The Battle for Terra Two

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “When I came tumbling through that portal, I was sure they’d kill me,” she said. “Instead they put me in detention—and ignored me. I learned how to use the food machine. And the entertainment link was a godsend. It’s programmed for English. Anything you want to know about the Scotar, the Biofab War, I can tell you, as long as it was in ship’s computer. I can even read some Kronarin. When can I go home?” she asked as they reached the lift.

  “A couple of hours,” said John, pushing the calltab. “Detrelna wants to get back to Terra One.” The lift arrived, announcing itself with a faint ping.

  “You’ll be delighted to know,” he said, as they boarded, “that an old friend will be joining you on the flight home.”

  “Come,” called Hochmeister as the door chimed. He sat at his cabin’s small desk, looking at a page of closely written notes.

  Detrelna came in, attired in his usual rumpled brown duty uniform.

  “Ah, Commodore,” said Hochmeister. “Have a seat.” The drab Kronarin uniform seemed made for him.

  “Thank you, no,” said Detrelna. “We’ve finished testing the portal device aboard our destroyer, Admiral. We’re leaving this charming universe almost immediately. Where would you like us to set you down?”

  “Berlin. Midday, midweek, atop the Brandenburg Gate. I’d appreciate it if the shuttle could approach booming out Wagner—‘The Ride of the Valkyries,’ I think.”

  “Admiral.”

  “Just joking, Commodore,” he said. He set his bifocals on his notepad and looked up at Detrelna, hands folded. “My home is Dresden, a lovely city of the baroque. There’re a number of parks. Just slip me into one at night. I’ll find my house.”

  “Fine.” He stepped to the door.

  “You approve of me, do you, Commodore?”

  “Approve of you?” Detrelna frowned, turning back. He shook his head. “No, though I’m sure you don’t care. Oh, you’re a cultured, intelligent man—you can be quite charming when you want to be. But you have the soul of an Imperial Security Master—you’re a tireless and ruthless servant of Order. Happily, people like you are rare. Perhaps you kill each other off.”

  “Peace, Commodore,” said Hochmeister. “I serve the peace.”

  Detrelna shrugged. “Call it what you will. Please be ready to leave in an hour. I’ll send an officer to escort you to hangar deck.” He left the room, the door hissing shut behind him.

  A moment later the door chimed again.

  It was Detrelna. “You’ve piqued my curiosity, Admiral,” he said before Hochmeister could speak. “You’ve been on board for a week, have left only once, and are logging almost continuous computer time. What are you doing?”

  “Just being a policeman, Commodore. You have a Scotar on this ship.”

  Detrelna glanced out the armorglass. The stars shimmered faintly, their light distorted by the shield. “Impossible.”

  “Guan-Sharick is on board. Probably since you defeated the Scotar off Terra One.”

  The commodore sat down facing the desk. “Explain.”

  “Certainly. I’ve spent my time reviewing your records. First for my own information, then to quell a suspicion. The suspicion merely grew. Who told you about Maximus, Commodore?”

  “Guan-Sharick, of course.”

  “Yes. Guan-Sharick. Teleported aboard and walked into your cabin with a bottle of premium brandy. Shock. Amazement. Consternation.”

  “Yes.”

  “Guan-Sharick’s briefing was interrupted. Remember?”

  “Someone called.” Detrelna shook his head. “It’s been a while.”

  The admiral reached for the desk complink. “I envy you your technology,” he said, entering a command.

  “The prophylactic protecting our staid civilization from infectious creativity,” said the commodore as Hochmeister swiveled the monitor to face him.

  “I like that,” said the admiral.

  “As true now as when first written, four thousand years ago.

  “Half the screen’s my log entry of Guan-Sharick’s visit,” said Detrelna, reading the data. “The other half’s a maintenance downtime log for the shield. Note the times.”

  Detrelna saw it. He looked up, startled. “The Scotar arrived while the shield was up. He left when it was down.”

  “Correct,” said the admiral, swinging the monitor back and disconnecting the complink. The screen folded itself neatly into the desk top, blending with the yellow traq wood veneer. “That was the only time your shield had been down since you first arrived in the Terran system.”

  “One of us,” said Detrelna, pinching the bridge of his nose, looking pained. “One of us.”

  “Yes—if it’s true the Scotar can’t teleport through a shield.”

  “They can’t.”

  He looked at Hochmeister, eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  The admiral spread his hands. “I didn’t know, but I thought an alien clever enough to infiltrate an enemy ship for so long would know where to set tripwires—early warnings of an investigation. Matching of those two log entries we just viewed would be a logical tripwire. An alert has no doubt now been triggered to someone on this ship.” He touched the beverager, producing a cup of t’ata.

  Detrelna glanced at the door. “Someone who’ll come to silence you.”

  Hochmeister shook his head. “Someone who is already here.”

  “You’re very clever, Admiral.”

  “Where’s Detrelna?”

  “That capable lump’s on his way to the bridge.” Guan-Sharick looked around the room, then at the door. “No rush of commandos, Admiral?”

  “No.” He grimaced as he sipped the t’ata. “Hideous drink.” He set it aside.

  “Herbal. Very healthy. Why did you ferret me out?” The blonde replaced Detrelna’s image.

  “That’s so uncanny,” said the admiral. He rose, walking to the armorglass window and its view of Terra Two. “I need you. I promised the gangers I would help them—negotiations, profound changes in the way America is run. Many in Germany fear a united America. I don’t—they’re no threat without the bomb. I can influence our side into neutrality while the gangers talk with their government.” He faced the blonde. “It’s the American side that I can’t control. For that, I need you. How many effectives have you left inside their government?”

  “How did you know?”

  Hochmeister shrugged. “Something was happening at the second-secretary level. In light of later data, it had to be you.”

  “I see. Shalan missed quite a few. Why?”

  “I want you to use them in any way necessary to see that an accord is reached between the gangers and the government. A fair and equitable accord—UC is to be disbanded, the cities rebuilt.”

  “I’d have thought you had a warm spot for Urban Corps, admiral.”

  The admiral shrugged. “Just playing a role. I was there to investigate suspicions regarding Maximus. Colonel Aldridge was a superb cover.”

  “You fooled a master,” conceded the Scotar. “So, I do what you say, and then what?”

  “Then you’re free.”

  “Did I miss something?” asked the blonde. “Why shouldn’t I just kill you?”

  Hochmeister walked back to the desk. “Because I’ve recorded and hidden my suspicions and evidence about you deep in ship’s computer. A routine report to computer of my death or disappearance would trigger a wide dissemination of that file. Detrelna and Lawrona would tear this ship apart with their bare hands to find you.”

  “I could steal the access code from your dying mind.”

  The admiral shook his head. “Want to gamble on that?” He tapped his teeth with a fingernail. “L-pill in a hollow tooth. Fast.”

  The Scotar was silent for a moment. “Very well, Admiral. It costs me nothing. I must return with this ship. However, my transmutes will report to you upon your return. When their mission’s accomplished to your satisfaction, you will give them the access code to that file.”

  “They’ll be lea
ving the portal open for a while, then?”

  The blonde nodded. “The plan is to post a few ships off Terra Two—just to make sure there are no slimy green bugs left.”

  “I’m leaving tonight,” the admiral said as the Scotar stood.

  “I know. They’re putting you and MacKenzie down on a scan-shielded shuttle. The Maximus site’s obliterated and they’ve found no traces of any aliens on the planet,” he smiled.

  They walked to the door. “It’s probably being explained as a secret project gone wrong,” said Hochmeister.

  “Not a total lie.”

  “So, do we have a deal, Guan-Sharick?”

  “We have a deal, Admiral,” said the Scotar.

  They shook hands, Hochmeister feeling the Scotar’s grip as firm, dry and human.

  Guan-Sharick was gone.

  Bemused, the Admiral looked at his hand, then went back to the desk and stuffed his notes into the disposer.

  “Well, this is it, then?” said Heather as they stopped at the foot of the shuttle. Hangar deck was back to normal, blaster gouges along the walls the only trace of battle.

  “This is it,” said John. He handed her the green backpack he’d just taken from his quarters.

  “What’s in here?” she asked, unlacing the nylon cord. “A rock?”

  “A belated gift from Prometheus,” he said, watching her remove the thick, black bound book. “One of the oddities of our civilization the Kronarins were shipping home. They can always get another.”

  “On the Design and Construction of Atomic and Thermonuclear Weapons,” she read. “But we know bomb theory.”

  “Theory.” He tapped the book. “This tells you how—bomb casings, fissionable materials, detonators. You do have fissionable material?”

  She nodded, thumbing excitedly through the manual. “Five German-managed power plants reprocess PU-239 through us.” She looked up. “We’ve been saving a small percentage of it—conditioned the auditors to believe that five percent of any run is MUF—Material Unaccounted For. In a year, we’re going to have our own nuclear force.” She slipped the book into the backpack. “There’s going to be a big geopolitical shakeout.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he smiled. “Luck to you.”

  “And to you,” she said, holding out her hand. John shook it, looking for the last time into those cool green eyes.

  Hochmeister arrived, wearing his old UC uniform and escorted by Kiroda. “It’s good-bye,” he said to John.

  “For now, Admiral. But who knows? We’re only a reality away.”

  “May I take your bag, Captain MacKenzie?” asked Hochmeister.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” she said, handing him the backpack. She winked at John, then turned and bounded up the stairs. Hochmeister followed.

  John watched the shuttle drift silently down the deck, penetrate the air curtain and vanish, a silver ship dwindling in size against the blue-green of Terra Two.

  He was halfway to the bridge when the battle klaxon sounded.

  “Shuttle launching,” reported Lakan. “And Voltran’s Glory advises ready to initiate portal.”

  “That was fast,” said Lawrona. “One watch and Natrol’s removed the alien device? And tapped its secrets?”

  “Get me Natrol, Lakan,” said Detrelna, looking at the screen. The destroyer stood well away from Implacable, Terra’s moon large behind it.

  “We’re amazed at your speed, Natrol,” said Detrelna as the engineer’s face appeared. “You’re certain that alien portal thing will work?”

  Smiling, Natrol held up a familiar black cube. “What alien thing?”

  Detrelna stared at it. “Imperial,” he said, seeing it all. “Those killers are from the Machine Wars.” He shook his head. “All these ageless, deadly toys roaming about. And those fools back home think it’s safe again.

  “How long before you can have that portal ready?”

  “The drive influx setting’s made,” said Natrol. “I just have to insert the cube.”

  “Do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Natrol, we’ll send you a relief ship as soon as a task force arrives. Just sit here with your shield up until then.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Commodore,” said Natrol as Detrelna switched off.

  “That’s the only time he’s ever been civil to me,” said Detrelna. “Command must agree with him. Frightening.”

  They waited, watching the screen. It wasn’t long before the portal returned, coming to life at the end of the gray beam.

  “Battlestations, Captain Lawrona,” said Detrelna, fingers drumming his chair arm. “Let’s go get us a corsair.”

  Chapter 21

  “Marvelous ship,” said Kotran. “Wonderful how war spurs creativity.” He stretched, luxuriating in the spacious bridge, the compact controls and most of all in the delightfully warm air.

  “The finest and latest from Combine Telan,” said Atir. She sat at the XO’s station, scrolling through engineering specs. “Same old jump drive—they’ve just automated the hell out of it.”

  “We about ready?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She looked up. “Jump plotted and set. Navigation automatically reads jump point and engages drive. A few moments and we’re on our way home.”

  Kotran sat in the command chair, fingertips pressed together. “If I were Captain Giryn,” he said, “I’d have broken out of New Hope’s brig . . .”

  “Of course she has. We all but destroyed the locks.”

  “And would now be on the bridge, awaiting ship’s status report.” He punched up a tactical scan of the inner planets.

  The projection came on the screen. Once bright green dot circled Earth. Another blip, red, marked the corsair speeding toward jump point. “There’s the old barge,” said Kotran, not bothering with the targeting data. “Giryn’s found the ship armed and operable. She’ll be after us in a moment, murder in her heart.”

  As they watched, the green blip broke orbit, moving out.

  Now he read the targeting data. “Coming right for us.”

  The green blip was gone, leaving only the red one marking the corsair’s position.

  “Clean destruct,” said Atir, going back to her heading.

  The scan on the board changed to a larger scale, the planet Pluto in the center. Five more green blips were showing, just the other side of the planet, heading in. They and Victory Day were about to meet.

  Kotran stared at the targeting data. “Five heavy cruisers, just clearing jump point.”

  “Coming up on visual,” said Atir, watching the board.

  The long gray ships moved in close formation, wrapped in the faint nimbus of their shields. They were Laals, the same class as Implacable, resurrected Imperial war machines that could turn Victory Day to scrap in minutes. They vanished as the cruiser shot past their formation.

  “If we jump now, we’ll only deviate two percent from ideal.”

  “They’re challenging,” said Sakal from the commstation.

  “Let’s go for jump optimum,” said Kotran. “It’s Spring back at our hideaway. Can’t catch the last of the planting festival if we deviate. Sakal, send a battlecode burst. ‘Leaving system under special orders. Scan-shielded enemy flotilla in pursuit.’”

  “You’re amazing, Yidan,” said Atir as the red-bearded corsair made the transmission. “You flirt with destruction so you can watch straw-skirted girls dance the planting.”

  “A short but happy life.” He smiled. “We all need to get away from ships for a while, breathe real air, feel the sun and the wind on our faces.”

  “And then?”

  “And then . . . the universe awaits.”

  Sakal laughed, turning to Kotran. “Task force commander acknowledges and requests last known position of scan-shielded flotilla.”

  The jump alert sounded, two long blasts of the klaxon.

  “Tell him zero point,” said Kotran. Zero point was the standard reference for the heart of a
system’s star.

  Kotran opened shipwide commlink. “All personnel, stand by for jump. We’re going home.”

  “So, he got away?” said Zahava, nibbling a chocolate croissant. She sat curled up on the sofa, her elegant dancer’s legs tucked beneath her.

  “Clean away,” said John, tossing another log into the fire. On the other side of the living room’s French doors, an early December snowstorm was covering their patio furniture.

  John rose, dusting his hands.

  “And the machine things?” she asked as he sat down beside her.

  “Gone—for now,” he said, finishing his coffee.

  “If they’re Imperial . . .”

  “They are.”

  “Then how can they be the machines that killed the Trel, millions of years before the Empire?”

  “If they’re the same,” he said, “the only way to find out is by going to the Trel cache—where we were supposed to be going when this started.”

  “Sorry I missed it.”

  He pulled her close, an arm around her shoulders. “I missed you,” he said, kissing her.

  “It’s a cold day,” she said after a while.

  “Heat rises. It’ll be warmer in the bedroom.”

  They were halfway up the old oak stairway when someone pounded on the front door knocker, ignoring the bell.

  “I’ll get rid of the sadistic creep and be right back,” said John. Letting go of her hand, he went down and opened the door, letting in a rush of cold air and snow.

  “Jaquel!”

  Detrelna filled the doorway, a stout snowman in hooded white survival jacket and battle boots.

  “Sell you a weather-control unit?” he said, stamping his feet.

  Zahava bounded down the stairs. “Jaquel!”

  He hugged her. “Long time, Zahava. You’re looking well.”

  “Let me take your jacket,” said John.

  `The commodore shook his head. “No time. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

  “I was picking Zahava up at the airport.”

  “So McShane said.”

  “Do you two still want to go on the Trel Expedition?”

  They exchanged puzzled glances. “Of course.”