"Ninety seconds to weapons range," N'Trol reported from the Tactics console.
Three of the needles peeled off, dropping away. The other two continued straight toward Implacable.
"Message to ground force," said L'Wrona. "'Be advised three enemy interceptors on heading Terra. Message ends.'
"Stand by to engage. Independent fire."
An instant later the serenity of space was torn by streaking missile and probing beam.
****
"Here they come!" cried D'Nir, looking up from the portable detector screen.
D'Trelna bounded from K'Raoda's side to the detector. A quick look was all he needed.
"Tactical," he snapped. "Everyone get below. We're about to be blasted by S'Cotar fighters."
"I'm getting too old for this," wheezed McShane as he and John ran from the hilltop down the rocky path to the tunnel's blasted entrance. The passageway was filled with tense men adjusting warsuits and checking weapons. There was little conversation.
From his position at the detector screen, D'Trelna watched as the sleek black fighters dived on Goose Hill, dropped small glowing orbs of destruction, then wheeled, clawing for altitude as the greatest explosion yet rocked the hill.
"That's to cut off our retreat!" shouted the Captain above the roar. John and Bob burst into the room.
"The proverbial kitchen sink?" asked Bob.
"Small version of a planetbuster," D'Trelna said. "Very small."
K'Raoda was still coolly entering series after series of Imperial computer codes into the terminal as fast as they flashed over the screen from Implacable's archives.
D'Trelna alerted the men waiting in the passageway. "Any second now they'll start materializing. Good luck." Drawing his sidearm, he checked it, then laid it carefully on the console.
"And good luck to you, old friend," said John, leaving to join Zahava and Greg in the tunnel. He gave the older man a fond hug.
"Keep your head down," growled the professor. "You haven't got your degree yet.
"How close do they have to be to teleport, Captain?" he asked, turning to the officer as the door slid shut.
"Technically, from anywhere on the planet or in orbit. But I'll bet their staging area is nearby. They have to rally transmutes and warriors from across Terra, brief them and launch a coordinated attack. Nearby." He nodded.
"And, Professor, they'll be very damned good."
****
John and Zahava stood diagonally opposite each other in the passageway, a pattern repeated one hundred yards to either side of the transport room.
(K'Raoda, briefly leaving his post to help position the men, had cheerfully told Zahava the formation's name: Last Ditch Gambit. "Delays but never stops them.")
Each end of the formation was anchored by two small, floating spheres, constantly patrolling back and forth, up and down. Six more of the machines guarded the length and breadth of the vaulted ceiling above the men's heads. On their usefulness the Captain had had a few words earlier.
"Good only for the first wave or two, but they will take the edge from the enemy's advantage of surprise.
"After thirty seconds, the guard spheres will self-destruct- the S'Cotar can reprogram small robots. We'd be cut down by our own guns."
The S'Cotar were in the corridor, firing as they materialized.
John snapped a shot into the nearest warrior. The bolt burned through a mandible, boring into the alien's brain. Dying, its twitching tentacles sent a deadly blue beam glancing harmlessly off John's warsuit. As the insectoid fell, he turned, parrying a knife thrust with his rifle.
The pattern of one-on-one combat was being repeated the length of the passageway, as hellish energies again gouged into the scarred tunnel rock, blasting through flesh and stone with impunity.
The guard spheres, their time up, died, sinking to the floor with a soft whoosh. One landed next to where Greg and a warrior fought, the man trying to keep the insectoid's pincers from his throat, the alien straining to keep the other's knife from its gut.
The battle soon disintegrated as more and more S'Cotar arrived, the humans disappearing beneath struggling piles of S'Cotar.
The corridor nearly secured, a party of warriors directed by a transmute began working on the transport room door, burning into it with a large, semiportable blaster.
"Not long now," said D'Trelna, watching the battle on his monitor. Picking up his blaster, he turned to face the now-glowing door.
McShane lifted a rifle from beside K'Raoda and quietly joined Implacable's Captain. "Civilization, my friend, usually requires old men to die quietly, antiseptically. I thank you for letting me go with good friends in an epic stand for humanity. It's something given to few." He clicked the safety off.
"Sir!" called K'Raoda, looking up. "I think-"
"Might as well draw your sidearm and join us, Subcom-mander," said D'Trelna. His eyes were riveted on the door, now glowing a fierce red. Waves of heat washed into the room. "Keep to one side. They've got a semi going."
"Captain," the Tactics Officer said sharply, not obeying, "I've received an acknowledgment from-"
The S'Cotar were gone.
Like that.
After a stunned moment, those of the defenders who could rise did so, looking uncertainly about.
"Where'd they go?" called Sutherland, helping Bakunin out from under a dead warrior. The KGB officer retrieved his blade from the S'Cotar's thorax, wiping it on the corpse and returning it to his boot sheath.
"Far, far away, I hope," he said wearily.
"You can thank Subcommander K'Raoda for our deliverance," said D'Trelna, exiting through the still-smoldering but operable transport room doorway. "He seems to have aroused the computer."
"Indeed he has, Captain," said a deep, resonant voice. It was the same rich contralto Zahava, Bob, Greg and John had last heard ordering them into the transport web. "I've sent the S'Cotar where they'll do no further harm."
"Identify yourself," snapped D'Trelna, looking about. He could spot no speakers anywhere, yet the voice filled the corridor.
"I am Planetary Operations Control System, Mode Six, programmed by the Imperial Colonial Service on K'Ronar, Imperium 2028," the unruffled voice responded.
K'Raoda's jaw dropped. "Captain, that was…"
"I know. Five thousand years ago, more or less. "Where did you send the S'Cotar, computer?"
"My operational acronym is POCSYM Six, Captain. As for the enemy, they've been placed in the center of the sun."
"Why did you take so long to respond?" demanded K'Raoda.
"Can you defend this planet against further attack?" the Captain asked.
"Please, gentlemen," demurred POCSYM. "First let me assure you that there is no further danger of direct assault.
"Secondly, with your permission, let me convey the dead and wounded to Implacable and yourselves to comfortable quarters, where we can talk."
D'Trelna cast a glance at where two medics, Terran and K'Ronarin, were doing what they could for the wounded- fully a fifth of the human force. He tried to ignore the still, shrouded forms lying along the wall, but couldn't.
"All right." The Captain sighed. "But I must speak with my ship."
"You're already in touch with them, Captain," said POCSYM. "Every word of this conversation and a video are being transmitted to your bridge."
"D'Trelna to Implacable. What is your status?"
L'Wrona's voice filled not just the commnet but the air as well. "All secure, sir. All enemy craft disappeared-they didn't go into hyperspace. They just vanished. Could POCSYM have-"
"You assume correctly, Commander L'Wrona. I transported all attack craft to the same place as their ground force."
"Pouff!" exclaimed Bakunin, with a gesture.
"'Pouff to many familiar things soon, Colonel," said Sutherland, tiredly removing his helmet. "Including, I suspect, the dictatorship of the proletariat."
"Very well," D’Trelna said. "Transport when ready."
The Go
ose Hill site stood empty.
"'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,'" quoted McShane, opening his eyes.
His first impression was of a big room awash with sunlight, the air redolent of roses. Baroque music was playing.
Looking around, he filled in the gaps: the room was large, comfortably furnished in flawlessly sculpted teak, a long, luxuriant table its centerpiece; there were roses, four bouquets of American beauties gracing the side tables beneath bay windows; and it was music of the Baroque period, possibly Vivaldi. No devotee of the period, McShane reserved judgment.
"Vivaldi, I think," said John. "One of the Seasons."
The others, equally tattered, tired and begrimed, stood silently drinking in the room's subdued elegance. John glanced out a window and started.
"Who are those men?" he asked. "And what are they building?"
They all turned to look. In a hollow, perhaps a mile away, thousands of tiny figures labored atop three huge stone terraces, busily constructing a fourth.
"Nabopolassar throws a tower to heaven in honor of Mar-duk," said POCSYM. "When it's done, it will have eight stories totaling two hundred and eighty-eight feet and contain a statue of Marduk cast in twenty-six tons of pure gold. It will be thrown down by Xerxes, pondered over by Alexander and partially restored by Koldewy."
"The Tower of Babel," breathed McShane.
"Yes, Professor," POCSYM confirmed. "Etemenanki- the Tower of Babel. Classical hubris at its height. I thought it might entertain you.
"I have videos of all major human works and disasters of the past fifty centuries. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah is particularly affecting, but not before dinner, which now awaits."
Turning back to the room, they saw the table now groaning under a vast selection of steaming entrees, some Terran, some K'Ronarin.
"I've attempted to select food from each culture which would be palatable to the other," said POCSYM.
"POCSYM," John said wearily, "we've no wish to be impolite, but we are a bit travel-stained." Their warsuits were caked with green slime and dirt. "Might we wash up?"
"Of course, Mr. Harrison. I've been remiss as a host.
"Through the door"-an exit appeared where a wall had been-"are the old staff quarters. Each room has toilet facilities. Two men to a room."
As they filed out, POCSYM added, "No need to hurry-I'll put the food in stasis." The steam stopped in midrise over the food.
"Actually, this works out rather well," said the computer, its voice accompanying them down the broad, mosaic-tiled corridor. "The wines will have a chance to breathe."
****
"This can't be five thousand years old!" protested Greg, waving his long-stemmed crystal wineglass. "It looks new."
Something light, airy and Viennese played merrily in the background: Roses from the South.
"All but my basic monitoring and defense clusters were in stasis until just before dinner, Mr. Farnesworth," said POCSYM. "Although on a very passive, almost subconscious level, I was observing your group's activities."
"You avoided a question before dinner, POCSYM," said the Captain, eating what Zahava was sure must be either sau-teed eel or snake. Like the rest, he now wore coveralls bearing the insignia of the Imperial Colonial Service: clasped hands surmounting a silver-wreathed planet.
"Why did you wait so long to intervene? You saw our casualties."
"I regret the delay, Captain," the earnest baritone responded. "But it took some while to determine that you were actually the legitimate heirs to the Imperium and then to activate my defense circuits. Recall that I've been on standby for fifty centuries."
"Can you defend Terra?" asked Sutherland.
"Can and have, sir, within certain limitations, but only if so ordered by the senior K'Ronarin officer."
"So ordered," said D’Trelna between mouthfuls.
"Where are we now?" John asked, pushing away the chicken Kiev and pouring himself another glass of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild 1947.
"Colonial Service's first Operations center on the planet. One of the better port facilities on Terra and a natural trading center. You are two miles below the Isle of Manhattan."
****
Despite the wonder of it all, excited talk soon gave way to nodding heads and slurred syllables: food, drink and exhaustion combined to send the humans, singly and in groups, filtering from the dining area to their rooms.
Leaving hand in hand, John and Zahava were almost to their door when POCSYM asked, "Care for a history lesson?"
"Not tonight," said Zahava as the door slid open. "We're tired."
"I can instruct as you sleep. Subliminal teaching is both effective and painless."
"Fine," said John, following Zahava into the room. "See you in the morning-or whatever." The door closed.
"Pardon my Jewish paranoia," Zahava whispered a few minutes later, slipping her dark nakedness into John's bunk, "but is POCSYM our only ticket out of here?"
"Sure sounds like it," he said, sliding a hand down her slim back till it rested atop a soft, round cheek. He gave a fond squeeze. "I didn't see an exit sign. We'd best be nice to him… it."
"You're supposed to be exhausted," Zahava said as John's other hand came into play.
"Most of me is," he confided, pulling her on top of him.
"Satyr," she whispered huskily as his hands caressed her.
The lights dimmed discreetly out.
Stephen Ames Berry
The Biofab War
Chapter 13
Huge, silent, the ships landed at night, far from the great river valleys with their rude villages. Disgorging armies of men and machines, they left-all but three.
It was a task of years before flaring energy beams and deep-set atomics finished the enormous caverns that would house the Project. By then the Staff had begun.
Men would disappear from their hovels, reappearing months later to speak slowly and strongly of new ideas, new gods, of better ways to live. At first some of them were killed, denounced as heretics, witches, devils. But most lived on to change the lives of their peoples. And once it was known that those who opposed the new men died-always of natural causes-effective resistance ceased.
The seed had been sown.
Through the centuries it was carefully nurtured and cultivated, becoming the root from which civilization sprang. The arts and sciences came into being and flourished. Temples and monuments were raised. Priesthoods and dynasties were founded, growing into greatness. The time for cross-fertilization had come.
Trade, before confined to land and coastal routes, now spread across the great waters, aided by new discoveries and navigation: devices that always showed a true heading, and simple instruments to determine position by sun and stars.
Often, touching upon some strange new shore, the mariners found their gods already there, housed in familiar small temples. And nearby hunters, farmers and fishermen, friendly and eager to trade.
Among the natives there lived, invariably, one man who spoke the mariners' language and knew their customs: the village shaman, versed in the ways of the gods the two peoples found they shared.
Goods and ideas flowed smoothly, the seafarers sharing the techniques of the Bronze Age with the landsmen. Their culture came, over the centuries, to resemble more and more that of the mariners.
Bonds of kinship developed through intermarriage. What often began as an arrangement between two peoples would become a trading confederation, expanding until it met other confederations with similar origins. In time, these allied confederations bound a continent. All prospered.
East across the ocean went gold, copper, silver, furs and hides. West came bronze tools, weapons, luxury goods.
An objective analysis of this cultural melding would have shown that at each critical stage, either a shaman in the West or a high priest in the East-or both-served as a catalyst. But the only social scientists around were themselves orchestrating the process.
The time came, at
last, to begin the next Phase: technological refinements designed to tighten the bonds between East and West, eventually urbanizing the westerners. Steam engines and storage batteries were "invented" simultaneously in several eastern kingdoms. Before they could be refined, however, the Recall came.
It was the Senior Developmental Anthropologist's final year of his twenty-year tour on the planet. He took pride in the fact that of all preceding S.D. A. 's, his was one of only three stewardships under which a Phase had begun. The preparation had taken a long, hard decade. He was looking forward to his return to D'Lin, headquarters of the Colonial Service, and a well-earned retirement to a small, verdant archipelago on a water world of Sector Yellow.
The anthropologist, whose name was R'Garna, looked up, startled at the four beeps preceding an emergency subspace message. A holograph of the Colonial Minister, his face lined and haggard, filled the wall.
"This is a general address message." Despite a distance of hundreds of light-years, the equipment faithfully recreated his exhausted tone. "All stations, all sections, all commands will cease operations at once and fall back to D'Lin.
"Rebel forces have overrun all but Sectors Green and Yellow. Use extreme caution-the loyalty of all forces but the Home Fleet is in doubt. God save the Emperor. Good luck." His image dissolved.
R'Garna sighed deeply, sadly shaking his balding head. Old age had finally caught up with the K'Ronarin Empire. Sector governors had been seceding-successfully-for the past fifty years. The Recall could only mean that last month's rumor of a savage mauling of the Home Fleet by Z'Kalan rebels under ex-Governor S'Tren was true.
As a social scientist, the S.D.A. saw no end to the accelerating collapse of Pax Galactica. Anarchy would reign, and then would begin a long, painful climb back to the stars. He'd been careful to keep this opinion from the omnipresent ears of Security.
R'Garna knew also, as a veteran of two multifleet "police actions," that should he live to reach D'Lin, his reserve commission would be quickly activated. He had grave doubts about ever seeing his lush archipelago.
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