The Battle for Terra Two (2 page)

"Few, but they're breeding up to strength. Fast, using an untested growth accelerant."

"Assuming this is true," said DTrelna, "what do you want us to do?"

The desk commlink chirped. "D'Trelna," said the commodore.

"Engineer N'Trol requests permission to lower the shield for periodic maintenance," reported K'Raoda,
Implaca-ble's
third officer.

D'Trelna sighed. "What did N'Trol actually say, T'Lei?"

"He said, sir, 'Tell Fatty and the fop to let me fix the number eight shield generator, or we'll be eating meteors next watch.' "

"Seems clear," said D'Trelna. "Thank you, T'Lei. I'll advise N'Trol direct." He turned to L'Wrona. "What do you think?"

"It has to be fixed," said the captain. He looked at the blonde. "As long as slime here doesn't flick an assault force on board."

"I could do that very easily," said Guan-Sharick. "You're well within teleport range of the Terran surface. But I've no force left.

"If Shalan knew I was here, though, he'd try for me."

"Does Shalan know?" asked L'Wrona.

"No."

Commodore and captain exchanged glances. "Let's do it," said L'Wrona.

D'Trelna nodded curtly. "Agreed." He spoke into the commlink. "Chief Engineer."

"Engineering. N'Trol," said a surly voice.

"N'Trol. Fatty here. Fop and I have decided that you may lower the shield."

"About time."

"N'Trol, you'll find this hard to believe, but there are other considerations than the care and feeding of the engineering
..."

The commlink telltale winked out.

"Cut me off," said D'Trelna, surprised. "He's getting worse, H'Nar."

"Why do you tolerate him?" asked the S'Cotar.

"He's very competent," said L'Wrona.

"NTrol's the finest engineer in Fleet," said D'Trelna. "He resents having been drafted from a very lucrative job."

"He resents humanity," said L'Wrona. "N'Trol should have been a S'Cotar." He touched the communicator at his throat. "Bridge. Captain. Shield's going down for repair. Go to high alert, coordinate with Engineering on outage and hull-security party."

"All sections, high alert." K'Raoda's voice echoed through the great old ship. "High alert. The shield is going down for repair. Shield will be down. All sections to high alert. All sections acknowledge."

"You won't give us the portal location," said D'Trelna as the alert call ended. "What proof can you offer?"

A small white cylinder appeared in the blonde's hand. "Everything is on this commwand. But all I need"—the S'Cotar smiled ruefully—"all we need, is one man. One special Terran who can stop Shalan-Actal. A man who'd never work for me, Commodore—but he'd work for you."

"The shield is down," announced the bridge. "The shield is down."

Guan-Sharick rose, extending the commwand.

As D'Trelna stepped around the desk, a transmute flicked into existence beside him, firing at Guan-Sharick. The blonde vanished. The blue bolts tore through the sofa, exploding against the bulkhead.

L'Wrona drew and fired, two quick, red bolts, as the battle klaxon sounded and D'Trelna threw himself to the floor.

"All secure, J'Quel," L'Wrona called over the klaxon. The transmute lay dead on the floor, an arm's length from the commodore, viscous green blood oozing from a hole in its thorax, staining the maroon carpeting.

D'Trelna stood, pulling himself up by the desktop, the commwand in his other hand.

The door hissed open. L'Wrona whirled, blaster ready. A reaction squad of black-uniformed commandos surged in, commando lieutenant S'Til leading. Captain and commandos faced each other over the dead S'Cotar, weapons leveled.

"Captain to Flanking Councilor four," said S'Til.

"Concede," said L'Wrona, lowering his weapon.

"Sir." S'Til saluted, Mil A to her chest. If L'Wrona had given an I'Wor move, she'd have killed him.

"Clean this up, Lieutenant," said L'Wrona. He spoke briefly with the bridge, then turned to D'Trelna. "Just that one," he said, as two commandos dragged the biofab's body out. "The rest of the ship's clean."

Back in his chair, D'Trelna poured another drink for himself. "Join me, H'Nar.' He indicated the captain's almost untouched glass.

As L'Wrona sat on the armchair, blaster in hand, D'Trelna slipped the commwand into the desktop reader. "Computer," he said, "scan, read aloud and file contents to main memory, command access only."

They listened for the rest of the watch, D'Trelna making an occasional note on his desk pad. When it ended, the shield was back up and the brandy half gone.

"So," said D'Trelna, setting down his pen, "if this is all true, we need Harrison."

"If it's true," said L'Wrona, "yes."

"We'll have to brief the Terrans," said D'Trelna.

"And our ambassador?"

"After the Terrans," said D'Trelna firmly.

"He'll scream," said L'Wrona.

"Let him. Security of the Confederation—military priority."

"Communications," said the commodore into the commlink, "get me the American Central Intelligence Director, Bill Sutherland." He ganced at the time readout, doing a quick conversion. "He's probably at home, asleep. Get him up. Tell him we've one last world to win."

"Hear from Zahava?" asked McShane, helping himself to another cup of John's coffee.

"Early yesterday." Using a fork, he slid the waffles from the little electric oven onto the two plastic microwave plates. "There's a seven-hour time difference between here and Israel."

"How's her sister doing?"

"Better. Cardiac's a tricky thing, though. "Syrup?" he asked, putting a plate in front of McShane.

They faced each other across the breakfast bar; McShane stolid, white-bearded, with red suspenders stretching from the top of his corduroys over his blue flannel shirt; John, thirty years his junior, in faded jeans and a red cardigan.

"No, thank you. No waffle, either." He pushed the food back, thumb and forefinger to the plate edge. "TV-dinner plates, pop-up breakfasts. You're living on this swill?"

"Not worth cooking for one," said John, squeezing a layer of cold syrup across the waffle. The sunlight flood-

ing the kitchen lent the topping the look of thick, yellowed varnish.

"When's she coming home?" asked McShane, adding milk to his coffee.

"It could be a few months. Natie's got two kids and there's no one else to help.

"What brings you to the Hill so early in the day, Bob?"

"Checkup." He tapped his chest. "Iron-poor blood or something. I'm not twenty-nine anymore, but I shouldn't need a four-hour nap every afternoon."

The phone rang. John reached out, taking the receiver from the wall. He listened for a few seconds, then hung up.

"Wrong number?" asked Bob, sipping his coffee. John shook his head. "My former employer, I think."

"You think?"

"A voice I've never heard hit me with a hot-shit authenticator and the words 'Gather at the river. Thirty minutes.' "

"What, the Potomac?"

"Yes. I know where—it's a stretch along the canal in Georgetown."

"When I was a boy," said McShane, "back in the Pleistocene, kids used to run off to join the circus. Your crowd ran off to join the CIA." He set his cup down. "Are you driving?"

"No." John rose, taking the dishes to the sink. "Car's in the shop for a brake job."

"I can drop you at Foggy Bottom." He tucked in the bar stool. "Wear your mitties—it's cold out there."

"You need a what?" Harrison stared at Sutherland. "A hero," said the CIA Director. "We need a hero."

"A hero's a sandwich, Bill." He watched as a sudden gust sent a yellow-red cloud of maple leaves swirling into the canal. "Or a word in a eulogy."

A chill October wind had driven all but the hardiest joggers from the towpath. More would venture out later, after work, but for now the two men had the Georgetown riverfront to themselves.

"Guan-Sharick can get you there," said Sutherland, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his camel-hair topcoat. "You have to get yourself back."

"By taking the other end of this Shalan's portal?"

"Yes."

"Why me? Why not a transmute?" As they walked, he turned the collar of his parka against the wind. "Our old buddy Guan-Sharick could just rip out some poor bastard's mind, imitate him, turn this resistance movement against Shalan-Actal and his base." Stooping, he picked up a flat stone. "Find another hero, Bill. I've retired." He skimmed the weathered shale across the brackish canal surface, one-two-three. It sank midchannel.

"There's no one else," said Sutherland. "And Guan-Sharick can't steal a dead man's mind." He took the photo from his pocket. "Here's who you'd be replacing."

John stared at the snapshot. The man was in his midthirties, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, with a familiar ironic grin. He wore a jet-black dress uniform and high-peaked cap with gleaming visor. "Me," said John. "Only not me." He looked up. "My double on Terra Two?"

"Your dead double," said the CIA Director, taking back the photo. "Major Harrison was killed in a motorcycle accident last week. Very T. E. Lawrence, but very bad timing. He'd just finished his doctoral dissertation at McGill and was to report to his new post in Boston."

"Guan-Sharick was going to replace him?"

Sutherland nodded. "He saw the accident and disposed of the body. Then he flicked through Shalan's portal and appealed to D'Trelna and L'Wrona for help."

"Now that I'd like to have seen," smiled John. The smile faded. "So in another reality, I'm a corpse."

He pointed to the photo. "What's that shroud he's wearing?"

"Class-A uniform—CIA Counter Insurgency Brigade. Sort of a yankee doodle Waffen SS, now fighting in Mexico."

"Mexico?"

"But he's been seconded to the Urban Command garrison in Boston as intelligence officer." Sutherland laughed at Harrison's expression. "You're going to love Terra Two, John."

"I'm not going to Terra Two." He looked across the Potomac, watching as a jet skirted the towers in Rosslyn, heading in to National Airport.

The CIA Director's smile faded. "No one else can do it. If you don't go, bugs and killer machines will come swarming into this reality. They have to be stopped on Terra Two. And you're elected. Or rather, Major Harrison with his ganger connections is."

"I won't ask what a ganger is, Bill," said John, facing Sutherland. "And I'm not elected—I wasn't running. I don't work for you anymore, I don't free-lance anymore, and I don't believe anything Guan-Sharick would say."

"We have to assume he's telling the truth," said Sutherland. "To not do so would be criminally irresponsible."

"You're saying I'm irresponsible?"

It was Sutherland's turn to gaze across the river. "You left the Outfit in a tiff . . ."

Harrison's face flushed, not from the cold. "No one pisses my people away."

"And you were getting bored with the free-lance stuff when the K'Ronarins showed up," continued the director. "Then the biofab war, that battle under the moon. Blasters, mindslavers, starships, Pocsym, S'Cotar. Then it ended. Boom." He turned back to Harrison. "You married your Israeli friend, wrote a book about the biofab war and made an obscene amount of money."

"Am making."

"And now that you're the only one in this whole frigging universe that may be able to save it . . ."

"Really, Bill."

"You won't go. Why not?" He snapped out the last two words, like a drill instructor.

"I don't want to die," said John easily. "That's a one-way trip."

"You haven't a choice, buddy. You go, or we all die."

"I have a choice."

"Crock," said Sutherland. He held out the tan attache case. "Take this. Read it. It's everything Guan-Sharick gave the K'Ronarins. Give it back to me tomorrow at nine, along with your decision. Scholl's Restaurant on K Street— toward the back."

John took it. They walked in silence to the footbridge, crossed it and stepped down into the hilly side street. "Can I drop you?" said Sutherland. "Long walk to Capitol Hill."

John shook his head. "I could use the air."

He was crossing Fourteenth Street and the sleaze strip when the young blonde in the bimbo suit fell into step beside him. "Something soft and warm for lunch, sir?" she asked.

"No." John quickened his pace.

She kept up with him as he moved past a row of strip joints. "It must be lonely, with Zahava away."

Stopping, he turned, seeing her for the first time. "You."

"Indeed," said Guan-Sharick. "The reports of my death . . ."

"I heard."

The S'Cotar appeared to slip an arm through his. "Let's stroll a bit—John and hooker."

"Funny," he said, walking reluctantly beside the transmute. "What do you want?"

"Everyone asks that," sighed the blonde. Her china-blue eyes met his. "You know what I want.

"Harrison, Shalan-Actal's transmutes are gunning for me, so I'll make it short. I know Sutherland just briefed you—laid a moral imperative on you. Will you go?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

"Harrison," said the S'Cotar urgently, "if those machines establish a bridgehead in this universe, it's all over—for you, for us, for all intelligent life. They'll wipe Shalan the second he's no longer needed. One of their battle units is five times the size of the K'Ronarin fleet. Harrison, they have over ten thousand battle units! Maybe the Imperial Fleet could have stood against them—nothing of this time can."

"How do you know all this?"

"Some few of us can receive their internal communications—cold, alien thoughts, dedicated to the death of all sapient life. The dead hand that programmed them created an undying malevolence. We either stop them now, one reality away, or we're all dead meat."

"We?" John shook his head. "I don't trust you, bug."

"Trust this then," said the blonde coldly. "Your wife's visiting in Israel. She's now seated in the Cafe Hertzel, on Jerusalem's Dizendorf Street, sipping Turkish coffee from a white, chipped demitasse cup. Her girlfriend tells an anecdote—your wife laughs, her brown eyes sparkling.

I've but to signal and she's dead. And I will, unless you help us."