The War Against the Chtorr Book 2 ? A Day for Damnation ? David Gerrold ? For the Mccaffreys, Anne, Gigi, Todd, and Alec, with love CHTORR (ktor) n. 1. The planet Chtorr, presumed to exist within 30 lightyears of Earth. 2. The star system in which the planet occurs; a red giant star, identification unsure. 3. The ruling species of the planet Chtorr; generic. 4. In formal usage, either one or many members of same; a Chtorr, the Chtorr. (See CHTOR-RAN) 5. The glottal chirruping cry of a Chtorr. CHTOR-RAN (ktor-en) adj. 1. Of or relating to either the planet or the star system, Chtorr. 2. Native to Chtorr. n. 1. Any creature native to Chtorr. 2. In common usage, a member of the primary species, the (presumed) intelligent life-form of Chtorr. (pl. CHTOR-RANS) -The Random House Dictionary of the English Language, Century 21 Edition, unabridged ? ONE THE CHOPPER looked like a boxcar with wings, only larger. It squatted in the middle of the pasture like a pregnant sow. Its twin rotors stropped the air in great slow whirls. I could see the tall grass flattening even from here. I turned away from the window and said to Duke, "Where the hell did that come from?" Duke didn't even look up from his terminal. He just grinned and said, "Pakistan." He didn't even stop typing. "Right," I said. There wasn't any Pakistan any more, hadn't been a Pakistan for over ten years. I turned back to the window. The huge machine was a demonic presence. It glowered with malevolence. And I'd thought the worms were nasty to look at. This machine had jet engines large enough to park a car in. Its stubby wings looked like a wrestler's shoulders. "You mean it was built for the Pakistan conflict?" I asked. "Nope. It was built last year," corrected Duke. "But it was designed after Pakistan. Wait one minute-" He finished what he was doing at the terminal, hit the last key with a flourish, and looked up at me. "Remember the treaty?" "Sure. We couldn't build any new weapons." "Right," he said. He stood up and slid his chair in. He turned around and began picking up pages as they slid quietly, one after the other, out of the printer. He added, "We couldn't even replace old weapons. But the treaty didn't say anything about research or development, did it?" He picked up the last page, evened the stack of papers on a desk top, and joined me at the window. "Yep. That is one beautiful warship," he said. "Impressive," I admitted. "Here-initial these," he said, handing me the pages. I sat down at a desk and began working my way through them. Duke watched over my shoulder, occasionally pointing to a place I missed. I said, "Yeah, but-where did it come from? Somebody still had to build it." Duke said, "Are your clothes custom made?" "Sure," I said, still initialing. "Aren't everybody's?" "Uh huh. You take it for granted now. A computer looks at you, measures you by sight, and appropriately proportions the patterns. Another computer controls a laser and cuts the cloth, and then a half-dozen robots sew the pieces together. If the plant is on the premises, you can have a new suit in three hours maximum." "So?" I signed the last page and handed the stack back to him. He put the papers in an envelope, sealed it, signed it, and handed it back to me to sign. "So," he said, "if we can do it with a suit of clothes, why can't we do it with a car or a house-or a chopper? That's what we got out of Pakistan. We were forced to redesign our production technology." He nodded toward the window. "The factory that built that Huey was turning out buses before the plagues. And I'll bet you the designs and the implementation plans and the retooling procedures were kept in the same state of readiness as our Nuclear Deterrent Brigade for all those years-just in case they might someday be needed." I signed the envelope and handed it back. "Lieutenant," Duke grinned at me, "you should sit down and write a thank-you note to our friends in the Fourth World Alliance. Their so-called `Victory of Righteousness' ten years ago made it possible for the United States to be the best-prepared nation on this planet for responding to the Chtorran infestation." "I'm not sure they'd see it that way," I remarked. "Probably not," he agreed. "There's a tendency toward paranoia in the Fourth World." He tossed the envelope into the safe and shut the door. "All right-' he said, suddenly serious. "The paperwork is done." He glanced at his watch. "We've got ten minutes. Sit down and clear." He pulled two chairs into position, facing each other. I took one and he took the other. He took a moment to rub his face, then he looked at me as if I were the only person left on the planet. The rest of the world, the rest of the day, all of it ceased to exist. Taking care of the soul, Duke called it. Teams had gone out that hadn't and they hadn't come back. Duke waited until he saw that I was ready to begin, then he asked simply, "How are you feeling?" I looked inside. I wasn't certain. "You don't have to hit the bull's-eye," Duke said. "You can sneak up on it. How are you feeling?" he asked again. "Edgy," I admitted. "That chopper out there-it's intimidating. I mean, I just don't believe a thing that big can get off the ground." "Mm hm," said Duke. "That's very interesting, but tell me about James McCarthy." "I am-" I said, feeling a little annoyed. I knew how to clear. You dump your mind of everything that might get in the way of the mission. "There-" pointed Duke. "What was that?" I saw what he meant. I couldn't hide it. "Impatience," I said. "And annoyance. I'm getting tired of all the changes in procedures. And frustrated-that it doesn't seem to make a difference-" "And ... ?" he prompted. "And..." I admitted, "...sometimes I'm afraid of all the responsibility. Sometimes I just want to run away from it. And sometimes I want to kill everything in sight." I added, "Sometimes I think I'm going crazy." Duke looked up sharply at that, but his phone beeped before he could speak. He pulled it off his belt, thumbed it to life, and snapped, "Five minutes." He put it down on the table and looked at me. "What do you mean?" "Well... I'm not sure if it's even real or not. . ." I weaseled. Duke glanced at his watch. "Come on, Jim-there's a chopper waiting for us. I need to know if you're going on it or not. What's this `crazy' stuff about?" "I've been having... episodes. . . ." I said. "What kind of `episodes'?" "Well, dreams. Sort of. I don't know if I should even be telling you this. Maybe I should plug into Dr. Davidson-" "Yes, you should be telling me this!" Duke looked annoyed and impatient now. "'Cause if you don't, I'm going without you." He started to rise. I said quickly, "I've been-hearing things." Duke sat back down. "And," I continued, "-I've been remembering things. Mostly when I'm asleep or dozing. But it's things I've never heard or seen before. And-this one is the most confusing; you know how most people dream in pictures? Well, last night, I dreamed in sound. A symphony. It was cold and ghostly. It sounded like it was coming from another world, or another plane of existence. I thought I was dying. I woke up in a sweat, it scared me so." Duke studied me like a father. His eyes were sharp. "Dreams, huh? That's what's been bothering you?" I nodded. He didn't say anything immediately. He looked away, out the window, then looked back to me. "I have dreams all the time," he admitted. "Nightmares actually. I keep seeing all the faces of all the people-" He stopped in the middle of the sentence. He dropped his gaze and looked at his hands. His huge old battered hands. I wondered if I should say something. Abruptly he looked back up at me, and he was Duke again-and he'd left several volumes unsaid. "But I don't let it stop me. Jim, do you hear what I'm saying?" "Uh huh. It's just-" "What?" I was embarrassed to admit it. "It's just that I'm afraid of going out of control," I said. "It's almost like there are voices-I think if I could just make out what they're saying, I'd know the answer and everything would be all right. But I can never quite make it out. It feels like distant whispering." There. It was out. I waited for his reaction. Duke looked troubled. He looked as if he couldn't find the answer he was looking for. He looked out the window at the chopper again. When he came back at me, his expression was unhappy. "By all rights," he said, "I should ground you pending a medical exam. Except, I can't. I need you for this mission. That's the way this whole damn war is being run. There's not a one of us that doesn't deserve a couple of years of R and R. But we'll never see it. Instead, we'll just keep getting kicked from one crisis to the next and we'll have to take care of our sanity at the stoplights." He studied me sharply. "Do you think you're crazy?" I shrugged, "I don't know. I certainly don't think I'm normal." Abruptly, he grinned. "Now-that's normal! Nobody's normal on this planet, Jim. If you're aware of that, you're not crazy. It's only when you start insisting that you're sane that we're going to lock you up." I blinked and hesitated-and then I got the joke. Sanity. If you thought you had it, you probably didn't. The evidence that you have it is that you wonder if you do. You can go crazy thinking about that one too long. "Jim-" Duke said, "put all that aside for the moment. What are you here for? What's the job?" "I'm here to kill worms. The job is to stop the Chtorran infestation of the Earth. By whatever means possible." "Good," Duke said. "Now, let me ask you another question. Do you have to be sane or fit some standard of `normality' to do that job?" I thought about it. I looked at the answer inside my head. Obviously not. "No," I said. "Good. So you see, it doesn't matter if you're crazy or not. There's only one thing I need to know. Can I count on you today?" Now it was my turn to grin. "Yes, you can count on me." "Absolutely." "Absolutely." And I meant it. "Good," he said. "Grab your kit and let's go." I didn't move. There was one more thing. "Uh-" "Something else?" He looked concerned. "Um, not really. Just a question-" "Yes, what?" "Um ... Duke-who do you clear with?" He looked startled. He turned away from me while he picked up his phone and his traveling kit. Then he turned back to me and said, "I check in with the boss from time to time." He jerked a thumb toward the ceiling-and beyond. "The man upstairs." And then he was out the door. I followed him, shaking my head in wonderment. The universe was full of surprises. ? TWO I WAS wrong. A machine that big could get off the ground. It lumbered through the air like a drunken cow, but it flewand it carried enough troops and gear to overthrow a small government. We had three of the best-trained teams in the Special Forces-Duke and I had trained them ourselves-a complete scientific squad, and enough firepower to barbecue Texas (well, a large part of Texas anyway). I hoped we wouldn't need to use it. I climbed into the back and sat down with the "enlisted men." Draftees, all of them. Except they weren't called draftees any more. The Universal Service Obligation had been rewritten-twice-by the New Military Congress of the United States. Four years of uniformed service. No exceptions. No deferments. No "needed skill" civilian classifications. And this means you. You were eligible on the day you turned sixteen. You had to be in uniform before your eighteenth birthday. Very simple. To get into the Special Forces, though, you had to ask. In fact, you almost had to demand the opportunity. You couldn't end up in the Special Forces any more unless you wanted to be here. And then, you have to prove you could handle the job. I didn't know how rigorous the training was-I'd fallen into the Special Forces by accident, before the standards were tightened, and I'd been spending most of my career playing catch-up-but I could tell by looking at this team that it produced the result. I'd also heard that three-quarters of those who started the training dropped out before it was halfway over. These were the survivors. The winners. There wasn't one of them old enough to vote. And two of the girls didn't even look old enough to be wearing brassieres. But they weren't kids. They were combat-hardened troops. That these soldiers still counted their ages in the teens was incidental; they were as dangerous a bunch as the United States Army could put togetber. And it showed on their faces. They all had that same coiled look behind their eyes. They were passing a cigarette back and forth between them. When it came to me, I took a puff-not because I wanted one, but because I wanted to make sure it wasn't "dusted" before I passed it on. I didn't think any of my troops would be that stupid, but it had been known to happen-on other teams, not mine. The army had a technical term for officers who let their troops go into combat situations stoned; we called them statistics. The team wasn't talking much, and I knew why. It was my presence. I wasn't much more than three years older than the oldest of them, but I was the Lieutenant and that made me "the old man." Besides-they were afraid of me. Rumor had it I'd once burned a man alive on a worm hunt. I felt old looking at them. And a little wistful too. These kids would be the last ones on the planet for a long time who would be able to remember what a "normal" childhood was like. They should have been in high school or their first year in college. They should have been putting up balloons in the gymnasium for some school dance, or worrying about their Global Ethics reports, or even just hanging out down at the mall. They knew this was not the way the world was supposed to work. And this was definitely not the future they had planned on. But this was the way it had turned out; there was a job that had to be done and they were the ones who had to do it. I respected their commitment. "Sir?" That was Beckman, tall and gangly and dark. I remembered, his family was from Guam. I glanced over toward him. "Are we gonna be back in time for Derby?" he asked. I thought about it. We were headed into Southern Wyoming. Two hours in the air each way. Four hours on the ground, maximum. Derby was on at 9:00 P.M. T. J. had found out that Stephanie was coming back from Hong Kong. Now for sure, he had to locate the missing robot before Grant did. "Should be," I said. "If we're off the ground by six. No later." I glanced around at the others. "Can you guys target on that?" They nodded agreement. "Sure." "Fine by me." "Let's do it." I gave them a grin. A trick I learned from Duke. Spend your smiles as if each one cost you a year off your life. Then your troops will bust their buns to earn them. They looked so thrilled, I had to get up and go quickly forward before I burst out laughing. Duke glanced at me as I climbed up beside him. "They okay?" "They're worried about the missing robot." "Huh?" "Derby. It's a TV program." "Never touch the stuff myself," he said. He checked his watch. He leaned forward and tapped the pilot's shoulder. "You can call Denver now. Tell them we've passed Go-NoGo Lambda. They can launch the follow-chopper." To me, Duke said, "You can start warming up the jeeps now. I want to drop the hatch and roll as soon as we hit dirt. I want this ship empty in thirty seconds." "You got it," I said. The target was nearly fifty klicks south of Wheatland. It had been spotted, almost accidentally, by a Reclamation Scout. Fortunately, he knew what he was looking at. He called it in, then turned his jeep north and drove like hell. He nearly made it too. A response team spotted the overturned jeep from the air a day later. A drop squad pulled the jeep's log-disk, and the video record confirmed the infestation site. Four worms. Three "children" and an "adult." The nest would have been burned or frozen within forty-eight hours-except this time, Denver had a better idea. This time we were going to capture a whole Chtorran family alive. Duke and I always got the good jobs. ? THREE WE BANGED down onto the ground with a thump hard enough to rattle the teeth out of our skulls. Almost instantly, the rear door of the chopper blew open and the exit ramp popped out and down with a metal clang. It felt like the whole ship was coming apart at once. The lead jeep was already bouncing down the ramp and onto the hard Wisconsin clay. The rollagons rumbled right down after it. And then the rest of the convoy. The lead jeep wheeled north immediately; its wheels stirred up the loose dirt on the ground and it left a thick cloud of dust in its wake. The dust tailed out quickly-the wind was strong today, not the best of conditions. The other seven vehicles turned north also, forming a ragged diagonal line on the prairie. I was riding in the command vehicle with Duke, the largest of the rollagons-it looked like a landing barge with centipede legs and balloon tires, but it was steady and it was almost comfortable. In addition to our driver, we also had two auxiliary technicians, and a drop squad. For the moment, it was their mission. Duke and I were just cargo. Our job was to sit quietly and be delivered on-site. We had a huge bank of tactical displays at our command. We could see our approach on a representational map, or as a colorcoded radar scan of the surrounding terrain. We also had a dead reckoning inertial guidance display and continuous confirmation by satellite Earthwatch. When we were two kilometers away, Duke halted the rollagon and sent the attack vehicles scurrying off to their positions for Go-NoGo Point Kappa, and I launched a skyball-an aerial drone-for one last look-see before we went in. The image on the screen tilted and swooped dizzily as the skyball skidded and slid across the sky. It was having trouble navigating in the wind. After a moment, though, it figured out what it was doing and the image steadied into a long glide. The nest came up on the screen suddenly. It was a squat brown dome with a bulging circular entrance. "A textbook case," I said. "See the purple stuff around the outside?" Duke grunted. "You can spare me the narration." I nodded and tapped at the keyboard, bringing the drone lower. The image turned slowly as the skyball circled the nest. I punched for scanning. The image shifted colors then: blue for cold, red for hot, yellow for in between. Most of the screen was orange. I had to turn down the range. The corrected scan was mostly green and yellow. A faint orange track led to the dome. Or away from it. The track was at least an hour old. I glanced at Duke; his expression was unreadable. "Scan the dome," he said. We knew that the worms were hot when they were active. But we also knew that when they went torpid-which was usually during the hottest part of the day-their body temperatures could drop as much as thirty degrees. That was why the earliest mobile probes had failed to register their presence. The worms had been too cool. We knew better now. The worms went deep and they went cold. Men had died to find that out. The skyball came in low and close now. The dome filled the screen. I punched in a sonic-scan overlay. There was something there, all right-a dark blue mass, mottled with quickly shifting colors. It was large and deep below the surface. The screen said it massed four tons. "That's a good-sized family," said Duke. "Can we take 'em?" I was wondering the same thing, "Denver says the gas is good. This is at the upper end of the range, but it's within the limit." "How do you feel about it?" "I say go." "Good," said Duke. "So do I." He thumbed his mike. "All units. It's a go. I repeat, it is a go. Proceed to your final positions. This is it." We were committed now. There were no more Go-NoGo points. Duke leaned forward and rapped our driver. "Come on-let's move!" The big rollagon trundled forward, up a small ridge and then down the long slope on the opposite side. I pulled the skyball up and directed it to circle the dome on a continual scan. If there was any change in heat level, it would sound an immediate alarm. We would have between ten and ninety seconds' warning-depending on the worms. I checked my earphones and mike. This was the most dangerous part of the mission. We were too vulnerable to ambush on the approach. I had to read this dome quickly and say if it was safe to proceed. If not-if I thought it appropriate-I had the authority to abort the entire mission. This was the last Go-NoGo and I was the worm expert. The troops liked to believe that I had some kind of uncanny "worm sense." I didn't, of course-and the rumor made me nervous. But they wanted to believe it-I was as close to a lucky charm as they had-so I didn't try to squelch the story. And besides, I sort of halfway wished it was true. It would have made me feel a lot better about how little I really knew. The rollagon bounced onto level ground then and I stood up in my seat to peer ahead. There was the dome. It looked deceptively small in person. Most of the nest was underground. We really didn't know how deep the worms would tunnel. We weren't willing to let a family establish itself long enough to find out. I tapped the driver's shoulder. "This is close enough," I said. "It's spider time. I'll walk the rest of the way." The rollagon slid to an uneven halt. I sat down again at my keyboard, and activated United States Military Spider ARAC-57i4. Beside me, I could hear Duke acknowledging each of the other vehicles as they slid into position around the dome. I didn't bother to look up. I knew that the teams were already dropping out of their vehicles, torches at the ready. We were eight tight little islands of death. Priority one: survive. Dead heroes do not win wars. The green ready light came up. I slid the console back and pulled the spider control board up and into position. I slipped the goggles over my head, waited for my vision to clear, and slipped my hands into the control gloves. There was the usual moment of discontinuity, and then I was in the spider. I was looking through its eyes, hearing through its ears, feeling through its hands. "Forward," I said, and the point of view moved down, out of the forward ramp of the rollagon, and forward toward the quiet-looking dome. My point of view was closer to the ground than I was used to, and my eyes were farther apart, so everything looked smaller-and the perspective was deeper. I needed this walk to slip into my "spider-consciousness mode." I had to get into the feeling of it. The military spiders were hasty adaptations of the industrial models. This one had a black metal body, eight skinny legs-each ending in a large black hoof-and an observation turret. The spider could function with half its legs disabled; any two of its legs could also function as arms. There was a waldo inside each hoof, complete with tactile sensors. During the plagues, the spiders had been used extensively in situations where human beings could not-or would not-go themselves. The spiders had been very useful in hospitals. And in crematoriums. The spiders had gathered most of the dead. "Slower," I commanded. We were approaching the entrance to the dome. "Scan. . . ." The image before me shifted down the spectrum. The colors of objects changed, then changed again. Green and yellow again. Some orange, but very very faint. "Sonic scan..." I said, and turned my attention into the dome. The large blue mass was clearer here. I could almost make out the shape of four huge worms. They were intertwined in a circular formation, if I was reading the image correctly. And they were still cold. "Well?" asked Duke at my shoulder. "They're an awfully pretty shade of blue," I replied. "It's go." I gave the command, "Forward." The spider entered the dome. Turn right, go up and around and enter the central chamber. Go to the center hole. Squat over the hole. Look down. Nothing in the lower chamber? Look again. I made that mistake once. I won't make it again. The worms are huge. It's hard to see them as worms. They look like a huge furry carpet. Scan.... Still blue. I wonder what it looks like when they wake up-but I'm not going to wait to find out. Lower the nozzle. And ... give the command, "Gas." There is a hissing noise. The color of the worms goes darker. I slipped my hands out of the gloves and pulled the goggles off my eyes. I looked at Duke. "Done," I said. Duke grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. "Good job." He turned to the communications technician. "All right, bring the chopper down. We'll be ready to start loading in thirty minutes. Move the 'dozer unit into position and tell them to fix grapples and stand by for detox. Have everybody else move in to the primary perimeter. " The rollagon lurched forward again and Duke gave me a cheerful thumbs-up signal. He started to say something, but I didn't hear it. A second huge cargo chopper was just clattering in overhead. It sounded like a cosmic jackhammer-the one God uses for starting earthquakes. This was the machine that would carry the worms back to Denver. I wondered if it would be big enough. ? FOUR AS SOON as we pulled into position, I took a second reading on the mass of the worms. They were too big. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making a mistake here. Perhaps I should have said no at the last Go-NoGo point. I almost turned to Duke then, but I stopped myself. I did this every time. As soon as it was too late, I started second-guessing. It didn't matter any more what I thought. We were committed. I took a second reading on the mass of the worms, recalculated the gas dosage according to Denver's mass-ratio equations, and detonated another pellet. I wondered if it should have been two. I'd rather kill the worms than have them wake up while we were loading them. We gave the gas a full ten minutes. I took a final reading-the worms were the most wonderful shade of dark purple I'd ever seen-then brought the spider out. Then we pulled the dome off its foundations. We anchored grapples in its base, attached tow ropes to a jeep and backed up slowly. The hut ripped off like so much Styrofoam. The worms didn't build for strength. They didn't have to. We had to do it twice; the dome shredded too easily. I felt like an intruder, a vandal. We had to pull it off in pieces. Then we had to rip off the top floor too. That job was harder. We had to plant small charges in the floor to break it up. It was made out of the same material as the dome walls, but it was denser and had the strength of industrial Kevlar. It would have to be strong to hold the weight of a healthy worm family. The worms built their nests by chewing up trees and spitting out foam. Apparently they could vary the mix enough to produce lightweight translucent walls and heavyweight hardwood floors all from the same basic ingredients. A neat trick. When the lower half of the nest was finally revealed, there was a moment of... hesitation. The teams-men and women alike-gathered in silence around the edge to stare down at the exposed worms. They were huge. Just knowing they were huge from the readings on the screen was not the same as actually seeing them in the flesh. Even the smallest of them was a meter thick and three meters long. The "adult" was two meters high at its brain case and twice as long as the baby. I wished I'd given them that third pellet. The worms were coiled around each other like lovers, head to tail, head to tail, in a circular formation. They were shadowed in the lower half of the nest, but even so their fur still shone a brilliant red. It was almost alluring. Duke came up beside me to look. His expression tightened, but he didn't speak. "Looks like we interrupted a Chtorran orgy," I said. Duke grunted. "The baby's about three hundred kilos," I offered. "Papa bear is probably a thousand." "At least," said Duke. He didn't like it, I could tell. He was too silent. "Too big?" I asked. "Too expensive," he grumbled. "You're looking at fifteen cows a week. That's a lot of hamburger." He clicked his tongue and turned away. "All right," he bawled, "let's get down in there and get to work." He pointed to a man with a headset. "Tell that chopper to drop the slings. Now!" We had one bad moment with the loading. We started with the baby. One squad dropped into the pit while the other two teams stood above them with flame throwers, bazookas and incendiary bullets. The worm was too big to lift or roll onto a sling-it had to be lifted so the canvas could be pulled beneath it. The squad in the pit quickly slid a series of stainless-steel rods underneath the smallest worm to form a lattice of crossbars. These were then connected at their ends to two longer bars placed lengthwise against the worm. The baby was now lying on a ladder-shaped bed. The chopper was already clattering into place overhead, whipping us with wind and noise. Its cables were already lowering. The team didn't try to grab the free-swinging ends-instead they waited until the lines touched ground and there was enough slack. They grabbed the cables and ran to attach them to the ladder under the worm. Beckman gave a thumbs-up signal and the chopper began to raise the cables. They tightened visibly. The ladder shuddered and began to lift For a moment, the worm resisted-it was just a large limp bag of scarlet pudding-and then the connection with the other worms was broken and it pulled up into the air. Immediately, every worm in the pit began to stir. Papa worm grunted uneasily. The other two actually chirruped and rumbled. But baby worm was the worst. It writhed as if in pain, and let loose a plaintive wail of anguish. It curled and looped like an earthworm cut in half. The ladder swung recklessly. The cables groaned-and then its eyes popped open. They were huge and black and round-they slid this way and that, unfocused and unseeing. The team jumped backwards, flattening themselves against the nest wall "Hold your fire-!" I was screaming. "Hold your fire, goddammit!" Somehow I made myself heard above the terror. "It's still unconscious! Those are automatic reactions!" Indeed, the baby was already calming down again. Its eyes slid shut and it curled-tried to curl-into a swollen red ball, still hanging above the floor of the nest. "Oh, Jesus-" gasped someone. "I don't need this-" He started scrambling out. The two men on either side of him looked uncertain Duke didn't give the team a chance to be scared. He jumped down into the pit with them and started snapping orders. "Come on-let's get that bastard onto the mat. Come on, move it!" He grabbed the soldier who'd started to panic and pushed him straight at the worm. "You're riding up with it, Gomez. Thanks for volunteering." Gomez kept moving in the direction of Duke's shove. It was safer. "Come on! Move that mat! Pull it under! Under- goddammit! Under! Good! All right-" Duke pointed up at the communications tech, still bellowing, and waving his arm like a semaphore. "Down-! Bring it down!" And then back to the squad again. "All right! Let's get those bars out! Let's get those cables attached! Now! Goddammit! Now! Let's move!" The pit squad moved like demons then, detaching the cables from the bars and reattaching them to the canvas faster than Duke could swear. They pulled the bars out from under the worm and backed quickly out of the way. The chopper lifted then-just a bit, to bring the edges of the canvas up-and the worm was strapped into its sling. Two of the bars were slid through the straps then to seal the worm into a steel and canvas cocoon and four more cables were attached to the ends of these. It was for its protection as much as ours. We didn't want the creatures banging loose around the inside of the chopper. The worms would be kept strapped and hanging the whole trip. "All right! Take it up!" Duke hollered and waved. The clatter of the chopper drowned his words and the wind whipped at his face. He didn't even watch, he was already turning to the next worm. "What are you slobs waiting for? Let's get those bars under-" The other three worms were easier-but not much. At least now we knew that when we separated them, they'd react-but they wouldn't wake up. We could handle that. The team worked faster now The chopper hovered overhead, growling and rumbling, and we lifted the worms one by one into its massive cargo bay. The big creatures sagged ominously in the creaking slings. It was a terrifying job. The wind was rising and the chopper began to pitch and slide sideways in the air. I wondered if we were going to have to return without all four-but the pilot turned the ship into the wind and told us to keep going. Whoever she was, she was good. Once-the worm in the sling was banged against the side of the nest; it moaned in its sleep, a dark purple rumble of despair. The pit squad turned and looked with wild expressions on their faces. The monster chirruped like a crying woman. The sound of it was devastating. Suddenly, this creature was an object of pity. Then the worm cleared the nest wall and rose swiftly into the air-and Duke was pointing and waving again. Papa worm was last. As the big creature came rising up out of the ground, the afternoon sun struck highlights off its bright red fur. It shimmered with a thousand flickering colors-it looked like a heavenly pink aura. I couldn't help but marvel-it was the most beautiful color I'd ever seen.... The creature lifted into the sky like a big pink blimp. I followed it all the way up. It disappeared into the belly of the chopper and the giant black doors of the machine slid shut with a whump. Duke signaled the tech, the tech said something into his microphone, and the chopper whirred noisily off southward. "All right," he said. "Let's go home and watch TV. Is T. J. going to tell Stephanie about the missing robot or not?" ? FIVE STEPHANIE STAYED in Hong Kong for an emergency meeting with the Chinese ambassador, so T. J. didn't tell her about the robot. Grant found out who the baby's father really was, and confronted Karen with the lie. The robot remained missing. Obviously, we made it back in time. Toward the end of the show, an orderly came and tapped Duke on the shoulder. He got up and left quietly. I noticed, but didn't follow. If he needed me, he'd let me know. A few minutes later, the orderly came back and tapped me on the shoulder. "Duke wants to see you." I thanked her and went up to the office. Duke looked unhappy. He was sitting at his terminal, staring glumly at the screen. His hands were hesitating above the keyboard. "What's up?" I asked. He didn't answer; he just punched up another display and studied it sourly. I walked around behind him and looked over his shoulder. He was sorting through the list of targets for the mission we'd just completed. "Those are the alternate targets, Duke. Are you planning another mission?" He shook his head. "Just looking." He lifted his hands away from the keyboard and stopped. "I don't see what we could have done different. We made the best choice we could." He swiveled to look at me. "Or do you disagree?" "No," I said. "We chose the right nest." I stood there before him, waiting. He said, "What do you think about the Lake Hattie site? Would you recommend going in there?" "You are planning another mission. What happened? Our worms died from the gas?" "I wish," Duke said bitterly. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "No. The gas wore off early. They woke up in the chopper. Thirty minutes short of Denver." "Oh no-" I felt suddenly weak. I wanted to sit down. I had a sick feeling in my gut. Live worms aboard a chopper-? "The chopper went down in the mountains," Duke said. "There were no survivors." He studied me for a moment-as if he knew what I was thinking-then he swiveled to face the window and the dark night outside. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. I felt like I'd been opened up with a machete and my guts were spilling out on the floor. Duke said, "If it makes it any easier, they think it had something to do with the altitude." "No," I said. "It doesn't make it any easier." I went to the water cooler and filled a plastic cup. I wasn't thirsty, but it was something to do. Behind me, Duke said, "There's a bottle of Scotch in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Pour two." I handed Duke his drink, found a chair, and sat down across from him. "I screwed up," I said. "I should have followed my instincts. I looked at those worms and I wanted to detonate every pellet in the spider. I wish I had. Instead, I followed orders." "That's right," said Duke. "Make it Denver's fault. To err is human. To blame the other guy is even more so. I'm glad to see you're taking it so well." I ignored his comment. I was still putting the pieces back together. I said slowly, ". . . I follow Denver's orders because I like to think they know what they're doing. But they don't-they really don't. And we both know that!" I was being careless, I knew it, but Duke didn't react or try to stop me, so I plunged on. I wanted to get it all said before I ran out of steam. "It's crazy, Duke. They're so insulated from the front lines of this war that all they've got left are their theories and speculations-and they're making policy based on those theories. When that filters down here, to our level, we have to make life and death decisions based on those policies and hope that it's appropriate! And sometimes it is! They get it right just often enough to keep us trusting them." Duke said, "I've heard this all before, you know. None of it is original. Every lieutenant goes through it." He glanced at his watch. "You're right on schedule." He was being flip about it, but he was right. Of course. Again. I felt embarrassed. I didn't know what to say. I flustered. I looked at my drink. I took a belt of it. "Duke-" My voice cracked. I was out of anger-I felt drained. I said, "Duke-I'm losing it. Really. It's all meaningless voices now. I mean, I don't know that I can follow anyone's orders any more. I mean-if nobody else knows what they're doing either, Duke-and I'm the guy who ends up being responsible, then I'm the guy who really has to be sure. And I know that I'm not. So I follow orders-not because it's the safest thing to do, but because I can't think of anything better! And that still doesn't work. People still die-and it's still my fault. I didn't even know that chopper crew! I didn't even know their names-" "Wolfman. Wein." "-whatever. They're still dead and it's my fault. No matter how you slice it, it still stinks!" "And-" prompted Duke. "And I don't like it!" I finished lamely. I wished it had been a little more profound, but at least this was the truth. Duke had listened to my outpouring in silence; he had remained carefully blank the whole time. Now he looked up at me with a peculiar expression on his face. "I'll tell you something, Jim." He took a breath. "What you like is unimportant. I know you don't even like hearing that, but it's true. Whether you like it or not is ultimately irrelevant. The job still has to be done. And mistakes are always going to be made-again, like it or not." He hesitated for a beat, as if considering his next sentence. He looked into his cup thoughtfully; his eyes were shaded. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. "I know it's frustrating. It's always frustrating. It's always going to be frustrating. You think I haven't been there? This is Pakistan all over again-only this time I know how deep the brown sauce is. You want to know what's really crazy? Almost all of our procedures are derived from a war that was lost twelve years ago. That's crazy. But-" he shrugged, "-it always comes back to this. The job still has to be done," "I don't know-" I said. "I mean, I don't know if I can do this job any more." I didn't look at him when I said it. "Jim, don't be stupid." Suddenly, there was a hint of metal in his voice. "Don't you think we've all gone through this? I have. Shorty did. It's part of the responsibility. You get to make mistakes. You can't help it. It's part of being human. Now, I'm going to tell you the other part. You don't get to use your mistakes as an excuse to quit." "I'm sorry. I don't see it that way." "Then you're missing the obvious. If we discharged every mail or woman who ever made a mistake, we wouldn't have an officer left in the United States Army. Myself included." "Yeah, but my mistakes kill people-" "So do mine," he said quietly. His eyes were hard. "You think you have a monopoly on that one?" I didn't answer. I'd already proven myself a fool. Why compound it? Duke put his cup down on the desk next to him. "Listen, Jimthe truth is, a mistake is just one more opportunity to put in the correction. It's not a club to beat yourself with. It's just something to learn from. The only real failure is quitting. That's where you waste lives. Those pilots-Wein and Wolfman-they knew the risk. They were willing to take it." "They trusted my judgment-" "So-? So do I. So what?" "But what if next time, it's you-?" Duke shrugged. "It could just as easily be you too, Jim. I have to trust you. You have to trust me. It's part of the job. So what? I mean, so what about it? Do you want to feel sorry for yourself, or do you want to get on with the job? You do want to kill worms, don't you?" "Don't be silly-" "Well, then-this is where you learn to pick up the pieces and keep going. Consider it part of your training to be a captain. This is the part where you accept the responsibility for the decisions that hurt." "But, it hurts-" I knew it was stupid even as I said it, but I said it anyway, "-and I don't know what to do." "Nothing," he said. "There's nothing to do, Jim. Just hurt. Until you stop hurting. You don't even have to dramatize it. You can spare me the weeping and wailing. I've seen weeping and wailing. And better than yours." Then he added quietly, "I know you're hurting, Jim. I'd worry about you if you weren't. What you need to know is that it's all right to hurt." His eyes were surprisingly compassionate. I felt-grateful. But I was too embarrassed to meet his gaze. I said, "Thanks," and looked away quickly. Duke asked, "Is that it? Or is there anything else you want me to know?" I shook my head. "I think that just about covers it." I finished my drink and wondered if I should get myself another. I deserved to get drunk tonight. Except-I knew it really wouldn't help. This was something I was just going to have to work through by myself. One day at a time. Damn. I was getting too rational for my own good. " "All right-" I sighed and slid my chair over to another terminal. "I guess I'd better start mapping another operation. At least, we've proven we can get them out of the ground alive-" Duke said, "Hold it, Jim. I haven't given you the bad news yet." I lifted my fingers from the keyboard and looked over at him. "It gets worse?" He nodded. "We're being pulled out." "The whole team?" "No. Just you and I. There's a chopper on the way. It'll be here in an hour." "Where are we going? Denver?" "Oakland." "Oakland?!! What the hell is in Oakland?" "The Gertrude Stein memorial plaque-" Duke said. He levered himself to his feet. "-Among other things. You've got an hour to pack. Be on the field at z3:3o. We'll be briefed in the air." I looked at the terminal display again. "But-" I said, hopelessly, "-I wanted to go to Lake Hattie!" "If it's any consolation, Jim, so did I." He crumpled his cup and tossed it at the wastebasket as he left the room. The cup missed the basket and bounced into a corner. I scooped it up and popped it in. Damn. ? SIX THE CHOPPER was an hour late, and it was another hour before we got off the ground. Then there was a spring storm over most of Utah, so the pilot chose to detour south. It would be daylight before we touched down in California. And the only reading matter aboard was the briefing book. It was incomplete and took only twenty minutes to finish. It was all background, nothing about our assignment, and it didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. The infestations were spreading faster than our ability to burn them out. There was one interesting footnote, however. Oakland had two worms now, but they didn't really know what to do with them because they didn't know how to interpret their behavior. The note said they needed a worm expert, someone who knew the creatures in their normal habitat. I pointed out the use of the word "normal" to Duke. He snorted too when he saw it. "Not if I have anything to say about it," he added. He closed his eyes again and appeared to go back to sleep. I envied him. I can't sleep on airplanes. I can doze, but I keep waking up suddenly. Any little noise, any little bump or bounce, any change in engine sound and I'm instantly alert, wondering if everything is all right. I get off airplanes exhausted. I stared out the window at the distant flashes of lightning. The storm was a nasty one. The cloud banks towered like the walls of a canyon-a gigantic one. The moonlight gave them an eerie blue sheen. Every few seconds, one or another of the towering masses would crackle and flare and light up the whole sky. Beautiful-and terrifying. I wondered about the people below. Did anyone still live out there? We were a planet of scattered survivors, all scranblivg like inad to stay alive long enough to get the crops in. Somewhere between seventy and ninety percent-there was no way to know for sure-of the human race had died in the first three years. There was no way to know how many had been lost to the plagues and how many to associated disasters and aftereffects. I'd heard a rumor, unconfirmed, that the suicide rate was still climbing. I wondered about that too. When you've lost everything and have nothing left to live for-I wondered how close I was- It was a long flight.... Eventually, the sun tinged the horizon behind us and we began dropping toward Oakland. I was on the wrong side of the ship to see San Francisco. I was disappointed in that-I wanted to sec how bad it looked from the air. They said the city was still iii pretty grim shape. I'd seen pictures, of course, but it wasn't the samc. Besides, my dad had died in San Francisco Well, disappeared anyway.... There was a car waiting for us on the ground, but we were delayed by the inevitable decontamination baths-no telling what bugs were still floating around-and then had to wait again until our vaccinations could be updated. It was another hour before we were in the Jeep and on otir way south. We didn't have a driver-the car knew the way without one. There was the standard taped welcome on the screen, which Duke and I both ignored, and a thermos of te