Sgt. Dixon backed slowly away from the clearing, gaining the cover of the
underbrush mere seconds before a tiny blonde woman carrying an AK-47 would
have tripped over him. Cancer had eaten away most of her jaw and throat,
the results of the hard radiation necessary to maintain her life. Dixon
shuddered. He'd seen worse -- far worse -- in Viet Nam, had undergone
extensive training specifically aimed at combating the alien menace nearly
two months, but seeing the real thing was a far cry from the training
simulators. He wanted to gag, forcibly rejected the instinct, dragging his
attention back to the more immediate problem than his queasy stomach. He'd
have time to score a Bromo later; right now his momentary lapse in
concentration could well spell disaster both for himself and for his men.
He retreated farther toward his own lines, locating his Commander's position in a small thicket more by accident than design. Even there in relative obscurity he remained hunkered down, keeping his six-foot, four inch frame as close to the ground as possible. "Situation exactly as expected, sir," he reported in a low voice. "Small warehouse buffered by woods for a quarter mile before the first habitation. I counted fourteen moving through the window; perimeter is guarded by a half-dozen more. Suggest we take out the guard silently before initiating the full assault."
Ironhorse considered the advice, weighing his options. "Too risky, Sergeant," he decided at last. "If even one of them is able to give an alarm before we're in position, the aliens stand a good chance of slipping through our lines. If they bolt, we've got enough men to corner them against that outcropping." He pointed to the cliff face protecting the tiny warehouse to their west, no more than the remains of an ancient hill eroded to a thirty foot rise. "If they try to hole up in the building, we can always wait them out." He grinned wolfishly. "Not quietly, of course."
"Yes, sir," Dixon approved heartily, managing a semi salute despite his commander's supine posture; somehow, Ironhorse always had that effect on him.
Ironhorse jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the tall non-com, who straightened fractionally. "Dixon. Rogers," he added to a mustached corporal hovering nearby. "You two take Bravo Squad and cover the south. Spread out by twos to prevent penetration. Order the men to not break visual contact with their designated partners." He glanced at his watch. "Five minutes ... mark."
"Mark," Dixon echoed; Rogers grunted affirmation.
Ironhorse drew the big Beretta hanging at his hip, taking a moment to expertly check the load. "Go to it. And gentlemen..." They turned back. "...no mercy."
Dixon used the opportunity to sneak a peek at the only civilian among them. Though this was their first actual mission together, he'd come to know the Colonel as well as he knew himself: a driven, seasoned warrior, who demanded even more of himself than he did his men. But Blackwood.... Dixon shook his head. All he knew about the youthful man was that he was some kind of genius -- astrophysicist, he thought, who tended more toward brooding than camaraderie, and never returned either the men's smiles or jokes. It was rumored that the Doctor hadn't always been like this -- Derriman had said he used to drive their commanding officer crazy with wild jokes and pranks. He was also, so scuttlebutt had it, a pacifist -- it was obvious he wasn't carrying weaponry. What was he doing here, then? And how had he come to be involved on the battlefield?
Blackwood looked up, then, impaling Dixon with a sapphire-steel gaze, and Dixon understood. Whatever had sucked the scientist into this cesspool of a war was personal ... and perhaps more shackling than for any of them.
Dixon exchanged a single look with Rogers, then they were heading for the bush, leaving Colonel Paul Ironhorse and Doctor Harrison Blackwood stooped under cover. Ironhorse again glanced at his watch. "Go back to Checkpoint Alpha, Doctor. I'm going forward to join my men."
"No way, Colonel," Harrison asserted positively, his tone brooking no argument. "I was the one who located this alien shindig, I'm going to see the job through now."
Irritated at any delay, Ironhorse glanced at him impatiently. "Interpreting the data from Norton's computer alarm was your job, Harrison. It's done. Now get back and let me do mine." Having worked with his own men long enough to take obedience for granted, he took a crouching step forward; a nearly inaudible crackle behind him made him stop. He showed no visible surprise at turning to find himself nose-to-nose with Blackwood. "How about obeying orders just once?" he suggested in a resigned tone.
Blue eyes, bright for the first time since the death of their teammates, sparkled back at him, adrenaline and having something to do lending color to Harrison's drawn features. "This is my fight, too," he stated flatly, making to brush aside the other man. Easier said than done.
In a flash the indian had holstered his gun and snagged Harrison's wrist as the man went by, locking it in a grip of iron. "You're going to listen to me," he growled, dragging him to a stop. "You've been walking on the edge since Suzanne and Norton died..." Harrison flinched and jerked at his wrist; Ironhorse didn't release him; rather, used his free hand to snag the front of the man's flannel shirt, twisting the material. "...but I'm not going to let that get me or my men killed. Or yourself," he added without softening.
Surprised into immobility by the action, Blackwood could only stare, lean face blank. Then anger touched it, rising the flush in the handsome features. "I haven't managed to get you killed so far," he snapped back, giving the other man a violent shove. "Let go of me."
Rather than obeying, and aware of the other man's prowess with some of the martial arts, Ironhorse yanked hard on his shirt and twisted his wrist, throwing Blackwood off balance to his knees. He leaned dangerously closer, hawk-like face a mask. "I'm not putting my men at risk for you," he snarled. "There won't be any more deaths for incompetence."
Hands clasped now around the soldier's, Blackwood froze at the implication, going white to the lips. "Are you saying Suzanne and Norton's deaths were because of me?"
That shook the soldier out of his fury. Realizing he'd gone to far, he shook his head, loosening his hold. "No. I'm just trying to run a military campaign, and I can't stop to worry about whether you'll be following orders or pushing ahead into a bullet." The sparkle faded from Harrison's eyes; he swallowed, and Ironhorse released him. "Go back to Checkpoint Alpha," the soldier repeated. "You'll be called in to interpret the alien setup after the area is secured."
Once more Ironhorse turned to go, barely checking at the almost inaudible, "Be careful," from behind.
Harrison watched the olive clad form move off, then turned in the indicated position, shoulders slumping. Checkpoint Alpha was a thousand yards to the west, located on a diagonal near where the woods met the Sacramento housing project. A truck containing communications and tracking equipment waited there, manned by a young electronics specialist and a grim-faced sentry charged with protecting the area.
Harrison made his way across a little hill separating the lines, cursing to himself as branches and nettles tore at his flesh. Despite his back-to- nature philosophy, Harrison Blackwood was city born and bred, more used to the sacred and comfortable halls of academe than the harsh rigors of the woods, no matter how near civilization lay. Gamely he pressed on, confused and depressed at his own acquiescence and wondering at Ironhorse's motivation for sending him back ... and his own motivation for going. "Was it my fault they're dead?" he asked himself for the thousandth time, guilt adding to the depression.
There was no answer from within; oddly enough, however, there was one from without in the form of a very large hand on his collar terminating his forward motion rudely. He jerked back, startled, the action freeing his shirt. "Oh, boy," he breathed, fear settling heavy in his gut. The massive form reaching for him had obviously once belonged to a weight lifter of some kind -- the body was still clad in only speedos and sneakers, muscles rippling across the bare chest. The smile decorating the dark skinned features had probably once been boyishly charming; now it was a contemptuous sneer, the eyes emotionless black pits.
"Stop, human," it enunciated, making no pretense at normality. A smaller but no less muscular form stepped out of the underbrush, female and lighter skinned, and wearing bright pink spandex that contrasted sharply with the bleached hair. The two had obviously been taken together -- lovers in life, comrades in death.
Harrison was no soldier but he was far from helpless, whatever Ironhorse might think. With a sudden motion, he swung at the big negro's face, throwing his full weight into the blow. The alien's head rocked back sharply, teeth snapping together with real force. Harrison used the precious seconds this afforded him to sprint several yards to an ancient oak and snap off a stout branch. "I'm ready for you," he grunted, boldly turning to face his attackers, despite the dread that made his face gleam with sweat. "Come on. You're not afraid of one opponent, are you?" Inhuman though the opponent might be, the dig struck home as the scientist had hoped it would. Should these two call for help, the entire operation could be compromised, costing the lives of Ironhorse and his soldiers. It was up to him to keep these two busy for at least the next two and one-half minutes. He swung the branch challengingly. "No more lives," Harrison murmured, breath coming in pants.
The two hesitated, confused by the unexpected defiance from the slender, unprepossessing human. The bodies they inhabited had once reveled in their physiques, knowing very little resistance to anything they cared to do. But to be opposed by a human half their size? Unthinkable! The contemptuous smile on the male widened as Harrison advanced swinging.
The aliens circled from opposite directions, preventing him from escaping. Harrison selected the one closest to him, the male, who had recovered remarkably fast from that first punishing blow. The human allowed the dark skinned once-human to come within five feet of him before acting. Using a graceful kendo move taught him by Drake, he swung wide, using the motion to reverse the oak branch until the tip faced his foe. A feint, a lunge ... and the branch buried itself several inches in the creature's belly. It would have proved a killing blow but for the fact that the alien had retreated a step, allowing distance to dissipate the energy. Still it was enough to double over the host body, pain forcing it back another step. Harrison used the opportunity to withdraw the stake and reverse the swing, again using the branch as a club. Caught unawares by the grace and suddenness of the attack, the olive skinned female walked right into the blow, the impact against her right temple staggering her back.
"Che-da-ko," she managed, shaking her head and advancing again. Harrison stood ready.
Unfortunately, he wasn't ready enough. Talented though he might be, lack of experience made him underestimate the recovery time of the first alien. While he was still bringing his makeshift bo around, the negro had already straightened. With the speed of a striking cobra it latched onto the end of the oak branch and jerked it from Harrison's sweaty grip. The man cried out as the rough bark scraped the skin from both hands; it was just the diversion the second alien needed. The blonde sprang forward, delivering a powerful blow aimed at the point of Harrison's jaw. Had it landed properly it would have snapped his neck for sure, but fate intervened, lending an ironic hand to the fray. Harrison stepped backward ... tripping neatly over the discarded branch just as the woman's blow landed. He caught it higher, along the cheek, more glancing than she'd intended. Badly dazed, he was slammed back into the oak tree by a one-two punch to the stomach, eliciting a sharp pain in his abdomen. He sat down hard, gasping for breath, regarding the nearing aliens with that odd mixture of horror and loathing with which they always affected him.
Utter quiet settled in the miniature clearing; no bird sang, no insect chirped. Even the wind had gradually died down in deference to the occasion. In that supernal still, one could plainly hear the ripping sound made by the passing of that horrible third hand through the muscular flesh of the male's chest. A small geyser of body fluids preceded its emergence, followed by the chlorophyll-tinged skin of the alien organism.
Eyes locked on that abomination, Harrison cringed until his back was pressed against the tree; unable to go any farther, he could only watch in paralyzed horror as the ex-body builder knelt beside him; waving obscenely, the hand extended further until the fingers were wrapped around Harrison's neck. "All humans will die," he intoned in a rough bass, tightening the grip.
Blackwood beat against the green hand, strangling in that powerful hold. The pain in his head and stomach faded into a comfortable lassitude only spoiled by the burning in his lungs. Blackness intruded ... then was gone, leaving Harrison with the vision of the alien pulling away with jerky, uncoordinated movements. Surprise etched itself across the dark features, wiping away the contempt as though it had never been. It straightened and turned, revealing the hilt of the long battle blade Ironhorse carried sheathed at his back. It stuck there now, an obscene addition to the already ravaged body. The wound gurgled green, the flesh began to bubble and dissolve even as the flow slowed to a stop.
The second alien stared stupidly at the sight. Suddenly understanding the implicit threat to its own existence, she spun to face the lean figure just entering the clearing. "I'm gonna off you for that!" she snarled in a bizarre mixture of extra-terrestrial and Muscle Beach.
Ironhorse brought up the Beretta but too late! In a sudden rush -- no tactics, no strategy but with the speed of a cheetah, the female sprang. The gun flew free when she hit; she twisted, intending to pinion the soldier with those over-developed arms, but Ironhorse struck first, his right fist catching her solidly in the throat. She fell back, eyes bulging with increased internal pressure, vocal cords so paralyzed that she was no longer able to utter a single shout.
Damaged though she might be, the alien was far from out of the game. She came at the soldier again swinging. Ironhorse blocked the punch to his stomach, sidestepped a kick to the groin, and countered with his left hand, catching the once-woman just above the nose and between both eyes with the curiously bent knuckle of his middle finger. There was a dull crunch as the paper thin bone gave way, driving fragments deep into the creature's brain and dropping her dead before she hit the ground.
"What ... what was that?" Blackwood breathed, impressed.
Ever cautious, Ironhorse gave both melting bodies a cursory glance before squatting by his friend. He took Harrison's chin in his palm and tilted his face up, frowning at the darkening bruise that decorated one side of his face. "It's called the Eye of the Phoenix," he explained, next checking the blue eyes. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Harrison struggled to get to his knees, then abandoned the attempt and slumped back against the tree, wrapping one arm across his stomach and shutting his eyes. "Sort of. The Cavalry was just in time."
The soldier's thin lips twisted in a brief smile. "The Army aims to please. We--"
A ham-sized fist appeared from nowhere, sweeping around in an indelicate arc from behind to catch the soldier square in the nose. Ironhorse sailed unsophisticatedly over Harrison's body, hitting the ground with a thud. He was up again at once, blood streaming down his face, shaking his head to clear it. He barely avoided the newcomer's second blow, ducking in time to allow a wiry arm to pass over his left shoulder. The third, heretofore unseen alien was a tall, leanly built oldster with an incongruous cherry stem pipe clenched between decayed lips.
"You have destroyed my triad," it growled, circling with all the deftness of a grizzly. "Now I shall destroy humans."
It easily blocked Ironhorse's feint, moving slightly to counter the leverage the Colonel was seeking. Obviously, the old timer had had some knowledge of the martial arts in life. It lashed out with its right foot, breaking through Ironhorse's defenses and catching him viciously in the unprotected solar plexus. The soldier rode it backwards but was still hard put to draw a breath. Temporarily staggered, he was unable to avoid the possessed man's rush, or to block the wiry arms that locked around his ribcage and began to squeeze.
From his vantage point against the tree, Harrison could plainly hear the pants which were all his colleague could muster and, even louder, the porcine grunts of the alien as it methodically squeezed the life out of him. Panic lent Harrison the strength to act. Using the tree for support, the scientist forced his legs to move, dragging himself erect; from this position, he launched himself against the creature from behind, only to be brushed away as something no more annoying than a gnat. He caught himself before he could go down; the rough bark scraped his already raw fingers but he ignored it, concentration fixed desperately on the ground for a weapon. Dazed and sickened as he was, hand-to-hand would accomplish nothing; he needed a weapon of some sort.
A glint of metal caught his eye, and he stooped to pick up the nickel- plated automatic Ironhorse had dropped. Repulsion creasing his boyish features, Blackwood cradled it carefully. It felt warm, almost alive, and perfectly weighted, balancing itself in his hand of its own accord. An instrument of precision, an aspect that appealed to the scientist in him, and fitting symbol of all Harrison Blackwood had ever hated.
For less than a heartbeat, repugnance struggled with necessity before the latter banished it to the nether regions of consideration. Mimicking an action he'd watched Colonel Ironhorse do a hundred times over, Blackwood flicked off the safety and cocked the hammer. The range was not great, the angle perfect. With a roar like a thunderclap, the Beretta went off, filling the air with the sound of death. The alien jerked once when the bullet entered its brain, turning to face Blackwood with an expression of consummate hatred on its weathered features. Rather than collapsing, it simply released its captive and crumpled inward, already more liquid than solid.
Ironhorse sagged the moment the alien freed him, dropping to the ground, gasping for breath. Blackwood left off his dulled observation of the creature's dissolution, distracted by the thump, staring instead mesmerized at the sun-kissed glint of steel still gripped in his fingers. He watched fascinated as the gun, held rock-steady in his right hand, began to quiver, imperceptibly at first, then more strongly. His face twisted in disgust, he opened nerveless fingers, allowing the weapon to fall to the soft earth.
Ironhorse winced involuntarily as the gun hit, but relaxed when it didn't go off on impact. He turned sympathetic eyes upward, seeking the distressed blue ones of his friend, but Blackwood refused to look at him; with a wordless sigh, the scientist sank down to his knees at Ironhorse's side. "You okay?" he asked in a low voice.
Ironhorse nodded. "I think so." He drew a painful breath, held it for several seconds, then released it slowly. "Had the wind knocked out of me." He hesitated, unsure of the proper tack to take with his mercurial friend. "Harrison?"
Blackwood sighed again, cocking his head toward the sounds of battle at the warehouse. "Lot of fighting going on over there. Hope your people are winning."
Ironhorse did too. He had little doubt about the matter, however. This team was even better trained than his last one, and Omega Squad was the best there was. "Harrison, are you all right?"
There was a nod of the curly head, an abstracted grin widening his fine lips. "I hate guns," he answered simply. "I swore I'd never use one." He pulled up one knee and crossed his forearms across it, resting his chin on top. He sat staring at the melting alien as if it were the most interesting thing on earth.
At a loss for something to say, Ironhorse cleared his throat. "You saved my life," seemed the most appropriate. "Thanks."
"Pleasure," came the phlegmatic reply. Blackwood shifted his gaze from the alien body to a large black crow, who'd chosen that moment to light in the next tree. "Big sucker."
"Uh ... yeah." They both watched the bird preen iridescent black wings, focusing on it as a way to avoid looking at each other. "I know how you feel about guns," the soldier offered at last. "I never knew why, but I'm sorry."
"Not your fault, Colonel." He shifted until he was leaning shoulder-to- shoulder with the other man, close but carefully not touching. "You were helping me out, remember? I'd've hated to be responsible for y-- ... any loss of life."
"You never have been, Harrison." Ironhorse offered this last quietly and with utter sincerity, knowing it was needed. The reaction to this was in Harrison's usual, unpredictable manner. He turned his head, finally meeting the other's dark eyes and fixing him with a smile so dazzlingly brilliant, it was as if the sun had risen twice that day.
"I hate guns," he said, the smile faltering at the soldier's puzzled expression, "but I hate losing friends even more." It was then that each became aware of the cessation of the sporadic firing on the other side of the little hill. Ironhorse started to rise but his bruised stomach refused to cooperate for a time. "Weren't you supposed to be leading that attack?" Blackwood asked innocently.
Ironhorse shrugged and rubbed his abdomen. "I saw something moving in this direction," he began, next feeling his ribcage lightly for signs of damage. "And since this was an unprotected boundary...."
"With an unprotected professor?" Blackwood interjected with some irony.
"Yes." Ironhorse cocked a dark brow ironically at him, unoffended by the mild sarcasm., "I sent Omega-B ahead with Stastny, and came back to secure the perimeter myself." Finished with his self-examination and finding no serious damage, Ironhorse leaned back against the tree with a sigh. "I've got to get to the battleground. Can you make it back to the checkpoint alone?" To that there was no immediate reply. The scientist merely straightened from his curl and sat regarding the other with so odd an expression, that the soldier squirmed. "What?"
"In the last month since Suzanne and Norton were..." He stopped, choking on the words, then diving in with, "...killed, you haven't even given me the time of day. So why did you come back?" Despondency touched the back of his expressive eyes, bitterness entering his voice. "Or was it the unsecured perimeter you came back for after all?"
The hit registered, eliciting a flicker of pain. "Harrison, I--" The small radio at his belt chirped, and he broke off to unhook it and flick it on. "Ironhorse."
"Sergeant Dixon." The soldier's voice was tinny across the distance, but clear. "Area has been purified, sir. Last resistance eliminated."
The Colonel exchanged a relieved look with Blackwood. "Very well, Sergeant. Establish a search party to double check your surroundings and arrange for all captured materials to be transferred to base for examination. I'll join you shortly."
"Wilco, sir. Out." The air went dead.
Ironhorse rehooked the radio and climbed easily to his feet. He stood looking solemnly down at the top of his friend's head, only the other man's averted face preventing him from seeing the fondness in the soldier's gaze. Faltering not at all, Ironhorse laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "I didn't come back for the perimeter, Harrison," he offered quietly, sensitive enough to know it needed to be said. It was Harrison's turn to be startled then; enjoying the rare event, Ironhorse offered him a grin and a hand. "Come on, there might still be some alien equipment that my men didn't blow to bits. I'll let you have first crack at the leftovers."
***
He retreated farther toward his own lines, locating his Commander's position in a small thicket more by accident than design. Even there in relative obscurity he remained hunkered down, keeping his six-foot, four inch frame as close to the ground as possible. "Situation exactly as expected, sir," he reported in a low voice. "Small warehouse buffered by woods for a quarter mile before the first habitation. I counted fourteen moving through the window; perimeter is guarded by a half-dozen more. Suggest we take out the guard silently before initiating the full assault."
Ironhorse considered the advice, weighing his options. "Too risky, Sergeant," he decided at last. "If even one of them is able to give an alarm before we're in position, the aliens stand a good chance of slipping through our lines. If they bolt, we've got enough men to corner them against that outcropping." He pointed to the cliff face protecting the tiny warehouse to their west, no more than the remains of an ancient hill eroded to a thirty foot rise. "If they try to hole up in the building, we can always wait them out." He grinned wolfishly. "Not quietly, of course."
"Yes, sir," Dixon approved heartily, managing a semi salute despite his commander's supine posture; somehow, Ironhorse always had that effect on him.
Ironhorse jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the tall non-com, who straightened fractionally. "Dixon. Rogers," he added to a mustached corporal hovering nearby. "You two take Bravo Squad and cover the south. Spread out by twos to prevent penetration. Order the men to not break visual contact with their designated partners." He glanced at his watch. "Five minutes ... mark."
"Mark," Dixon echoed; Rogers grunted affirmation.
Ironhorse drew the big Beretta hanging at his hip, taking a moment to expertly check the load. "Go to it. And gentlemen..." They turned back. "...no mercy."
Dixon used the opportunity to sneak a peek at the only civilian among them. Though this was their first actual mission together, he'd come to know the Colonel as well as he knew himself: a driven, seasoned warrior, who demanded even more of himself than he did his men. But Blackwood.... Dixon shook his head. All he knew about the youthful man was that he was some kind of genius -- astrophysicist, he thought, who tended more toward brooding than camaraderie, and never returned either the men's smiles or jokes. It was rumored that the Doctor hadn't always been like this -- Derriman had said he used to drive their commanding officer crazy with wild jokes and pranks. He was also, so scuttlebutt had it, a pacifist -- it was obvious he wasn't carrying weaponry. What was he doing here, then? And how had he come to be involved on the battlefield?
Blackwood looked up, then, impaling Dixon with a sapphire-steel gaze, and Dixon understood. Whatever had sucked the scientist into this cesspool of a war was personal ... and perhaps more shackling than for any of them.
Dixon exchanged a single look with Rogers, then they were heading for the bush, leaving Colonel Paul Ironhorse and Doctor Harrison Blackwood stooped under cover. Ironhorse again glanced at his watch. "Go back to Checkpoint Alpha, Doctor. I'm going forward to join my men."
"No way, Colonel," Harrison asserted positively, his tone brooking no argument. "I was the one who located this alien shindig, I'm going to see the job through now."
Irritated at any delay, Ironhorse glanced at him impatiently. "Interpreting the data from Norton's computer alarm was your job, Harrison. It's done. Now get back and let me do mine." Having worked with his own men long enough to take obedience for granted, he took a crouching step forward; a nearly inaudible crackle behind him made him stop. He showed no visible surprise at turning to find himself nose-to-nose with Blackwood. "How about obeying orders just once?" he suggested in a resigned tone.
Blue eyes, bright for the first time since the death of their teammates, sparkled back at him, adrenaline and having something to do lending color to Harrison's drawn features. "This is my fight, too," he stated flatly, making to brush aside the other man. Easier said than done.
In a flash the indian had holstered his gun and snagged Harrison's wrist as the man went by, locking it in a grip of iron. "You're going to listen to me," he growled, dragging him to a stop. "You've been walking on the edge since Suzanne and Norton died..." Harrison flinched and jerked at his wrist; Ironhorse didn't release him; rather, used his free hand to snag the front of the man's flannel shirt, twisting the material. "...but I'm not going to let that get me or my men killed. Or yourself," he added without softening.
Surprised into immobility by the action, Blackwood could only stare, lean face blank. Then anger touched it, rising the flush in the handsome features. "I haven't managed to get you killed so far," he snapped back, giving the other man a violent shove. "Let go of me."
Rather than obeying, and aware of the other man's prowess with some of the martial arts, Ironhorse yanked hard on his shirt and twisted his wrist, throwing Blackwood off balance to his knees. He leaned dangerously closer, hawk-like face a mask. "I'm not putting my men at risk for you," he snarled. "There won't be any more deaths for incompetence."
Hands clasped now around the soldier's, Blackwood froze at the implication, going white to the lips. "Are you saying Suzanne and Norton's deaths were because of me?"
That shook the soldier out of his fury. Realizing he'd gone to far, he shook his head, loosening his hold. "No. I'm just trying to run a military campaign, and I can't stop to worry about whether you'll be following orders or pushing ahead into a bullet." The sparkle faded from Harrison's eyes; he swallowed, and Ironhorse released him. "Go back to Checkpoint Alpha," the soldier repeated. "You'll be called in to interpret the alien setup after the area is secured."
Once more Ironhorse turned to go, barely checking at the almost inaudible, "Be careful," from behind.
Harrison watched the olive clad form move off, then turned in the indicated position, shoulders slumping. Checkpoint Alpha was a thousand yards to the west, located on a diagonal near where the woods met the Sacramento housing project. A truck containing communications and tracking equipment waited there, manned by a young electronics specialist and a grim-faced sentry charged with protecting the area.
Harrison made his way across a little hill separating the lines, cursing to himself as branches and nettles tore at his flesh. Despite his back-to- nature philosophy, Harrison Blackwood was city born and bred, more used to the sacred and comfortable halls of academe than the harsh rigors of the woods, no matter how near civilization lay. Gamely he pressed on, confused and depressed at his own acquiescence and wondering at Ironhorse's motivation for sending him back ... and his own motivation for going. "Was it my fault they're dead?" he asked himself for the thousandth time, guilt adding to the depression.
There was no answer from within; oddly enough, however, there was one from without in the form of a very large hand on his collar terminating his forward motion rudely. He jerked back, startled, the action freeing his shirt. "Oh, boy," he breathed, fear settling heavy in his gut. The massive form reaching for him had obviously once belonged to a weight lifter of some kind -- the body was still clad in only speedos and sneakers, muscles rippling across the bare chest. The smile decorating the dark skinned features had probably once been boyishly charming; now it was a contemptuous sneer, the eyes emotionless black pits.
"Stop, human," it enunciated, making no pretense at normality. A smaller but no less muscular form stepped out of the underbrush, female and lighter skinned, and wearing bright pink spandex that contrasted sharply with the bleached hair. The two had obviously been taken together -- lovers in life, comrades in death.
Harrison was no soldier but he was far from helpless, whatever Ironhorse might think. With a sudden motion, he swung at the big negro's face, throwing his full weight into the blow. The alien's head rocked back sharply, teeth snapping together with real force. Harrison used the precious seconds this afforded him to sprint several yards to an ancient oak and snap off a stout branch. "I'm ready for you," he grunted, boldly turning to face his attackers, despite the dread that made his face gleam with sweat. "Come on. You're not afraid of one opponent, are you?" Inhuman though the opponent might be, the dig struck home as the scientist had hoped it would. Should these two call for help, the entire operation could be compromised, costing the lives of Ironhorse and his soldiers. It was up to him to keep these two busy for at least the next two and one-half minutes. He swung the branch challengingly. "No more lives," Harrison murmured, breath coming in pants.
The two hesitated, confused by the unexpected defiance from the slender, unprepossessing human. The bodies they inhabited had once reveled in their physiques, knowing very little resistance to anything they cared to do. But to be opposed by a human half their size? Unthinkable! The contemptuous smile on the male widened as Harrison advanced swinging.
The aliens circled from opposite directions, preventing him from escaping. Harrison selected the one closest to him, the male, who had recovered remarkably fast from that first punishing blow. The human allowed the dark skinned once-human to come within five feet of him before acting. Using a graceful kendo move taught him by Drake, he swung wide, using the motion to reverse the oak branch until the tip faced his foe. A feint, a lunge ... and the branch buried itself several inches in the creature's belly. It would have proved a killing blow but for the fact that the alien had retreated a step, allowing distance to dissipate the energy. Still it was enough to double over the host body, pain forcing it back another step. Harrison used the opportunity to withdraw the stake and reverse the swing, again using the branch as a club. Caught unawares by the grace and suddenness of the attack, the olive skinned female walked right into the blow, the impact against her right temple staggering her back.
"Che-da-ko," she managed, shaking her head and advancing again. Harrison stood ready.
Unfortunately, he wasn't ready enough. Talented though he might be, lack of experience made him underestimate the recovery time of the first alien. While he was still bringing his makeshift bo around, the negro had already straightened. With the speed of a striking cobra it latched onto the end of the oak branch and jerked it from Harrison's sweaty grip. The man cried out as the rough bark scraped the skin from both hands; it was just the diversion the second alien needed. The blonde sprang forward, delivering a powerful blow aimed at the point of Harrison's jaw. Had it landed properly it would have snapped his neck for sure, but fate intervened, lending an ironic hand to the fray. Harrison stepped backward ... tripping neatly over the discarded branch just as the woman's blow landed. He caught it higher, along the cheek, more glancing than she'd intended. Badly dazed, he was slammed back into the oak tree by a one-two punch to the stomach, eliciting a sharp pain in his abdomen. He sat down hard, gasping for breath, regarding the nearing aliens with that odd mixture of horror and loathing with which they always affected him.
Utter quiet settled in the miniature clearing; no bird sang, no insect chirped. Even the wind had gradually died down in deference to the occasion. In that supernal still, one could plainly hear the ripping sound made by the passing of that horrible third hand through the muscular flesh of the male's chest. A small geyser of body fluids preceded its emergence, followed by the chlorophyll-tinged skin of the alien organism.
Eyes locked on that abomination, Harrison cringed until his back was pressed against the tree; unable to go any farther, he could only watch in paralyzed horror as the ex-body builder knelt beside him; waving obscenely, the hand extended further until the fingers were wrapped around Harrison's neck. "All humans will die," he intoned in a rough bass, tightening the grip.
Blackwood beat against the green hand, strangling in that powerful hold. The pain in his head and stomach faded into a comfortable lassitude only spoiled by the burning in his lungs. Blackness intruded ... then was gone, leaving Harrison with the vision of the alien pulling away with jerky, uncoordinated movements. Surprise etched itself across the dark features, wiping away the contempt as though it had never been. It straightened and turned, revealing the hilt of the long battle blade Ironhorse carried sheathed at his back. It stuck there now, an obscene addition to the already ravaged body. The wound gurgled green, the flesh began to bubble and dissolve even as the flow slowed to a stop.
The second alien stared stupidly at the sight. Suddenly understanding the implicit threat to its own existence, she spun to face the lean figure just entering the clearing. "I'm gonna off you for that!" she snarled in a bizarre mixture of extra-terrestrial and Muscle Beach.
Ironhorse brought up the Beretta but too late! In a sudden rush -- no tactics, no strategy but with the speed of a cheetah, the female sprang. The gun flew free when she hit; she twisted, intending to pinion the soldier with those over-developed arms, but Ironhorse struck first, his right fist catching her solidly in the throat. She fell back, eyes bulging with increased internal pressure, vocal cords so paralyzed that she was no longer able to utter a single shout.
Damaged though she might be, the alien was far from out of the game. She came at the soldier again swinging. Ironhorse blocked the punch to his stomach, sidestepped a kick to the groin, and countered with his left hand, catching the once-woman just above the nose and between both eyes with the curiously bent knuckle of his middle finger. There was a dull crunch as the paper thin bone gave way, driving fragments deep into the creature's brain and dropping her dead before she hit the ground.
"What ... what was that?" Blackwood breathed, impressed.
Ever cautious, Ironhorse gave both melting bodies a cursory glance before squatting by his friend. He took Harrison's chin in his palm and tilted his face up, frowning at the darkening bruise that decorated one side of his face. "It's called the Eye of the Phoenix," he explained, next checking the blue eyes. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Harrison struggled to get to his knees, then abandoned the attempt and slumped back against the tree, wrapping one arm across his stomach and shutting his eyes. "Sort of. The Cavalry was just in time."
The soldier's thin lips twisted in a brief smile. "The Army aims to please. We--"
A ham-sized fist appeared from nowhere, sweeping around in an indelicate arc from behind to catch the soldier square in the nose. Ironhorse sailed unsophisticatedly over Harrison's body, hitting the ground with a thud. He was up again at once, blood streaming down his face, shaking his head to clear it. He barely avoided the newcomer's second blow, ducking in time to allow a wiry arm to pass over his left shoulder. The third, heretofore unseen alien was a tall, leanly built oldster with an incongruous cherry stem pipe clenched between decayed lips.
"You have destroyed my triad," it growled, circling with all the deftness of a grizzly. "Now I shall destroy humans."
It easily blocked Ironhorse's feint, moving slightly to counter the leverage the Colonel was seeking. Obviously, the old timer had had some knowledge of the martial arts in life. It lashed out with its right foot, breaking through Ironhorse's defenses and catching him viciously in the unprotected solar plexus. The soldier rode it backwards but was still hard put to draw a breath. Temporarily staggered, he was unable to avoid the possessed man's rush, or to block the wiry arms that locked around his ribcage and began to squeeze.
From his vantage point against the tree, Harrison could plainly hear the pants which were all his colleague could muster and, even louder, the porcine grunts of the alien as it methodically squeezed the life out of him. Panic lent Harrison the strength to act. Using the tree for support, the scientist forced his legs to move, dragging himself erect; from this position, he launched himself against the creature from behind, only to be brushed away as something no more annoying than a gnat. He caught himself before he could go down; the rough bark scraped his already raw fingers but he ignored it, concentration fixed desperately on the ground for a weapon. Dazed and sickened as he was, hand-to-hand would accomplish nothing; he needed a weapon of some sort.
A glint of metal caught his eye, and he stooped to pick up the nickel- plated automatic Ironhorse had dropped. Repulsion creasing his boyish features, Blackwood cradled it carefully. It felt warm, almost alive, and perfectly weighted, balancing itself in his hand of its own accord. An instrument of precision, an aspect that appealed to the scientist in him, and fitting symbol of all Harrison Blackwood had ever hated.
For less than a heartbeat, repugnance struggled with necessity before the latter banished it to the nether regions of consideration. Mimicking an action he'd watched Colonel Ironhorse do a hundred times over, Blackwood flicked off the safety and cocked the hammer. The range was not great, the angle perfect. With a roar like a thunderclap, the Beretta went off, filling the air with the sound of death. The alien jerked once when the bullet entered its brain, turning to face Blackwood with an expression of consummate hatred on its weathered features. Rather than collapsing, it simply released its captive and crumpled inward, already more liquid than solid.
Ironhorse sagged the moment the alien freed him, dropping to the ground, gasping for breath. Blackwood left off his dulled observation of the creature's dissolution, distracted by the thump, staring instead mesmerized at the sun-kissed glint of steel still gripped in his fingers. He watched fascinated as the gun, held rock-steady in his right hand, began to quiver, imperceptibly at first, then more strongly. His face twisted in disgust, he opened nerveless fingers, allowing the weapon to fall to the soft earth.
Ironhorse winced involuntarily as the gun hit, but relaxed when it didn't go off on impact. He turned sympathetic eyes upward, seeking the distressed blue ones of his friend, but Blackwood refused to look at him; with a wordless sigh, the scientist sank down to his knees at Ironhorse's side. "You okay?" he asked in a low voice.
Ironhorse nodded. "I think so." He drew a painful breath, held it for several seconds, then released it slowly. "Had the wind knocked out of me." He hesitated, unsure of the proper tack to take with his mercurial friend. "Harrison?"
Blackwood sighed again, cocking his head toward the sounds of battle at the warehouse. "Lot of fighting going on over there. Hope your people are winning."
Ironhorse did too. He had little doubt about the matter, however. This team was even better trained than his last one, and Omega Squad was the best there was. "Harrison, are you all right?"
There was a nod of the curly head, an abstracted grin widening his fine lips. "I hate guns," he answered simply. "I swore I'd never use one." He pulled up one knee and crossed his forearms across it, resting his chin on top. He sat staring at the melting alien as if it were the most interesting thing on earth.
At a loss for something to say, Ironhorse cleared his throat. "You saved my life," seemed the most appropriate. "Thanks."
"Pleasure," came the phlegmatic reply. Blackwood shifted his gaze from the alien body to a large black crow, who'd chosen that moment to light in the next tree. "Big sucker."
"Uh ... yeah." They both watched the bird preen iridescent black wings, focusing on it as a way to avoid looking at each other. "I know how you feel about guns," the soldier offered at last. "I never knew why, but I'm sorry."
"Not your fault, Colonel." He shifted until he was leaning shoulder-to- shoulder with the other man, close but carefully not touching. "You were helping me out, remember? I'd've hated to be responsible for y-- ... any loss of life."
"You never have been, Harrison." Ironhorse offered this last quietly and with utter sincerity, knowing it was needed. The reaction to this was in Harrison's usual, unpredictable manner. He turned his head, finally meeting the other's dark eyes and fixing him with a smile so dazzlingly brilliant, it was as if the sun had risen twice that day.
"I hate guns," he said, the smile faltering at the soldier's puzzled expression, "but I hate losing friends even more." It was then that each became aware of the cessation of the sporadic firing on the other side of the little hill. Ironhorse started to rise but his bruised stomach refused to cooperate for a time. "Weren't you supposed to be leading that attack?" Blackwood asked innocently.
Ironhorse shrugged and rubbed his abdomen. "I saw something moving in this direction," he began, next feeling his ribcage lightly for signs of damage. "And since this was an unprotected boundary...."
"With an unprotected professor?" Blackwood interjected with some irony.
"Yes." Ironhorse cocked a dark brow ironically at him, unoffended by the mild sarcasm., "I sent Omega-B ahead with Stastny, and came back to secure the perimeter myself." Finished with his self-examination and finding no serious damage, Ironhorse leaned back against the tree with a sigh. "I've got to get to the battleground. Can you make it back to the checkpoint alone?" To that there was no immediate reply. The scientist merely straightened from his curl and sat regarding the other with so odd an expression, that the soldier squirmed. "What?"
"In the last month since Suzanne and Norton were..." He stopped, choking on the words, then diving in with, "...killed, you haven't even given me the time of day. So why did you come back?" Despondency touched the back of his expressive eyes, bitterness entering his voice. "Or was it the unsecured perimeter you came back for after all?"
The hit registered, eliciting a flicker of pain. "Harrison, I--" The small radio at his belt chirped, and he broke off to unhook it and flick it on. "Ironhorse."
"Sergeant Dixon." The soldier's voice was tinny across the distance, but clear. "Area has been purified, sir. Last resistance eliminated."
The Colonel exchanged a relieved look with Blackwood. "Very well, Sergeant. Establish a search party to double check your surroundings and arrange for all captured materials to be transferred to base for examination. I'll join you shortly."
"Wilco, sir. Out." The air went dead.
Ironhorse rehooked the radio and climbed easily to his feet. He stood looking solemnly down at the top of his friend's head, only the other man's averted face preventing him from seeing the fondness in the soldier's gaze. Faltering not at all, Ironhorse laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "I didn't come back for the perimeter, Harrison," he offered quietly, sensitive enough to know it needed to be said. It was Harrison's turn to be startled then; enjoying the rare event, Ironhorse offered him a grin and a hand. "Come on, there might still be some alien equipment that my men didn't blow to bits. I'll let you have first crack at the leftovers."
***