Damon Knight - Orbit 21

With this one, this huge and homely yet gentle man, she had been the one who wept; and he had held her close through the night.

He did not leave when she gained the boulders, but stood to block the wind from her. Summer on this world meant forever a place of rock, snow and ice. The oceans held a promise of teeming life a million years beyond, if the Bharan could be driven out of the interior.

A faint queasiness invaded her again. Pushing the feeling aside, she looked at the man beside her. Though his being was imprinted deeply into her memory, she had never known his name.

“Who’s coming in behind us, lieutenant?”

“Second and Third Battalions,” he answered. “If they make it.”

Chrystan shuddered. They had waited too long to bring in fresh troops. Damn them! How long were they willing to let the infantry fight a war both physical and mental?

As if signaled by her thoughts, a moan started in the jagged grottos below and worked its way up the line of soldiers. Chrystan threw her power full force along the limits of her battalion, creating a vortex to draw in the attacking power. Beside her, the lieutenant opened com lines. Faintly she heard him say, “Get me Commander Rodriguez. This is Seventh Battalion, under First Wave assault.”

A crackle, then, “Rodriguez. What is your position?”

As she spun the shining vortex that was the molten psyche of all of them and none of them, pain wrenched her at the sound of his voice. Manny , she thought. Help me.

“We’re the first lines coming in, sir, about five kilometers northwest of the base,” answered the lieutenant.

Her husband swore. “That means Rand has buckled. All right. We’ll be airlifting two shields in for replacement.”

“Make it three—sir,” the lieutenant said sharply. He cut off transmission as Chrystan swayed.

Her mind became a battleground where she stepped upon silver ashes and crackling bones, and grey and ebony death surrounded her. Rocks melted and leathery growths stubbed upward. Normally she would swing the vortex of power about in her hands, dump it on the ground to see what she had captured, and deal with it, but this assault was different. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She advanced into the strangeness. Dear god, Manny, I don’t want to be here again.

A shadow stirred at the far end of the valley. With the odd lumpy shuffle of its manylegged walk, a white-robed Bharan approached. It stopped, cowl-hidden face toward her, with the violet aura of the Queen surrounding it.

Chrystan’s heart fluttered. Beneath that tall and humped robe was a being who commanded thousands upon this world: a queen intent upon sucking the marrow from human bones.

A violet bolt sizzled at her while Chrystan shaped the vortex. At the last second she flung up her half-formed shield. She staggered back as it deflected the bolt. Heat dissipated about her, and she saw the Queen through wavery light as she completed the shield. Rand used to talk about fighting the Bharan in mind-space, encapsulating his power with shining silver wings and missiles. Others thought in terms of dogfighting biplanes. She preferred the imagery of shield and sword, though it meant a heart-stopping closeness to the aliens. Chrystan swallowed as she shaped a fiery blade in her hand.

She deliberately took a defensive stand. First Wave assaults were short, concentrated efforts to break the physical and mental barriers of the troops, and they cost the Bharan a tremendous expenditure of effort. If she could hold on . . .

“When she falls,” the Bharan said hollowly, “she is to be left for me, as First Meat.”

Chrystan heard the chilling words as she had been meant to. The violet aura speared to her right and then left, feinting before the bolt fired. She sliced it aside. Then blows rained upon the shield, melting upon contact, sparks sizzling about her ears until she crouched nearly deafened. When it stopped, Chrystan rose. She leaped, closing the distance between them. She struck with the sword, felt it deflected by the Queen’s own bodyshield which hung about her like a second robe. The Bharan seemed confused by her attack and gave way.

The alien’s presence was a dark and crushing fear that threatened to break her. With her shield arm, Chrystan wiped sweat off her forehead. Where was Manny? Where was her relief? She darted aside as violet fire grazed the armor, and again she withstood the attack.

The veins stood out on her arms as her muscles cramped and trembled under the weight. She faltered. She threw the shield up, going to one knee, sword hand and hilt pressed to her side. Dear God, not again! The cramps lanced her stomach like a mortal wound, and within the agony flickered a spark of life fighting its own battle. She staggered to her feet.

Driven, Chrystan advanced on the Queen. She swung the blade recklessly, caring only that the Bharan gave way once and then again. Women among the stars were mainly sterile; conception was difficult, full-term carriage nearly impossible. She had lost two unborn in these desperate battles before and she would not lose another.

The Queen took the defensive now; her cowled head bobbed uncertainly. Chrystan drove in on the advantage. In the last burst of her strength, she knew she could end it all here. There was a flicker as the Queen disappeared and left Chrystan plunging past. She missed the final blow, swinging at empty air, and pitched forward onto her face. The taste of ashes filled her mouth.

The lieutenant held her tightly about the waist as she heaved bitter bile and fear into the snow. When she finished, he set her down on the rocks and gently wiped her mouth with clean snow. He brushed her tangled hair from her eyes.

Hot tears rolled down, the icy wind turning them brittle. The nausea and cramp continued, then slowly eased, Chrystan laid her trembling hands on her lap. Below them, the straggling lines of soldiers pulled upward as though nothing had happened. She took a deep breath. Manny hadn’t come in time. Again.

The lieutenant took her hand in his, concern on his broad, open features, saying, “You’re cold.”

“What I am, is pregnant.”

He flushed. “Is it . . . could it be mine?”

The world stopped, except for a buzz in her ears. She thought of the day Manny had said reluctantly that they could try again, and if they were successful, she could return home to carry his child. Home to green hills and deep drinks of blue world air. To spring.

She looked at the lieutenant, and saw the reflection of her shocked realization in his face.

The sound of hovercraft cut off his words. He helped her aboard carefully as the other shield disembarked. Hands, all about her: seating her, buckling her in, cutting off her view of the lieutenant. As the engines revved for takeoff, she leaned to the door.

“Your name! Please . . . your name?”

“Hartwell. Lieutenant Steven Hartwell,” he shouted.

She saw his upturned face follow her line of flight until the mountains separated them.

Manny met the hovercraft at the base, his military maps shoved under one arm. She took a long look at his compact, middle-aged figure in uniform, his naturally browned face, gray sprinkles in his black hair.

He helped her out and dropped his hands from her as she stood trembling in the snow. “The other shields here told me you put up one hell of a fight. Good girl. Bharan operations stopped all over the planet. You nearly had her.”

“Nearly? Only nearly? God, how I wanted to put her down!”

“Why didn’t you?”

Chrystan stammered, “I tried. I missed. I’ve been shielding for three weeks. Where the hell were you?” Hold me , she thought. Tell me it’s all right.