A Matter for Men, page 43
part #1 of War Against the Chtorr Series
I didn't answer. I was looking at the Chtorran. I took a step toward it and reached out and touched its skin. The creature was warm. Its fur was silky. Oddly alive. It felt electric! My hand tingled as I stroked it.
"Static electricity?" I asked.
"No," she said.
I remembered the feeling in the nest. It came flooding back to me now—I could almost hear the song of the worms again.
I took another step forward, almost leaning on the warm side of the Chtorran, almost pressing my face into it. Some of the strands of fur brushed softly against my cheek. They felt like feathers. I sniffed deeply. The creature smelled warm and minty. It was oddly inviting. Like a big friendly fur rug you wanted to curl up in. I continued stroking it.
"That isn't fur," she said.
I kept petting. "It isn't? What is it?"
"Those are nerve endings," she said. "Each individual strand is a living nerve—appropriately sheathed and protected, of course—and each one has its own particular sensory function. Some can sense heat and cold, others light and darkness, or pressure. Some can smell. Most—well, while you're busy petting it, it's quietly tasting you."
I stopped petting it.
I pulled my hand back. I looked at her. She nodded yes. I looked at the Chtorran fur again. Every strand was a different color. Some were thick and black. Others were fine and silvery. Most were various shades of red—a whole spectrum of red, shading all the way from deep purple to bright gold, and touching all the bases in between: magenta, pink, violet, crimson, orange, scarlet, salmon and even a few flashes of bright yellow. The effect was dazzling.
I brushed my hand against the fur again, parting it gently. Beneath, the Chtorran skin was dark and purple, almost black. It was hot. I thought of the skin on a dog's soft underbelly.
I realized the Chtorran was trembling. Every time I touched it, the intensity of the shivers increased.
"You're making it nervous," Lucrezia said.
Nervous—? A Chtorran? Without thinking, I slapped the creature's flank. It twitched as if stung.
"Don't," she said. "Look—"
A shudder of reaction was rippling up and down the Chtorran's body. There were two technicians on a platform hanging just above the Chtorran's back. They were trying to secure a set of monitor probes. They had to pull back and wait until the Chtorran stopped shuddering. One of the technicians glared at me. When the creature's flesh stopped rippling, she bent back to her work.
"Sorry," I said.
"The creature is incredibly sensitive. It can hear everything that goes on in here. It reacts to the tone of your voice. See? It's trembling. It knows you're hostile. And it's afraid of you. It's probably more afraid of you than you are of it."
I looked at the Chtorran with new eyes. It was afraid of me—!
"Remember, it's just a baby."
It took a moment for me to grasp the implications of that—not just for here in the lab, but for outside as well, out there, where the wild ones were.
If this was a baby—if all of those out there were babies—then where were the adults? The fourth Chtorran—?
"Wait a minute—this can't be a baby!"
"Oh?"
"It's too big—I brought in eggs! A baby Chtorran should only be . . ." I spread my hands as if to hold a puppy. ". . . oh, about yay big."
"Have you ever seen one?"
"Uh—"
"What's the smallest Chtorran you've ever seen?"
"Uh—" I pointed. "This one."
"Right. Have you ever heard of heavy metal accumulation?"
"What about it?"
"It's a way of measuring the age of an animal. The body doesn't pass heavy metals, like lead or mercury; they accumulate in the cells. No matter how clean a life you live, it's inevitable that you'll pick up traces just from the atmosphere. We've tested this creature extensively. Its cells are remarkably earthlike. Did you know that? It could almost have evolved on this planet. Maybe someday it will. But here's the thing: it doesn't have enough trace metals in its system to be more than three years old. And my guess is that it's actually a lot less. Maybe eighteen months." She held up a hand to forestall my objection. "Trust me—we've tested it. We've deliberately introduced trace metals into its system to see if perhaps it doesn't have some way of passing them. And yes, it does—our estimate of its age is based on that equation. And that's no anomaly, buster. All of our supplementary evidence supports the hypothesis. Eighteen months. Maybe two years at the most. It's got an incredible growth rate."
I was shaking my head. "But what about my eggs—?"
"Oh, that's right. Your eggs. Your Chtorran eggs. Come with me." I followed her back to the room we had just left. She brought me up to the row of cages. "Here are your eggs," she pointed. "See all the baby Chtorrans?"
I stepped close to the cage and peered.
Inside were two small millipedes. They were sleek and wet-looking. They were busily chewing on some pieces of shredded wood. A third baby millipede was just now chewing a hole in the shell of its egg. It paused abruptly and looked straight out at me. I felt a cold chill.
"The only thing interesting about these babies," she said, "is the color of their bellies. See? Bright red."
"What does that mean?"
She shrugged. "Means they're from Rhode Island. I don't know. Probably it doesn't mean anything. We've found all kinds of color bandings on these creatures' bellies."
"When did they hatch?" I asked.
"Early this morning. Cute, don't you think?"
"I don't get it," I said. "Why would the Chtorrans keep millipede eggs in their dome?"
"Why do you keep chicken eggs in your refrigerator?" Dr. Borgia asked. "What you've found is the ubiquitous Chtorran version of the chicken, that's all. These things eat the stuff that's too low on the food chain for the worms to bother with. They're convenient little mechanisms to gather up food and store it till the worms are hungry."
"I'm confused. Those eggs looked too big to have been laid by a millipede."
"Do you know how big millipedes get?"
I shook my head.
"Look down here."
"Jesus!" I yelped. The thing in the cage was as big around as a large python. It was over a meter long. "Wow!" I said, "I didn't know that."
"Now you do." She looked at me, and her green eyes flashed smugly. "Any more questions?"
I stepped back and turned to her. I said, "I apologize. I've been a jerk. Please forgive me."
"We're used to dealing with unpleasant creatures." She smiled innocently. "You were no problem at all."
"Ouch. I deserved that. Listen, it's obvious that you know what you're doing here. And that just hasn't been my experience elsewhere in the Center. I didn't even know this section existed until this morning."
"Neither did anybody else until we took custody of junior in there." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the other room.
"I'm really sorry," I said.
She swung to face me. "I got that. Now listen up and listen good. I don't give a damn how sorry you are. I really don't. It's over. Now, let it be something you can learn from."
"Uh, yeah."
"You're an officer now. So I'll give you the bad news. Every damn schmuck who sees those bars on your arm wants you to succeed, you know that? He wants to know that he can trust you totally when his life is on the line. That's how you want to feel about your superiors, don't you? Well, that's how your men want to feel about you. You act like a jerk and you blow it—not just for yourself, but for every other person who wears the same bars. So get yourself tuned in to what this is about. Those stripes are not a privilege! They're a responsibility."
I was feeling a little sick.
I guess it showed. She took me by the elbow and turned me to the wall. She lowered her voice. "Listen, I know this hurts. And here's what you need to know about that: criticism is an acknowledgment of your ability to produce results. I wouldn't be giving you correction if I didn't think you could take it. I know who you are. I know how you got those stripes. That's fine; you deserve 'em. I've heard a lot of good things about you. Believe it or not, I don't want to see you screwing up. You got that?"
"Uh, yeah. I got it."
"Is there anything you want to say to me?"
"Uh . . . thanks—I think." I added, "I'll know when the bleeding stops. Uh, I'm awfully embarrassed."
"Listen, all new officers make the same mistake. You're lucky you made it here instead of someplace serious. You think the bars change you somehow. They don't. So don't let them get in the way. You're not your rank—you're just a person being trusted with that amount of responsibility. So I'll let you in on the secret. Your job isn't to order people—it's to inspire them. Remember that and you'll be very successful."
"Thank you," I said again. There was something about the way she spoke. "Are you related to Foreman?"
She grinned. "I trained with him. Nine years ago." She stuck out her hand. "My name's Fletcher. Call me Fletch."
I shook hands gently. My wrist was still sore.
She said, "If you still want the bugs, take them."
I glanced back at the cage. The third baby millipede had finally gotten out of its shell. It was trying to crawl up the surface of the glass. Its belly was bright red. It stopped and stared at me. Its eyes were large and black and unnerving.
I shrugged. "I don't know now. I only wanted them back because I thought nobody around here cared. Now, I see that's not so. If you can do a better job . . ."
Fletcher grinned again. "Yes, we can."
I made a decision. "Well, then—keep 'em here. I just want to know what there is to know about them."
"I'll put your name in the computer," she said. "You can plug into the files any time you want. Our job here is to disseminate information, not hide it." Then her eyes twinkled and she added, "Visiting hours are every day from noon to five. Next time, bring flowers."
"I will," I said. I dropped my gaze away from her eyes. For some reason, they were suddenly too beautiful to look at. I made a show of looking at my watch. I was embarrassed again, but this time for a totally different reason. "Well—" I said "—I guess I'd better get going. I have a plane to catch. Thanks again. For everything."
I turned awkwardly toward the door. She stepped in front of me. "Just one thing. That was a pretty fair piece of shooting. I was there. My compliments." And she stretched upward and kissed me warmly on the lips.
I could feel myself blushing all the way to the Jeep.
48
The Return
"I do not believe that an increase in intelligence represents real progress for humanity. It is much more likely that it will only enable us to make a higher class of mistake."
—SOLOMON SHORT
There was no one to meet me at the helipad. The chopper disgorged two pallets of supplies and munitions from its tail and lifted away into the empty blue sky. I was left alone in the hot and dusty afternoon. I noticed that the pallets had a lot of heavy crates on them: probably a couple of Marauder-class military robots and some heavy weaponry for the squad. Good. We could put them to good use.
We?
I wondered about that.
Duke wasn't going to be exactly overjoyed to see me.
I glanced at my watch. Somebody should have been here by now. It wasn't like Duke or Sergeant Kelly not to be here when supply choppers came in.
I muttered something unprintable, slung my duffel over my shoulder, and started limping up the dirt road. Despite the heat, it was a beautiful day. You could almost forget there was a war on.
Careful, a voice whispered in my ear. You could get killed thinking thoughts like that.
Funny how life works, though.
Shorty. My dad. Ted. Dinnie. Dr. Foreman. Jillanna. Colonel Wallachstein. Marcie. Dr. Zymph. Lizard. Duke.
Some of us work ourselves to death. Some of us fuck ourselves to death. Some of us look for someone to blame, and the rest just look for someplace to hide.
Dinnie was right. I didn't think I was crazy—but then again, it doesn't matter where you stand, it still looks like the middle.
I wanted to learn about the worms. If I had to kill them, I would. I didn't want to, and I would if that was the only way.
But . . . there has to be a better way than this. This war—this couldn't be the most rational human response to an alien intelligence, could it? There has to be a scientific approach, even a—
I didn't have the words for it.
The closest concept to what I was trying to think of was spiritual.
Could there be a spiritual approach?
I knew what most people would say if someone were to suggest such an approach. I'd seen it. Seen the reactions. All the anger, all the rage, all the fear and hysteria—all the rationalizations, excuses, justifications, explanations—I'd heard them all now.
All that dialog.
That was what we were doing instead.
We would die with our mouths open, with our dialog still choking in our throats.
We were so stupid. And crazy.
Especially me.
What I wanted was something nobody could ever have again.
I wanted things to be normal again.
Normal.
I wanted . . . a hot fudge sundae. With whipped cream and fudge dripping down the sides of the glass. With a maraschino cherry so red and so sweet that it glowed like neon. I could almost feel the crunch—
I stepped on something soft.
It rolled underneath my boot and I skidded and nearly slipped. My leg twinged with pain, but I didn't fall.
That's what I get for daydreaming. I straightened up, hoped no one had seen, turned around stiffly, and looked at what I had slipped on.
At first I didn't recognize it. Then I did. And wished I hadn't—
It was the soft gray tip of a cat's tail.
Sam?
I—bent and picked it up. And dropped it again just as quickly.
Sam had a broken tail. The last bone in his tail had been tweaked at an angle. You couldn't see it, but you could feel it between your fingers. It was part of his character; you couldn't help but wonder how a cat could get the last bone in its tail broken.
"Oh, no—"
This tiny soft remnant was the broken tip of Sam's tail.
There was only a little blood. It looked as if it had been neatly chewed off. It looked like a leftover dinner scrap.
I straightened quickly and looked around. I was on the last short slope before the camp itself. There was nothing to see here but trees.
I was suddenly and terrifyingly aware of the fact that I had no gun. No flame-thrower. No weapon of any kind.
I felt naked.
Suddenly I noticed how silent it was.
And barren.
Something like a giant carpet sweeper had come through here recently. There were no leaves on the ground. And the grass—what was left of it—looked clipped. Some of the trees looked as if they'd been stripped. There were large bare patches everywhere.
And it was absolutely quiet.
As if everything that crawled or crept or leapt or flew had been swept up by the same raw tide of hunger. I don't know how I knew, but I knew.
I began backing away. Down the hill.
I dropped my duffel, turned, and ran—I forgot about my new kneecap and bounced and skidded and stumbled with no regard at all for the damage I might be doing to myself. I hobbled and ran stiff-legged down the road as fast as I could. Ran for the helipad and the two pallets of military equipment.
And prayed to God that I wasn't too late.
Millipede Swarm Attacks
Families
LAKE GRANBY VILLAGE—A multiple-family farm-collective was overrun by a swarm of large millipede-like creatures, authorities here reported yesterday.
The haggard survivors staggered into Lake Granby Village late this morning, claiming they had walked all night since their van broke down at least ten miles north of here.
The millipede-like creatures were said to range in size from 30 to 90 centimeters. They were described as having shiny black bodies and were nearly impossible to kill or dislodge.
The Starlight Vision Collective Farm, a licensed marijuana facility, had been inhabited by three families. Nine adults and five children were known to have lived on the farm. Seven surviving members of the collective walked into Lake Granby Village. The other five, including two children, are still unaccounted for.
An aerial drone sent over the farm showed considerable destruction, but no signs of life.
County Sheriff Alice McMasters refused to comment until the investigation of the attack is complete.
49
Fatal Mistakes
"Entropy has us outnumbered."
—SOLOMON SHORT
I didn't have a crowbar.
I went pillaging through the supplies like a man possessed by demons. Found a hammer in a toolkit and banged on the crates until the sides fell away. Hammered and banged and screamed like a banshee.
Found a mini-flamer and two tanks. Found a grenade-launcher. Found the controls for the two robots and powered them up. Found a small arsenal and loaded up everything I could—if not on my back, then on the robots. As an afterthought, I grabbed a med-kit and a bag of rations and fresh water. I might need it.
Because I didn't know what I was going to find at the top of the hill.
I thumbed the controls to life. "Arm all ordnance. Full surveillance. Fire only on my orders." And hoped I'd done it right.
The robots came to life with a whirr. They straightened their legs, rising up to their full height of three meters, all their eyes and ears swiveling alertly as they scanned the surrounding forest.
"North—up the hill." I pointed.
They began spider-walking delicately across the ground, picking their way as easily as ballet dancers.
I put one robot on each flank and followed them stiffly up the road. And cursed myself for my stupidity. This is what I should done in the first place—as soon as I realized how strange it was that nobody was coming down the hill to meet the chopper.
