holes in the walls. There were no doors—only doorways. A shaped, hollow shell. They can’t expect us to stay here, Straka thought. There’s no food, no running water, no facilities.

  Unless they really do plan on killing us, she realized.

  The sound of the bay door closing caused her to wheel around. The Habers had stayed aboard their ship and were probably getting ready to take off. Not yet! Where was Markos? If they left now, they’d be stranding them without hope of surviving.

  But that Haber Markatens—he had told her that Markos had thought they might arrive. If they’d been prepared, then why weren’t there accommodations?

  There was no way they were going to let them live. They weren’t even prisoners—they were fenced-in animals. What did the Habers think, they could graze on the grass and survive?

  “Well, we’ve got Markos right where we want him now,” Jackson said, laughing.

  No one shared his amusement. Wilhelm joined Straka in the doorway, and the others started moving toward them.

  “How’s it look?” Wilhelm asked.

  “See for yourself,” she said, waving her hand for Wilhelm to pass. Maxwell stood in the doorway, peering around the edge. “You too, Maxwell. Have a look around.”

  Maxwell shook his head. “No need. I’ve seen more than enough.”

  Straka walked back toward the ship, leaving the crew to mill about the building area, to mutter and complain. Her lips were salty, and she needed to get into her geltank.

  Her mortality hung in her mind.

  Far off in the distance was a city. If they could get through the barrier, assuming the posts really were some kind of barrier, they could make it to that city. But what could they do in the city that they couldn’t do here?

  Well, we could get killed, she realized.

  We stay where we are, she decided. And if they all want to leave, I still stay.

  The ship started to hum, and Straka stopped walking. The ship rose off the ground, hovering a meter or so over the wildly colored grass in the compound, then shot away with incredible speed. Straka clapped her hands over her ears to protect them from the thunderclap as air rushed in to fill the vacuum where the ship had just been. The crew rushed out of the building to see what had happened, fear and excitement in their eyes.

  “What—” Jackson started to ask, then stopped as he saw the area where the ship had been.

  “Oh, God. They left us here to die,” Wilhelm said softly.

  “Where’d they go? Which direction?” Maxwell asked Straka.

  “We’re stranded,” De Sola said.

  A bloodcurdling scream came from Kominski.

  Jackson let loose a roar, then flung himself on the round, babbling Kominski. Kominski was incapable of defending himself against the huge man. Jackson easily managed to get onto Kominski’s chest, hands clamped around Kominski’s windpipe. Kominski emitted terrifying choking, gurgling sounds.

  McGowen’s flying tackle knocked Jackson off of Kominski, and Wilhelm immediately rushed to Kominski’s side to try to help. No one bothered to separate McGowen and Jackson this time.

  They rolled over in the grass, arms and legs flailing. Jackson managed to break free and leap to his feet. He kicked McGowen’s head like a football, and the sound of contact made Straka’s stomach turn. McGowen groaned and cove
red his head, rolling onto his side.

  Katawba, Martinez, and De Sola shouted for Jackson to stop but made no move to intervene. Maxwell took a few hesitant steps, then backed away when he caught the look in Jackson’s eyes.

  McGowen rolled, and Jackson kicked him a few times in the ribs. McGowen managed to get to his knees only to be kneed in the head by Jackson. He fell back to the ground, clutching his head.

  Maxwell, small though he was, leaped at Jackson. His attack did little more than distract the large man for a moment or two, but that was all McGowen needed. He rose to his feet, and by the time Jackson had flung Maxwell a few meters, McGowen was waiting. McGowen swayed a little and bled a lot, but Straka could see he was not about to stop until this thing had been settled. Permanently.

  McGowen wore a maniacal grin, waiting for Jackson to advance. He didn’t have long to wait. When Jackson was in range, McGowen tackled him about the chest and they both went down in a churning heap.

  With a bloodcurdling scream Jackson flung McGowen off, then overpowered him, sitting on his chest. He hit him in the head again and again, pounding McGowen’s face with his huge fists until McGowen lay still.

  “Jack!” Straka shouted.

  Jackson continued his onslaught.

  “Jack! You’re killing him!” Straka shouted.

  Jackson continued. Straka could hold back no longer—if they were ever going to get out of this mess, she would need all of them. She ran around behind Jackson, then struck him in the back of the head with both fists as hard as she could. Jackson groaned softly, then fell over on top of McGowen.

  Katawba came over with Martinez and helped Straka roll Jackson away. The two men were a mass of blood, lying beside each other in the alien grass.

  Straka checked that McGowen still breathed. She could see there was no way he would survive without medical treatment. His jaw had been broken, his cheeks had been broken, his neck was bleeding, one of his eyes was in sorry shape. His pulse was weak and his breathing was ragged and shallow.

  “See if you can find something to tie up Jackson with,” she ordered Katawba and Martinez.

  “Right,” Katawba said.

  Straka rose to her feet and looked around the area once again. Without water there was no way McGowen’s wounds could be cleaned. There was no good way of determining just how serious they were. My God, she thought, these Habers are little better than animals. How could they leave us here like this?

  Jackson groaned and rolled over onto his side. Katawba returned, hands open, showing he’d found nothing they could use for rope.

  “How is he?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Not good,” Straka said. “And Kominski?”

  “He’ll recover.”

  Straka nodded. “That’s good. I wish I could say the same for him,” she said, indicating McGowen with a nod of her head.

  “What is it with these guys?” Wilhelm asked.

  Straka shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure it matters anymore.”

  “Look!” Maxwell shouted.

  Straka looked at Maxwell, saw he was pointing into the sky, and followed the path to a ship. It was heading out of the city. A smile lit her weary face.

  At last. Markos. The Habers had gone to get him.

  The ship hovered over the compound, then slowly settled onto the grass a safe distance from the group of Terrans. The bay door opened, and an armed group of Habers stood in the doorway, weapons poised and ready.

  “You will remain where you are,” one of the Habers said. “We have food and water for you. We will unload it and then leave.”

  “You can’t just leave us here!”

  “Wait!”

  “Take us with you!”

  The Habers unloaded containers, and the bay door started to close. “Wait!” Straka shouted. “We need help! One of our men has been seriously injured. Without help, he’ll die.”

  The bay door stopped its downward motion, and a Haber put down his weapon and jumped to the ground. The bay door reopened. He stood before Straka, staring up at her with his fragmented, crystalline eyes.

  “Which one?”

  Straka led him to McGowen’s side. The Haber bent over and touched McGowen’s face with his hands. After several minutes the blood stopped flowing and the lacerations closed. McGowen’s breathing improved. The Haber stood and looked up at Straka again.

  “He will recover, though I don’t know why he would want to.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?”

  “What is happening is what will happen. Do not concern yourselves over the future. Concern yourself with the present. At this time it is all you have.”

  12

  Straka took charge of rationing the food and water and tried to keep the men from each other’s throats. It looked like the food was made from dried vegetables tightly packed into little cakes and dried meat cut into thin strips. From its color, smell, and taste she was sure it wasn’t native grasses they were eating. The meat strips were pink, the color of a newborn baby’s skin, and they chewed it like dried beef. She was uncertain of its nutritional content—it certainly wasn’t very filling.

  After the first day she realized that no matter how well rationed they were, their food would run out quickly. She divided up the water so that it would run out at about the same time as the food.

  No one was satisfied with the way this worked out. They wanted more food, more water, and managed to blame the shortages on her.

  After nine days they were even less pleased. The Haber ship had not returned to restock their supplies. Everyone went hungry as the food and water ran out. The only things they had left were hope and a deep, abiding distrust for each other.

  It was night, and Jackson, De Sola, Wilhelm, and Martinez were outside standing watch. Each man stood at a corner of the compound where the posts were driven into the ground. Nothing could come in, nothing could go out, but still they stood watch. All except McGowen. He had refused the duty.

  She would have liked for McGowen to stand a watch, too, but what was Straka supposed to do, court-martial him? Put him on report? They had all seen the need to stand watches without having it discussed, and they all went along with it as if it were the normal thing to do. McGowen’s refusal to play along with the fiction made them all uncomfortable.

  After nine days the alien landscape still looked alien. She couldn’t believe that the strange sky and the startling colors would ever appear normal to her. She didn’t want to get used to this place, used to being kept alive like an animal in a stockpen.

  She knew she couldn’t live much longer like this—conditions were unsanitary and primitive. With the food and water gone, she was starting to lose hope. She no longer cared to figure out why the sun never appeared as anything more than a diffuse blob, why the grass was so variegated, why the Habers hadn’t come back with more food and water. They were dying, and that was all she could really think about.

  If only they had access to the geltanks. If only they could get in touch with Markos. If only she could somehow get aboard the ship, the Habers would never hear from them again. If only, she thought.

  Sure, I chase some biological freak across the galaxy to find immortality and look what I end up with. I’d settle for what’s left of my life and my freedom.

  She sat on the floor listening to the crew breathe. The building smelled like any building that was peopled by humans who hadn’t bathed in days. The crew’s smell had ripened over the days like rotting fruit.

  They were all dying, and they knew it. No one talked about it.

  At least they still managed to keep standing those watches. The action kept them sane, anchored in a past to which they could relate. It was something to do, something to keep their minds off what was happening to them, something to help combat the feeling of total helplessness that awaited anyone who truly gave up hope.

  Discipline was nonexistent and unnecessary. They all did as they wanted. And what could they do?

  She felt some responsib
ility toward her crewmates, since chasing Markos had been her idea. She felt some guilt—though she had deceived them into chasing Markos for her own purpose, they had agreed to follow her. And since they had followed her, they had accepted her leadership. She felt she owed them all something.

  Maybe it was some kind of strange effect of being in command, but she felt a lot more responsibility toward the others than she ever had before. When they were still on Gandji, she couldn’t have cared less about any one of them. At that time it was her against Markos—find the freak and get him to talk. Maybe she felt more responsibility toward the others because the others expected that of her, treating her as their leader, looking to her for answers, for suggestions, for guidance.

  She felt a bond she had never felt before, a concern for their well-being. Had someone told her she would feel this way just a few months ago, she would have laughed in his face.

  She looked around the smelly building, the single, bare room, then rose to her feet. McGowen and Kominski were asleep, side by side, the innocent and the protector. Maxwell was still awake, probably kept up by hunger and discomfort, back propped against the wall, vacantly staring straight ahead. Katawba snored noisily on the other side of the room.

  Straka walked to the doorway and stood there, leaning against the doorframe, breathing in the cool, sweet night air. She glanced overhead and immediately regretted it as she was overcome by a deep pang of isolation.

  “Can’t sleep?” Maxwell asked. He got up and made his way to Straka’s side.

  “No. You?”

  Maxwell shook his head. “Too hungry. And thirsty. It’s getting bad.”

  “It’s going to get worse,” she said.

  “It can’t get worse.”

  “It can, and it probably will, unless another ship arrives.” She looked out over the landscape at the distant city on the horizon. “You know, it just doesn’t make sense to me. But then, I’m not a Haber. If they’re trying to keep us alive, you’d think they would’ve given us enough food and water. Nothing special, mind you—no cots, blankets, or medical attention—just the things we really need to survive.”