The Battle for Terra Two (11 page)

The kids ran off. Waiting till they were in line, McShane turned for the Sculpture Garden. Fool, he thought to himself. Why not just call a cop? Because you taught political philosophy most of your life, and know what Machiavelli meant by civic virtue. Besides, it might just be another of Jason's invisible friends, like the large talking toad that guarded the basement. Even if it was a S'Cotar, it was probably miles away by now.

Walking across the grass, he stumbled and fell. A jogger broke stride, helping him back to his feet. Clumsy old man, he thought, thanking the woman as she handed him his blackthorn Irish walker. Third time this week. Suddenly tired, he stepped carefully down the stairs and into the garden.

The man sat on a bench beside a Henry Moore, head buried in his hands, black uniform singed and torn. It was the weapon, though, that stopped Bob cold, heart pounding: a S'Cotar blastrifle, gleaming dully where it rested against the bench. There should be no S'Cotar weapons left on Earth, at least, not in human hands.

As Bob forced himself forward, the man staggered to his feet, raising the blaster. His were the wide, glazed eyes of someone in shock.

"John!"

"Bob!" The rifle dropped. "Home?"

"Home," said McShane. "But how?"

He moved quickly, catching John as the other fell. Only then did he see the blaster wound, a charred two-inch hole running from below the left shoulder and out the left side, where ribs had been.

"You!" he shouted at a young couple coming down the stairs, baby asleep in a backpack. "Get an ambulance." They stared at him.

"Across the street, in the Smithsonian. Tell the guard to call an ambulance. Move!"

The woman turned and ran up the stairs as the man hurried over. "What can I do?"

"Help me treat for shock. Prop his feet up."

"He
...
he doesn't seem to be breathing."

Bob dropped to the ground, ear to John's chest. There was no heartbeat.

The baby started to cry.

Kneeling in the gravel, Bob moved through the measured cadence of CPR, not hearing the baby, not seeing his grandchildren. Until the medic gently shook his shoulder, there was nothing but his hands and lungs ministering to the dead.

DTrelna looked up from his desk complink. "I really hate this, H'Nar," he said to L'Wrona, sitting in front of the desk. "Had I known when they gave me these"—he tapped the stylized, four-pointed silver star on each collar— "that I'd be confined to quarters half the watch, filling out moronic reports
..."

Implacable'*
captain smiled. "You're only happy when the battle klaxon's banging away, J'Quel.

"How's Harrison doing?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Better." DTrelna stared at the complink, not really seeing it. "Sick Bay says his new heart's holding. They'll be waking him up soon."

"When can we debrief him?"

"Two days, local."

L'Wrona rose, walking to the armor glass. He stood looking at the
V'Tran's Glory
for a moment, then turned to DTrelna. "We don't know what happened on Terra Two yet. That bothers me, J'Quel."

"Guan-Sharick told Sutherland the portal's gone, H'Nar.

That'll have to do for now. Medical won't bring him out of it until regeneration's over."

"I hate taking that bug's word for anything."

"Only for now, H'Nar. Only for now.

"Computer, resume."

"Resuming," said the too-perfect voice. "State composition and current tactical deployment of task force and reason for such deployment.''

"Computer, just copy the last entry under this category and change date to current."

"Illegal command."

D'Trelna's face flushed dangerously. "Computer, nothing has changed since the previous entry. Copy the previous entry."

"All entries of this nature must be original."

D'Trelna reached for the large crystal water carafe.

"Damaging a remote terminal will not injure main computer," said computer. It had lost five other screens beneath the same hairy hand before discovering that disingenuous sentence.

"Blood pressure, J'Quel," warned L'Wrona. "Blood pressure."

"Very well." The carafe returned to the desktop. "Composition of force: two vessels. The L'Aal-class battle cruiser
Implacable,
Captain Lord Captain H'Nar L'Wrona, Margrave of U'Tria, commanding. And the S'Rin-class destroyer
V'Tran's Glory,
Captain H'Tan S'Tur commanding. Both warships are in geosynchronous orbit one hundred and seventeen standard units above the planet Terra. Task force is awaiting Fleet reevaluation of original mission versus current situation, planet Terra. See previous reports. Terra Two, cross references Shalan-Actal, Guan-Sharick and John Harrison, file number . . .

"Computer, will you condescend to insert the reference number?"

"Of course, Commodore."

"Thank you. End and file."

"Filed." The screen blanked, quickly folding back into the comparative safety of the desktop.

D' Trelna shook his head. "I really hate that machine."

"It's only a machine, J'Quel—it's not malevolent."

"Maybe." D'Trelna sat up, opening the top drawer of his desk. "Let's talk about malevolent machinery." He held out the golden triangle. "Here."

L'Wrona took it, looking at the device set into the metal: silver starship against a gold sun, a blue eye in each corner of the triangle.

"Early Empire," said L'Wrona, holding it up to the light. "Fourth Dynasty at the most. And beautifully detailed—the eyes are uncanny." He set it on the desktop.

"Under magnification, those eyes have a retina pattern— the same retina pattern."

"Interesting. Where'd you get it?"

"Harrison brought it back from Terra Two."

L'Wrona's eyes widened. "How . . . ?"

"How, indeed?"

"T'ata?"

"No, thank you."

D'Trelna tapped out a command, then took a steaming cup of brown liquid from the desk beverager.

"Harrison was briefly conscious on the way to the hospital. He gave that triangle to McShane—taken from a destroyed killer machine." The commodore sipped his tea.

"You ran it?"

D'Trelna nodded, setting down the t'ata. "You were close, H'Nar. Third Dynasty—the House of D'Lan."

The captain sat down on the chair. "Gods. The Machine Wars."

"Correct. The Empire built self-replicating, self-improving helpers. Said helpers decided man was obsolete. Man thought otherwise. Empire tottered, Fleet reeled, Emperor and dynasty fell—but machines were wiped out."

"Then these aren't the machines Pocsym warned against— they can't be," said L'Wrona. "Those machines predated man by millennia."

"Insufficient data, as our tame computer would say." D'Trelna thoughtfully circled the cup rim with a thick finger. "I would like very much to get to Terra Two."

"You can't—not if Harrison destroyed the portal."

"There may be another way." He turned, staring through the armorglass at Earth and the Moon beyond.

A silver spacecraft drifted by, running on n-gravs for the hangar deck aft.

"Shuttle coming in." He glanced at the wall chronometer. "American, I believe. If it's more social scientists with those quaint recording machines and inane questions, I'm hiding."

"But they're so earnest, J'Quel," said L'Wrona.

The commodore raised an eyebrow. "You were certainly very earnest with that lovely young anthropologist— the one who shared your quarters, for what? two watches?"

L'Wrona blushed. "You're a voyeur, D'Trelna."

'' Bored—merely bored.''

A moment later, the alert klaxon brought them to their feet, startled.

"Battle stations. Battle stations." The view through the armorglass blurred as the shield went to battle force.

"This is no drill," warned the bridge. "This is no drill."

D'Trelna took an MK 1A from his desk.

"Command officers to the bridge. Command officers to the bridge."

Weapons in hand, the two rushed into the corridor. Officers and crew filled the passageways, running for their posts.

Captain and commodore burst onto the bridge, the battle klaxon still rattling through the long miles of the ship.

"Status," said L'Wrona to the XO, Commander T'Lei K'Raoda.

"Mr. Sutherland
..."
began the young officer.

"I requested T'Lei bring the ship to alert, H'Nar," said Bill Sutherland. The CIA Director stood to their right, by navigation.

"What is the nature of the emergency?" asked L'Wrona, eyes flicking to the tacscan up on the main board. Terran communications satellites, space junk and
V'Tran's Glory
standing five units off to port. AH green plotted, all normal.

The battle klaxon stopped.

"As I was having breakfast this morning, Guan-Sharick appeared, au naturel, said four words and vanished. I left the granola scattered over the floor and grabbed the next shuttle from Andrews. I didn't dare use the commnet."

"What did the bug say?" asked D'Trelna.

The nearest bridge crew pretended not to listen.

"He said, 'The portal is back.' "

"Shit," said D'Trelna in English. He sank into the flag officer's chair, behind and above the captain's.

"High alert, Commander K'Raoda," ordered L'Wrona. "All S'Cotar countermeasures into effect."

"He also said to warn you—the machines need another star drive to punch through to their home universe. They'll be coming for one of yours."

"Sir,
V'Tran's'
shield has been down for half the watch," said K'Raoda.

L'Wrona and D'Trelna exchanged worried glances. "T'Lei, why didn't you report that?" asked the captain.

"It's only an anomaly during high alert, sir."

D'Trelna shook his head mumbling something. He punched into the commnet. "Commodore to
V'Tran's Glory."

A woman's round face filled his commscreen. She was about D'Trelna's age, with close-cropped, graying hair. The bottom edge of the pickup just caught the gleam of the starship captain's silver insignia on her collar.

"How's that shield coming, H'Tan?" asked D'Trelna.

"Just about ready, Commodore," she said. "We'd have had it sooner, but I'm short three shield techs. Shore leave."

D'Trelna grunted. "Very well. Keep me posted." His finger paused over the cutoff.

"Oh, H'Tan. Just got a skipcomm from Fleet." He smiled knowingly. "Admiral T'Bul sends you his warmest compliments."

The destroyer captain's face brightened. "D'Trelna, you've made my watch."

"And you mine," said D'Trelna as her image disappeared. He swiveled the chair to face L'Wrona. "I think we should send
V'Tran's Glory
our warmest compliments, H'Nar."

"Agreed." Face a graven mask, he turned to K'Raoda.
"V'Tran's Glory
is taken, T'Lei. Blow her away."

K'Raoda had heard the exchange between D'Trelna and the destroyer. Calling up gunnery control, far amidships, he began speaking softly into the commnet, face pale and angry.

"Good God!" said Sutherland, aghast. "Are you sure?"

D'Trelna nodded wearily. "S'Tur would never let more than one shield tech go at a time. No competent captain would. And S'Tur is . . . was very competent."

"But
..."
protested the Terran.

"Admiral T'Bul's been dead for ten years, Bill," said L'Wrona. "He died in our first battle with the S'Cotar. He and S'Tur had a brief marriage contract. It didn't end pleasantly. She cheered his death posting."

"Gunnery will not fire without authenticated confirmation from both captain and commodore," reported K'Raoda.

"Target's shield just came up," reported T'Ral from the tactics console. "Battle force. I've implemented broad-spectrum countermeasures."

"Ahead flank," ordered L'Wrona. "Full evasive pattern. Prepare for hostile fire."

D'Trelna slammed down the commnet switch. "Gunnery! T'Laka! D'Trelna! Flanking Councilor seven to Ar-chon two. You open fire or I'll kick your teeth in!"

Both ships fired as one, thick red fusion beams lashing from squat, gray weapons blisters, tearing at each other's shields—shields that turned red as the moments dragged by. Five minutes into the battle, and the destroyer's shield began sliding into umbra, the new color lapping out in concentric circles from the beam points.

"We outgun him ten to one," said D'Trelna to Sutherland. "He can't outrun us. Even if he made jump point, he'd have to drop his shield to jump. We'd vaporize him with a missile." They watched as the umbra blazed into scarlet, obscuring the other ship.

"Why isn't he favoring us with one of their famous suicide runs, H'Nar?" asked the commodore. "He can't last much longer."

As he spoke,
V'Tran's Glory
ceased firing, its shield slowly changing back to umbra.

"He's diverting weapons energy to shield," said the captain, punching into a tactics readout.

"Buying time," said D'Trelna. "For what?" He checked his own instruments, then looked back at the screen, squinting.

"T'Lei, split screen. Give me base-plus-five magnification, grids one-seven by two-five. There's a color anomaly and he's headed right for it."

The screen split, the right still showing
V'Tran's Glory,
encased in the blazing cocoon of its shield, moving at flank, and a growing circle of something blacker than even the obsidian of space—something blotting out the stars as it expanded.

"Maximus," said Sutherland. "It's like the Maximus portal Guan-Sharick described, only bigger, spaceborne. That ship's headed for Terra Two."

"Gunnery," snapped L'Wrona. "Full missile salvo. Now!"

Missiles flashed from their launch blisters, long silver needles closing on
V'Tran's Glory
as she slipped through the portal.

Where the hole in space had been, stars shone again. The missiles continued on, straight for the Lesser Magellanic Clouds.

"Gone," said L'Wrona.

"Confirmed," said K'Raoda, checking the full battlescan.

"Gone to Terra Two." Sutherland sank into a vacant chair. "Why?"

D'Trelna shook his head, grim-faced. "Any number of unpleasant possibilities. With the excitement over, we'll have to . . ."