The anuvi incident, p.33
The Anuvi Incident, page 33
The creature set its helmet on the floor and stood. Putz saw the drool dripping from its mouth. It held up the rifle and then brought the butt of the weapon down on Putz’s face.
Pain was the last thing that Ernest Peretz felt.
Baez
For ten minutes Baez heard an occasional bang from the other side of the control room door. He stood with Lieutenant Commander McFinn and Captain Cavanagh just inside the control room. Cavanagh spoke quietly with Lieutenant Colonel Hadida over her communicator; she mostly listened, saying “copy that” every thirty seconds or so. Both officers had a blaster rifle slung over their shoulders.
Baez turned and looked back at the throne. On the upper step of the dais sat the tactical antimatter warhead Cavanagh had brought into the control room. He had watched with fascination as the Marines unloaded the weapon and set it up. It looked like a long smooth gray tube. They had told Cavanagh they had rigged it to blow with a command from her pockcomp.
Trik knelt at the bottom of the dais, behind the makeshift weapon some of the Marines created, four laser rifles salvaged from suits of powered armor set on a tripod made from three armored arms. A thick cable connected the weapon to a large power pack. Guthrie and Gibbons knelt a few meters to Trik’s right, behind the green crate that once held the warhead. Albrecht stood at Trik’s left and looked up at the millions of holographic images floating through the chamber. Albrecht, too, had a blaster rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Hadida thinks the enemy has used most of its grenades,” Cavanagh said. She looked at McFinn. “She thinks there may be just over a platoon of spineys left.” A pause. “There are very few of the Marines left,” she said softly.
Her eyes widened. “Wait!” She looked at McFinn with wide eyes. “Hadida?”
A pause.
“HADIDA!”
Cavanagh tapped her communicator. Tears streamed down her face. “She’s gone,” she said quietly. She wiped her face. “They’ll be coming in soon. We need to get ready.” The two officers turned and walked back toward the throne. Baez followed.
“There may be sixty to eighty of them,” Cavanagh said when walked back to the throne. Albrecht swore and muttered something under his breath.
“My luck has run out,” Trik said. Baez saw an odd smile on large man’s face.
“Get ready,” Cavanagh said. She and McFinn lay prone on the floor several meters to the left of Trik.
Baez took a position beside Gibbons and Guthrie and stacked what rifle power clips he had to his right. He looked up and saw Albrecht kneeling on the seat of the throne.
No one spoke. They waited for several minutes, the holograms whizzing through the air above them, the great globe of the moon casting its light through the chamber. A lump of fear sat it Baez’s stomach.
After what seemed like an eternity, Baez saw a blinding white flare punch through the door to the control room. Slowly, the flare cut a crude square in the door a meter high. With a clank, a square chunk of the door fell inward. A stooping figure appeared in the space.
Wordlessly, Trik loosed a stream of laser beams at the figure. It slumped to floor, and then quickly disappeared from the opening, dragged away by others. The blinding white flare started again, and it slowly traced a larger hole in the door, this one two meters high and several meters across. It fell inward with a clank.
Several figures appeared, firing large rifles, the bolts of ionized energy screeching toward them. Trik opened up with the laser, raking the figures with fire. The beams struck with a hiss and a sizzle. Some of the figures fell, but more and more poured through the opening. Some of them ran straight at the throne, while others fanned out along the edge of the spherical room.
“They’re trying to flank us!” Trik yelled.
Baez and his companions concentrated their fire on the figures moving right from the door. At this range, most of his shots missed. The enemy stooped low and moved quickly, taking occasional hip shots that went wide. After several tens of meters, they formed up into a wedge with about three meters between each of them. With a howl they stormed toward Baez’s position. The three boys from Phoenix fired as quickly and accurately as they could; they took down several of the enemy, but too many charged toward them. Baez shot the last one as it fell just meters from the crate, but he looked up and saw another wave storming toward the position.
His hands were slick with sweat, and drops of it ran down his forehead and into his eyes. The temperature of the rifle increased a little with each shot until it seemed almost too hot to hold. His trigger finger felt stiff, but the enemy still kept coming. He tossed the empty power clips away when he reloaded. The spineys fired wildly, almost all of their shots going wide. By the fourth wave they held their rifles above their heads and attacked in ragged groups, yipping and yowling.
Three of the Naati jumped on the crate and swung their rifles. Baez, Gibbons, and Guthrie scrambled backwards, trying to get on their feet and keep their rifles in front of them. A Naati leapt at Baez and swung its rifle, knocking the blaster rifle out of Baez’s hands. The Naati whipped a blade from its armored thigh, knelt, and slashed Baez’ leg in one smooth motion.
Baez screamed, trying to crawl away. The Naati scrambled on top of Baez and pinned him to the ground. It raised its arm and plunged the blade into Baez’s chest.
The pain was almost unbearable, and Baez coughed up a gob of bloody phlegm. The creature leaned forward and ripped out the young man’s throat with a shake of its tooth-filled snout.
Trik
A Marine’s battle-knife was thirty centimeters long and ten centimeters wide at the hilt. Just before the point it was three centimeters wide. Manufactured of an alloy of iron, molybdenum, carbon, and chromium, the manufacturing process involved nanorobots honing the edge to a thickness of ten angstroms.
Trik looked at the knife, his last remaining weapon, and smiled
The laser weapon of the Kriegworks Battlesuit depended on a cooling system, something the Marines didn’t include in the makeshift weapon on the tripod. But before the weapon had overheated, over three quarters of the enemy lay dead or wounded on the floor of the chamber.
With the laser out of commission or not, Trik knew the spineys would succumb to their hunting rage, at which point they would use their rifles as clubs. There were a dozen left. Most had removed their helmets and gauntlets; some held long blades but most were beyond reason, with their teeth and claws as their only weapons. They howled in rage and frustration, their spiney manes erect and quivering as the creatures moved. Trik stood at the bottom of the dais, his battle-knife held in front of him. McFinn had dragged Cavanagh up the steps of the dais to the bottom of the Throne; she had a nasty belly wound, but he still took shots at the enemy and appeared unwounded.
Lucky him! Trik thought with a smile.
The enemy regrouped about twenty meters away. They circled each other like a pack of wolves, spreading out in a semi-circle around the dais, some even moving on all fours. Suddenly, one leapt down on all fours and came at him. Despite his weight, Trik knelt to the side at the last moment. He swung the blade upward into the spiney’s chest, the sharp blade parting the spiney’s armor like cardboard. Trik used the spiney’s momentum to neatly swung his body over the dying Naati, pull the blade from the creature’s chest, and land on his feet. The spiney expired with a whimper, sprawled out on the floor.
“Whoa!” Trik said with a grin.
Blaster fire took down another of the enemy: a head shot.
Three more leapt at him: one straight on and one each from the left and right flanks. At the last moment he pitched backwards, feet above his head. He swung the blade upward into the neck of one of the spineys. The other two slammed into each other and tumbled a few meters away. He pulled his knife out of the enemy and spun to face the other two. One spiney’s head disappeared in a mist of dark blood. Another head shot. Trik leapt on the remaining spiney; it swung wildly, its claws raking Trik’s face and ripping off his nose. Trik plunged the knife into the creature’s flank.
His back to the enemy, Trik stood and saw three more leap at him. He thrust the knife forward and one of the spineys fell on it, the blade parting the armor and plunging deep into the creature’s chest. The dying Naati knocked Trik off of his feet and he lost grip on the knife. Suddenly, a tooth filled maw appeared in front of his face. Trik reached up and grasped the jaws of the creature with his hands. Screaming with pain, the razor sharp teeth cutting his fingers, he yanked as hard as he could.
The spiney’s jaw broke with a snap.
An instant later he felt a sharp pain in his neck. His mouth and throat filled with blood. He choked. His vision blurred.
Darkness.
McFinn
McFinn watched in horror as the Naati pulled the blade from Trik’s neck and then leaned over and took a bite. It raised its head and howled, the blood running down its snout. The remaining four looked up at him, baying and yipping.
McFinn and Cavanagh lay beside the tactical warhead. “Get ready,” he said. He saw Cavanagh pull her pockcomp from her belt. She touched a key and he heard the warhead beep.
They looked at each other.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of blaster fire, and something else, the brrrrrrrrrrat of another weapon. He looked up and saw several figures moving towards them, their rifles raised, firing at the enemy. The spineys turned at the sound, howled, and ran toward the figures. The dark figures cut them down in less than ten seconds.
There were six of them. Humans. All wore dark body armor and five wore black helmets, their faces obscured. Two high-fived each other, and another two pushed a power stretcher toward the dais. The sixth, the closest, shouldered his rifle with a smile. The man had dirty blonde hair but dark eyes. He walked slowly toward the Throne, surveying the carnage, the smile growing wider. When he reached the dais, he laughed out loud, clapping his hands.
“Marvelous! Bloody marvelous!”
McFinn and Cavanagh looked at each other.
The man looked up at them. “Captain Cavanagh, I presume?”
Cavanagh coughed, blood spraying from her mouth. “Yes.”
“Who the hell are you?” McFinn cried.
The man climbed the dais. He stood beside Cavanagh, smiled, and offered his hand. “Bacchus Freedman, General Intelligence Directorate.” When Cavanagh did not shake his hand, he pointed at the tactical warhead. “Is that what you were willing to do?” He smiled. “Impressive!” He looked around the chamber. “Well done, Captain! There may be hope for the human race yet!”
“What are…” Cavanagh’s coughed, her body heaving.
“What am I doing here? You should know, Captain. It is the duty of the Directorate to investigate all alien threats to the Union.” Freedman unslung his rifle and leaned it against the dais. He looked at McFinn. “Who’s this Captain? He looks familiar.”
“Lieutenant Commander McFinn,” she said weakly.
“So you’re McFinn!” Freedman stepped forward and held out his hand. McFinn ignored him. “Lieutenant Commander McFinn, I officially name you a first class pain in the ass. But, I must admit, you did get things moving, and for that I must thank you, Commander.”
“You’re welcome,” McFinn said dryly.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Cavanagh said weakly. “What are you doing here?”
“Are all the others dead?” Freedman asked.
“No,” Cavanagh said weakly. “They’re one level up.”
Freedman called to his men. “Go to the other survivors,” he commanded them. “See if they need help, and make sure they get out of here alive. Understand?”
They nodded and all five exited the chamber.
Freedman turned back to Cavanagh. “Do you read history, Captain?” He didn’t wait for her to reply. He continued to speak as he walked down the dais toward the power stretcher below. “At the dawn of the twenty first century the United States of America was the pre-eminent military, technological, economic, and cultural power on Earth. A few decades later the nation and its allies were weak and helpless at the onset of the Unification Wars.” He tapped a few buttons and the cover of the power stretcher opened slowly. Inside, McFinn saw a human with a bald head, the body covered by a white blanket and held by three broad straps.
Freedman checked a few gauges. “Do you know why, Captain?” He looked at her, his dark eyes bright beneath raised eyebrows.
“The onset of globalization,” Cavanagh replied, “economic dislocation, environmental collapse, military overstretch, cultural…“
“The standard textbook reply.” Freedman slowly shook his head. He reached into the power stretcher and retrieved a small box. He turned and looked at her. “The inhabitants of that nation had lost their virtue. Their society was sick with greed, degeneracy and aimlessness, and sacrifice had long lost its meaning.” He opened the box and took out a needle and a small vial of fluid. “It was only a matter of time. They had forgotten the lesson of the human condition: only through suffering do human beings become strong enough to withstand the trials of survival in a hostile universe.” Freedman thrust the needle into the vial and drew out some liquid. He removed the needle from the vial and tapped it a few times. “It was the same when the Snirr attacked United Earth three centuries later; it collapsed, and only through the crucible of suffering and pain did Humanity gain the strength to defeat its greatest enemy.”
“Kilgore,” Cavanagh said weakly.
“Yes, Captain,” Freedman said, smiling. “He was a brilliant man, a little unstable, and the perfect instrument. He saw the Naati as a threat. But he was wrong; they are an opportunity. War with the Naati will make the Union…Humans…stronger, or we will be swept from the galaxy.”
He thrust the needle into the bare arm of the human on the power stretcher. “However, we do have some advantages.”
He loosened the straps, reached in and pulled the body into a sitting position. McFinn realized it was a woman; her gaunt frame slouched on the stretcher. “I had hoped that this sacrifice would not be necessary,” Freedman said with a smile, “but your determination to defend this artifact is surprising. Maybe we humans aren’t as weak as I thought.”
He slung the slight woman over his shoulder. “Only when humans colonized other worlds did our numbers grow large enough to reveal our greatest potential.” He climbed the dais. “The strength of human telepathy varies, Captain. We lowly mortals may have a twinge of talent, but there are a handful in the Union that possess incredible power. For all intents and purposes, they are gods, able to manipulate reality itself with the power of their minds.” Deftly, he climbed up onto the throne and set the small woman down.
Freedman cupped the cheek of the unconscious woman. “Wake up, Demi! Wake up, my love! Your hour is at hand!” When Freedman turned to Cavanagh, McFinn saw tears rolling down the man’s cheeks.
“I present to you Demeter Freedman, my younger sister. Since adolescence my sister has been kept unconscious or in a psychic prison created by other telepaths. This was necessary for her safety and the safety of others. But when I learned about the possibility of finding an alien artifact controlled by telepathy…”
“Dr. Batista,” Cavanagh said weakly.
“Yes, Captain,” he said and jumped down from the throne. “It was I who funded her research. I had to, for I now just realize why my sister has been made to suffer her entire life. It is God’s plan that she use this artifact to attack our enemies.”
“You’re no better than a Naati,” Cavanagh said weakly, bloody spittle at the corners of her mouth. She sat up and glared at Freedman. “We’re worse than the Naati! We’re the cause of this mess!” she shouted. She doubled over, her body wracked with coughs, the blood flying from her mouth.
Freedman face clouded with rage for a moment, but then he smiled. “No, Captain. Human beings are far superior. Can a Naati compose a symphony? Paint a masterpiece? Use telepathic abilities? No. Naati are little more than animals capable of a limited reason, a mockery of true sentience.” He looked upward at the swirling holograms and then held his arms open wide. “We are the spiritual successors to the race that built this incredible artifact. It is only fitting that we use it to defeat the enemy. And after the Naati, who knows? Dare we cleanse the galaxy of all our historical foes and bring the light of human civilization to the poor ignorant races still toiling in the darkness?”
“You’re mad.” Cavanagh said.
McFinn saw Freedman’s face twist with rage. “You...“
McFinn’s perception changed. Dark waves rippled across his vision. Suddenly, he felt spears of pain in his forehead and temples. He closed his eyes, doubled over, and fell to his knees.
The pain suddenly stopped, and when he opened his eyes, he saw an incredible scene: a clearing in the trees, grass, a dark starry sky with light in the distant horizon. The air smelled like it was full of moisture. He looked at his body: he wore a suit of fine silver metal rings; he felt a heavy cloak on his shoulders. As he stood, he felt the weight of something on his waist. He looked down and saw what looked like a heavy metal blade hanging in a leather sheath.
“What the…“
“You will address me as m’lady.”
McFinn looked and saw a thin woman seated on a great high-backed stone throne in the middle of the clearing. She wore a shimmering green gown with great billowing skirts, her blonde and braided hair piled high on her head. She held a golden rod in her hand. Her face looked thin, pinched, and very pale.
“Come closer,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Bacchus has not told me of you, noble knight, but you must tell me of your travels.”
“Uh, well…”
“He is a brave one, m’lady.” McFinn suddenly realized Bacchus Freedman stood beside the stone throne. He wore a black cassock and a red skullcap. “His name is MacFinn, and he has brought you the golden Crown of Power. See it there, floating above your throne?”
