The Battle for Terra Two

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Vision blurring, lungs bursting, Kiroda felt his grip slipping from the killer’s thick, hairy wrists.

  The blaster bolt sheared off the top of the corsair’s head, tumbling his body to the deck, teeth still bared, eyes wide with amazement.

  Zasha appeared, M11A in his right hand. “Are you all right, Commander?” he asked, bending over Kiroda.

  Nodding, Kiroda caught his breath for a moment then took the hand the ambassador extended, climbing to his feet. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely, rubbing his larynx.

  The blaster fire ended as the hanger lights returned. Kiroda pulled himself up the side ladder of the shuttle. “Hangar deck,” he said into his communicator. “General address.

  “You can’t win, vorg slime!” His voice boomed across the deck. “Down Arms!”

  Able to see again, the turret gunner in the corsair shuttle swung her twin-barreled cannon right, raking a packed commando boat with a twin stream of red bolts that found the power cells.

  Exploding in a pillar of orange-red flame, the boat became a pyre for forty-two crew. High inhuman screams filled the tactical band as the cannon tracked left, locking on the next boat. Crewmen leaped for their lives as the turret fired again.

  Using the confusion, the surviving corsairs broke for their shuttles.

  The hangar rocked as the second commando boat and the cannon-firing corsair shuttle detonated, overlapping explosions tumbling corsairs and crew to the deck. The destruction rolled on as the remaining corsair craft exploded in quick succession.

  “Who the hell is that?” said Kiroda, peering through the smoke.

  Silent on its n-gravs, a single shuttle flew out of the smoke, firing warning bolts around the surviving corsairs. Dropping their weapons, the corsairs surrendered, fingers locked behind their heads.

  The shuttle landed middeck, between the corsairs and the burning commando boats. As crewmen rushed by to take prisoners, the ramp lowered. Detrelna and McShane stepped onto the deck, rifles in hand.

  “Natrol,” said Kiroda, hurrying toward Detrelna, Zasha by his side, “move the atmosphere curtain in past those shuttles.”

  Barely perceptible, the shimmering air curtain advanced slowly past the inferno of burning spacecraft, stopping a few meters forward of the shuttles. Behind it, the flames winked out.

  Where eleven silver ships had sat gleaming, eleven charred durasteel frames lay broken and buckled.

  Zasha looked at the air curtain. Shocked, he turned to Kiroda. “Why didn’t you do that to the corsairs, Commander? You could have spaced them all when they were marching along the deck. We’d have been spared all this.” His hand swept the carnage.

  “My uncle Kazor served in the Arem Action,” said Kiroda as they walked toward newly landed shuttle. “He was aide to a planetary guard general. This general went to parley with Fisal and his rebels, suspecting a trap. It was. The rebels wiped his guard, held him, and my uncle prisoner for the rest of the revolt. Even Fisal was surprised. ‘Why’d you come, if you thought it was a trap?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you lure us with a holo projection, then strafe us?’”

  Zasha smiled faintly. “I looked into that clever thug’s eyes and I said, ‘Because then there’d be no difference between you and us.’ The older one gets, Commander, the greater the risk of being dosed with one’s own words—there being so many of them. A good man in a tight spot, Kazor. How is he?”

  Detrelna and McShane stood watching as the crewmen foamed down the two burning commando boats, knocking down the fires. They turned as Kiroda and Zasha arrived.

  “Why aren’t I surprised to see you, Commodore?” said Zasha.

  “You are well, Ambassador?” asked Detrelna.

  “Thanks to your extraordinarily competent officers and crew, yes.”

  “Casualties?” Detrelna asked Kiroda.

  “One hundred and eight killed or wounded.”

  “You look like hell.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Send squads to the bridge. They were trying to put an assault force in there through a forward section lift access. We wiped most of them, but . . .”

  “We thought they might try for the bridge, sir.” Kiroda rubbed his throat. “That contingency’s covered.”

  “No sign of Kotran,” said a voice over Kiroda’s communicator.

  The commander looked at the line of prisoners being marched past. Stepping over the corsair bodies littering the deck, he stopped a large, bearded prisoner with commander’s pips on his collar.

  “Where’s Kotran?”

  The corsair smiled.

  “He’s heading for the bridge, isn’t he?”

  Recognition flicked across the corsair’s face. It was enough. Waving prisoner and escort on, Kiroda turned back to Detrelna. “There’s probably a very surprised corsair commander on our bridge right now.”

  “You can kill Captain Kotran, Commander,” said Ambassador Zasha, handing his pistol to Kiroda, “but I doubt you can ever surprise him.”

  Kotran and his last seven corsairs stepped from the lift. Leaving four men in the corridor, he led the others through the ragged hole in the bridge doors.

  The bridge was empty, except for Atir, sitting at the engineering station. “You didn’t take the ship,” she said, watching a readout.

  “The ship took us,” he said with a faint smile. Waving his men out, he sank into the adjacent comm officer’s chair, pistol in his lap. “You found the bridge abandoned, of course.”

  “Of course.” Frowning, she typed in a long series of numbers.

  “They’ve switched control to Engineering, tied up the complink with all sorts of authenticators.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re now trying to break through to the computer and restore control to the bridge,” he said. “You don’t have time—they’re on their way.”

  “Might get lucky.”

  Blaster fire sounded from outside. “Coming from both access corridors and the lift!” said a hurried voice over Kotran’s communicator. “Too many of them.”

  “Give it up, Jalar,” said Kotran. “We’ve had it.”

  The firing stopped.

  “Weapons out the door, now, or we’ll gas you!” Kiroda’s voice came from the corridor.

  “A good run, my friend.” Kotran said as Atir rose from the console. “But no paradise world for us, for now.”

  “It was a good run,” she said, returning his smile. “Friend.”

  Together, they walked to the door and pitched their weapons into the corridor.

  “Your ships are taken,” said Detrelna. “Of the three hundred and eighty-four raiders who followed you here, all but sixty-two are dead.” He sat behind his desk, looking up at Kotran and Atir, duraplast security bonds around their ankles and wrists.

  “Commodore—” began Kotran.

  Detrelna’s fist slammed the desk. “Silence! You are slime! You betrayed humanity to serve the Scotar. You still serve the Scotar. And you serve Something Else.” Reaching down, he picked up the brainpod, slamming it onto the desk. It rolled off the edge, stopping at Kotran’s gleaming black boots.

  “A mindslaver,” said Detrelna. “There’s a great bloody mindslaver out there—where?—one of the lost Imperial quadrants? And it’s hired you to keep it supplied. Correct?”

  The pair stood silent.

  “You know the Fleet Regulations regarding corsairs?”

  “Quite liberal,” said Kotran. “The condemned have a choice of death by blaster, poison, disintegration, spacing, or hanging.”

  “You and your lot will be given a fair trial next watch and then immediately executed.” He reached for the door button and then paused. “Why’d you turn?”

  Kotran shrugged. “When the Scotar wiped Second Fleet, we were cut off. We raided loyally for a time—shot up Scotar supply convoys, hit their occupation garrisons. Captain Taral was killed. We fought on. Finally we annoyed them enough to bring a whole sector fleet down on us. It was a very clever trap, well-baited. All
they had to do was open fire and we were dust. Instead, they had a talk with us—with me. Guan-Sharick himself. He pointed out that humanity was doomed. I could save myself and my command, he said, if we served the Scotar. After they won the war, we’d be given our own star system, plus whatever booty we’d taken.”

  “Ridiculous. They’d have killed you the instant they were through with you.”

  “Easy for you to say, Detrelna. The choice was whether to die nobly, uselessly, or to go on living for a while. I’m a pragmatist. I chose life.”

  “Life,” said Detrelna thoughtfully. “And your crews—what did they chose?”

  “Second Fleet were pre-war conscripts—the sweepings of a dozen worlds. Good soldiers, properly lead and disciplined, but no fanatics. None of us were fanatics.”

  “You graduated first in your class at the Academy.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “So you made a stand for life and against fanaticism in the service of genocidal biofabs. Is that your defense? And after the Scotar were defeated, you kept on raiding.”

  “It was a good living, raiding commerce and outworlds. We had bases on the edge of civilization—places where money buys respectful silence.”

  “And the mindslaver?”

  “We never met,” said Kotran. “The Scotar provided us with the brainpods and an advance against collections.”

  “Who’s crewing the mindslaver?”

  “I wasn’t told. My impression was that it was uncrewed.”

  Detrelna grunted, then sat staring at the two for a moment, rocking slightly in his chair. “You’re not bad—you’re utterly amoral. Is there a single scruple between you?”

  “Can we get on with this?” said Atir.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” said Kotran. “Detrelna, you need us for something or we wouldn’t be talking. What?”

  “I have a deal for you, Mr. Businessman,” he said, clasping his hands over his belly. “You and your crew will go free in exchange for your help.”

  “What sort of help?” said Kotran.

  “Nothing hazardous, unfortunately. I have something that must be done, now. And it can only be done with two starships. I have just one, and need every crewman I’ve got.”

  “You’ll let us go with our ships?” asked Atir.

  “One frigate, disarmed.”

  “The cruiser, armed,” said Kotran.

  “The cruiser, with one missile and one fusion battery.”

  The corsairs exchanged glances.

  “Deal,” said Kotran.

  “Deal,” said Detrelna.

  Chapter 18

  “That’s it,” said John, turning off the truck’s engine. It died with a backfire. Tune-up time on Terra Two, he thought.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lawrona. He sat between Hochmeister and John in the truck cab.

  “We can’t go any farther, Hanar. The road’s impassable.”

  The Kronarin stared at the stout saplings growing in the road. “They’re only little trees. Just roll over them.”

  “They’re enough to stop this truck,” said John. “This isn’t one of your spiffy floaters.”

  They’d turned off the Maximus access road half a mile from the complex, following the overgrown ruts of the old logging trail, branches scraping the sides of the truck.

  “It’s not much farther,” said Hochmeister, hopping from the cab.

  “Everyone out,” said Lawrona over the commnet. Two by two, the commandos leaped the tailgate, tramping through the scrub to join the other three.

  Leading with long ground-devouring strides, Hochmeister set off down the road into the gray winter twilight. As they followed, snow started falling, dry flakes rustling through barren birch and oak.

  “Looks like home,” said Lawrona.

  “Utria?” said John, walking beside him.

  The captain nodded. “A world of short summers and long winters. But spring’s a green miracle.”

  “And the Scotar occupation?” asked John.

  “Left little.” Squinting, Lawrona turned his head from a sudden sharp gust. “It’s going to be a howler.”

  The wind-whipped snow was thickening, stinging their faces.

  Hochmeister stopped. They huddled around him, a small circle of warmth. “The road turns right at the base of the hill,” he said, “then runs to the river’s edge—perhaps a hundred meters. The drainage tunnel’s set in concrete, halfway down the embankment.”

  “We can climb down it?” asked Satil.

  “Easily. Thirty-five, forty-degree slope, no more.”

  “Sentries?” asked Lawrona.

  “None when I was there.”

  “Luck, then,” said Lawrona. “Follow me.”

  Kotran’s face appeared in Detrelna’s monitor. “Your engines are now destruct-tied, Kotran,” said the commodore. “Both frigates and all escape pods are disabled. Betray us, try to run, your drives will explode. Repeat orders.”

  “I’m not a cadet, Detrelna.”

  “Kotran, I don’t want to, but if necessary, I will crew your cruiser from Implacable and take my chances understrength. Repeat orders.”

  The corsair sighed. “Commanding the light cruiser, I am to take station at designated coordinates. Upon your order, I’m to activate the Imperial device installed in our drive. I’m to keep the portal so created open for Implacable to pass through to Terra Two and return. And if you don’t return?”

  Detrelna smiled unpleasantly. “Then in five Terran days, you’ll change from organic to inorganic garbage, wafting through the universe. Assume station now. Advise when ready.” He switched off.

  “If anyone can slip your trap, Commodore,” said Zasha, “Kotran will.” The ambassador stood beside Detrelna’s station, his pre-battle demeanor and attire restored.

  “A clever slime, but he can’t walk home.” He punched up a drink. “T’ata, Ambassador?”

  Zasha shook his head. “Will that drive device work?” he asked.

  “We’ll soon know,” said Detrelna, sipping. “If it fails dramatically, then the corsairs will die, not my people.”

  “Installation was no problem?”

  “We put the cube into the cruiser drive’s feeder module, as specified. Jump drive mechanics have changed little over the centuries. Accessing the drive core, that cube should do whatever it’s supposed to.”

  “Is that all the commwand had to tell you?”

  “Directly, yes. Just a few simple instructions, no explanations.” He set the cup down. “Indirectly, though . . . Voice analysis of the message shows it was recorded by machine. As far as I could tell, it was just a slightly pedantic baritone. Machine-generated phonemes, according to computer.”

  “Corsair moving on station, Commodore,” reported Taral.

  “Very well.”

  “Machines.” Zasha sat at the captain’s station. “Machines on Terra Two—with Imperial markings. Machine-generated commwand. And the Trel Expedition, held in abeyance by this madness”—he waved vaguely toward Terra—“was prompted by a warning of a machine invasion from another reality. How are these related?”

  Detrelna shrugged. “We’ll probably find out at great cost, as we do everything. I have one crisis to deal with, here and now. Actually, there and now. I’m dealing with it.”

  “All related?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps? Detrelna, take Implacable to Terra Two and bring us back some facts. An intact enemy machine would be marvelous.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” He glanced at the time readout. “You have little time to make your shuttle.”

  Zasha stood. “Mr. McShane will be riding down with me?”

  “Yes.” Detrelna rose, seeing him to the doors.

  “Interesting man. We land in New York. Perhaps he’ll have dinner with me.” He held out his hand. “Luck to you, Commodore. From an old soldier to a younger one.”

  Detrelna shook the firm, dry hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  The commlink b
eeped. “Cleaned up?” he asked at the sight of Kiroda’s tired face in the pickup. Behind the commander, the hangar deck swarmed with repair crews.

  “Operational,” said Kiroda. “Bodies and debris have been hauled off. It’ll take two more watches to tidy up.”

  “Very good, Tolei. Get up here.”

  Kotran’s face replaced Kiroda’s. “We’re in position.”

  “Activate your drive.”

  Kotran turned from the pickup. “Sakal, engage drive.”

  “Full forward visual on the screen, please,” ordered Detrelna.

  Pale gray, a thin beam lanced up from the cruiser’s blunt bow. Halting high above and ahead of the corsair, the beampoint became a gray rim that rotated slowly wider, banishing all light within its boundaries.

  “Readout on that?” asked Detrelna.

  “Nothing coherent,” said Taral, monitoring three telltales. “Wild energy fluxes. Peak, drop, peak, drop.”

  The dark within the circle rippled, growing even darker. After a moment the rippling subsided. “Fascinating,” said Taral.

  “What?” said Detrelna as Kiroda came onto the bridge.

  “There’s a coherent signal now. It’s the inverse of the readout we got when they snatched Voltran’s Glory. And the inverse of the readout from the Maximus portal.”

  “Any fluctuation in the signal?” asked Kiroda.

  “None.”

  Detrelna nodded. “Ship’s status, Commander Kiroda?”

  “All sections at battle stations.”

  “Lakan, did our shuttle launch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s do it, then. Forward, point three, Tolei.”

  Seen from New Hope, Implacable slipped away down a black hole.

  “Atir,” said Kotran into the commnet, “they’re gone. Any luck?”

  “None.” She was wearing a white radiation suit. Removing the helmet, she handed it to an Engineering tech. “Implacable’s engineer‘s too good to be Fleet.”

  “He isn’t,” said Kotran. “Chief Engineer of the Ratar Line. They drafted his ass. What did he do?”

  “Tied a tickle line from the engines to the destruct programming. We try to move—”