The Battle for Terra Two (19 page)

"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 D'Trelna, watching the computer. "We were busy, and it did what we 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."

D'Trelna cleared his throat. "Computer," he said in his best command voice, "I am Commodore J'Quel D'Trelna. As senior K'Ronarin 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, A'Gan!"

"It's cracked," said McShane.

"Certainly is." D'Trelna looked shaken.

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

D'Trelna saw it then—a jagged hairline crack running diagonally from beneath the garment.

"Know, A'Gan, 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, J'Quel?" asked McShane, his grip on the rifle suddenly sweaty.

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

"Inspiring."

"Now, A'Gan, I shall take your child as wergeld," said computer. McShane wondered how it spoke—it had no visible orifice.

"I am not A'Gan and I have no children, my lord of the fractured carapace," said D'Trelna.

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 D'Trelna. "The blue's a stasis field, the rims are distance-controlled surgical lasers. One 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 D'Trelna.

"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.

D'Trelna counted as the brainpod neared the muzzle of his rifle. "One. Two. Three."

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

"Die, A'Gan!" 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 for a moment, then fell on its side.

Approaching warily, the two men watched 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 D'Trelna. "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 D'Trelna.

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

"Surely not more than / can imagine," smiled McShane. Placing the egg in D'Trelna's hand, he closed the other's fingers over it. "Here you are, senior K'Ronarin officer. Wealth and power beyond imagining."

"Such things are best earned," said D'Trelna, dropping the egg into a pouch on his utility belt. "Let's hope it doesn't grow before we get it back to K'Ronar." Running a finger along the seam, he sealed the pouch. "At least it's not wearing a 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 Argo down to basic parameters," said D'Trelna. "Machines will soon be harvesting crops here, putting them in storage for no one to eat.

"Let's 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, marblelike surface—with no windows, just a doorway, barred by the shimmering blue of a force field.

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

"Our history, not yours," said D'Trelna. "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 K'Ronar," said the commodore. "That K'Ronar 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?"

D'Trelna shrugged. "Prehistory. Guesses start at about two hundred and fifty thousand years—Terran years."

"Surely the contents can be dated?"

"Maybe. Except that no one's ever penetrated one of those tombs and survived. Try to force your way in and whatever powers it goes critical—leaves a perfectly 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 whomever built those," said D'Trelna, nodding at the tomb, "we're all dust squatters.

"Structures like that dot hillsides on K'Ronar, S'Htar, U'Tria—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, J'Quel?" asked McShane.

"Since forever, Bob."

"And none of our 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?"

D'Trelna 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 party 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 S'Kal," 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 D'Trelna.

The small white room was empty except for a t'raq-wood table and the three boxes on it. The boxes were wrapped in a blue stasis halo—a halo that vanished as D'Trelna 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 unical lettering of High K'Ronarin: "Relic of the Nameless Emperor."

D'Trelna carefully closed the box.

"Not going to take it out?"

"No," said the commodore, stepping along the table to the next box. "First of the House of S'Kal, founder of the Empire, he's the Legend-Without-a-Name—perhaps the last of those who built these houses of eternity. That bracelet's undoubtedly a thing of power. I wouldn't touch it if it lay on the deck."

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

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

"Yes." D'Trelna opened his eyes as the red spots faded. "It's the Star of TTlar. Worn by every emperor of the First Dynasty—the House of S'Kal. 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, J'Quel," 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 D'Trelna. 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 D'Trelna. "Don't count your reinforcements before they arrive. The universe is full of nasty surprises."

K'Raoda turned from the tacscan to Ambassador Z'Sha. "They're here."

"Can we have visual, Commander?" Wearing the light blue uniform of a senior diplomat, Z'Sha 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 v'arx leather boots would have cost K'Raoda 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 previous 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
Implacable.

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 closeup. 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 Z'Sha, turning to K'Raoda.

"Yes, sir."

Z'Sha 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 the food, air and water chains. Millions would die. We might even kill the oceans." He leaned toward the complink. "Indeed, computer projects
..."

"Enough," said Z'Sha, 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 K'Tran.

"You're sure so many personnel won't strain
Implacable's
facilities?"