The Mothership (36 page)

Bandaka looked confused. “No one see me?”

“Invisible.”

“How can no one see me?”

“It bends light around you. If the light
doesn’t hit you, no one can see you.”

“Will the great spirits see me?” Bandaka
asked apprehensively.

Tucker looked puzzled. “Great spirits?
Don’t know–”

“They’ll see you,” Beckman cut in, “but no
one else will.”

“How it turn off?” Bandaka asked.

“It turns off,” Tucker said, “When the
power runs out.”

Beckman made his own check of Bandaka’s
gear. “Don’t turn it on until I say so. OK?”

“OK. Beckman say.” Bandaka wriggled
uncomfortably as the vest rasped on his bare skin.

Markus, now sitting up, took everything in
around him with growing concern. He’d assumed with the torpedo inoperable,
they’d all withdraw together, but it looked as if Beckman still planned to
approach the ship. Nuke was hastily cutting through the torpedo’s electrical
components, Virus was stripping the short wave and instructing Hooper, while
the rest of the team were strapping on stealth emitters.

Surely he’s not going to send the ‘citadel’
code!
Markus thought with
alarm. Why else would Hooper be taking the short wave? He forced himself to his
feet, then hobbled toward Beckman.

“Beckman,” Markus said, “What are you
doing?”

“Not now,” Beckman said urgently, passing
him without stopping. In Beckman’s mind, their camp had been attacked, their
main weapon neutralized, and the enemy could be upon them in strength at any
moment. He halted in front of Nuke, and the small pile of electrical components
scattered on the ground nearby. “Well?”

Nuke looked up grimly. “Not good. The
solenoid’s still working. The torpedo must have shielded it from whatever hit
my pack. It means I can generate a magnetic field, and the torpedo itself is
OK. It’s shielded against every type of radiation we know of, and probably a
few types we don’t. The computer’s dead, that means no detonator, no timer, no
diagnostics, but the killer’s the power pack. It’s wasted.”

Markus limped up behind Beckman, his
anxiety subsiding at Nuke’s ominous words.

“If you had power?” Beckman said, “Could
you blow it?”

Nuke thought for a moment. “If there was
enough power to generate a magnetic field strong enough to detonate the torp,
yeah.”

“What about the stealth emitter power
packs?”

Nuke’s face flashed with surprise. He’d
considered the radio batteries, but not the GE packs. “Should work.”

“Good. Use Hooper’s power pack.”

“But there’s no timer,” Nuke said warily.

“I know. You’ll have to show me how to
detonate it manually.”

Nuke swallowed, then replied barely above a
whisper. “Yes sir.”

Beckman realized everyone was looking at
him. “I’ll give you as much time as I can to get clear, but if we’re attacked,
I’ll have to detonate the warhead.”

There was silence for a moment, then one by
one, they continued their preparations; Tucker sharpening his knife, Xeno
adjusting the straps on her stealth harness and Cougar cleaning his rifle.
Bandaka turned back to his family and friends to say his farewells, knowing the
soldiers could not find their way down the cliff face without him. He lifted
Mapuruma into his arms and hugged her, then set his daughter down and put his
arm around Djapilawuy. He kissed his wife on the cheek, whispered something to
her as the rest of his group gathered around him, saying their goodbyes.

“This is madness,” Markus said.

“It’s improvisation. You don’t have to
come. No one will think ill of you. This is a military operation now.”

 Beckman went to his pack to retrieve his
stealth gear, while Nuke took the GE power supply from Hooper’s pack and hooked
it up to the torpedo’s detonator.

Markus caught Laura’s questioning eye,
reading the disbelief on her face. In spite of everything, they’d failed to
stop Beckman. They’d failed to save her husband. And worst of all, Markus’ holy
grail was about to be annihilated.

* * * *

The four hunters
followed the ridge north of their camp towards where they’d seen a column of
steam rising the previous night. The gray cloud it had formed had dissipated by
dawn, replaced by wispy threads of smoke snaking skyward from the smoldering
ruins of the destroyed power plants and the shell of the tower. Some of the
metallic debris surrounding the mine still glowed, while the surrounding forest
was scarred black from extinguished spot fires.

“Must have been a bloody big explosion,”
Cracker said, wishing he’d seen it go up.

“That’s what they get for nicking our
beer,” Slab declared.

They started down the slope for a closer
look, searching for any sign of movement. The closer they got to the clearing,
the more they began to appreciate just how big the central tower had been. When
they reached the edge of the forest, they stepped carelessly into the clearing,
surprised at the spongy surface beneath their feet.

“It’s Astroturf,” Wal suggested. “Anyone
got a footy?”

“Hey!” Slab barked. “We play footy on grass,
not plastic carpet!”

A soot-like dust sprinkled with tiny metal
droplets covered the ground. Bill picked up one of the droplets and turned it
in his fingers, then showed it to the others. It was the remains of vaporized
metal, cooled and fallen to earth. “Metal rain drops!”

They headed towards a circle of ragged
foundations, all that remained of one of the power plants. A melted machine
stood in the center of the ruins surrounded by a debris field of melted metal
and twisted equipment. At one time, the machine would have resembled a
horizontal capsule supported by triangular mounts, with a circular translucent
surface in the center through which the transmission beam was projected. Now
the capsule had been torn open like tin foil, and the heat radiating from it
was so intense that it prevented them approaching.

Giving the shattered power plant a wide
berth, they headed toward the wrecked central tower. Its featureless wall rose
ten meters above them to the jagged line that marked where the roof had been blown
off. Strewn around the central tower were fragments of the upper walls, slivers
of steam vents and the remains of the rings that had encircled the building.
Jutting from the river was a large white section of the domed roof, now perched
on by a dozen birds who had mistaken it for an island.

Cracker moved ahead of the others,
surveying the damage to the central structure when he noticed a dark shape out
of the corner of his eye. He turned, discovering a black rectangular vehicle
parked halfway between the circle of shattered power plants and the river.
Three small circular windows were evenly spaced along its side, one of which
was cracked. A wall segment from the central structure pinned it to the ground,
although the vehicle showed no other signs of damage.

Cracker waved to the others. “Oi! Over
here!”

When they came up beside him, Slab said,
“Looks abandoned,” then started towards it.

“Careful, mate,” Bill warned, “Might be
someone inside.”

“I’ll give them a knuckle sandwich if there
is,” Slab growled belligerently.

The others exchanged uncertain looks then
followed Slab toward the vehicle. It sat on the ground, rather than floated
above it, indicating it was fully powered down. A light covering of sooty dust
coated the vehicle, while some of the metal raindrops had managed to land on
its roof.

“Tough bastard,” Slab decided, guessing the
wall fragment had hit it hard, but had barely scratched it. He didn’t realize
the ship’s propulsion field had taken most of the impact, before collapsing,
and that the hull was moderately armored.

Wal stepped up to the side of the vehicle
and used his finger to write ‘Wash Me!’ in the thin layer of soot covering it,
then turned and gave his mates an amused look.

Bill looked around for a body on the
ground. “Where’s the pilot?”

“Maybe he was inside the building?” Cracker
suggested.

Wal discovered the rear hatch was open.
“It’s unlocked!” His eyes widened as a larcenous grin spread across his face.
“Do you think we could nick it? Use it to get out of here?”

“Brilliant Einstein!” Slab said. “Who’s
going to fly it? You?”

Wal’s brow furrowed as he realized none of
them could even pilot an earth-built aircraft. “Well, no plan’s perfect.”

They gathered at the rear of the transport
and peered in through the large circular hatch. Inside was an empty cargo
compartment with a blank wall at the far end. Empty mounts of various sizes
were placed along both walls for spare battloid weapons and shields. It was lit
by only the sunlight shining through the hatch and side windows, as the
interior lights were out. Even though the transport was capable of
interplanetary flight, it lacked an air lock because battloids had no need of
atmosphere.

“It’s a truck,” Bill said, recognizing the
transport’s utilitarian nature.

Slab took hold of the side of the circular
hatch, pulled himself up, and moved through the compartment curiously. When he
reached the end of the compartment he turned and looked back at the others.

“This is a bloody boring UFO,” he said,
then vanished.

“Slab!” Bill yelled, jumping up into the
transport compartment and running to where Slab had disappeared. A moment
later, the other two followed more cautiously. When Bill reached the far wall,
he ran his hand along it, feeling for a concealed door. He blinked and found
himself in the transport’s control room. Slab was crouched on the floor in
front of him. Before Bill could speak, Slab’s big paw wrapped itself around his
arm and dragged him down to the deck.

“Take it easy, mate!” Bill demanded,
pushing Slab’s big hands away.

“Shh.” Slab pointed through the cockpit
window. “There’s something out there.”

Bill sobered, peering uncertainly toward
the control room window. It was a narrow horizontal slit that wrapped around
the vehicle’s snub nose. Small, rounded windows were located further back on
each side of the control room for lateral viewing. Before Bill had fully
oriented himself, Wal appeared on the elevator pad, and was promptly tackled to
the ground.

“What did you see?” Bill asked Slab, not
bothering to explain to Wal why his face was jammed into the deck.

“Some kind of flying machine,” Slab replied
as he pushed Wal back onto the elevator plate. “Tell Cracker not to go
outside,” he said, then he let go and Wal vanished before he could speak.

Slab crawled on all fours toward the two
wide seats positioned in front of the controls, and peeked over the console
through the window. A thick black disk a meter across floated in front of the
transport’s nose. It was equipped with six tentacled arms, each fitted with
dexterous metallic fingers capable of performing almost any maintenance task.
Beneath the disk was a flat dome that glowed a soft orange, while above the
dome were three more tentacles ending in glassy black metal bulbs. The bulbs
were the machine’s ‘eyes’, swaying back and forth constantly, watching in every
direction. One of the eye tentacles snaked down beneath the vehicle to examine
the craft’s underbelly, while another studied the side of the transport that
had been peppered with debris from the explosion. The third eye floated free,
observing the wrecked mantle mine’s central tower and keeping a track of its
surroundings in case hostile forces approached. The eye tentacle on the right
side swayed across the control room window forcing Slab to duck down before it
spotted him.

“It’s giving this thing the once over,”
Slab said.

Several dull metal clangs sounded from
below, then an electrical hiss began.

“Repairing it, more likely,” Bill said.

Cracker appeared on the elevator plate.
“What’s going on in here? Wal’s babbling some rubbish about you blokes rugby
tackling him.”

The glassy eyed tentacle outside the
control room stopped, and turned toward Cracker, who stared back surprised,
then Bill dragged him to the floor. The eye tentacle outside drifted toward the
control room window as Bill and Cracker crawled across the deck to join Slab
hiding beside the pilot’s seats.

“Did it see him?” Bill asked.

Slab looked disgusted. “How could it bloody
miss his fat head?”

Cracker looked wounded. “Hey! I’m
full-faced, not fat-headed!”

Slab crawled past the seats to the wall,
then eased himself up, trying to catch a glimpse of the eye outside.
Instinctively, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He turned to see a
glassy black eye staring at him through the side window behind him. Another eye
was watching him through the window on the other side of the control room.

He sighed and stepped out to see the third
eye watching him through the front window. “Game’s up, fellas.”

Cracker and Bill stood, and together they
stared at the tentacled machine curiously. The lights in the control room
blinked on while the two consoles in front of the pilot’s seats glowed to life,
displaying geometric patterns adorned with swirling characters.