Bud Sparhawk - Bright Red Star.pdf - Bud Sparhawk - margozap

Bright Red Star

BUD SPARHAWK

From Hartwell, David - Year's Best SF 11 (2006)

Bud Sparhawk (sff.net/people/bud_sparhawk) lives with his wife in Annapolis, Maryland "and is a

frequent sailor on the Chesapeake Bay." He is a writer of mostly "hard" science fiction. He

started writing in 1975, with sales to Analog. Thirteen years later he returned to writing, and his

stories have been appearing regularly in Analog and other magazines, and in anthologies. He has

been a Nebula finalist three times for his novellas.

"Bright Red Star" was published in Asimov's. It is a very tightly constructed military SF horror

story about the sacrifice of innocents, in the hard SF tradition of "The Cold Equations."

Sparhawk says "It was written as the events of 9-11 evolved. I tried, in this piece, to address the

motivations of those who could allow themselves to commit such heinous atrocities." But it is not

directly about current events at all, which makes it we think more effective.

Our boat floated silent as owls' wings and settled softly as an autumn snowflake. There was no doubt that

the enemy had spotted us—the stealth could only minimize signs of our presence. We'd done everything

we could to reduce de-tectability: hardened plastics, ceramics, charged ice, and hardly any metal. All that

did was create doubt, and, possibly, delay. Or so we hoped.

We tumbled quickly from the boat as grounding automatically discharged the ship charge, without which

the boat's ice frame would quickly melt. In a matter of minutes, the only remaining trace of our craft

would be a puddle of impure water and the gossamer-thin spider-web of the stealth shield—and that

would dissipate at the first hint of a breeze.

We deployed in pincer and arrowhead formation, sending two troops to the north to parallel our

advance, two likewise to the south, and two to the point. Hunter and I followed in column.

We moved quickly, carefully, ever wary. That the Shardies would eventually find us was not in doubt,

neither was the certainty of our death when they did so. They did not use humans well; however, I

doubted they'd find much use for us.

Tactical estimates gave us an hour to save the recalcitrant settlers' souls. They were some sort of

colony—religious or otherwise, it made no difference—only that they had foolishly chosen to remain

where others fled.

There was a slight probability we'd have less than an hour and an even smaller possibility of having more,

so we moved quickly. I'd estimated twenty minutes to reach their position and ten to twenty to ensure

we'd located everyone. That left us five minutes for action and ten as margin for contingencies.

I knew we'd fail if we used more than fifty-five minutes.

"… shards," one of the last observers managed to croak out before Jeaux II fell silent. That word was the

only description of the aliens we'd ever heard, so it stuck.

The Shardies had hit hard when we first made contact with their kind, which could hardly be called

contact at all since they attacked first and without provocation. When our ships backed off, their ship

followed, attacking again and again with unbelievable ferocity. When its missiles ran out, they tried to ram

the thick plate of our exploratory ship. It smashed into tiny ceramic fragments on impact, leaving a cloud

of glittering fragments that spun into emptiness, leaving no trace, no hint, of what had so provoked them.

After much debate over the wisdom of such an attempt, we again tried to contact them. The idea of

another space-spanning civilization held too much promise to ignore. It took years before we found them,

but find them we did.

That is, we assume that someone found them, for a fleet of their ships suddenly appeared near Jeaux II

and attacked every sign of human presence: ships, orbiting stations, ground-based settlements—anything

that wasn't of natural origin. The military tried to defend themselves while the civilian ships fled in every

direction.

This was a strategic mistake. Since they'd backtracked one of our ships to Jeaux, that meant that they

could—and probably would—follow every ship who escaped. Every destination system was now at risk.

Thanks to the brief warning, most of the settled systems managed to mobilize to meet the Shardies

attack. The initial losses were great. We had to fall back from system after system, engaged in a running

battle with something we do not understand.

We've tried to figure out why they attack with such ferocity, why there hasn't been an attempt at contact,

and why they won't respond to our calls. We fail at every attempt to understand them.

Neither have we deduced anything of their technology from the damaged ships we've managed to

recover. Hulls, engines, and controls appear to be nothing but dirty glass. We suspect this is the analog of

our silicon-based technology, but can't be sure. Researchers have been working hard, I'm told, but I

have yet to hear of anything useful come of it.

Nor can we figure out what sort of creatures we're fighting. That one word, that one utterance from a

lone observer on Jeaux, was all we had to go on.

What we do know for certain is that either the Shardies will be destroyed, or we will be. Humanity has

lost too much, too many, for compromise. It is clear that there can be no middle ground.

The trip to the site of the single communications burst was uneventful. We didn't expect to encounter

resistance.. The Shardies don't settle on the planets they take from us. No, they just wipe them clean of

humanity and then move on. We knew there had to be Shardie gleaners surveying the planet, trying to

find some fresh meat, or, what was worse, breeding stock. With a little luck, we'd find that the Shardies

had beaten us to them.

The location was a hill, close by a half-destroyed farming complex whose tower leaned precariously

toward the north. Wirh luck, we'd find whoever made the call nearby. First place to check were the

buildings, or what remained of them.

We went straight in. Better to find whatever sign we could quickly—time was running out. A sweep of

the barn was negative, as were the remains of the silo, and the outbuildings. The house was a different

matter. We found some opened jars, preserves mostly. The footprints we found outside were small—a

child's, perhaps, or a small woman. The tracks led up the hill and into the woods.

I sent the outriders wide to cover while Hunter followed the tracks. Could be a trap, so I waited, senses

alert for any indication of a problem.

Crack of a twig brought me to my feet. It was Hunter and a little girl. "Cave up there," with a head nod.

"Three dead men—three, four days gone." That tied with the time we'd received the burst.

She was a tiny thing—about nine or ten, I'd say—bright eyes and scraggly red hair. Good teeth. Looked

scared as hell. I could understand that—Hunter wasn't being very gentle as he dumped her at my feet.

"What's your name?" I stooped to bring my head to her level.

"You them aliens?" she asked all wide-eyed. "How come you talk like us?"

"We're combat soldiers," I answered. "We're humans, just like you, sweetheart. Now, come on; what's

your name?"

"Becky," she finally spit out. "How come you're still here? Paw said everybody left."

"We came back to take care of you and the others," I answered truthfully. "We can't afford to let you fall

into enemy hands."

"Paw and the Paston boys thought you'd come," she said.

"How did they die?"

Becky seemed fascinated by my sidearm. They shot them after the Pastons used the mayday thing. I hid

in the back where they couldn't find me. Are you going to punish them for doing that?"

That got my attention. Takes a real idiot to shoot the people who demonstrated good sense. I began to

doubt that the Shardies would've gotten much use out of whatever mush these jerks used for brains.

"Right, sweetheart, we'll punish them, but first you have to tell us where they are."

"Did you bring a ship to take us away?" Becky asked as she fingered the butt of my AC-43. "That was

why Paw grabbed the mayday—to get us a rescue ship."

"We came to make sure the enemy doesn't get you," I answered honestly. "Listen, we don't have much

time. Can you take us to where the others are hiding?"

"I think they're still over at the Truett place," she said, pointing to the east.

I nodded to Hunter, who was already directing the scouts eastward. I picked up Becky and moved out.

Hunter covered my rear. "Can you tell us how to get there?"

"You mean to the Truetts' place?" Becky asked. "Sure. There's a big field there. That where the rescue

ship's going to land?"

The Shardie ships we'd managed to capture more or less intact were completely empty—no aliens at

all—just glass of various colors and shapes. Either the ships were highly automated, or the Shardies had

destroyed themselves completely so they would not fall into our hands. Suicidal, or so we thought.

Eventually, we discovered some living creatures, if you can call them that, aboard one of their ships.

One of the things we'd learned was that if we had sufficient warning, we could defend ourselves fairly

well. Sometimes we managed to drive them off, and sometimes not. Every battle was fought hard and

long, usually with massive losses on both sides. Our defensive successes managed to achieve, at best,

parity.

That all changed at Witca, a heavily fortified military outpost armed with the latest data on Shardie attack

patterns.

Only the Shardics were using new patterns that got through the outer defenses. It was as if they were

anticipating the base's reactions and countering Witca's best defensive moves with ease. Witca fell with

all hands lost.

After Witca's defeat, we lost ground steadily, falling farther and farther back toward Earth year after

year. We no longer had parity. We were losing.

Then, largely through a stroke of luck, our fleet happened upon a lone Shardie ship near Outreach. As

soon as it realized we were near, it attacked on an evasion pattern that defied the fleet's best defensive

efforts. The fleet lost six ships before managing to still whatever mysterious force propelled the Shardie

vessel.

The fleet marines lost no time in boarding. Command had high hopes of finally finding something alive

inside. They weren't disappointed. Disgusted and surprised might better describe their reaction. Inside,

they found sixteen of the Jeaux survivors.

Survivors isn't exactly the word. What they found were sixteen bodies without arms, legs, and most

organs. What remained were essentially heads hooked up to life support and fueled by oxygenated

glucose pumps. There were a couple of hundred strands of glass fiber running from the ship's walls into

each skull, into each brain, into each soul. Four of the sixteen were still functioning—alive is not a word

to describe their condition.

Clinical examination of the four revealed that each was fully conscious and aware, at least that's what the

eeg traces indicated. They also indicated that the Shardies had used no painkillers to dull the senses when

they'd done this. Had the survivors mouths, they would have been continually screaming. All four died

mercifully fast when their pumps ran dry. I'm not too sure that the medics didn't help that along. It was a

mercy.

The only conclusion we could draw was that the Shardies were using human brains to defeat human

defenses. They were obviously using our own brains to "think" like us.

There was no hesitation on the part of Command. They ordered everyone, except combat types like us,

from the most likely targets. Humanity couldn't allow any more people to become components for the

Shardie offense.

But civilians never listen. Farmers were the worst, hanging onto their little plots and crops until somebody

dragged them away, kicking and screaming at the injustice of it all. That's why we were here. Forty

settlers had stupidly refused to be evacuated from New Mars. Forty we didn't know about until we got

that one brief burst.

My mission was to make certain that they didn't become forty armless, legless, gutless, screamless

weapon components.

"Why do you look so funny?" Becky asked as we jogged along. Her question was expected. Few

civilians ever see combat troops like us. Luckily the combat gear and darkness hid most of the worst

modifications I'd had to undergo: cybernetic heart-lung pump with reserve oxygen so I could operate in

any atmosphere or even underwater; augmented muscles on legs and arms that balked me up like a

cartoon giant on steroids; amped vision that ran from the near infrared up toward the UV range—-I

could even switch to black and white for better night vision—and smart-metal skeleton structures to

provide a good base for my massive muscles. Flesh had been stripped from anything exposed and

replaced with impervious plas. My hands were electromechanical marvels capable of ripping

weapons-grade plating off a spaceship, and sensitive enough to lift a tiny girl without harm.

Then there was my glucose pump, a nasty, but useful technology we'd copied from the Shardies. Even

my brain had been altered—substituting silicon and gel for the mass of pink jelly I was born with.

Definitely not something you'd want your daughter to date. I'm glad it was dark. In daylight, I'd probably

scare the bejesus out of her.

"We're modified so we can fight the bastards," I growled. Revenge for relatives on Witca was my overt

reason. Curiosity about the Shardies, and getting a piece of them, was secondary. I saw no sense going

into the gory details or the agonizing processes involved with a little girl who wouldn't understand. "Tell

me about the rest of your group. Are they all right?"

"Mr. Robbarts is still the boss. He's the one that shot Paw, I think. And there's Jake and Sally and little

Billy. Billy's my friend. Jake's got a bad leg.

"Then there's all the Thomas women. They have a big wagon, or they did before the men came and

burned it." She started crying.

I was certain she was talking about the roaming gangs. Lots of people didn't want to leave anything the

Shardies might be able to use. Senseless, that. Shardies could care less, but most civilians wouldn't know

that. Best destroy what you left behind, they'd probably thought, and had taken their anger out on things

they could reach.

"Mr. Robbarts said we didn't have to worry because we weren't soldiers. He said we'd have the whole

world to ourselves. But after everybody left, Paw got really afraid of what might happen."

Robbarts must be the leader of this group. "Robbarts was wrong, Becky. You all should have left," I

said. "Didn't they tell you that it wouldn't matter if you were a soldier or not? Being human is all that

matters."

"Mr. Robbarts got real mad when Paw argued with him and said he wanted to use the mayday thing.

Then Paw and the boys and me ran away with it. You got to go along this stream for a bit now," she

directed.

That explained the burst message that told us there were people left behind. They must have used one of

the emergency broadcast units the evacuation team had scattered across New Mars in the last days, just

in case. "What happened then?" I asked as I followed her pointing finger down the stream. The scouts

picked up my changed direction and reacted,

"They told Paw to come out of the cave to talk," Becky continued, chatting away. "Paw told me to hide.

Then I heard them arguing and shouting and I got really afraid. Then there was some shots. I heard the

men looking around.

Mr. Robbarts was cussing a lot and calling me all sorts of names, but I stayed where I was. I was

scared."

"What did you do then?" I stepped around a huge boulder and wondered if it would be easier, and faster,

to wade in the stream instead of through the woods on either side. Hunter was close by my side now in

this narrow section.

"After it got quiet, I snuck out and found Paw and the boys laying on the ground. Paw was bleeding bad.

I tried to stop it, but it wouldn't stop. Then he went to sleep and didn't move for a long time. I got hungry

waiting for the rescue ship Paw said would come." That explained the jelly and jam jars—just what a little

girl would like to eat. "Are you going to bury Paw and the boys?"

"Burial wastes time—something we can't afford," Hunter said sharply. Down, he signaled as a shot

ricocheted off my chest armor.

Bud Sparhawk - Bright Red Star.pdf

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