Extinct Doesn't Mean Forever (20 page)

You are a young person with courage.
With character.
With a hunger for adventure.
We know this because you have signed with Endless Power, Inc. Your contract opens not a world but a galaxy of opportunity. You will tread ground untouched before by any human. Your excitement and fear are the same feelings shared by other explorers: Christopher Columbus, Daniel Boone, Lewis and Clark, the crews of the Apollo missions.

Wood.
Oil.
Water.
Coal.
The sun.
The atom.
Of the many energy sources to fuel mankind’s progress, none has changed us the way nucleite has. Since its accidental discovery by the space probe
Providence
,
our newest element has astounded physicists. Held in the hand, a nucleite crystal is no more harmful than quartz, can be split and transported with ease, and is capable of rapid self-replication. And yet a single, pencil-sized crystal of nucleite can produce a cold-fusion reaction powerful enough to power the city of New York for several hours or propel a five-man spacecraft to Pluto. While traditional cold-fusion reactions require large inputs of energy to overcome the Coulomb Barrier, nucleite seems almost eager to react for us. When the Energy Wars reached a crisis point, science pointed us to nucleite.

Endless Power is at the forefront of exploration, research, harvesting, and development of nucleite, rapidly converting old fossil-fuel and nuclear power stations to nucleite reactors. In the near future, everything from flashlights to space stations will be powered with nucleite batteries. You and your fellow team members are the brave pioneers who will blaze mankind’s trail across the Solar System. Exterminating the pests that infest nucleite deposits is the first crucial step in harnessing this revolutionary energy.

The manual sits under a bottle of sunblock. Angel knows he must read it before he reports to training in two weeks, but right now he and the other men would rather play volleyball and drink beer.

“You worry too much,” Darren tells Lisa. She folds her arms over her chest.

“Get him,” she says, and Angel drops his beer can. He charges Darren and tackles him. All the men laugh and kick sand at the wrestling pair. Angel stands, brushes off, and strides over to Lisa. Wrapping his arms around her waist and slinging her over his shoulders, he trudges off to the shade where they kiss.

“Promise me,” she whispers, her lips brushing his cheek and ear, “Promise that after you’ve done this job, we can get a nice house and live a normal life.”

“Promise,” whispers Angel, kissing her on the nose, the chin, the jaw, the neck. Lisa’s pleasure mingles with her worry; her love for this silly and lighthearted Angel Perez swirls with her fear that he will return from the Asteroid Belt a different man — or not return at all.

~~~

Clown yelps and curses.
A glob of white acid bubbles on the back of his suit.
Stomper tears an aluminum can from the pack on his hip, rips it open, and sprays neutralizer over the acid. For a stretched-out time, the acid gnaws into the protective lining, but the spray takes effect, and the bubbling stops.

“Systems check!” Clown screams, and two seconds later Queen Bee replies, “You’re clear. No leaks.”

“Where’s the Spitter?” asks Zappy.

“Nest, fifty meters to the right,” says Splash. “Incoming!”

Globules of white, viscous acid come lobbing in from a rocky outcropping. The squad scatters, and the acid floats past. The Spitters are neon tubes protruding from the rock. They swell, then spit more acid, like cartoon blunderbusses. Clown and Zappy crouch and aim their EP-19s, firing pulse after pulse at the nest. Stomper and Custer swoop in, swinging blades. Like scythes, the J-4s slice through the Spitters. The foamy tubes drift upward, becoming debris in the Belt. Stomper’s arms and shoulders and back work fast, slashing and swinging. His body feels electrified, rushing. When the Spitters are dead, Stomper drops a detonating charge on the nest. Rock blasts away, exposing a chute below. The squad rushes in.

Clearing the Spitters leaves Stomper sluggish, weak, and thirsty. “Boost me!” he shouts to Queen Bee, whose signal sends the needle back into Stomper’s arm. The amphetamine rush lifts him, and he screams down the chute, stabbing everything inhuman that moves, hacking at Wasps and Spitters. Boots pound the rock as the squad uses magnets, gravity and muscle to navigate. Hearts beat insanely, pumping blood to muscles working too fast to ache. Like ichor-stained knights of old, the acid and fluid-spattered squad from Endless Power charges into the depths of C13398. After seven months of training and service together, the quintet butchers Wasps and Spitters with hyper-efficiency. Always, they watch for Mantises. More machine than organism, Mantises are supposed to be death walking on jagged joints. Better to see them before they see you. But they find no Mantises.

Nucleite crystals glow like dew in moonlight. Splash reports to Queen Bee, who congratulates them and orders them to clean up. He sends boost signals to all five men, who wince at the pricks of needles inside their suits. In cleanup, speed is critical. If one organism were to survive and reproduce, when the harvesting teams came to C13398, they would be swarmed by hundreds of new, angry Wasps. The men hack the Wasp and Spitter bodies, probing every surface with maniacal efficiency. Stomper’s dilated eyes flash at every movement, seeing Wasps and Spitters everywhere. They have never seen a Mantis. At the surface, all is still, and Splash calls to Queen Bee.

“C13398 clear.
Ready for evac.”

“Copy, Splash,” says Queen Bee, and the men hear the smile in his voice. “Prepare for—”

Clown screams and the men whip around. A Wasp clings to Clown’s back. Its stinger has thrust through the suit and shattered the polarized visor. Blood oozes and hangs in the air. Zappy fires a pulse that hits Clown, spinning him end over end. Custer lunges out and grabs Clown’s leg. Stomper slashes his J-4 at the Wasp, chopping through the armored body. He hacks again and again, his limbs supercharged, and Splash pulls him back. Clown’s lower body lies on the rock; the upper half is a grisly, spattered mess.

“I’m sorry!” Stomper screams at no one. “It was a Wasp! I had to—”

“It’s cool, man. It’s cool,” Splash says. “Clown was dead. You had to.”

Splash reports to Queen Bee, who orders the evac vessel to pick up the squad and Clown’s corpse.

For three hours Stomper feels no emotions, only the momentum of the amphetamines. Once the drugs drain from him, though, and he realizes what he has done to the body of his friend, he sobs and shakes. Queen Bee places a hand on his shoulder, tells him not to worry, that he was doing his job. The consolation does not help. Stomper feels older, harder,
emptier
. The hollowness comes from the broken promise of adventure — the knowledge that he was racing along the vital edge of some frontier.

~~~

Angel stands among rows of cultivated nucleite on Mars. Eighteen months have passed since Endless Power released him from active scouring duty. In his hand, a monitor counts the ever-growing crystals and transmits data to the Endless Power satellite. Researchers discovered years ago that nucleite self-replicates when “planted” on barren rock. The first nucleite “farmers” on Mars joked that it was an easier crop to
raise
than dandelions.

Angel stares ahead, focusing on nothing. Under his pressurized atmosphere suit, he wears a collared shirt and the silk tie Lisa bought him before they moved to Mars. Clown is dead. So are Custer and Splash. Zappy lives in the Mars colony, but never speaks with Angel. Queen Bee still coordinates scour missions.

Angel has still to see a Mantis, but he knows the stories of how they can eviscerate a man with a single stroke. In his dreams, it’s a Mantis’ metallic claws that hack Clown into pieces. And sometimes, alone in the nucleite fields, he sees Mantises crouched low among the crystals, their polygonal carapaces camouflaged among the jutting angles of glittering crystal. His heart thumps and rises and the twitch in his legs explodes and he is running, running down the rows to get away until he realizes he is quite alone, that the Mantises are far away in the Belt and not on quiet Mars. Quiet, cold Mars, whose centuries-old mystique has withered into red, dusty, sterile
disappointment
.

Mars reminds Angel of Little League, before the Energy Wars. His coach would push the chalk spreader that draws white lines from home plate to the outfield wall. At game’s start, the lines were fresh and crisp. After four or five innings, though, they blurred and disappeared. Angel, a fast runner but a weak hitter, would run hard with every hit. Legs burning, eyes watering as he pounded into the dirt, he would run along the white line that was invisible but understood.

The insistent beeping of the monitor finally draws Angel’s attention. He transmits the report and packs his gear into his transport, a six-wheeled vehicle that looks like an enclosed golf cart with a joystick. The tires crunch against the rocky surface as he drives in silence. There are no roads on Mars, just designated routes marked with flags that Martian colonial law requires drivers to respect.

Feeling an itch around his neck like his tie is choking him, he claws at his pressurized suit. His cheeks tingle and sweat beads on his forehead. He swerves from the flagged route, slamming his foot onto the accelerator, and the engine buckles and grinds into new life, whipping the landscape by in an orange rush. The transport heaves like a panicked animal, charging across the Martian wastes. Angel sucks in air as his fist clenches the joystick. Tiny rocks clatter against the windows. He sees a ridge ahead, a sharp line on the horizon, and his leg spasms out, flattening the accelerator. A hissing squeak escapes Angel’s throat, and for a brittle second Angel is Stomper again, rushing and raging with power. The transport speeds closer to the peak of the ridge, leaping and bucking with every bump, gaining speed. The squeak grows into a full-throated scream, and the transport bucks as it soars over the precipice. The ground falls away, and Angel rides the high, feeling like electric current, feeling his brain come alive again. For a deathless moment the transport hangs suspended in air, without momentum, tricking gravity. And then they plummet, Angel and his transport — a little red wagon for the little red planet — and the surface rises up and smashes them.

The wreck lies a few hundred meters from the colony where Lisa and Angel live. Their home is the EnviroDome 4002, the most advanced artificial environment dwelling available. Angel purchased it for Lisa delighted at how easy it was to make her happy. Now, Lisa sits at the
formica
countertop with a cold cup of coffee, decidedly unhappy. Darren sits opposite her. She has invited him over to discuss why she is not happy with Mars or with Angel. Distracted in her kitchen, Lisa does not see the crash.

~~~

As a new recruit for Endless Power, Angel’s pride is apparent: his spine is straight, his smile is wide, and he laughs easily. He slaps friends on their shoulders and kisses Lisa in public. Like the other young
men being
initiated into manhood, he is vigorous and sharp-minded. Mornings are spent in physical training; in his afternoon classes he learns about the Asteroid Belt, about nucleite, and about the challenges they will face.

“You are not soldiers,” says the instructor. “Soldiers kill. You exterminate.”

One recruit raises his hand. “I don’t understand, sir.”

The instructor, a thickly built, crew-cut man places his hands behind his back and paces across the classroom. “Sentience, recruit. Sentience is everything. Taking the life of something that can think is killing. That’s what soldiers do. But you didn’t join the army. You were hired by Endless Power. Your job is to exterminate the vermin that impede our expansion to the Outer Planets. Wasps and Spitters don’t think; they just build nests and eat nucleite and shit out corrosive acids. They’re no better than termites.”

“But sir, they must think. The Wasps build homes. The Spitters are like garbage collectors. The Mantises are guards. They cooperate; hell, they practically have a civilization.
Sounds pretty smart to me.”

Biologists who had aired similar qualms in the early days of nucleite exploration were quickly labeled as weak-thinkers who were anti progress. A few specimens of Wasps and Spitters were preserved for study, but the appeal of nucleite technology dazzled even the impartial eyes of science. Because Wasps and Spitters reproduced so quickly, most agreed that exterminating the few that lay in the way was more than justified. Such was the spirit of the times.

The instructor slams a fist on his desk.
“A civilization?
Goddamn. For them to have a civilization, they’d have to be human. And if they were human, then this would be a war. And if this were a war, then it would be fought by an army. And if this were an army, then you’d be soldiers. But you aren’t soldiers, and you aren’t in the army, and this is not a war, and Wasps and Spitters are not humans, and they sure as hell don’t have a fucking civilization! You’ve got to draw a line, recruit. Killing Wasps, or Spitters, or Mantises or a goddamn ant at a picnic is a god-given right. Even an old lady could do it and not feel a thing! If you’re going to be a pussy, maybe I’ll call up your momma and have her pick you up and take you home.”