The Battle for Terra Two

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Starting the engine was no problem, but it took him a long moment to puzzle out the ordnance control. The first sentries were less than ten yards away when he swiveled the port gatling guns, firing high.

  Scattering, the troopers fired back, slugs pinging off the duraplast armor as reinforcements charged off the elevators. Firing low and continuously, John revved the engine, pulling the Bushmaster up at a sharp right angle, then swept back, rocketing the heliport with a full rack of red-tipped incendiaries.

  “Impressive,” said Aldridge, watching on an Operations monitor: choppers exploding, fuel from each triggering the next, their tracers and rockets tearing through the troopers trying to fight the flames.

  The floor rumbled as shock waves ripped through the building. The monitors flickered and died.

  “Can’t we take that renegade’s chopper out?” Zur Linde turned to the AirDef tech.

  “Negative.” The sergeant nodded at a small screen, dancing with green fuzz. “Fire’s knocked out all the radar. Arm those SAMs and they’ll blow—they’re heat seekers.”

  “Jettison those Hauzahns, Eric,” ordered Aldridge, “before they chew our top off.”

  “Do it,” said zur Linde. The great building shook as missile after unarmed missile tore away, roaring blindly into the sky.

  The watch officer turned to zur Linde. “Fire’s out of control, sir. Captain Grady reports the napalm’s about to go. He’s ordered fireguard down two levels. And all radio communication’s out.”

  “Why is there napalm on the heliport, Erich?” Aldridge fixed the German with his iciest glare. More explosions shook the room.

  “We were going to use it this afternoon, sir. I wanted to try a technique we perfected on the Bantu. It—”

  Aldridge turned to the watch officer. “Evacuation, Bravo Plan. And phone Copley and Harbor substations—assuming the underground lines are intact. Advise our situation, order up choppers.”

  “Erich, get—” The door slid open, admitting a begrimed Captain Grady, uniform singed. “Useless, Colonel,” he coughed. “Top two levels are gone. It’ll be here in thirty, forty minutes.”

  “Nothing you could do, Jack,” said Aldridge, laying a hand on Grady’s shoulder. “Get your men down to motorpool level. We’ll deploy into the killzone and await the choppers.”

  “Colonel.” The watch officer set the securfone down. “Major Sardon reports a general assault across the red line. They started probing as soon as they saw our smoke. BOSCO’s blind and the gangers know it. The major’s thrown a defense perimeter around the techno enclaves. He thinks he can hold until dark—if he keeps all his choppers.”

  A pall settled over the room.

  Aldridge slowly polished his bifocals, then wrapped them back around his long ears. “Then we’ll have to march out and face the enemy, just like real soldiers.”

  “That’s five miles through ganger turf, Colonel,” said Grady.

  “Thank you, Jack. You may recall that zur Linde and I are only ones who have ever taken a foot patrol through any part of ganger turf?”

  A throat cleared.

  “We have armor, gentlemen. The gangers don’t.”

  “They’ve got good antitank weapons, Colonel. And the terrain favors them.”

  Aldridge shrugged. “You can fight beside me, like men, or die here like cattle. Your choice.” He walked to the door, then turned. “Erich, get everyone down to the motorpool. Full combat uniform. Get the armor ready to roll. Deactivate the minefields. I’ll join you in fifteen minutes.”

  Fort Todd’s five granite bastions commanded Boston’s inner harbor. Her rusting cannon had been silent over a century when John’s chopper passed the weathered parapet, setting down on the island’s weed-choked parade ground.

  Running from the durable stone headquarters, Heather reached the gunship as John cut the engine and jumped out, triumphantly waving the microfiche.

  “Idiot!” she shrieked, delicate high-boned cheeks read with fury. “Did you start that?” She stabbed a finger toward the distant city.

  Confused, John turned, looking to where a great column of thick, black smoke billowed out over the harbor. “Sure I did! If I hadn’t hit their heliport, we wouldn’t have this.” He handed her the Maximus fiche.

  “I’d sacrifice this to stop what you’ve set in motion.” Calming, she led him back toward the headquarters building.

  “And that is?”

  “A sweep. A fully bloody air and armor sweep of turf.” They stepped inside.

  Decades of water had stained the walls mucous-yellow, dropping great chunks of moldy plaster down onto the warped, broad-beamed floor. Heather perched atop a battered gray metal desk. “Tell me about it,” she said, ankle-crossed legs swinging over the edge.

  “OK,” she said when he’d finished, “let’s make the best of it. If we assault Maximus, we’ll do it during the sweep. It’ll pull both New England divisions into Boston.”

  “If?” asked John, raising an eyebrow. “You mean when, don’t you, Heather?”

  Leaving the desk, she rummaged through an equipment stack, extracting a compact metal case. “We work for you, John. You don’t own us.” She plugged the case into one of the generator leads snaking the floor. “Ian was a dedicated CIA officer. He saw the Outfit as a counterforce to a lot that’s wrong with this society—endless warfare here and abroad, pervasive German influence. He thought maybe, just maybe, the Agency could help bring us back from the broken, soulless nation we’ve become.”

  Unfolded on the desktop, the case became a microfilm viewer. She turned it on, slipping in the film.

  “What are you telling me, Heather?”

  She looked up from the machine. “I’m telling you I’m not taking my kids up against that horror in the mountains just because I’m told to. Life is too short and hard here. I’m not making it any shorter or harder without damn good reason.”

  How about two universes? He wanted to say. Logic, he thought. Good old half-step, Aristotelian logic. “What if the microfilm shows Maximus to be a clear and deadly danger to us all, Heather? Then will you support my mission?”

  “Sure.” She turned back to the viewer. “Let’s see if there’s ‘clear and deadly danger.’”

  Her slim fingers made a delicate adjustment to the viewer, transforming a blurred diagram into a sharp-featured map of Maximus. “You realize with BOSCO down, UC’s sensor ring’s gone. They’ll have to deploy every chopper, every company to try and protect the technos. Aldridge and his thugs may have to fight their way through turf. God! I’d love to see that!”

  “We can’t stay here much longer, Colonel,” said zur Linde, worriedly eyeing the smoke wafting into the cavernous motorpool.

  Aldridge nodded, pacing slowly in front of the four assembled companies, drawn up at parade rest. He glanced at his watch. “We might have ten minutes before the roof drops on us, Erich. If I don’t get a recon report from Copley in five minutes, we roll blind.” He stopped pacing. “Best mount up.”

  Zur Linde saluted then executed a textbook about-face. “Company commanders, move your men into the vehicles,” he ordered. No one needed any encouragement, scrambling into the APC’s and tanks.

  Zur Linde turned back to Aldridge. “What about the detainees, Colonel?”

  Two levels below were some three hundred prisoners, the unfortunate Mr. Blackstone among them. Most were being held for interrogation, evaluation as organ donors, or pending transfer to work camps.

  The colonel shrugged, hopefully jiggling his handset. Nothing. “Killed tragically in the fire.” He looked up. “On second thought, get Blackstone out and give him a weapon. He can take his chances with the rest of us. Any man who survived that hell at Shimoda doesn’t deserve to die like a smoked rat.” He lifted the handset as the German gave the necessary orders.

  “Copley. Aldridge. Get me Major Sardon.” In a minute he was listening without expression to the Copley commander. “I see, Terry. No, I understand. Do what you can. We’ll get out. />
  “Sardon’s being forced back, Erich. Most of our choppers are down. It’s Der Tag, my friend. Let’s roll.”

  Grim-faced, zur Linde ran for his own tank as Aldridge headed for the lead M80, scrambling spryly up its side and down into the turret. Thick, toxic smoke was pouring through the ceiling vents into the motorpool.

  Over a hundred armored vehicles coughed to life as the great blast doors atop the ramp swung open. Burning debris showered the column as it gunned up and out, thundering over the dead mines.

  Behind them, the roof and upper stories crashed down in slow, booming majesty, a story at a time. The prisoners heard the fiery avalanche coming an eternal moment before it struck. Some screamed, some prayed, some wet themselves—all died. The column snaked down the hill and into the morning.

  Heather looked up from the microviewer. “They’re mad. Stark, raving mad.” She shook her head, still not believing. “Know anything about quantum mechanics?”

  “Black holes, alternate universes, stuff like that?”

  She nodded.

  John shook his head. “Just a dumb spook.”

  “Yeah, with a Ph.D. in history. Listen, Professor Spook, there’s no law of physics mandating the singularity of time or space. And there’s some evidence, for those who care to see it, of an infinite series of alternate universes, some alien beyond our comprehension, others possibly different from our own only by my not having said ‘possibly.’ And if these alternate realities exist, they can be reached, given the right technology.”

  John nodded. “Based on this,” he tapped the viewer, “you think Maximus is a gateway from an alternate reality?”

  “Maybe. It’s not a natural occurrence. It just appeared, two years ago. A research facility was promptly constructed around it. And judging from the file reports, the crew up there still have no idea what it is—this despite early use of human subjects to probe the phenomenon. I mean, really, look at these reports. Much initial excitement, everyone wanting a crack at it, then nothing.”

  “The reports are almost the same after the first year. Verbatim.”

  Checking, she saw he was right. Maximus’s staff kept sending the same negative reports, with only superficial changes in text. “Something’s very wrong up there,” she said. “It’s almost as though the phenomenon’s manipulating the experiment.”

  Their eyes met. “Then the Vipers will support my mission, Dr. MacKenzie?”

  “Yes, Major Harrison. Once the situation in the city becomes clear.”

  The UC battalion’s route of march took it through the heart of Lord’s turf. Bull watched from a tenement roof as the column wound through Roxbury’s broken streets.

  Midmorning usually found kids playing in the rusting junk cars, women trudging to and from water and food points. Not today. The dilapidated three-decker houses were hushed, the streets empty. Nothing moved, no dogs barked. Even the rats were still, hiding from the rising throb of powerful engines, the crunch of broken glass under clanking treads.

  “Shit. Only fifty tanks, rest APCs,” said Bull’s lieutenant, called Chop for his karate-calloused hands. “We can take ‘em.” Hundreds of gangers paralleled the convoy, well-ordered platoons skillfully leap-frogging through alleys and over rubble.

  Bull shook his head. A big man, rippling with muscle, he’d come to Roxbury from Chicago’s South Side three years before. His finely honed street smarts and instinctive grasp of infantry tactics had soon put him at the head of the Lords. Over the top of his flak vest, gold chains glinted against rich ebony skin. “They’ve got trouble.” He nodded at the column, nearing their camouflaged bunker. “Hit ‘em,” his voice rumbled, “then two, maybe three days, gonna be a sweep—wipe a few more miles an’ couple thousand niggers to make an ex-sam-ple. Pass ‘em,” he ordered.

  Zur Linde radioed to Aldridge, “Ground sensors show hostiles all around us, Colonel. About five hundred, armed tank killers and automatic weapons.”

  “If they haven’t opened up yet, Erich, they probably won’t,” said Aldridge. “But we can’t take that chance. All strategy’s predicated on enemy capability, not perceived intent. Kill them.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Zur Linde switched to the command channel. “Manatee Leader to Manatee Pack. Execute Golf Alpha Sierra.”

  “What are they doing?” asked Chop, suspiciously eyeing the tanks as they slowed, turrets swinging, cannon cranking too high to hit the gangers.

  Bull grabbed the radio. “Hit the tanks! Fire!”

  The first shells burst overhead with a dull Whump, vomiting greasy, grayish-yellow clouds that drifted gently down.

  Rocket volleys answered from all sides, some hitting just so, where turret met body. Twelve of the M80s went up, volatile chemical munitions flaming blue, melting metal and turning men to ash. There was no second volley.

  Shrouded in the oily, yellow pall, the column rolled slowly through Roxbury, firing methodically, cloaking itself in the slimy mist.

  Seeping into cellars, attics, rough-hewn bunkers, the gas brought ethereal calm to young and old, male and female, animal and human. There’d be no rat problem for a while.

  Bull carried Chop well away from the death zone, blood from the smaller man’s orifices trickling unnoticed down his flak jacket and clothes. “Hey, man,” he said, gently lowering his friend to the floor of the old elementary school, now an impromptu mortuary-hospital. Chop tried to speak, but managed only a rasping, wet gurgle. Shouting for a medic, Bull stood, speaking into the radio. “This is Bull. What’s it like?”

  It was bad. At least three hundred gangers dead. No one yet knew how many civilians. “Old folks, kids, dogs,” reported a woman dully. “We’re goin’ in as it clears, doin’ what we can. “You gonna let ‘em get ‘way with this, Bull?” she demanded, tone suddenly vibrant with hate.

  “No way,” he said softly. “Put out a call on the Viper channel. Get me Heather Mac.”

  Moving at the same careful pace, the convoy reached a deserted Copley Square at twilight, halting before the Italianate masterpiece that was the Boston Public Library. The cobblestone square should have been awash with the early evening theater crowd, the cafes crowded.

  Not tonight. The rattle of machine-gun fire had sent many of the urban pioneers scurrying north over the expressway, until mortars atop Bunker Hill had mangled the evacuation, sealing the technos into their enclaves. Now they huddled in their townhomes and condos, as much afraid of UC’s shoot-to-kill curfew as of the approaching rage.

  Aldridge mounted the worn granite steps of the library, turning to face the troopers forming up between the fountain and stairs. Homo fascis, he thought, watching the black-uniformed, starhelmed troopers dressdown, each indistinguishable from the next save by position. You were wrong, Plato: The best guardians of the State aren’t like obedient watchdogs; they’re automatons, as much a machine as the needs of the psyche allow.

  “At ease.” His dry voice cracked over them like a whip. “You’ve done well,” he said, a microphone carrying his voice into every helmet. “But it’s not over yet. With the red line breached and the Army hours away, it’s going to be a long night. You’ll be assigned to this and the harbor subgarrison, maintaining zonal integrity. I know you’ll acquit yourselves as honorably as you did today. Good luck.”

  Returning Grady’s salute, he and zur Linde entered the library, heading down into the basement command post. The distant gunfire faded as the elevator’s blastdoors closed.

  “Hardly Pompey’s battle oration, was it, Erich?” the colonel said as the elevator sank.

  “Adequate, sir, if not enduring,” said the German. The doors opened. Stepping into the CP, his became a gray uniform in a sea of black. Colors shifted, swirled and reformed on the big situation board as reports came. Alarms competed for attention.

  The two stopped as a hollow-eyed officer came up, saluting Aldridge. “Status, Sardon?” asked the colonel, sketching a salute.

  “Not good, sir, as you can see.” They turne
d toward the board. Tired as he was, the Copley CO’s voice was crisp, efficient. “Three projected breakthroughs—Brookline, the South and North Ends.” As he spoke, three red gashes moved deeper into the map’s green.

  “Any hint it’s a coordinated attack?” asked zur Linde.

  “No,” said Sardon, absently running his fingers through his thinning, close-cropped hair. “but that doesn’t help. That Brookline incursion’s headed straight for here. My Charlie and Delta companies are fighting house-to-house less than a mile away. And losing. Those animals are born urban warriors.”

  “Any gunships at all?” asked Aldridge, turning from the board.

  “None.”

  The lights and air wavered, died, came back up.

  “Got the mains,” someone called as the ground shook. “We’re on no-break.”

  “Make that half a mile,” said Sardon, stating the distance to the Edison plant.

  “Get some napalm down on them, Erich,” said Aldridge. “I’ll authorize air strikes. Also, have Air Command hit all turfs. We may go down, but so will the gangers.”

  Zur Linde frowned. “Simultaneous napalming of so much of the city might trigger firestorms, sir. Remember Leningrad and the Japanese cities.”

  Aldridge shrugged. Raising his voice, he spoke to the small group of officers his presence had attracted. “Recall, gentlemen, that Urban Command is an instrument of both domestic and foreign policy. We’re not merely suppressing insurrection. We’re also sending a message to Moscow, a firm demonstration of our resolve. If ever the Kremlin is convinced that the Alliance will flinch when attacked, anywhere, anytime, by anyone, then the West and five hundred years of humanism dies. Our willingness to incinerate many of our best people, to destroy one of our great cultural centers, can only be seen as a stand against barbarism. Never forget, gentlemen,” he concluded with quiet passion, “it is we valiant few who hold back the long night.

  “Sardon, coordinate with Erich. Erich, call in those air strikes.”