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Second Coming #1: Easy as ABC By Valerie Hope They'd been on the move for days - nights had blurred into dawns, dawns into unbearable noons with heat which melted the cracked asphalt of the streets of what was once a thriving, modern metropolis. Out of the corners of their eyes, the tired soldiers could almost see the people, scurrying to and from their jobs, their entertainments and their errands, oblivious to the overhanging destruction which would take all their hopes and dreams and ambitions away on that fateful day. Some called it Judgment Day. Others Armageddon. For the men of Bravo-Niner, they called it the Occupation. How happy the conspiracy freaks had been to see that their suspicions, the decades of clandestine operations in places like Area 51 had been correct. We hadn't been alone. There was another civilization, another race of creatures with us in the vast, unknowable universe, and they had been visiting and studying the human race for decades. It had all been academic, all speculation and secret research, until March 21, 2006, when the alien race - the closest approximation the human throat could make to their name was the "Nbaru" - landed on Earth in three locations - just outside Cairo, Egypt, Memphis, Tennessee and Las Vegas, Nevada. Apparently the Fuzzies - their colloquial name among the remaining militaries of the world - had a thing for pyramids and assumed that the Great Pyramids, the Mud Island pyramid and the Luxor Hotel and Casino were centers of government for the world. The attack had been sudden, swift and merciless. The world's military might had been decimated in a week. It wasn't that the Fuzzies had any vast technological superiority or even greater numbers, it was their fierceness and quickness of the assault that had left many of the planet's armed services with their collective pants down. But the Fuzzies hadn't finished the job properly. The tall, cat-like aliens had backed off suddenly, leaving the armies of the world to regroup and organize resistance. Now the Nbaru occupied several heavily defended compounds all over the world and conducted an extended campaign against the remaining humans bearing arms against them. So far the most implacable resistance was the nation of China - God bless 'em - where the Fuzzies had suffered many defeats at the hands of the People's Army, liberating the entire Pacific Rim and parts of Northern Australia. Now the world's militaries were starting to coordinate with one another, to strike in concert with a plan towards containing and eliminating the Nbaru threat. For the blood-'n'-guts types running the show in the worn- out U.S. of A., they really couldn't care less what the Fuzzies were doing. They only cared about the very satisfying splat they made when they hit the ground. But for outfits like Bravo-Niner, it was of utmost importance. They were a Reconnaissance division, gathering much-needed intelligence for the strongest presence the US still had - the Navy, which hadn't suffered near the losses of the Air Force, Army and brother Marines during the initial attack. If Bravo-Niner could manage enough intel on the enemy, there was still enough muscle in the Navy to kick the snot out of the lanky aliens who'd taken their world. Bravo-Niner was skirting the suburbs of Dallas, Texas, which lay in ruins from a concentrated attack by the Fuzzies during the early days of the Occupation. Leave it to a bunch of Texans... they'd grabbed the nearest firearms they could lay hands on and started shooting once the advance had reached them. As a result, all of the major cities of the Lone Star State lay in devastation - Austin, Dallas, Houston, San Antonio. The Fuzzies were still trying to root out the pockets of Texan resistance, which dotted the rugged countryside of the only state in the Union that had been its own country. Rumor had it that the five-pointed white star, the Lone Star of Texas, spray painted on destroyed Fuzzy troop carriers and outposts, was quickly becoming a symbol of fear to the alien military. Served the damn Fuzzies right for messing with one of the orneriest states in the U.S. Earlier that day, the men of Bravo-Niner had walked past a slaughtered enclave of Fuzzies carrying supplies and weapons to their outposts and some ironic soul had planted one of the old anti-littering campaign road signs through the chest of the ranking officer. A pile of enemy dead displaying the unmistakable message: "Don't Mess With Texas." It didn't get much clearer than that. Bravo-Niner had a specific mission this time. The brass wanted specifics - video, if possible - about just what the damned Fuzzies were up to. That was the real question anyway, ever since the Occupation. Nothing the enemy did really made the slightest bit of sense. Masses of people were rounded up and brought into the compounds - the hunting parties left about every season - and then left on shuttle transports to the orbiting Fuzzy cruisers. Intel estimated that no fewer than two hundred thousand humans were onboard these massive ships. Grapevine rumors said that they were using us as food or possibly even for sport, or perhaps researching our physiology for some sort of 'final solution' to drive humans to extinction without harming the planet's natural resources. The other odd behavior is that the Fuzzies didn't continue their attack. With their air superiority and armed forces, they could root out the remaining human resistance and break it to pieces in only a few months, but they didn't. They stayed holed up in their compounds and defended themselves, but they didn't attack. Strange behavior indeed for a race of conquerors. They didn't even use their sophisticated tracking and detection systems to monitor the occupied planet - at least not in any level the tech-heads at NORAD could see. Apparently, the Fuzzies were acting as if they couldn't be bothered with our attempts to drive them out. They kept their eyes and ears pointed in other directions. The only attempt that the Nbaru had seemingly made to undo our military was to dismantle every nuclear device they could get their paws on - which wasn't altogether a bad thing, in a lot of human eyes. But they'd only destroyed weapons. They didn't capture them to use against us, they didn't take advantage of the refined plutonium for energy or study. They just took the warheads apart and left the bases intact - often with the garrisons largely undamaged. They showed very little interest in the Earth itself - there was no mining or refining, no use by the Fuzzies of our natural resources whatsoever, even though the planet was very rich in terms of usable materials. The Fuzzies supplied themselves from space, and aside from a peculiar love of Earth sugar, tobacco and pork they left the world's food and water alone. They were living in their own communities and not taking over the Earth's. The city of Flagstaff, Arizona was pristine and untouched while only a few miles away, the largest settlement of Fuzzies - called 'Kitty City' - on the surface thrived and bustled. Nothing outside Kitty City's perimeter was disturbed in the slightest. Those who wanted peaceful coexistence with the Fuzzies had formed a Vichy government of sorts and had given the aliens a great deal of information about the planet in the aftermath of the Occupation. The Nbaru could take this planet in a few months, but they didn't. And the Armed Services wanted to know why. That's why Bravo-Niner was out in the boonies, locked and loaded and looking for activity. "Gonzo. How do we look?" the Lieutenant asked of his point man, a bluff-faced Michigan linebacker with an overlarge hooked nose that gave him his name. "Clear as far as I can see, Ell-tee," Gonzo said back, putting down the broad-spectrum 'peeper' binoculars he'd used to scan the horizon. "Wanna keep moving?" "Yeah," the Lieutenant said gruffly, shouldering his M16 and getting to his feet with a whistle to signal his men. "I want to get to the Trinity before we set up camp." The five men of Bravo-Niner emerged from the shade they'd found and set for the move. David Camden, the lieutenant, had only been three days out of OCS when the Fuzzies landed, and he'd acquitted himself well in the face of danger. He'd been hoping to continue on to med school after his commission and become a doctor, but the aliens had other ideas about his future. Strange that this time last year he'd been at a kegger at his frat party, wondering whether or not he was going to get lucky with Stacey Kramer. Now he was eating canned meat off of a knife blade wondering if some extraterrestrial housecat was going to swoop down in a hovercraft and burn him to death with a plasma rifle. Strange how things changed. But at least he was still with his friends. Luke "Gonzo" Marquette, Todd Cartwright, Henry Jennings and Roberto Costa had been thrown together early on in the conflict and through some masterful manipulation of fortune had all lived through the first bloody weeks of the invasion. Above all else, Lt. David Camden intended to keep it that way, intelligence gathering be damned. He wasn't one of those gung-ho lifers who were all hot about dying in a blaze of glory, singing the Star Spangled Banner at the top of their lungs. David Camden wanted to live, wanted to be a senile old man at the Old Soldiers' Home, catheterized and pinching the nurses' butts and talking about the day the Fuzzies came with Gonzo and Todd and Hank and 'Berto across a checkerboard. He knew he'd die someday, but damned if he was going to let it happen to himself or any of his boys one second before the Almighty ordained it. "Move out," he commanded. Gonzo took point and the other fell into a wedge beside him, spaced out about fifty yards apart. They took a left down what had once been a quiet residential neighborhood and lit out for their bivouac on the Trinity River. *** In retrospect, David thought he should have been thinking about something other than the supper he was missing. Todd had found a supermarket that hadn't been too thoroughly picked over and found some ears of roasting corn and a few packages of marinated chicken for fajitas, which would have made a welcome change from the MREs they'd subsisted on for the last week. But as he strafed his M16 from side to side, laying down suppression fire while 'Berto moved into position with the Squad Assault Weapon, that was all he could really think about. The Fuzzies had attacked quickly, relentlessly and ferociously they way they always did, screaming out of the tree line on their whining hover-bikes, chasing a mob of about forty men and women carrying hunting rifles and handguns. Bravo-Niner had leapt to assist, cutting down the three lead bikers in a hail of fire and driving them to cover. The air was a watery blur from the heat waves of the Fuzzy plasma rifle rounds and the stink of cordite from the U.S. weapons was making the area unbearable in a big damn hurry. The Texan resistance was trying to regroup, piling their people into the beds of pickup trucks appropriated from the fleet of a local air-conditioning company. Snipers clung to the headache racks of the maintenance trucks and added what they could to the return fire, but the Fuzzy snipers were systematically taking out radiators and tires and capacitors on the gas-electric hybrid vehicles, leaving many stranded in the killing zone. Bravo-Niner's leader couldn't just leave them there to die, and he couldn't utilize his antipersonnel rockets for fear of too many friendly casualties. But neither could he stay here much longer - the Fuzzies had the whole area locked down tight and reinforcement were surely en route to their position, getting closer with every passing second. "We have to get those people out of there," he barked over his tac radio. "Todd, Hank, move down the tree line and try to get a better angle. Gonzo and me'll cover you. 'Berto, keep their heads down. Move!" "This place is going to be crawling with Fuzzies soon, boss," Gonzo said back. "Suggest we evac!" "Negative," David shot back. "I'm not leaving those friendlies." "They're dead, boss," 'Berto said. "Let's hightail it!" "I said no!" David yelled. "We're not leaving them! That's an order!" "Almost in position," Todd reported. "I count ten - no, fifteen unfriendlies in a concrete ditch, about twenty yards from our position. I think I can frag 'em from here." "Negative," David said. "Too many friendlies. Gun 'em." "Boss, we have inbound," Gonzo reported. Just above the trees, approaching quickly from the southeast, was a Fuzzy air transport. "Shit," David hissed. So much for the Old Soldiers' Home. He hoped that Saint Peter wasn't going to judge him too harshly for getting all his men killed. *** "Boss, you still with us? Lieutenant? Dave?" "Ghurk." David Camden clawed his way out of a very nice dream involving several Hawaiian Tropic girls and a hot tub back to a reality as hard and cold as the tile floor he laid on. 'Berto Costa was shaking him gently. Slowly the world slid back into focus behind his squadmate and David could see the grim faces of the rest of his squad and the Texas resistance. A small window behind them showed rushing clouds. They were moving, probably airborne. David struggled to a sitting position. "Did we lose anybody?" "Negative," Gonzo told him from behind 'Berto's shoulder. "No casualties." "Guys, I'm sorry," David blurted. "I should have evac'd when you said." "No, you were right," Todd Cartwright said. "We talked it over while you were napping. You did the right thing, boss. We ain't mad. Shit, this was probably going to happen to us one way or the other anyway." "And we owe you our lives," a dumpy, graying man said from David's left. "Those things would have killed us if you hadn't covered our backs." "Lieutenant David Camden, U.S. Army," David said, extending a hand. The man shook the hand firmly and warmly. "Colonel Bruce McDonough. First North Texas Rifles. You boys saved my whole division.' "I don't know about 'saved,'" Hank said. "But we're all alive, at any rate." "First North Texas Rifles?" David asked. "You guys sound a helluva lot more organized than our intel leads us to believe, Colonel." "Call me Bruce. We keep a low profile," Bruce said. "General Richmond out of Fort Hood got us all organized. He keep a mobile HQ out there somewhere and manages to keep in contact. He's been running the war down here since these bastards landed." "Wow," David said. "That's nice to know. The General's a tough old bird." "Tougher'n boot leather and mean as a snake," Bruce confirmed. "Just the man we needed. He's got the Fuzzies wondering whether to shit or wind their watch out there." David laughed. "Any indication of where they're taking us?" "Figuring it's one of their herding runs," Bruce said. "Every three months or so they come down in force and round up as many humans as they can. They herd 'em into transports at their compound and take them up to the orbiting command ships. We have no idea what happens to 'em up there." "Great," David said. "That was our mission - to figure out what they were doing - and now we're going to get first- hand intel and have no way to report it back." "Not necessarily," Hank said, scratching his two-day growth of beard with thick fingers. "There's still a whole lot of active comsats in orbit out there. If I can get my hands on some equipment, maybe we can get word out." "Good," David said. "Because I don't intend to stay on that ship one second longer than I have to. If there's a way onto those fuckers, then there has to be a way off." "Roger that," Todd seconded. "If we don't end up as a pile in some Fuzzy's litter box first," Gonzo said grumpily. "I doubt it," Bruce said. "They don't eat us, son. We know that much for damn sure from some of the prisoners we've taken." "Prisoners?" 'Berto asked. "I thought the Fuzzies suicided before they were taken." "Only the really gung-ho types," Bruce said. "Hell, most of 'em are just like us. They'd sooner live than die. We've had a couple hundred surrender. We're keeping them locked up in the old penitentiary in Huntsville." "What are they like?" 'Berto asked. "I haven't seen one that wasn't shooting at me," Bruce said. "But Leeann over there took one prisoner. Leeann?" A skinny woman with stringy brown hair and overlarge brown eyes slid across the tiles on her butt to sit closer and introduced herself. "They're nocturnal," she explained. "Night hunters. That's why they wear those wraparound visors when they're planetside - the sunlight drives 'em crazy and makes them sleepy. We've used that against them a couple times. Other than being a lot bigger, stronger and faster than humans, they don't seem a whole lot smarter. They organize themselves a lot like animals here on Earth - alphas and betas and non-breeders - but they seem to use them more like military ranks." "But what about the creatures themselves?" David pressed. "Actually, believe it or not, kinda gentle. Obsessed with cleanliness - they have really acute smell and strong odors upset them. Not as territorial or possessive as humans - they're big into the concept of the collective. If one Fuzzy has food, then they all have food. The only thing they fight over, really, is mates. We think that there aren't a whole lot of females where they're from, maybe." "Did you have any troubles keeping them fed or tended to? That respiratory apparatus their soldiers wear seems pretty highbrow. Do they breathe oxygen?" 'Berto asked, his vaunted Fifteen College Credits towards a biology degree making themselves known. "Sure do," Bruce said. "We checked the breathers on some of their casualties shortly after the landing, trying to see what the hell they breathe. Turns out all that scuba gear is just a high-efficiency filter to clean the air. They breathe the same atmosphere we do." "Weird," Todd said. "So if they don't eat us, what do they eat?" "All kinds of stuff," Leeann said. "They seemed to really like pork - bacon and sausage and the like. And they have killer sweet tooths. The one we captured ate something like seven Sno-Balls at one sitting. And they love the smell of tobacco. Apparently nicotine has some kind of soothing effect on them. We figured that with a sense of smell like theirs they'd really dislike the smell of tobacco smoke, but they really eat it up. They can't ingest it themselves - makes 'em puke - but they do dig the smell." Their conversation was ended abruptly by the swishing aside of the door and the entrance of three of the tall, muscular Nbaru. Their re-breathers hung around their necks, exposing the manes of fur around their corded necks. Other than a distended muzzle to contain their predatory dental arrangements and wide, lidless eyes with slitted pupils, they looked remarkably like humans. The nose was wide and flat, the nostrils flaring in time with their breathing. Their ears were higher than a human's and seemed to be able to actuate in many different directions like an Earth cat's. The males grew hair from a human hairline down to the small of the back, with a thick mane growing around the neck and between the nipples (there were only two of those, like a human). They walked bipedally on thick legs and wide feet and had strong, stout arms ended in stubby-fingered hands. The last joint of the three-jointed finger was a thick, horny appendage, which hooked into a vicious-looking claw. The leader - a russet-furred behemoth - brought a strangely-shaped black plastic device to his throat and uttered something in the growling language of the Nbaru. After some clicks and crackles, the device translated in a Stephen Hawking computer monotone: "I look for leader." Bruce started to move, but David stopped him. No point in showing the enemy a bird colonel in the resistance. Besides, David's uniform made his leadership easier to believe. The colonel nodded his assent silently. "Lieutenant David Camden, United States Army," David said, standing wearily. The tall alien pointed a clawed finger at his chest. "S'kaaru." The machine didn't bother to translate. "You. You all. Taken." "Prisoners," David clarified. "You command. Humans. No resisting." "I will not," David said. "You command." "Fuck you," David said defiantly. S'kaaru moved so fast as to nearly blur. One moment he was regarding David with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion and the next David's boots were dangling several inches above the deckplates as a clawed hand squeezed his throat mercilessly. "You command," the computer monotone said again. "Eat shit and die, you Wookiee motherfucker," David choked. A sickly, wet crunch began to sound as the cartilage in David's neck began to give way. David threw everything he had into one single, desperate punch to the alien's left cheek, but the tall cat-being showed no effect other than to peel lips back from a formidable row of sharp fangs. David's vision began to fade to gray. "Wait! Wait, dammit! We won't resist! Don't kill him!" 'Berto said loudly, prying at the alien's muscular arm. "I said we won't resist!" S'kaaru dropped David to the deck in a coughing, wheezing heap and stepped back towards his subordinates. He held the black machine to his throat again. "No resisting," he repeated. "No resisting, you pinche gato," 'Berto said. The two subordinates began to move among the forty-odd prisoners, sniffing at them curiously before shoving them roughly into one of two groups - male or female. The females were connected by shackles to one another and marched out under the guard of one of the subordinates while S'kaaru surveyed the remaining twenty males and separated them into four groups of five, barking commands to his black-furred subordinate as he shoved men roughly into one group or the other. Once they'd been separated, he walked from one group to the next, patting the nearest member's shoulder and growling something to his henchman. The little black machine popped and fizzed before translating. "A Group," as he touched David's shoulder to signify the group of five which included David, Hank and three others. "B Group" was Bruce's collection, "C Group" was Todd and Gonzo's and "D Group" was 'Berto's. All of them were systematically given an injection by the black-furred subaltern and told to sit. S'kaaru and the other Fuzzy left as abruptly as they'd come, and as the drug started to take effect, the last thing David noticed was the blue sky out the tiny window turning slowly to deep black, strewn with shining stars. *** "Where are we?" David asked. His eyes were covered by something cool and heavy. He only hoped that there was someone within earshot - the thought of being alone in the dark was not exactly comfortable to him right now. The air was filled with strange, muted smells and soft, lulling hums. "I don't know." It was Hank's voice. "I'm assuming were on one of the command ships." "An Alpha or a Beta?" David asked. There were two distinct types of orbiting ships that the Fuzzies used. No one was sure what their functions or even their differences were. "No way to tell," Hank said. "Are you okay?" "I suppose so," David replied. "You?" "As good as can be expected." "Are you one of the soldiers?" another, deeper voice asked. One of the resistance. "Yeah," David said. "David Camden. Lieutenant." "Randy Hart," he said. "My buddies - Sam Williams and Justin Watson - aren't awake yet. I think I was the first one to come to." "Did you see anything?" Hank asked. "Not a damn thing," Randy said. "Just felt some hands on me. With claws. Not a nice way to wake up, lemme tell you." "I can imagine," David said. He tried to reach up to take the covering over his eyes off, but he found that his arms and legs were completely restrained. "Feels like some kind of life-sized Saran Wrap," Hank said, hearing the telltale squeaks of David trying to free himself. "I've been trying forever to get free, boss. No luck." Slowly David began to take better stock of his surroundings. His body was indeed held to a firm but comfortable surface by a sheet of some kind of plastic which effectively immobilized his extremities. He was naked and chilly, utterly starving and the victim of a cruelly distended bladder. Feeling that it was the only weapon at his disposal, David let go right where he was, hoping that some Fuzzy bastard would have to come in here with a mop and bucket and deal with whatever strong odors David could generate. It fell in warm waves down his legs but seemed to dry instantly, leaving just a lingering warmth. "I have a wicked itch on my left thigh," Randy said. "It's driving me crazy." "Anybody have any ideas?" David chimed in. "Dunno for sure, boss," Hank said. "But I think we're being monitored somehow. Just for shits and grins I held my breath a moment ago for as long as I could, and I heard one of those machines beep." "Medical facility, then," David said. "They've also hosed us down, I can tell. My skin feels all tingly." "Figures," Randy said. "The Fuzzies really don't like dirt." "I just wish they'd feed us," Hank said. "My stomach is chewing on my backbone." "No lie," David chimed in. "Look, guys, I don't know where we are, but the first duty of every prisoner is to escape. I'm not going to be some Fuzzy lab rat for the rest of my life if I can help it. You with me?" "Fuckin' A," Randy said. "What do we do?" "Figure we're being studied, right? Else why hook us up to monitors? So that means that somebody, sometime, is going to have to come in and check on us. We gather as much information as we can whenever that happens and we plan from there. Nobody keeps secrets, got me? If one person in 'A Group' knows it, then everybody in 'A Group' knows it. Whatever the fuck 'A Group' is." "I just want to know where the hell they took the women," Randy said. "My girlfriend was in that group." "No idea," David said. "One thing at a time, okay?" "Roger that," Randy said. "But I ain't leaving here without her, I'll tell y'all that right now, Lieutenant." "Deal," David said. "'Cause I'm not jumping ship without the rest of my unit." "Hey, listen," Hank said. "You guys hear that?" There was a faint change in the tempo and pitch of the humming machines. Somewhere in the room, something was hissing like it was letting off pressure. "I don't like the sound of this," Randy said, just as the world exploded into a kaleidoscope of light, noise and sensation. *** Apparently the coverings over their eyes were some kind of virtual reality gear on steroids. No matter how tightly the young lieutenant had squeezed his eyes shut, the light and sensation had still found their way into his brain. It left him numb and reeling, breathing heavily through a slack jaw. He swallowed roughly, realizing that he'd been drooling during the onslaught of light and sound. "Everybody okay?" he mumbled. "Shit," Randy croaked. "Feels like I got hit by a train." "What the hell happened?" Hank asked. "Don't know," David said, trying desperately to remember, to somehow sort the light and spectacle into something meaningful. "Can't concentrate." "Me neither," Hank said. "What did they do to us?" Randy asked. "I don't know," David said, bracing himself instinctually when he heard the change in pitch and tempo of the unseen machinery. "But it's about to happen again." *** They'd all lost count of how many times the VR headgear had blasted their brains. All the men had endured as best they could, talking to one another between assaults, trying to keep a hold on reality. But it was difficult. They were getting punch-drunk, starting to laugh and giggle uncontrollably at the slightest thing and babbling inanely, rhyming their words for no reason like little children. "Hey," the lieutenant said. "Hey. Hey." "Hay is for horses," his subordinate said, laughing. "Are you okay?" the lieutenant asked. "Uh-huh," his squadmate affirmed. "I'm okey-dokey." "What about... uh, the other guy?" "I'm okay," the resistance fighter said. "But I think I'm gonna puke." "I can't puke," the lieutenant said. "I'm too hungry." His squadmate giggled. It was a silly thing to say. "I can't... I can't remember any of your names," the lieutenant said slowly, trying to govern his words and stay focused on what was happening. "It doesn't matter," the squadmate said. "We know who we are." "I can't remember my name, either." "Well, it must start with an 'A,'" the resistance fighter said. "Or else we wouldn't be in 'A' Group." "Yeah. Right," the lieutenant said. The machines whined and the world exploded yet again. This time the lieutenant almost welcomed it. It meant he wouldn't have to wonder any more. *** Just flashes, really - snippets and photographs from the last three hours were all the memories that the lieutenant could keep hold of. The last few onslaughts of light had overwhelmed him, making him finally curl up and sleep to escape. After that he'd been moved - he remembered clawed hands lifting him and carrying him, his toes dragging over chilly tiles. A sensation of being covered or wrapped, and a squishy, wet feeling at the back of his neck. A smell like mildew remover and another like turpentine. A heavy, wet feeling in his mouth and how it made his stomach stop hurting. Cold water to drink, and growling voices that sounded familiar... *** The lieutenant felt as if he weighed seven tons - it took all his remaining energy just to roll over. Bright lights - like fluorescents, but not as harsh - assaulted his eyes and he groaned. He managed to pry his gummed lids apart and take stock. They were in a small room, curled up on a tiled floor. The three resistance fighters and his squadmates all looked very small and exhausted, the way babies do. They wore strange, body-wrapping garments of off-white material which clung to them like second skin - they fastened like a halter-top around their necks, left shoulders and arms bare, and covered them with a sheath of stretchy fabric all the way to their ankles, leaving their feet bare. There was a small slit at the bottom hem, near their feet, which would allow walking to a point. The sheaths were covered with what looked like green veins through which some kind of liquid was pumping slowly. Closer inspection showed two of the men had some strange, purplish sac hanging from the napes of their necks, which pulsed slowly. The lieutenant rolled closer and saw that it was actually something that resembled a glossy, oversized leech, covered with veins. Six tiny little insect-like feet clung to the skin of the neck. The lieutenant reached up and felt that he, too, had one of the leech-things on the back of his neck and he was wearing an identical garment. He felt terrible - like he'd been beaten mercilessly for some long and immeasurable time. But he also felt somehow stronger, inside - maybe it was because he instinctually knew he'd been fed, but it seemed that he felt healthier in a way. Forcing himself to stay awake and aware, the lieutenant then took stock of where they were being held. It was an oblong room with gray-blue walls and a dark blue tiled floor. There were several recesses in the walls, two of which could have been large enough to possibly be a door. The only other thing in the room was a small crate of unblemished white and several large bottles of water. The others were also awake, trying to take stock of their surroundings as best they could. All were wide-eyed and more than a little bit scared. The two other men - the lieutenant couldn't remember their names, even though he'd served with his squadmate for so long and through so much - slid across the tiles to where the lieutenant had just sat up. "Are you okay?" the squadmate asked. "Fine. Better than the last time we talked. You?" "Hanging in," the squadmate said. "They've done something to our heads, Ell-tee. Scrambled us up somehow. I can remember the faces of the squad, but I can't remember their names. I remember my parents' names, but not mine or yours." "Me neither," the lieutenant said. "It gets worse," the squadmate told him. "Think about one of the Fuzzies." The lieutenant closed his eyes and formed a mental picture of S'karru, their original captor. He imagined the hard, rippling muscles and the sleek and shiny fur, the elegance of his face and stance and the raw, feral beauty of him, the intense musky smell and the tingling thrill it gave him to be so small and helpless compared to the Nbaru's majesty. "Oh my God," the lieutenant breathed, opening his eyes to notice the heavy erection which was now tenting the front of the skintight garment. "What the fuck did they do to us?" "Nobody knows," the squadmate said. "And nobody knows what these suits or these leeches are pumping into us, either. We're at a total loss." All heads turned then, staring as one of the recessed panels in the wall slid back and several Fuzzies entered the room. The prisoners scrambled around, unsure of themselves, and trying to find cover in the absolutely featureless room. The lead Fuzzy barked a one-word command: "Stand." It wasn't until the lieutenant had scrambled gracelessly to his feet (difficult in the restraining garment) that he realized that the Nbaru hadn't used the little black translation device that S'kaaru had used. Apparently the Fuzzies had taken the time to teach their prisoners the native tongue. "I am called Mree. I will be your supervisor. You will follow my commands or you will be punished. All of you will take your water container now and drink." Not a difficult order to enforce. All of the prisoners were thirsty and hungry from their captivity, regardless of the fact that they'd been fed between the VR room and their current prison. All of the prisoners drank greedily as Mree continued. "You will drink five full containers of water every solar cycle," he commanded. "It is imperative to your health aboard this vessel. Failure to consume the requisite amount of water will result in punishment." The Nbaru gestured and three of his subordinates moved to the featureless white cube and began to open it by pressing unseen spots, which lit up varying colors beneath their fingers. The lieutenant was embarrassed to catch himself noticing the pleasing shapes and musculature of the creatures and forced himself to look away. The Fuzzies uncrated several pairs of strange-looking plastic knee-high boots and distributed them wordlessly. "Magnetic foot coverings," Mree told them. "You are being kept in a high-gravity area but will soon be moved to an area of lower gravity and you must wear these at all times. Failure to do so will result in punishment." One by one, the prisoners were helped into the strange footwear by the Nbaru subordinates. Their touches sent thrills through the lieutenant and brought about another embarrassing physiological reaction. The Fuzzy noticed the reaction and grinned toothily, seeming to cough lightly. It took the lieutenant a moment to realize that the alien was chuckling. The boots were heavy and uncomfortable, binding in several ways and holding the feet in a way that made the lieutenant feel as if he were walking on his toes. While he was taking his first few tentative steps in the new boots, Mree pointed to him with a clawed finger. "You," he said, "are now appointed as the spokesperson for A Group. You will be the only one who can contact me or my subordinates directly. Anyone who has requests or questions will give them to you to be passed on to me. Do you understand?" The lieutenant hoped the monster understood English. "Yes." Mree nodded solemnly and gathered in his subordinates by eye. "Take your water containers and follow." The Nbaru formed a quick detail and escorted the prisoners down a very long hallway, roughly oval in cross-section. The magnetic boots and the confining body wraps made the prisoners take short, clumsy steps just to keep upright - any stumbles were met with a rough shove from one of the escorts. Finally, after about fifty yards, the lieutenant found that if he shortened his stride and swung his hips in a 'figure-eight' as he walked and didn't swing his arms so much, walking became much easier. Without thinking, he assumed the leadership role and passed the word to his four fellow prisoners. Mree looked pleased at the assumption of leadership and nodded to himself. After a gradual curve to the right and about two or three hundred yards of passageway, they were finally led through an airlock-looking structure and on into a large, brightly lit room. All of the original twenty prisoners from the attack outside Dallas were there, wearing the garments, boots, and leeches that they all wore. The identifications were easy to figure, now - A Group had red neckbands on their body-sheaths, B Group's were yellow, C Group's were blue and D Group wore green. Mree waited until the lieutenant and his compatriots had joined the others before addressing him again. "You will stay here for a short time. Your needs will be met on request - the spokespeople for Groups A through D will report these needs to me at the beginning of every solar cycle. You will be tasked at the same time." "Tasked? Tasked with what?" the lieutenant asked. "You will be given exercises and small tasks to help the ship," Mree told him. "You will not question or refuse, or all will be punished. Is this understood?" "Yes," the lieutenant said. "Tell me. What part of the day - solar cycle, I mean - is it now?" "Your people call it morning," Mree said. "The beginning of the cycle." "Then what is our task?" the lieutenant asked. "First and foremost - drink water. Your systems have been traumatized and you need it to recover properly. The gr'mowl on your necks will assist with the rest. Do not try to remove them. It will result in a very painful death. The remainder of your task today will be to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Your real tasks will not begin until tomorrow." "Understood," the lieutenant said. "Excellent," Mree told him, pleased. "You serve your people well." "I try," the lieutenant told him. *** It was a strange homecoming when no one could remember anyone else's name. Finally, to avoid confusion, the lieutenant had everyone call each other by their group name and a number assigned to them by their group leader. It cut down on confusion quite a bit but it didn't feel quite right. "Okay, what do we know?" A-One, the lieutenant, asked. "Nobody's sure where we are or what kind of ship we're in," B-One, the former colonel of the Texas resistance said. "Nor do we have any idea what these suits or these leech things are for." "Acclimatization to atmosphere, maybe?" A-Three, the lieutenant's squadmate and friend, asked. "Unlikely," said D-Two, a former scientist and resistance member said. "Not only do the Fuzzies breathe the same atmosphere as we do, they're twice as anal about sterilization as we are." "I'm a little concerned about these boots," C-Four said. He'd been a squadmate, too, once, and the lieutenant seemed to remember giving him a nickname once in reference to his strange, down turned nose. "If they were really just gravity compensation, does it make sense to give us all this hardware? I mean, shit, boss, this looks like body armor." "I imagine that for one thing, they keep us from getting far on foot or being able to move with any speed or silence at all. They're also probably tracking devices," A-One replied. B-One added, "There's another thing to consider. I don't know if anyone else feels it, but these things definitely have needles in them - I felt the injection when they put them on. I heard Mree talk about how many things would result in punishment, but he never mentioned what that punishment would be. I think the boots may have something to do with that, as well. Think about it - anywhere in the ship, all he has to do is press a button and boom, we're punished." "Makes sense," A-One said. "Anything else?" "I've been trying to figure out for a while why in the hell we're having this physiological reaction to the Fuzzies, what purpose that serves," D-Two said. "It doesn't make any sense - for us to get a boner every time we see one of them. Sexual arousal and interest causes serious aggression and territorialism in most human males. You'd think it was more of a problem they'd caused than any kind of a solution." "Maybe they want us to compete for favor," B-One said. "Ever see a bunch of crabs in a bucket? You don't have to put a lid on it, because any crab that tries to climb out will just get dragged down by the others the minute he tries." "Still doesn't make any sense," D-Two said. "Aggression - against them or against each other - is just going to make us harder to manage. It doesn't make any sense." A metallic scraping sound from the walls made them all stop talking quickly and look around. Vents were opening every ten to twenty feet, high on the walls of the large circular chamber where they were all being kept. A powerful rushing sound heralded a powerful outrushing of a strange-smelling, white gas. The people in the room, all military-trained, hit the floors and dragged whatever material they could find to cover their mouths, but it didn't make a difference - the pumps filled the room completely, and left no room for any 'clean' pockets to exist. The gas burned a little bit, but it didn't make them choke or react - only watery eyes and a little coughing were the only reactions, plus a little bit of dizziness and nausea after a minute or two of exposure. Some of the prisoners reported tingling in the extremities, but B-Three and D-Three, the former medics of the Texas resistance company, gave everyone a clean bill of health. After the gas exposure, which only lasted a few minutes, the same vents, which has saturated the room then pumped in fresh air and changed out the atmosphere. After taking quick stock of everyone and sending any serious cases to the medics, the prisoners then took their water bottles and set about their task for the day - familiarity with their surroundings. *** The Fuzzy schedules made no sense, but at least they were predictable. Meals were twice daily, once about three hours after awakening and the other about four or five hours before lights-out. They were gassed routinely, four times a day - nothing adverse happened to them from the gassing, but the Fuzzies continued anyway. Every morning, one hour after wake-up, Mree and company would come in and give some kind of inane task for the day - walking back and forth across the room, or listening to movement, or studying cards with shapes and colors, or painting strange patterns on the leatherlike, Nbaru version of paper. They dealt with their tasks with military discipline, but didn't waste any hour trying to analyze their captors and find some way to effect an escape. The only discernable results of their captivity were a visible loss of body mass and a strange distension in the bodies of the neck-leeches. The soldiers were unable to figure if it was a result of the gas, or the strange fluids pumped in and out of their bodies by the leeches and the strange costumes, or some combination of all three. They ruled out the gas quickly - they'd long since stopped having any adverse affects from it - no dizziness or coughing, no respiratory difficulty - and didn't even hit the deck when the vents opened four times a day like clockwork. They'd even mastered moving in the clunky magnetic boots after only a few days, able to move with grace and quickness by adopting a different, more hippy stride and shortening the length of their steps. D-Two, the former scientist, spent much of his time examining the 'experiments' that the Fuzzies put them through routinely. His ideas were centered around the Nbaru insistence on cleanliness and sterility - he figured that the gas was some kind of antibacterial or antiviral agent and the garments and neck-leeches were some kind of high- efficiency blood and renal filters. It was difficult work for all of them, trying to concentrate on their escape and on what was happening to them. Slowly - so gradually as to not be noticed unless one was paying very close attention - they'd come to care much more about the activities of the day than their situation. It took all of A-One and B-One's collective military persuasion to keep their people on task. Not that escape was currently an option. The large circular room could only be entered through one door, which could only be opened by one of the two Nbaru guards posted outside twenty-four and seven. Everything else the prisoners required was delivered through chutes in the wall, like high-tech dumbwaiters. Reliable intelligence of the facility was at an absolute premium. A-One was finding more and more that the allure of the daily activities - today it was appreciation of art, both Nbaru and human - was becoming stronger and stronger, and his interest in escaping and remaining a soldier was eroding slowly in the face of the nearly childlike delight he was beginning to feel about the lessons in painting, color, music and art. After a few more days of the same old nonsensical routine, the Fuzzies decided to add some new things to the mix. In the evenings, just after lights-out, strange lightshows began to play across the ceilings. They were like the ones in the original VR chamber in that they couldn't be tuned out no matter how hard the eyes were squeezed shut or the face was covered, and they left the prisoners punch-drunk and dazed for several minutes afterwards. The difference this time was that the soldiers could remember snippets and flashes from the mental barrage, but these leftovers made no more sense to them than the rest of the Fuzzy treatment. The men remembered flashes of seeing Marilyn Monroe, Cindy Crawford and Anna Nicole Smith, sometimes flashes of very erotic and graphically sexual performances, sometimes innocent scenes of women in hair and nail salons or department stores or sunning themselves poolside. The only real common thread in any of the visions was that they involved female presences. For the companionship-starved men, the images were welcome. Some even expressed regret that the binding, veined garments they wore wouldn't allow them to reach their sexual equipment. Only A-One and his former squadmates were able to keep any sort of perspective whatsoever, remaining focused on learning everything they were able about their captors and finding a way to escape and report back to their superiors. The Earth, below them, was waiting for the information and intelligence these men had, and A-One and his comrades patently refused to let them down. B-One and some of his subordinates were also able to keep focus, relying heavily on their intense military training to keep their minds free of the cloying distractions provided by the Fuzzies and remain committed to escape. But even the military discipline and focus couldn't protect them entirely from the Fuzzy conditioning. They were all finding it very difficult to concentrate on one thing for very long, they were much more easily distracted and easily led, and they were finding their speech peppered more with elaborations and tangents than with their usual military no-nonsense approach. They were even catching themselves interrupting themselves with interjections of "like" and "so" - very out of character for the businesslike soldiers - and talking with their hands. "I don't like it," A-One told his squadmates, now known as much by looks as their 'names' of A-Three, C-Two, C-Four and D-Five. The higher ups of the Texas resistance, the former colonel and his majors now known as B-One, A-Two, B-Five and C-One, were also present. They were seated in a big circle, picking colored cards from a pile between them and putting them together in pleasing combinations. All the men were pale and emaciated, smaller somehow, and the leeches on their necks hung down now to about mid-back, swinging pendulously under their heavy fluid-filled sacs. All of the men still seemed well-groomed - no scruffy growths of beard - but their hair and nails were all sadly in need of trimming. A-One, normally shorn close in a military high- and-tight haircut, now had curling tendrils of soft hair which tickled his neck, ears and the tops of his shoulders. It made him seem softer somehow, not as fierce-looking or capable as he had before. Not that he'd noticed. There were no mirrors or anything reflective in the chamber, and the others were too preoccupied to mention it to one another. Most of them shrugged off the growth of hair and nails as symptomatic of their imprisonment and figured the lack of facial hair growth was some by-product of the leeches, the suits or the gas. "Me neither, boss," C-Four, the hook-nosed man with the nickname replied. Funny how the hook in the nose, even the nose's size, didn't seem so prominent any more. His face was softer, like the lieutenant's, and starting to slim into a pleasant, even attractive aquiline shape. Framed by soft tendrils of sable brown hair, it almost made the soldier - pretty. The lieutenant checked an urge to tell his subordinate just that. Strange how the captivity had brought them closer together. The lieutenant found himself feeling very strong urges to put arms around his comrades to comfort or congratulate them, to compliment them for small victories during activity, and to remain close to them. The only time that feeling seemed to break down was when the Fuzzies were present, which was becoming less and less frequent. But when the catlike aliens were in the room, the lieutenant felt a fierce jealousy of any of his comrades who were able to get closer to their captors, any who were able to better attract their attention. It was raised to an almost frightening level. Mree, on an inspection of the prison, complimented the lieutenant on the grace of his walk in the strange magnetic boots. Not only did it make the others try infinitely harder to improve their walking skills, but it made the lieutenant walk with an exaggerated sway to his step to increase his grace and allure even more. And he couldn't entirely root out the desire to excel to attract more Nbaru attention. "And we don't know a damn thing more than we did, like, when we were first captured," C-Two, another squadmate said, idly twirling a lock of flaxen hair around one finger while arranging the color cards in an attractive set. All of the men sat on one hip, legs tucked around behind them, which was all the restricting garments would allow. "Oh God, I know," D-Five, their Hispanic heavy-weapons expert said in a blurting rush. "It's so, y'know, totally frustrating. We're totally blind in here." "We have to keep our minds focused on escaping," B-One said urgently. They'd been noticing that some of the prisoners were being affected more than others by their treatment, and B-One, the former colonel, was one of them. His thinning, graying hair was growing back in thick, lush and dark auburn and his skin was becoming very pale and smooth. The marks of age, his worry-lines and crow's-feet were disappearing rapidly as he lost weight at an almost alarming rate. But he seemed healthy enough - in fact, B- One had said on several occasions that he'd never felt better or had so much energy. "Ooh! It's almost gas time!" C-One said happily. "Took them long enough," D-Five grumped. A-One looked thunderstruck. "I've been looking forward to it as well," he said. "Every day, I almost set my internal clock by the gas. I think we're becoming, like, addicted to it." "No better way to control a prison population," B-One said. "They've been doing it for, y'know, years overseas. It's totally effective." "Which means we either have to wean ourselves off - which is, like, impossible in here - or we have to secure a supply of it so we can get out," A-Three said. "If we can even get out at all," said C-Two, screwing his face into a strange, pudgy-lipped expression. A-One was a little shocked to realize that his squadmate was pouting. A very sexy pout, to be precise. It made his lips beg to be kissed. With a supreme effort, A-One was able to focus through the distractible fog in his brain and start to put pieces together. They walked differently. They spoke differently, and their bodies were changing constantly. Weight loss, hair growth in some places and not in others. And the one that no one in the prison room really wanted to discuss openly. Their former physical reactions to the Nbaru were starting to tent out the front of the form-fitting garment they wore less and less every time. Some of the men weren't even tenting out the front at all any more, but all of them still very much felt the situation of a raging, urgent erection. "I think I know what's happening to us," A-One said to his comrades, eyes wide. Then the vents opened and the smoke poured out. All of his fellow prisoners breathed it in with profound, deep pleasure - A-One included. But this time there was something different. This time several sections of wall turned around on pivots, revealing banks of drawers and medical apparatus. As soon as the gas dissipated, the door opened and a flood of Nbaru entered - more than any of them had seen in their prison room at one time before. The Fuzzy soldiers grabbed the prisoners roughly and hoisted them to their booted feet, shoving them roughly to their cots near the walls and down onto their backs. No words were spoken by their captors. They only forced each of the prisoners back onto their cots, restrained their hands and feet, then stepped away. After a panicky, indeterminate time, A-One's face was obscured by the grinning feline visage of Mree. The presence of the tall Nbaru made the lieutenant's body throb and ache in a way that could almost be described as delicious. He placed a strong hand on A-One's exposed shoulder and the lieutenant began tingling all over from the touch. "You are too intelligent for your own good," the Nbaru told him. "You were not supposed to know what was happening to you and your fellows. Now I must make the process unpleasant, which saddens me." "What are you going to do to us?" A-One asked. "Silence," the Nbaru hissed, his eyes slitting in a sinister way but making A-One more and more inflamed and desirous. "Whatever we do to you and your fellows, understand this one thing: it is your fault. You should have kept silent, human. Now all must suffer." Mree straightened and gestured to an unseen subordinate. A- One sensed some sort of machinery behind his head, gently removing the swinging weight of the neck-leech with a strange popping sound. The restrictive garment was pumping furiously, becoming warm with the effort. A-One felt the release of the boots from his feet and calves - a strange feeling of lightness and near-pain now that their constant presence was now gone. A strange, reflective bowl moved into position over his face and he felt something cold and slimy pressed against his shoulder. "Remember, this is your doing, human," Mree said one more time. "Carry that with you when you're in the darkness." The Nbaru spoke abruptly to another unseen aide. "Activate D Group." The shouts and screams of his companions made A-One's heart break. He thrashed against his bonds, gritting his teeth and growling as he struggled futilely to break free. "Activate C Group," the Nbaru commanded. "Let this one hear their screams." Desire and conditioning couldn't hold back A-One's anguish. "You Fuzzy bastard..." "Activate B Group." More screams. "I'll kill you! I swear to God..." The reflective bowl lowered over A-One's face, restricting the movement of his head. Strange, organic-feeling tendrils snaked into his nose and open mouth, turning his shouts of defiance into muffled, gurgling growls. "Activate A Group," the Nbaru commanded. A-One's world dissolved into a relentless sea of burning pain.