David Gerrold: A Season for Slaughter

"What was it? What'd you see?" Smitty asked nervously.

"Nothing. If I'd seen anything, it would have been too late."

"You know what did this, don't you?"

I shook my head. "No. Not specifically; but if I had to guess-" I pulled my hood off so I could splash my face with water from my canteen: "Those weren't big bites, they were little ones. Hundreds of thousands of little ones. That worm got hit by a swarm of something; it attacked, it fed, and…" I shrugged. "Now it's probably gone back to its nest-or whatever."

Lopez looked up from the screen of her microscope. "A swarm of something-?"

"Maybe it's something that we've seen before. We just haven't seen it do this." I was already dictating to the computer. "Check for all creatures that eat like spiders, things that poison their victims and liquefy their insides. It doesn't have to be big. We're looking for an effect that would be magnified if the creature fed in a swarm-but maybe it doesn't swarm all the time. Also consider nonswarming creatures that periodically come together." Abruptly, I had another thought. "Is it possible that a millipede swarm could overpower a worm?" I had to smile at that. It would be poetic justice. The worms ate millipedes like popcorn.

A cross-match on the juices found in the tissue samples would probably tell us what we needed to know. The tank's lab wasn't exhaustive, but Lopez was good. She'd made accurate determinations with samples of much worse quality.

"Sir?" That was Smitty. "Do we go on?"

"Huh-? Oh, of course." And then I realized what he was asking. "I don't think General Tirelli would be very happy with us if we turned around just because we saw a dead worm."

"It's not the worm I'm worried about, Captain. Check your screen please."

I tapped the keyboard in front of me, resetting the large screen in the center back to general surveillance. A giant pink fluffball the size of a Saint Bernard floated and bounced and rolled across the broken land in front of us.

Right, Fluffball day. When all the spores exploded at once, it would trigger a three-day feeding frenzy.

The eggs of all the things that fed on the spores would hatch at the same time. And then the eggs of all the creepy crawlies that fed on them. And then the eggs of all the larger creepy crawlies that fed on the little creepy crawlies would hatch, and so on, all the way up the food chain, until even the worms would come out and gorge themselves. I knew from personal experience that General Tirelli would understand this.

"Is there anything on the weather map? Satellite scan? Network? Probes? Skybirds?"

"No, sir."

"Maybe it's a rogue fluffball," I said. "Or maybe his calendar is off. Or maybe he's lonely and looking for friends, I dunno." I rubbed my cheek thoughtfully. I really hated decisions like this. I sighed with annoyance and double-checked the route map on screen two.

Right. We were headed into the reddest part of the map. I reached for my headset.

If you were to look at a map of the Earth, with overlays representing all of the different constituents of the Chtorran infestation, showing every manifestation of their progress, where all the myriad species have spread, where they have settled and where they have been sighted, or even simply where residual traces of Chtorran activity have been reliably identified, the map would clearly demonstrate that there is no longer any place on this Earth that may be presumed uncontaminated.

It is important to note that no specific area of contamination exists as a single wash of biological homogeneity, but instead as a collage of many separate and distinct infestations, each one varying in components, scope, and impact; but all of them spreading, changing, interacting, and overlapping; each an element of a much larger process.

In most locales, the infestation still presents itself mildly, almost benignly, a factor that has misled many to presume that the magnitude of the disaster confronting us is far less than has been claimed.

If all that the casual observer sees is only the occasional odd interloper, then the assumptions of his ignorance may be understandable; but even the experienced observer is likely to underestimate the situation when the only evidence of the Chtorran presence available to him is nothing more immediate than a few tufts of velvet floss or some isolated clusters of blue iceplant. The undeniable fact is that the scale of this infestation is incomprehensible when perceived on the local level.

When perceived globally, of course, the scale of the infestation is crushing.

—The Red Book,

(Release 22.19A)

The major didn't want to hear about it. He wouldn't even listen to my reasons for concern. "Your orders, Captain, were to reconnoiter the area, weren't they?"

"-Without unduly endangering the safety of the troops, yes, sir."

"Have we completed our circuit?"

"No, sir, and with all due respect-"

"Of course, I'm only an observer, but I think you should carry out your orders, Captain. That's what I think." He clicked off.

I suppressed the urge to say something insubordinate and gave the order. "Take us away from here, Smitty. Away from the worm."

We bumped up the hill and then down again to cross a shadowed gully. We plowed a track through red kudzu so deep, there were places where the rollagons following us were invisible. I studied the map for a moment, then leaned forward and tapped my pilot. I pointed. "That way." Smitty nodded and began working his way up the opposite side.

I waited until all five vehicles were out of the gully and onto the plain. Then I ordered, "Column halt."

I popped the hatch, dropped down out of the machine, and strode deliberately back to the next-to-last tank in line. I crunched across blue iceplant so thick, I wished I was wearing skates. "Major?" I said into my headset. "May I see you for a moment? Privately?"

The rear hatch of the tank slid open. Major Bellus climbed out looking very angry. I waited for him to come to me. "Well?" he growled. "What is it?"

"Who's in charge of this mission?" I asked.

"Is that what you dragged me out into this fucking heat for? A stupid son-of-a-bitch procedural question? It's a goddamned sauna out here!"

I gave him my calmest look and waited for an answer. He was fumbling through his pockets for a cigar. He pulled out a half-smoked stogie and stuck it into his mouth. He glanced at me expectantly. "You got a light?"

"I don't smoke."

He sucked his teeth and started patting down the rest of his pockets. "Hell."

"Sir," I began. "Perhaps you don't understand. Uh, I took the liberty of checking your background. Very impressive, but if you don't mind my saying so, you don't have a lot of direct experience with the Chtorran infestation-I don't think you know what you're dealing with here. All this red ivy is very pretty, it's like the front lawn of Oz, but it's also a very good indicator that we're heading into a deeper patch of serious infection. We don't know why, yet; but the infestation tends to establish itself in patches and-"

"Shut up," he explained. I shut.

"I really don't give a shit," he said. "What I want you to know is the way things work around here. And the way things work around here is this. We do it my way or we don't do it at all."

I considered six different responses. Silence was the most appropriate.

"You have a problem with that?" he asked.

I shrugged. Almost anything I could have said would have been insolent.

He sucked on the soggy end of the cigar for a moment. "Don't you have anything to say, Captain?"