Dragonstar Destiny (9 page)

TIMOTHY LINDEN
lay in the cot, sweating.

Outside, a rare breeze fluttered the flap of the large tent. No light seeped through; it was the middle of the night. Beside him on a table was a pitcher of water and some medicine. Linden made an effort to reach for them, then fell back into the cot, exhausted, feverish, shaking. He teetered on the edge of delirium, but fought to retain his consciousness.

He’d done it. He’d fooled them. They believed him. Only he knew that the allosaurus was two-headed. Only he knew what lay at the bottom of that tunnel. And the secret would be safe for his people—this astonishing secret that would bring them the glory in the world—no, the universe—that they desired so much. Oh, how the name of Allah would be glorified.

I was predestined for this,
Linden thought.
Glory be to God and the Prophet, this is the reason I was placed upon the
Dragonstar!

He lay back, and the night seemed to fold in upon him, but there were stars in that night, wonderful stars that shone with glory and with hope, and he felt again the burning and cleansing radiation that had shot through him there in that chamber.

He stifled a scream. No, they must not hear him scream. They must not realize he was changing until it was too late to do anything about it. They might try to stop it, they might try to kill it, they might try to kill
him.

Yes, he thought. He could feel it. He could feel the changes flowing through him, like strong currents twisting in his body. Would he grow another head, another arm or leg like that allosaur had? That would be difficult to hide, surely. Yet Linden suspected something more would happen ... Something even wilder ... Something wonderful. Something ...

A spike of pain suddenly shot through his spine. He opened his mouth to cry out, but nothing carne forth. He twisted and contorted atop the cot, his hands shaking spastically, and he could feel a deeper darkness closing in.

Light exploded all around him.

He was back in the desert again.

Back in training. Back with his brothers, learning the holy ways of terrorism.

The sun beat down upon the exercise like the blessing of Allah as he ran across a tarmac toward a bunker, firing blanks from a laser-aimed pistol, scoring points with each hit. He and his comrades took the hill, and when they occupied it, the great man himself, Marcus Jashad, strode to the bunker to congratulate the men on their expertise.

Only when he arrived, Timothy Linden could see that there was something wrong with the feared assassin, the great Muslim leader. He wore a turban and a beard and had a rifle slung across his back, looking much like a warrior of the Mahdi in the nineteenth century.

And the whole of his chest was riddled with bullet holes.

Blood seeped from his mouth as he opened it to speak.

“Allah bless you, my son,” he said, and Linden knew he was speaking to a dead man, a ghost. “Allah bless you on your mission aboard the
Dragonstar
, that vessel of the Deep Dark that cost me my life.”

“Marcus!” said Timothy Linden in his vision. “Marcus Jashad! I am doing the correct thing, am I not?”

“You are working amid our enemies, and your prize in heaven will be great.”

“But my secret!”

“Ah yes! The secret of the cave! Glory be to Allah, it will be his Gift to His People!”

“Yes. Yes, then I shall keep it to myself.”

“Oh, indeed. You shall make the universe ring with the Glory of the Faithful. Allah’s name shall echo down the corridors of the Deep Dark. And his enemies
—”
The eyes in the man’s head glowed like coals. “His enemies and mine enemies shall know the edge of the sword, and shall be stricken down like stands of wheat, and this chaff shall burn in hell for Eternity!”

“Praise be to Allah,” said Linden as the specter faded away into a dust devil and swept off into the dazzle of the sun and the dunes. “His Holy Name shall be made manifest unto all the Nations of the Earth
—
and of the Stars!”

A sense of divine purpose swept through him like a scouring wind. He saw it all clearly now. He could feel himself transforming toward the blessed purposes of Allah and Mohammed, his Prophet. And perhaps
—
just perhaps
—

Perhaps he was the next Prophet ... Yes, just as Mohammed was the Prophet of the Earth, he would be Mohammed, Prophet of the Stars!

Then the. desert faded away
—
a mirage within a vision
—
and darkness bloomed again.

He was back in his cot, sweating and shaking.

He was back in his cot, quite out of his mind.

“Jashad,” he muttered, the sweat blubbering from his lips. “Jashad, I will avenge you. The unbelievers shall perish!”

His eyes closed, as though in sleep, and his muscles seemed to relax.

But then the eyes shot open, and he sat stiffly upright, the cords in his neck drawn tight as steel.

“Jashad! I shall avenge you, my departed brother, in the name of Allah.” He stood up from the cot shakily. “I shall avenge you this very night!”

* * *

Corporal Jacob Darlington hated night duty.

It wasn’t so much that he was alone. He’d had plenty of periods in the service when his weapons were his only company. No, it was the night duty here at the base on the
Dragonstar
that he hated so much, because of the sounds that crept and crashed out of the night, like live things themselves. Night duty was constant adrenaline, night duty was anxiety, night duty was...

Well, it just was pretty miserable, that’s all. Not that anything was super peachy keen anymore, since the
Dragonstar
had gone haywire and wrested its passengers away from Earth, from their home solar system. He really hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since then, anyway, which was why it was just as well that they stuck him out here regularly to watch the camp’s periphery, He missed his wife, Josie back in Tennessee, terribly, and it was just starting to dawn on him that he’d probably never see her again. And her pregnant and everything! It was just a bitch, that’s what it was—a real bitch.

His station was by a ginkgo tree standing separate from a cluster of them. Nearby was the hum of a force screen, which proved fairly effective when it was kept on, but couldn’t be 100 percent effective, especially against one of those big mothers out there if it really had its mind on getting at the camp. From here, Darlington could see just about half the periphery, and he’d rest here just a few more minutes before he patrolled the other side.

That was the one nice thing about the duty, he supposed, smoking on a cigarette with a kind of local tobacco the botanists had discovered. You got to move around a lot, exercise, work off the anxiety.

A shrill reptilian scream pierced the faint hum of the force-screen and Darlington jumped despite himself. Goddamn things! Used to be he was in awe of the creatures, and a little bit fascinated with them. Now he just plain hated the bastards.

He shivered, blew out some smoke, shouldered his rifle, and was about to step on out and continue his patrol when he heard a noise.

A noise that seemed to come from the
inside
of the periphery.

It sounded like footsteps.

Too early for my relief, thought Darlington as he looked around. What the hell—

And then a figure stole out from a tree. It ran for him, and before Darlington could bring his rifle to bear, it jumped on him, pulling him to the ground.

“Hey!” Darlington screamed, wrestling with the man—it
was
a man, that much was apparent. “What the hell!” Before the man could get his hands around Darlington’s windpipe, the Corporal yelled, “Help! Help!” for all he was worth.

Then he set about keeping alive.

It wasn’t easy. His attacker fought like a madman. His grip around Darlington’s throat was like iron. They rolled about in the dirt, and the madman seemed to be growling something about “revenge, revenge.” Darlington managed to get in a few good blows, but they didn’t seem to deter the man much. Plus, he was getting weaker and everything was getting darker and his last thought was, Well, at least I’m not going out inside the jaws of one of those bastards out there—

And then suddenly there was a
thump.
The attacker stiffened and then fell off to one side, quite unconscious.

Stars swam into Darlington’s vision, but he managed to keep hold of things long enough to get slapped gently on the face.

“Corporal. Corporal! You okay? What was going on?”

“Dunno.”

“Who is this guy?”

“I dunno.”

Groggily he managed to get up. His savior had a flashlight, and he recognized him. It was Private Gonzales, his relief. Gonzales, he knew, also had insomnia problems. Thank God!

“Let’s get a look at him,” said Gonzales. “Didn’t know you had any enemies, Jake.”

“Didn’t know I had any, either.”

“Shirt’s all torn up. Let me see if he’s still alive. Don’t think I hit the bastard that hard.”

Gonzales kneeled down with the flashlight, examining the man. “Oh yeah, still breathin’ and—” He took in a breath, then stepped up and back. “Jesus Christ!”

“What’s wrong?” Darlington said, still woozy and bleary-eyed.

“That’s Linden, the guy that’s been in sick bay. And—and Christ, what’s happened to him!”

“What?” Darlington got up and stared down at the fallen attacker.

Oh yeah, it was Timothy Linden, all right, though it was damned hard to tell for sure, what with the way his face had turned all rough and scaly. But that wasn’t the worst of it, no sirree.

For his chest, exposed by the torn shirt, was just as hard and shiny and scaly.

And growing from under his right arm was the beginning of an extra arm!

DR. DANA LOMBARDY
looked up from the patient to Mishima Takamura with pure bafflement in his expression.

“I gotta tell you, Doc, I’ve never seen anything like this in all my born days,” the doctor said, holding an examination light between three fingers, his stethoscope dangling from his short neck.

“I think it’s safe to say that no one here has, Dr. Lombardy,” said Takamura. “Now please proceed with the examination.”

They were in the sick bay. Lieutenant Timothy Linden lay on a table before Dr. Lombardy, securely strapped and thoroughly knocked out by drugs. His shirt and his pants had been removed, revealing the scaly, shiny epithermal covering that had set in over all his body. Takamura found it difficult to take his eyes off the beginning of an arm—a vestigial hand and wrist, rather like that of a thalidomide baby—protruding from the side of Linden’s chest. Wrapped around the man’s arms and legs were sensors, leading to a central diagnostic machine, quivering with readings.

They’d brought both men in last night after the fracas—Linden and Darlington—but they’d released the sentry with a couple of aspirins tucked into his palm.

Linden, of course, was going to take more work. This morning, they’d made a cursory examination and Dr. Lindstrom had taken a subcutaneous cell sample for examination in her makeshift lab. Kemp and the others had taken a quick look at Linden, scratched their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and allowed that they just hoped it didn’t spread. Dr. Jakes was the most interested—so interested, in fact, that he lingered now, watching the proceedings.

Takamura eyed the silent man, then decided to ask the question he’d put off for a while.

“Well, Dr. Jakes, do you think it’s the radiation that did it to him?”

“Hmm?” Jakes roused up from his reverie.

“The radiation. Do you think it was the radiation that’s making Linden like this?”

“Hard to say,” said Jakes. “I’m no medical doctor.”

Dr. Lombardy looked up from the examination. “Well, I am, and I must say, this doesn’t look at all like radiation sickness to me—and I’ve seen the effects of radiation!”

“Yes, but only certain
kinds
of radiation, correct, Doctor?”

Lombardy blinked. “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“What are you saying, Jakes?”

“This radiation was quite peculiar—that’s why I wanted Linden and Marshall to go out and make a quick check of it up-close. All kinds of wacky wavelengths. I can’t even begin to tell you—”

“Perhaps, when you make the analysis, you can give me the exact spectography.”

“Yes, of course. In any event,” said Jakes, “it’s pretty weird, and it’s quite similar to some of the readings we got about the same time the Saurians went wild—only that was not localized, like this case.”

“But there’s no sign of activity of concern among the Saurians?”

“Nothing. They’re very cooperative now, as you know, And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve not been torn away from their home system.
This
is their home. Always has been and probably always will be!”

“Gentlemen, if you please,” said Dr. Lombardy, “I believe I’m finished.”

“What’s the verdict, then, Doctor?” Jakes requested eagerly, He turned to Takamura, “This could key us in to exactly what this radiation is.”

“Well, I admit I’m still baffled. To begin with we’ve got a temperature of a hundred ten degrees. Blood pressure at 310 over 170, and from all signs there are unusual activities going on in this man’s endocrine system, to say the least. What I want to do is to get some X rays, with your permission.”

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“A different form of radiation, sir. Might influence the patient.”

“Ah, Jakes?”

“I think we ought to know what’s going on inside this guy.”

“What’s going on, Doctor,” said Lombardy, “is that basically Timothy Linden should have died several hours back.”

Takamura and Jakes exchanged glances of disbelief.

“A normal human body cannot tolerate this kind of internal strain,” continued Lombardy. “I’ve never seen anything like it ... and I wish l knew exactly what was happening here. All I can say for sure is that there is a great deal of change going on in the musculature, the epidermis, the skeleton, the organs ... and, God help us, even the brain.”

“And that extra limb, Doctor?” said Takamura.

“Just the tip of the iceberg,” said Lombardy. “Give it a day, Doctors, and I think we’ll see much more than that. This hardening of the epidermis, for example—I’ve observed a spread across the whole body just in the period that I’ve been examining the patient. And also, it seems to have hardened ... become thicker.”

“It’s as though some kind of hide were forming over him,” said Dr. Jakes.

“Or some kind of cocoon,” murmured Takamura.

“Exactly my thought, though it’s a very unmedical thing to say,” said Lombardy.

“Doctor, we’re in a very unmedical atmosphere,” said Mishima,

“Too true. Ah, but wouldn’t I like to have him back on a decent lab on Earth.”

“Take us along with you, please!” said Mishima, and they all chuckled, breaking the tension considerably.

At that moment, Mikaela Lindstrom came in.

“Well, I’m glad to see that levity is not a forgotten commodity aboard the
Dragonstar
,” she
said.

“What have you found?” Jakes said eagerly, speaking for them all.

“Plenty,” she said. “And nothing.”

“Care to explain that?”

She took out several lab photos. “I did a mounting of the cell sample I took. I checked it out under the electron microscope in the portable lab we so fortunately had installed on the base before our departure. I immediately saw the resemblance.”

“Resemblance? Resemblance to what?” demanded Jakes.

“Do you recall that incident with the iguanodon a few weeks before chaos struck?”

“Sure,” said Jakes. “The patrol you took with Dr. Penovich where Lieutenant Hagerman was killed.”

“That’s right,” said Mikaela grimly. “Well, afterward we took a sample of what we could find left on the dead iguanodon.”

“The one that was all distorted,” said Jakes. “Like Linden here.”

“He didn’t have any extra limbs ... But also you may recall that iguanodons are herbivorous and seldom attack. This one was deranged ... quite crazy. Much perhaps as Linden was deranged when he attacked Darlington.”

“You think they were both exposed to the same sort of radiation—both the iguanodon and Linden?”

“It’s a possibility ... a strong one. Take a look at these photos.” She handed them over, “Both show highly abnormal cellular activity—and there are similarities.”

“Yes, I see,” said Lombardy,

“But what does it mean?” asked Mishima.

“That’s something we’re going to have to wait and see,” said Jakes. “But in the meantime we’ve got Linden here to watch.”

Suddenly, as though he heard his name being called, Timothy Linden groaned, low and long. They turned to him. His face was a mass of discolored scabs, cracking at the lips as he opened his mouth.

“By God,” said Lombardy. “I think he’s trying to speak.”

The moans slowly became more articulate.

“Don’t get too close,” said Mishima,

“What’s he trying to say?” Mikaela said, craning curiously.

“Hungry,” said Linden roughly. “Hungry.”

They looked at one another, “I thought we’d have to feed him intravenously, Looks like that won’t be necessary,” said Lombardy.

“Can you tell us what’s happening to you?” Dr. Jakes said lamely to the strapped-down Linden.

“Hungry,” repeated Linden. He opened his eyes, and they shone red. But there was a dullness to them, an unawareness. “Hungry.” He made no effort to try to escape from his bonds.

“Maybe after he eats,” suggested Lombardy.

“Yes,” said Mishima. “Perhaps after he eats.”

“But then what?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” said Mishima. “Just like everything else.”