The Battle for Terra Two

by Stephen Ames Berry

Turning, the commodore stared at the advancing green mass. “Run!”

  McShane had never seen Detrelna run, couldn’t have imagined it. But there he was, a small tank plowing down the trail, even putting some space between him and the Terran. I’ll be damned, thought McShane, wheezing. There’s muscle under there.

  The trail turned hard right after a few moments, ending at a massive wall of unmortared stone. Great mist-wreathed boulders vanished above and to sides, swallowed by the fog. A wall made by giants when the world was young, thought McShane.

  “Blasters?” he asked, panting. From behind, drawing closer, came a serpentine slithering as hundreds of meters of green death slid down the trail.

  “Blasters,” said Detrelna, unslinging his rifle and clicking off the safety. The two men faced about, back to the wall, waiting.

  “How long will the chargpaks last?” asked McShane.

  “As garden trimmers? Not long. This is classic,” added the commodore, eyes on the turn in the trail. “Classical, really.”

  “How so?”

  “Prespace mythology. Seeking Sanctuary, Prince Agan slips through Death’s Forest. The Forest pursues. Agan reaches the Sanctuary wall, but can’t enter without speaking the Word-of-One. A word he doesn’t know. He faces about, back to the wall, sword in hand.”

  “Do you know the word?”

  “Of course.” Detrelna frowned, half turning his head toward McShane. “Every child on Shtar . . .”

  “Say it, man!” snapped McShane. “Just like your Prince Agan! Hurry.”

  Detrelna could take orders as well as give them. Turning, rifle held two-handed over his head, he cried “L’Asorg!” in the Old Tongue. High and lilting, the word rang from the wall.

  Blaster to his shoulder, McShane fired at the first creepers as they rounded the trail, aiming where they grew close and thick.

  Splashing against an invisible barrier, the stream of red blaster bolts dissipated.

  “Shielded! Detrelna, it’s . . .”

  A hand to his shoulder turned him. “Come on,” snapped the commodore, pointing to the tunnel that now pierced the wall.

  They ran the few meters, the creepers snapping so close McShane could feel the air stir.

  A brief impression of darkness, a passageway and they were through, grass beneath their feet, the mist thinner, the air pleasant and cool. Turning, they saw that the wall closed behind them.

  “How did you know?” asked the commodore.

  “Key words,” said McShane, leaning on his blastrifle. “Demented. Club. Classical. We’re performers in a psychodrama, Jaquel. Only it’s the producer who’s mad—a producer with some knowledge of the classics.”

  “Main computer, of course,” sighed Detrelna. “I should have seen it.”

  “We both should . . .”

  “Thee hath found uncertain sanctuary, Agan,” boomed a voice.

  The big golden egg floated toward them out of the mist, a purple cape fastened just below its top by twin metallic strands.

  Stopping a few meters from the two men, it hovered noiselessly.

  “What the hell is that?” said McShane. “A Nibelung?”

  “It would appear to be a large talking egg,” said the commodore, watching the egg. “One wearing a cape and with some knowledge of prespace mythology.”

  “Detrelna!”

  “It’s the main computer, Professor.”

  “Why isn’t it bolted down somewhere, computing?”

  “It was designed as a mobile unit. If the battle went against the defenders, they could still control the ship’s basic systems.” The machine sat unmoving.

  “We never did look for it, you know,” said Detrelna, watching the computer. “We were busy, and it did what it wanted, so why look for it?” He sounded apologetic.

  “It’s not armed, is it?” asked McShane uneasily.

  “Not even the Imperials would be crazy enough to arm a computer.”

  “Why not? They were crazy enough to build mindslavers!”

  “Time to take charge here, Bob.”

  Detrelna cleared his throat. “Computer,” he said in his best command voice, “I am Commodore Jaquel Detrelna. As senior Kronarin officer insystem, I direct you to turn over to me . . .”

  The golden bolt struck midway between the computer and the men, blasting a hole through the fake turf, scarring the battlesteel below. “Silence, Agan!”

  “It’s armed. And it’s cracked,” said McShane.

  “Certainly is.” Detrelna looked shaken.

  “No, there,” McShane pointed, “just to the left of the cape. See?”

  Detrelna saw it then—a jagged hairline crack running diagonally from beneath the garment.

  “Know, Agan, that thee hath fled to thy death, for I am K’Lyta, thy father’s brother. Much wrong hath thee done me, slaying my children.”

  “What’s the rest of the legend, Jaquel?” asked McShane, his grip on the rifle suddenly sweaty.

  Detrelna spoke low and fast. “Agan is rightful heir to the throne of a small city-state. Returning from war he finds his nephews have usurped him. He kills them, but flees when their father calls upon the Darkness to avenge his seed. Agan reaches Sanctuary only to find it false and his uncle waiting for him. They battle. Agan wins, though badly wounded. He returns home to rule a few sad years, then dies of his wounds.”

  “Don’t you people have any happily-ever-after stories?”

  “Now, Agan, I claim my wergild,” said computer. McShane wondered how it spoke—it had no visible orifice.

  “I am not Agan, my lord of the fractured carapace,” said Detrelna.

  Wreathed in a faint shimmering indigo, a small transparent bubble rose from beneath the grass, stopping at eye level between men and computer. About a meter in diameter, it had two small holes at the top, two at the bottom.

  As they watched, the bubble split in half and separated, the halves hovering beside each other, open ends up.

  “Isn’t that . . .” said McShane, feeling the bile rise in his throat.

  “A brainpod,” said Detrelna. “The blue’s a stasis field. The rims are distance-controlled surgical lasers. Once half performs a craniotomy; the second half detaches and removes the brain, placing it in the first half. The halves rejoin. Stasis remains on till the brainpod’s housed, with stem-absorbent nutrients flowing through those small holes.”

  The brainpod half to their right began moving slowly toward Detrelna.

  “On three, Bob,” said the commodore in English. “You shoot the computer. I’ll shoot the brainpod. Aim for the crack.”

  McShane nodded, not yet daring to move the rifle.

  Detrelna counted as the brainpod neared the muzzle of his rifle. “One. Two. Three.”

  The commodore’s bolt took the moving half of the brainpod dead center, shattering it as McShane fired from the hip, holding the trigger back, raking the fracture.

  “Die, Agan!” shrieked computer. It whirled, a golden blur spitting golden blaster bolts at the men. Blue-and-red energies rippling over their warsuits, they blasted back, beams concentrated at the machine’s center.

  Wobbling, the egg slowed, tilted, then crashed to the floor, splitting neatly in half. The end without the cape tottered then fell.

  Approaching warily, the two men watched the computer die, the light fading along the delicate crystalline network of its innards.

  McShane shook his head. “Poor monster.”

  “Save your sympathy for our friends on Terra Two,” said Detrelna. “That mad thing was the only one who knew where the portal device is.”

  “What’s this?” said McShane, walking to where the other half of the machine lay. Bending down, he picked something from the grass, then stood, holding out his palm to Detrelna.

  “Self-replicating computer,” said the commodore, looking at the tiny golden egg, almost lost in McShane’s hand. “You’re holding the key to a lost science millennia ahead of our own, Bob. You could trade that little nugget for more wealth or
power than you can imagine.”

  “Not more than I can imagine.” Placing the egg in Detrelna’s hand, he closed the other’s fingers over it. “Here you are, senior Kronarin officer. Wealth and power beyond your imagining.”

  “Such things are best earned,” said Detrelna, dropping the egg into a pouch on his utility belt. “Let’s hope it doesn’t grow before we get it back to Kronar.” Running a finger along the seam, he sealed the pouch. “At least it’s not wearing a tiny purple cape. I believe the mist is clearing, Professor.”

  McShane looked up. “You’re right. I can see the wall.” His eyes widened. “It’s shrinking!”

  What had been massive before was minuscule now, no more than a few meters tall and collapsing in on itself with a sigh. As they watched, the wall melted into a flat gray smear.

  Where the jungle had been was now all flat and green—a green rapidly fading to gray as the deck reappeared. There were no more cries, feral or otherwise. The air was cool and smelled faintly metallic. In the distance they could see their shipcar, just the other side of the armorglass.

  “Tertiary systems are taking Agro down to basic parameters,” said Detrelna. “Machines will soon be harvesting crops here, putting them in storage for no one to eat. We’ll check the rest of the area then go.”

  Turning back, they saw the building. White and square, it sat alone on the great empty plain of Agro, its size impossible to gauge without a reference point.

  They reached it after a brisk five-minute walk. It was small, one-level, made of stone—real stone, McShane thought, touching the cool, marble like surface—with no windows, just a doorway, barred by the shimmering blue of a force field.

  “Could this be Terran?” asked McShane. “It looks Roman—perhaps a roadside temple to Diana.”

  “Our history, not yours,” said Detrelna. “That hypothetical ship that seeded Terra hadn’t been built when structures like this were old. The House of the Dead, said the Overmind—a tomb. See the inscription over the door?”

  McShane looked up at the flowing script carved into the stone. “Very graceful—looks like Arabic. What is it?”

  “There’s a theory that humanity didn’t evolve on Kronar,” said the commodore. “That Kronar was a colony of some great and ancient people and that that script was their language.”

  “Can you read it?”

  “No one can read it. Many have spent their lives trying.”

  “And the tomb? How old?”

  Detrelna shrugged. “Prehistory. Estimates start at about two hundred and fifty thousand of your years.”

  “Surely the contents can be dated?”

  “Maybe. Except that no one’s ever penetrated one of those tombs. Try to force your way in and whatever powers it goes critical—leaves a tidy symmetrical crater.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said McShane, looking at the commodore. “Compared to you, I know we’re technological primitives, squatting in the dust. But not intellectually. And my intellect tells me no power source could survive half a million years.”

  “Compared with whoever built those,” said Detrelna, nodding at the tomb, “we’re all dust squatters. Structures like that dot hillsides on Kronar, Shtar, Utria—all of our planets. All have force fields, none have ever gone dark. They’ll tolerate a child’s stick or a rock, but bring machinery or energy gear into play”—he threw his hands over his head—“boom!”

  They stood silently for a moment, looking at the tomb. “These tombs and their nature are common knowledge, aren’t they, Jaquel?” asked McShane.

  “Since forever.”

  “And none of your people would ever tamper with such a structure, would they?”

  “Never.”

  “Do we agree that what we want is probably in there?”

  “We do.”

  “I see. Now tell me, if since forever no one has successfully tampered with one of these structures, how did the Imperials get it here? And if there are Imperial artifacts inside, how did they get in there?”

  Detrelna slapped his leg. “Fake! Of course—it would be perfect security! No one in his right mind would touch one of those tombs. As you’ve just seen, the sight of one tends to banish logic. Back to Implacable,” he said, turning to McShane, eyes gleaming in triumph. “We’ll get a work parry and crack that force field.”

  McShane held up a hand. “That may not be necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “Can you deactivate a force field with the right verbal authenticator?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, the Overmind gave me a password and a countersign.”

  “Try it!”

  McShane faced the tomb. “Barren is the House of Sakal,” he called.

  The force field blinked twice.

  “Some things never change,” said the commodore. “You’ve been challenged. Give the countersign.”

  “Empire and Destiny!”

  The force field winked off.

  “Not bad for a dust-squatting primitive, Bob,” said Detrelna.

  The small white room was empty except for a stone table and the three boxes on it. The boxes were wreathed in a blue stasis halo—a halo that vanished as Detrelna reached for the first box. The commodore hesitated, then raised the lid with both hands. A plain silver bracelet lay on black velveteen. Inside the lid was the familiar uncial lettering of High Kronarin: “Relic of the Nameless Emperor.”

  Detrelna carefully closed the box.

  “Not going to take it out?”

  “Not if it lay on the deck,” said the commodore. “First of the House of Sakal, founder of the Empire, he’s the Legend-Without-a-Name—perhaps the last of those who built the real Houses of Eternity. His bracelet’s surely a thing of power.”

  The second box held a fist-size red jewel, set on a silver chain. As Detrelna lifted it out, the jewel flared with an unnatural brilliance, all but blinding the two men. Detrelna dropped the jewel back onto its cushion and slammed the box shut.

  “Did you see an inscription?” asked Bob, rubbing his eyes.

  “Yes.” Detrelna opened his eyes as the red spots faded. “It’s the Star of Tilnaar. Worn by every emperor of the First Dynasty—the House of Sakal. Supposedly, it’ll kill any who wear it who aren’t descended from that House.”

  “I believe it,” said Bob, eyes still watering. “One box left, Jaquel,” he said, nodding to the last one. “Want me to open it?”

  “My job,” he said, opening the box.

  A yellow commwand lay beside a featureless black cube. The inside cover of the box read: Prototype two of two. Alternate Reality Linkage (spaceborne).

  “Congratulations, Commodore,” said McShane.

  “Couldn’t have done it without you, Bob,” said Detrelna. He tucked the box under his arm.

  “Back to Implacable. Food, sleep. Listen to this commwand, brief Fleet, install the device . . .” He frowned. “We’ll need another ship.”

  “Aren’t your reinforcements due?” asked Bob as they stepped back onto the Agro deck. Behind them, the tomb’s shield snapped back on.

  “You heard the Overmind,” said Detrelna. “Don’t count your reinforcements before they arrive. The universe is full of nasty surprises.”

  Chapter 17

  Kiroda turned from the tacscan to Ambassador Zasha. “They’re here.”

  “Can we have visual, Commander?” Wearing the light blue sash of a senior diplomat, Zasha stood beside the command chair, smelling of expensive Terran cologne, three rows of medals on his tunic and a great gold crimson-ribboned one around his neck. His boots would have cost Kiroda a month’s pay.

  “Certainly, sir.” He tapped out a command on the complink. At least the man was being polite. There’d been no mention of their encounter at the victory celebration.

  Above and to the front of the bridge, the big screen came alive, dividing in three. Two seemingly identical ships occupied its left and right segments: short, stubby craft, each with five weapons turrets facing Impl
acable.

  The center image was of a very different sort of warship: long, sleek, about two-thirds the length of Implacable, with twelve visible weapons turrets.

  All three ships bore Fleet ID markers, with the correct maintenance access indicators visible on close-up. They sat in standard Fleet geosynchronous orbit formation, the smaller ships flanking the larger ship, one above, one below, at precisely the same distance.

  “You are absolutely certain those are corsairs, Commander?” said Zasha, turning to Kiroda.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Zasha shook his head. “They’re good enough to be in a Fleet recruiting vid.”

  “Those were Fleet units, Ambassador.”

  “What is that data readout under each ship?”

  “Their course, range, shield and our weapons status relative to target.”

  “What is their shield status, Commander?”

  “Down.”

  “And if we blasted them now?”

  “We’re too close for missiles—the blowback would wipe us. They’re too many to take out with a single cannon salvo—their shields would snap up at the first beam hit. We’d then be blasting away at each other, well within Terra’s gravity. At this range, if one ship went up, we’d all go up. Poisonous debris would rain down on the planet, be absorbed into its food, air and water. Millions would die. We might even kill the oceans.” He leaned toward the complink. “Indeed, the computer projects . . .”

  “Enough,” said Zasha, running a hand through his perfectly set white hair. “I’m convinced. Get me commlink to that cruiser. I’ll do my part.”

  “. . . promise you a memorable reception, Captain.”

  “We’re looking forward to it, Ambassador,” said Kotran. “You’re sure so many personnel won’t strain Implacable’s facilities?”

  “Her commander assures me they will not, Captain.”

  “Is this the same commander who was going to fire on us as we came in?” smiled Kotran.

  “Forgive him, Captain. He’s very young.”

  “But commendably diligent. Consider us there, Ambassador. And thank you.”

  Zasha’s image vanished from the desk screen. Kotran turned to his executive officer. “What do you think, Number One?”