The Battle for Terra Two (7 page)

The CRT came on, amber letters flashing across the screen,
select voice or screen
, it said.

Typing
screen
, he homed the cursor.

select modality
preceded a menu of options.

32, he responded, keying for
restricted access.

? asked BOSCO, giving no clue.

maximus
, typed John.

doppleganger
, challenged the machine.

Palms sweating, John waited for the alarm klaxon. If Heather's gift didn't work, BOSCO would scream for help.

lilith
, BOSCO said, duped into answering its own challenge.
select project file.

He had it all in five minutes, neatly transferred to a microfiche, pocketing it as a smiling Blackstone found him.

"Major Harrison, you missed a neat intercept," he said happily. "We zapped a dozen gangers, maybe survivors of our raid on Viper HQ. We'll know more after a G2 workup."

"We were the ones with survivors in that action," said John as the warrant officer saw him to the door. "Second battalion had sixty-two percent casualties and lost ten choppers. There were no ganger casualties. Jack Grady says the LZ smelled like a crematorium on a warm August night."

"That rabble couldn't
..."

"They're very well organized rabble." John stepped past the guards and into the white corridor. "They fight for their lives, their homes, their families. What are we fighting for, Blackstone? Our pensions?"

"We're fighting for America," said the warrant officer, puzzled.

"Of course," said John. "Good night."

Your hours here are numbered, boy, thought John. Shooting up the help, thinking out loud, stealing from the cookie jar. Aldridge's going to feed you to his larks.

Microfiche still warm in his pocket, he went up to his quarters.

Alone in the room, he switched the film to the hollow heel of his right boot, then searched his pockets for the authenticator.

He'd been reaching for the authenticator. Blackstone's footfalls had alerted him. Tucking the fiche into his shirt pocket, he'd turned . . .

The authenticator was still in BOSCO's port, bloody red arrow pointing to it like a finger of doom.

How long till someone found it, saw that it wasn't standard?

Grabbing minimac and starhelm, he ran from the room and up the stairs toward the heliport, fourteen levels above. Elevators could be stopped, riders gassed.

"We have a situation, sir," said zur Linde, unknowingly parroting Blackstone's remark of a few minutes ago. "Let's have it."

Despite the hour, the colonel was alert. He prided himself on his Napoleonic courage, that ability to respond agilely to a crisis at any hour.

"Harrison bypassed BOSCO's authentication system." Phone to his ear, the German watched as two of his specials led a trembling Blackstone from Operations. The warrant officer's only familiarity with Napoleonic courage was a cognac of like name.

"He outprinted the entire Site Y file onto microfiche, then cleverly left his authenticator in the computer." Zur Linde thoughtfully hefted the thin device. "It would help to know who made it."

Yesterday was a hole in zur Linde's life. Found unconscious on the red line, his last memory was of a winking blue light in the Bell's cockpit as he'd kept a delicate distance between himself and Harrison's recon chopper. Then nothing till he'd opened his eyes in Dispensary.

"Impotent, treasonous old men," said Aldridge. "Only with competent agents are they dangerous. From your condition yesterday, Erich, I suspect Major Harrison is such a prosthesis. Where is he now?"

Something cold in Aldridge's voice made zur Linde hesitate.

"Well?"

"We don't know, sir," he said carefully. "He hasn't used his ID to access any level since returning to the BOQ from Operations. And he's no longer on the BOQ level."

"Then he's using the stairs. Security condition red—full alert."

"Yes, sir."

"Take him alive if possible—I'd like him drained by Interrogation. But stop him. That file mustn't leave here."

Slipping his ID to open the stairtop door to the heliport, John knew he signaled his presence to BOSCO.

The nearest sentries saluted him as he quick-trotted to the first chopper, a deadly Bushmaster-Fokker gunship. "Emergency!" he shouted. "Colonel's orders!"

The alert klaxon only moved the guards out of his way faster, until its purpose sounded over their radios. They came for him as he slid into the chopper.

Starting the engine was no problem, but it took him a long moment to puzzle out the ordnance control. The first sentries were less than ten yards away when he swiveled the port gatling guns, firing high.

Scattering, the troopers fired back, slugs pinging off the duraplast armor as reinforcements charged off the elevators. Firing low and continuously, John revved the engine, pulling the Bushmaster up at a sharp right angle, then swept back, rocketing the heliport with a full rack of red-tipped incendiaries.

"Impressive," said Aldridge, watching on an Operations monitor: choppers exploding, fuel from each triggering the next, their tracers and rockets tearing through the troopers trying to fight the flames.

The floor rumbled as shock waves ripped through the building. The monitors flickered and died.

"Can't we take that renegade's chopper out?" Zur Linde turned to the AirDef tech.

"Negative." The sergeant nodded at a small screen, dancing with green fuzz. "Fire's knocked out all the radar. Arm those SAMs and they'll blow—they're heat seekers."

"Jettison those Hauzahns, Erich," ordered Aldridge, "before they chew our top off."

"Do it," said zur Linde. The great building shook as missile after unarmed missile tore away, roaring blindly into the sky.

The watch officer turned to zur Linde. "Fire's out of control, sir. Captain Grady reports the napalm's about to go. He's ordered fireguard down two levels. And all radio communication's out."

"Why is there napalm in the heliport, Erich?" Aldridge fixed the German with his iciest glare. More explosions shook the room.

"We were going to use it this afternoon, sir. I wanted to try a technique perfected against the Bantu. It . . ."

Aldridge turned to the watch officer. "Evacuation, Bravo Plan. Alert all sections. And phone Copley and Harbor substations—assuming the underground lines are intact. Advise our situation, order up choppers."

"Erich, get . . ." The door slid open, admitting a begrimed Captain Grady, uniform singed. "Useless, Colonel," he coughed. "Top two levels are gone. It'll be here in thirty, forty minutes."

"Nothing you could do, Jack," said Aldridge, laying a hand on Grady's shoulder. "Get your men down to motorpool level. We'll deploy into the killzone and await the choppers."

"Colonel." The watch officer set the securfone down. "Major Sardon reports a general assault across the red line. They started probing as soon as they saw our smoke. BOSCO's blind and the gangers know it.

"The major's thrown a defense perimeter around the techno enclaves. He thinks he can hold until dark—if he keeps all his choppers."

A pall settled over the room.

Aldridge slowly polished his bifocals, then wrapped them back around his long ears. "Then we'll have to march out and face the enemy, just like real soldiers."

"That's five miles through ganger turf, Colonel," said Grady.

"Thank you, Jack. You may recall that zur Linde and I are the only ones who have ever taken a foot patrol through any part of ganger turf."

A throat cleared.

"We have armor, gentlemen. The gangers don't."

"They've got good antitank weapons, Colonel. And the terrain favors them."

Aldridge shrugged. "You can fight beside me, like men, or die here like cattle. Your choice." He walked to the door, then turned.

"Erich, get everyone down to the motorpool. Full combat uniform. Get the armor ready to roll. Deactivate the minefields. I'll join you in fifteen minutes."

Fort Todd's five granite bastions commanded Boston's inner harbor. Her rusting cannon had been silent over a century when John's chopper passed the weathered parapet, setting down on the island's weed-choked parade ground.

Running from the durable stone headquarters, Heather reached the gunship as John cut the engine and jumped out, triumphantly waving the microfiche.

"Idiot!" she shrieked, delicate high-boned cheeks red with fury. "Did you start that?" She stabbed a finger toward the distant city.

Confused, John turned, looking to where a great column of thick, black smoke billowed out over the harbor. "Sure I did! If I hadn't hit their heliport, we wouldn't have this." He handed her the Maximus fiche.

"I'd sacrifice this to stop what you've set in motion." Calming, she led him back toward the headquarters building.

"And that is?"

"A sweep. A fully bloody air and armor sweep of turf." They stepped inside.

Decades of water had stained the walls mucous-yellow, dropping great chunks of moldy plaster down onto the warped, broad-beamed floor. Heather perched atop a battered gray-metal desk. "Tell me about it," she said, ankle-crossed legs swinging over the edge.

"OK," she said when he'd finished, "let's make the best of it. If we assault Maximus, we'll do it during the sweep. It'll pull both New England divisions into Boston."

"If?" asked John, raising an eyebrow. "You mean when, don't you, Heather?"

Leaving the desk, she rummaged through an equipment stack, extracting a compact metal case. "We work for you, John. You don't own us." She plugged the case into one of the generator leads snaking the floor. "Ian was a dedicated CIA officer. He saw the Outfit as a counterforce to a lot that's wrong with this society—endless warfare here and abroad, pervasive German influence. He thought maybe, just maybe, the Agency could help bring us back from the broken, soulless nation we've become."

Unfolded on the desktop, the case became a microfilm viewer. She turned it on, slipping in the film.

"What are you telling me, Heather?"

She looked up from the machine. "I'm telling you I'm not taking my kids up against that horror in the mountains just because I'm told to. Life is too short and hard here. I'm not making it any shorter or harder without damn good reason."

How about two universes? he wanted to say. Logic, he thought. Good old half-step, Aristotelian logic.

"What if the microfilm shows Maximus to be a clear and deadly danger to us all, Heather? Then will you support my mission?"

"Sure." She turned back to the viewer. "Let's see if there's 'clear and deadly danger.' "

Her slim fingers made a delicate adjustment to the viewer, transforming a blurred diagram into a sharp-featured map of Maximus. "You realize with BOSCO down, UC's sensor ring's gone. They'll have to deploy every chopper, every company to try and protect the technos. Aldridge and his thugs may have to fight their way through turf. God! I'd love to see that!"

"We can't stay here much longer, Colonel," said zur Linde, worriedly eyeing the smoke wafting into the cavernous motorpool.

Aldridge nodded, pacing slowly in front of the four assembled companies, drawn up at parade rest. He glanced at his watch. "We might have ten minutes before the roof drops on us, Erich. If I don't get a recon report from Copley in five minutes, we roll blind." He stopped pacing. "Best mount up."

Zur Linde saluted, then executed a textbook about-face. "Company commanders, move your men into the vehicles," he ordered. No one needed any encouragement, scrambling into the APCs and tanks.

Zur Linde turned back to Aldridge. "What about the detainees, Colonel?"

Two levels below were some three hundred prisoners, the unfortunate Mr. Blackstone among them. Most were being held for interrogation or pending transfer to work camps.

The colonel shrugged, hopefully jiggling his handset. Nothing. "Killed tragically in the fire."

He looked up. "On second thought, have someone get Blackstone out and give him a weapon. He can take his chances with the rest of us. Any man who survived that hell at Shimoda doesn't deserve to die like a smoked rat." He lifted the handset as the German gave the necessary orders.

"Copley. Aldridge. Get me Major Sardon." In a minute he was listening without expression to the Copley commander. "I see, Terry. No, no, I understand. Do what you can. We'll get out.

"Sardon's being forced back, Erich. Most of our choppers are down. It's
Der Tag,
my friend. Let's roll."

Grim faced, zur Linde ran for his own tank as Aldridge headed for the lead M80, scrambling spryly up its side and down into the turret. Thick, toxic smoke was pouring through the ceiling vents into the motorpool.

Over a hundred armored vehicles coughed to life as the great blast doors atop the ramp swung open. Burning debris showered the column as it gunned up and out, thundering over the dead mines.

Behind them, the roof and upper stories crashed down in slow, booming majesty, a story at a time. The prisoners heard the fiery avalanche coming an eternal moment before it struck. Some screamed, some prayed, some wet themselves—all died. The column snaked down the hill and into the morning.

Heather looked up from the microviewer. "They're mad. Stark, raving mad." She shook her head, still not believing.

"Know anything about quantum mechanics?"

"Black holes, alternate universes, stuff like that?" She nodded.

John shook his head. "Just a dumb spook."

"Yeah, with a Ph.D. in history. Listen, Professor Spook, there's no law of physics mandating the singularity of time or space. And there's some evidence, for those who care to see it, of an infinite series of alternate universes, some alien beyond our comprehension, others possibly different from our own only by my not having said 'possibly.' And if these alternate realities exist, they can be reached, given the right technology."

John nodded. "Based on this," he tapped the viewer, "you think Maximus is a gateway from an alternate reality?"

"Maybe. It's not a natural manifestation. It just appeared, two years ago. A research facility was promptly constructed around it. And judging from the file reports, the crew up there still have no idea what it is—this despite early use of human subjects to probe the phenomenon.