Alien Wars Read online

  I’m really doing this. I’m cloaking the Battle Fang.

  As Cyrus used his increased psionics, something began to change. He thought he had everything under control. The knowledge from the Sa-Austra made the critical difference. He could cloak them from the Kresh. Then something new pulled at his mind. It was a gentle tug at first.

  What is that? Cyrus wondered. It feels like a psi-magnet.

  The gentle tug glued against his mind, making an inseparable bond.

  Hey! Cyrus struggled against it. No good; he was stuck. It yanked, drawing his concentration away from the lone Battle Fang and across the star system.

  At the speed of thought, Cyrus’s concentration passed a gas giant and raced for the outer asteroid belt. In seconds, he reached a snowball asteroid and spied a huge metal craft nearby. Whatever did this to him was inside the alien vessel.

  Cyrus’s thought zipped through collapsium plating and to a hangar bay. He realized several cyborgs stood around a small silver ship. The thing was teardrop shaped and lacked any means of entrance or exit. At the bulbous part of the vessel was a human, a woman. She didn’t wear a helmet.

  The hangar bay has a breathable atmosphere.

  Cyrus had time to marvel at the beauty of the woman’s features. Then he saw her hand. She didn’t wear a gauntlet. Her bare fingers touched the silver craft.

  That’s what had drawn his thoughts across space. Why should that be so?

  Something in Cyrus cried out in anguish. The ship!

  The woman turned her head. Had she heard that? Cyrus launched a psi-probe at her. She lacked the power to shield herself. Her name was Senior Darcy Foxe. She belonged to Ice Hauler 266-9. Darcy had spoken to the Prime Web-Mind of the Conquest Fleet. It had wanted her to look at the alien object they had torn out of the asteroid.

  I get it. This is the Eich’s ship. The parasite must have cried out a moment ago. How was that possible, though?

  She sullies the ship. Stop her!

  Before Cyrus could stop the Eich, the alien entity blasted a psi-bolt at Darcy Foxe.

  You bastard. You’re not getting away with it this time. Cyrus partly blocked the punch, the psi-blast.

  He saw Darcy Foxe faint, dropping to the floor. For a brief second, the cyborgs did nothing. Then the blockiest cyborg rushed to her, picking Darcy up in his arms.

  Cyrus wanted to look inside the ship.

  Never!

  The Eich caused Cyrus’s mind to recoil from the ancient silver ship. His concentration fled from the cyborg warship, fled from the snowball and the outer asteroid belt. As fast as he had come, his mental consciousness journeyed back even faster. It was like a stretched rubber band allowed to snap back.

  Cyrus Gant grunted. Sounds rushed upon him. Smells burst into flavor. Noises, odors, sensations bludgeoned him as he opened his eyes aboard the Battle Fang.

  His knees gave way. Skar caught him, dragging him to a chair.

  “Are you well?” Skar asked, worry etched across his blunt features.

  Cyrus blinked, confused. How had the Eich done that?

  “What happened?” Cyrus whispered.

  “Explain,” Niens said, stepping near.

  “Sir,” one of the crew said.

  Cyrus breathed deeply. His head hurt. This wasn’t as bad as coming out of the AI after creating a discontinuity window, but it was close.

  “Sir,” the same crewmember said, becoming more urgent.

  “What’s wrong?” Skar asked.

  “I think you should look at that,” the crewmember said. The woman pointed at the main screen.

  Cyrus looked up. So did Skar. So did everyone in the command room. A Kresh peered at them from the screen.

  “Turn up the volume,” Skar ordered.

  “This is Dagon Dar FIRST,” the Kresh said. “We have spotted your errant Battle Fang. By the registry, it is one of mine, commanded by Mingal Cham the 3012th. Put him on immediately.”

  “What should we do?” Skar asked Cyrus.

  He slouched in the chair, staring at Dagon Dar. Once again, he’d failed in his mission.

  “My Bo Taw have told me about your psionic flash,” Dagon Dar said. “You wanted me to see you. I find that interesting and arrogant.”

  Cyrus groaned. What flash? Couldn’t he do anything right?

  “Since you fail to put Mingal Cham the 3012th online,” Dagon Dar said, “I must assume the Earther took control of the vessel. How this could have happened, I have no idea. Since you remain silent, we cannot engage in bargaining. I am FIRST. You have disobeyed a direct command. While I am curious about you, I cannot tolerate such insubordination. Who will obey me then? Thus, I am launching five Tal drones at your ship. You have several hours at best. Make your peace with the Creator, for you are all about to die.”

  Dagon Dar disappeared from the main screen.

  One of the crewmembers manipulated her controls. The screen showed Jassac. From it, five bright points of light appeared.

  “They’ve launched the Tal drones,” Skar said. He turned to Cyrus. “What do you suggest we do next?”

  23

  While Skar and the others attempted evasive maneuvers and thought out battle plans, Cyrus returned to the altered part of his mind. He needed to know more. He had to break the Eich and figure out how to use the full extent of his Klane-given powers. Without Anointed One psionics, the humans weren’t going to be able to affect the coming three-way alien war.

  The descent into the dark part of his mind was different this time. He flashed like a meteor across the sky. In moments, he reached the location of his fight with the Sa-Austra. There, he found the Saurian’s bleached bones.

  That was odd. Time must work strangely down here in his mind.

  What am I thinking? What time? I’m inside my thoughts. Cyrus didn’t like how real everything seemed. This wasn’t like his original mind fights against the Eich. The farther he traveled in the altered part of his mind, the more tangible everything became. It was harder to remember the truth. Was there a danger in that? Would he reach a place in the altered region where he couldn’t simply zip out again?

  Cyrus studied the seemingly ancient corpse. The Sa-Austra’s garments and items had remained with the bones. Squatting, he pulled a ring from a finger bone and picked up a pouch. Then he spied a knife in a sheath. He had to have that, and he did, taking it. Afterward, he continued his trek.

  Soon, a troop of Saurians riding vat-altered humans scoured the hills for him. Had they seen him flash through the darkness like a meteor?

  I have to act as if everything is real. If I fail here, I’m going to fail in the real world. Everything depends on me.

  He heard warbling horns and occasionally felt a flicker of psionics. Did the Saurians have that, or did the Eich help them?

  Cyrus put distance between him and the Saurian patrols. He decided to keep his thoughts as neutral as possible. He walked in a measured tread, never hurrying, always suppressing panicked thoughts.

  In time, he reached a desert of faintly shimmering shale. The flattish rocks clattered and often slid out from under his feet. It proved a desolate region, with only the black sky and the slowly rotating wheel for company. He drank twice from brackish pools and rationed the dried pellets in the Saurian’s pouch. The ring had weight. The knife was razor sharp.

  Each stop, Cyrus checked his baton. The original one had broken. He’d had to fashion a new directional-finding baton, seeking the Eich.

  More time passed. He wished he could hurry this up. Why couldn’t he fly to his destination? He tried, envisioning wings sprouting from his back. Since that didn’t work, he ran and jumped, willing himself into the air like a superhero. Nothing happened.

  Soon, though, a leathery creature wheeled overhead.

  Cyrus crouched, watching it. Had he created the monster by his thoughts of flyin
g?

  I have to be careful what I envision.

  The creature flew elsewhere. Alone with his thoughts, Cyrus walked until he reached a towering mountain.

  What happened aboard the Battle Fang? How close were the Tal drones to the ship? Cyrus shook his head. Thinking about it would only worry him. He needed to find the alien parasite.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cyrus spied red glows. They detached themselves from the mountain, from a cliff face, it seemed. The ghostly wheel’s crimson light was dimmer here. He had no idea why. The red glows soared in the darkness, dipped and climbed. One screeched and dived at Cyrus.

  He waited, knowing that running would prove useless. The thing closed. In the dim light, he saw that it had fiendish, horned features and leathery wings, and its abdomen glowed. Its stomach seemed transparent. Worms or intestines shined with wicked light in there.

  Cyrus waited with his knife. When it closed with him, he’d slice it into ribbons of flesh.

  The fiendish thing screeched and veered sharply. Its leathery wings flapped heavily as it climbed. Apparently, it recognized him as dangerous.

  Heartened by the encounter, Cyrus hurried onto the plain of darkness. It wasn’t true dark, but the ghostly wheel shed a quarter of the light it once had. Cyrus trudged until the flying red glows dimmed and disappeared altogether.

  Thirst began to weaken him. He tried to mind-conjure water, but that didn’t work here. He didn’t know why. Cyrus kept walking, and what might have been an hour later, he spied a sudden flare of light. Cyrus rubbed his face. He saw flames, not just light. The fire seemed near, on a hill of sorts. Did Saurians camp there? He had to risk it. He needed water; could use food, too.

  After a time, he came to a hill. His boots pressed upon spongy grass. He passed low rocks, threaded up a narrow path with a sheer drop on either side, and advanced onto a rocky plateau. He stopped, and realized he’d staggered in a daze. A fire crackled. Beside the fire was a rock big enough for someone to sit on. What appeared as part of a splintered door lay near the fire.

  A door? That’s weird.

  Other hacked parts of the door burned in the blaze. He spied a water bag, blankets—

  The softest of footfalls alerted Cyrus. He began to turn and froze. Out of the corner of his eye, firelight shimmered off a long blade. He silently berated himself for being a fool.

  A gruff voice spoke in a strange tongue. It sounded like a question. Too bitter to care, Cyrus continued turning, but a strong hand gripped his hair and jerked his head back the way it had been aimed. With a hand reaching from behind, the blade touched his throat. The person spoke again, harshly.

  “I can’t understand you,” Cyrus said.

  Seconds passed. Then lips brushed Cyrus’s right ear. The person spoke slowly and deliberately, with a harsh accent. “I said: Who are you?”

  “I’m Cyrus Gant of Earth. Who are you?”

  The person shoved Cyrus, making him stumble.

  Cyrus whirled around. The man was short, with reddish skin and thick shoulders. He had to have been a native of Jassac from the highlands. The primitive wore furs but clutched a saber, while a short-handled Vomag axe hung from his belt.

  “Where did you come from?” the primitive asked.

  Cyrus listened closely. It was an atrocious accent. “I’m from Earth like I said.”

  The primitive shook his head. It was a quick, dismissive move.

  “May I ask where you’re from?” Cyrus asked. There was something familiar about the man, but he couldn’t place it.

  The primitive considered the question as his gaze flickered over Cyrus. Finally, with his saber, the man pointed at the fire.

  Cyrus moved beside it, his thoughts awhirl.

  The primitive sat erect on the rock, as if ready for action. He muttered as he studied Cyrus. Then he pitched him a heavy waterskin.

  Gratefully, Cyrus guzzled, aware of a faintly sour taste. He was about to guzzle again when his dignity reasserted itself. He pulled the skin away and lifted an eyebrow.

  “You can drink more,” the primitive said.

  Cyrus nodded his thanks and guzzled.

  “You are a fugitive?” the primitive asked.

  “No.”

  “A sacrifice then?” the primitive asked.

  “Not from the Saurians.”

  The primitive spat into the fire, where his saliva sizzled. “May their eyes rot in the trench,” he muttered.

  Refreshed from the water, Cyrus noticed the primitive’s eyes. They were blue just as Klane’s had been. For a moment, he thought it was the Anointed One. But no . . . it was just the eyes.

  “Are you a seeker?” Cyrus asked.

  “What?”

  “A seeker to the Clan Tash-Toi,” Cyrus said.

  “Yes! I serve Sion Trumble. How could you know?”

  Cyrus nodded gravely. That hardly sounded like a Jassac name. Maybe this seeker, this memory, came from a long time ago: different age, different customs and names.

  “Sion Trumble is the hetman of Clan Tash-Toi,” the primitive said.

  He’s from the same clan as Klane. Does that signify anything? Why are the eyes blue?

  Cyrus cleared his throat. “How did you come to this land?”

  The man scowled, which drew his heavy features downward. “The Saurians invaded, changing the very features of things.”

  Cyrus rubbed his hands before the fire, feeling its warmth. “Earth is two hundred and thirty light-years from Jassac.”

  “I know where Earth is,” the man said. With his blue eyes feverishly alight, the primitive asked, “Do you wish to reshape this land, returning it to normal?”

  “No! I seek the Eich that caused all this.”

  Troubled, the seeker sat back, looking away.

  Cyrus cleared his throat. “Do you have a name?”

  The man shot to his feet, the saber almost magically appearing in his hand. The look on his face was stoic, seemingly blank. Yet Cyrus was certain the man seethed with suppressed rage.

  Cyrus held up a hand. “Will you listen to me?”

  The man hesitated and then nodded.

  “I do not know Sion Trumble.” Cyrus chose his words with care. “I am ignorant of you and your ways. By your actions, it seems I may have insulted you. I did not mean any insult, and I apologize if I have.”

  “You apologize to a primitive of Jassac?”

  “I apologize to you,” Cyrus said. “You have given me water and let me share your fire. I thank you for both.”

  “You said you were from Earth.”

  Cyrus nodded.

  “Yet you thank a Jassac primitive, a toy of the Saurians?”

  “I have thanked you.”

  With a faint look of astonishment, the man sat down. He sheathed his saber and pointed at the waterskin.

  Cyrus pitched it to him.

  The man sipped and capped it. “Call me Braunt for now. I am . . . I am the right armguard to Sion Trumble the hetman of Clan Tash-Toi. I also have a talent, a psionic gift. That makes me the clan seeker.”

  “Did you fight Saurians?”

  Braunt peered into the darkness. “The others are gone,” he said, ignoring the question.

  “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said.

  Braunt sat erect like a statue.

  In the fire, a burning splinter cracked and sparks exploded upward.

  Braunt studied Cyrus sidelong. Finally, the man said, “I know why you are here.”

  Cyrus said nothing.

  “You wish to cross the barrier,” Braunt said.

  “Why would I wish to do that?”

  “Because the Eich lives beyond the barrier,” Braunt said. “There, you can defeat the parasite.”

  Cyrus kept a poker face, although inside he seethed with excitement. “How do you know
this?”

  “I am a seeker. It is part of my gift.”

  The feeling that Cyrus knew this man grew stronger. He believed he could trust the primitive, at least in this. “Okay. I think you’re right.”

  Braunt breathed deeply through his flattish nostrils. He stood and sat back down. “You look exhausted. You should sleep. I will stand guard. Then we can march to the barrier.” Braunt examined Cyrus. “First you should eat. I have some meat. It is very tough.”

  “Anything sounds good,” Cyrus said.

  “We are agreed?”

  “You mean about reaching the barrier?” Cyrus asked.

  Braunt nodded.

  “We are agreed,” Cyrus told him.

  Braunt grinned fiercely. “I knew there was a reason I had survived. It has been a long time since I have dared slink near the barrier.”

  “Is it dangerous?” Cyrus asked.

  Braunt made a harsh sound, which was all the answer Cyrus needed.

  24

  Senior Darcy Foxe sat naked in the same chamber as before. Toll Three stood guard at the hatch. Her clothes and vacc-suit were in a heap behind her chair.

  She felt groggy as if hungover from a long shore leave. Have I been asleep? Why don’t I remember more?

  The appearing and disappearing triangles on the wall showed the Prime had returned.

  “Senior Darcy Foxe,” the computer voice said from hidden speakers in the bulkheads.

  Her shoulders straightened. Would the thing demand she strut back and forth again? She didn’t feel well, and didn’t know how long she could keep that up.

  Remember. This thing can order your death at any second. You must placate it, and trick it if that’s possible.

  Darcy wished she could talk to Glissim. She didn’t dare ask for that, however. It could mean Glissim’s end, and Darcy didn’t want that on her conscience.

  “I have analyzed your conduct before the alien ship,” the Prime said. “I find it odd.”

  Darcy waited. She wasn’t sure why, but the Prime didn’t sound as pleased with her as earlier. What had she done wrong?