The Battle for Terra Two (9 page)

"In exchange for what?"

"In exchange for help, or at least neutrality, in our war against the Boers and their German allies."

She shook her head, not satisfied. "Why Maximus? The whole story."

"Shortly after Maximus started up, the Committee, its principal members anyway, began noticing certain . . . anomalies. Odd things not at first associated with Maximus. Key officials who'd visited the site invariably brought back glowing reports of insubstantial progress. These formerly vigorous, aggressive men became strangely complacent, going thrugh the motions of work. This malaise
..."

A series of shock waves boomed over the island. From the mainland, a pillar of black smoke billowed out over the water. The fire had reached Logan Airport's fuel tanks.

"This malaise," he continued, "seems confined to the second-secretary rank—the people who allegedly make government work. Our foreign strategy became more irrational and the economy grew worse, if that's conceivable.

"The Committee became worried—hell!—the Committee got scared. Half of them are second-secretary level. They needed Maximus destroyed, without risk to them. I'd been out of it for a while, living in Canada, teaching, writing. Harwood leaned on me and here I am. Malusi and Ian were already in place, part of the Committee's long-term commitment."

And all true, thought John, with a few last-minute improvisations—like a new John Harrison. He was acquiring a grudging respect for Guan-Sharick's ability.

"Why didn't they just send in agents?" asked Heather.

"Agents were sent in. They never reported back. And we couldn't just bomb the place—not on suspicion alone. It is an American installation."

"So you explain this away as a ganger raid," said Heather. "But why did you have to break into the UC data base if the information's all in Frederick?"

"It isn't," said John. "Strangely, all references to Maximus were lost last month in an electrical fire. That was when the decision was made to act. Actually, it was to convince you to go, Heather. Boston's burning as a result. You better say yes."

"Choppers!" someone shouted from the wall. "Army choppers! Headed this way."

"Now or never, Heather."

Germany has the bomb. Russia has the bomb. They guard it jealously and watch each other warily.

America has poverty, ignorance and class warfare. It is a mercantile fief of the Fourth Reich, with an economy based on the export of raw materials, the import of finished and semi-finished goods. American draftees—those who cannot afford to pay a stand in—fight for German foreign policy in a dozen countries. Coming home, they can join the Urban Corps, the gangs, or, if fortunate, win a service job in the burbs.

—Harrison,
ibid., p. 169

Aldridge's chopper was barely down before he was out, heading for Maximus's one-story Admin building.

The sandbagged entrance was deserted save for two black-sweatered British soldiers. Inspecting his ID, they saluted, waving him past.

"Get Fwolkes up," Aldridge ordered, identifying himself to the sleepy-eyed QIC, a competent-looking brunette in her midtwenties, with captain's pips and parachutist's badge. Nodding curtly, she picked up the phone.

Brigadier Charles Wesley Fwolkes arrived in five minutes, every inch the British officer, despite the hour: olive tunic and red-striped pants neatly pressed, brown shoes gleaming under the fluorescents, swagger stick tucked under his left arm, red-banded cap at just the right angle. He might have been inspecting Parade at Sandhurst. Only his graying moustache betrayed concern, twitching as he returned Aldridge's salute. "Bloody hell, Colonel," he complained. "0330 on a Sunday? This better be good."

"Rather." Aldridge's mimicry of the other's accent was flawless. Bristling, Fwolkes opened his mouth, only to be ridden down by the UC officer. "In the past twenty-four hours, Brigadier," he said, sweating in the humid, overheated room, "I've seen my command decimated and my headquarters razed. I've been compelled to destroy one of our major cities in order to save it. Imagine how I feel about your beauty sleep."

Fwolkes tried to interject again, face flushed. Aldridge would have none of it. "Go to full alert, Brigadier. You're about to be attacked by a thousand well-armed, ably-led gangers."

"You have no authority here, Aldridge. And you could have radioed, as you normally do. Just what are your reasons for this extraordinary request? Do you know what a full alert costs the taxpayers?"

"Radio transmissions can be intercepted, Fwolkes. I am never wrong, given a bare minimum of data. And I don't care about the taxpayers. As to my authority
..."
Extracting a small leather case from his breast pocket, he passed it to the brigadier. "I am Grand Admiral Hans Christian Hochmeister, Reich Security Administrator and Chairman of Alliance Intelligence. This officer," he indicated zur Linde, just entering, "is Captain Erich zur Linde of the Abwehr.

"Now, sir, will you stand to." It wasn't a question.

Fwolkes swallowed hard. "I shall have to confirm, sir," he said hesitantly, returning the ID and touching swagger stick to hat visor, saluting a legend. "Until then, though
..."

He turned to the OIC. "Captain Mathieson, stand to, if you will. And someone get me a message pad," he added, as the alert sirens wailed.

Maximus was ready in five minutes, battened down and waiting. Reviewing the status board and TV monitors, Hochmeister nodded approval. "Excellent, Brigadier, excellent."

"Why, thank you, sir," said Fwolkes.

"I'd like Hauptmann zur Linde and you to accompany me on an inspection of your defenses."

"Very good, sir," nodded Fwolkes. "We must stay inside the perimeter." He pointed at the ground radar screen on which red blips were spreading like a pox. "And my apologies, Admiral. You were right. Hostiles approaching. It's going to get hot out there."

Hochmeister smiled thinly. "Good to see the old master hasn't lost his touch." He led them through the double-guarded entrance and down the floodlit driveway. Hands clasped behind his back, the Gray Admiral walked slowly past the sandbagged bunkers and razor wire, the mortar and machine-gun emplacements, nodding approvingly. This part of Maximus was all Security and Admin, halfway between the perimeter and the compact installation uphill from it. It was toward the distant gate, though, the one scouted by the now-dead Ian, that the trio went, walking briskly down the road. Arcflares burst overhead, lighting the area brighter than a July noon.

Passing through the final line of bunkers, Hochmeister continued down hill. Zur Linde and Fwolkes slowed uncertainly.

It was unnaturally still, no sound from the bunkers, armored vehicles or the forest. Only the occasional dull plop of an arcflare broke the silence.

Fwolkes cleared his throat. "Where are we going, Admiral, if I may ask?"

Hochmeister never broke stride. "Out into the night, Brigadier," he said, not looking back. "Zur Linde and I are going to join the gangers." Peering ahead, he thought he saw movement along the distant fence.

The British officer halted. "Sir, with respect—are you crazy?"

Brushing past him, zur Linde caught up with Hochmeister.

Stopping, the admiral turned, facing the brigadier. "Cagey, yes, Charles. Crazy, no." Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggy, black fieldjacket, pants wrinkled, face in need of a shave and some sleep, Hochmeister looked every bit his age, there in the pitiless light from the flares. "I'm somewhat surprised, Charles," he said easily, "that you don't remember me. Not only did we serve together at the Armistice Conference, your cousin Reggie is married to my niece Gabriela. We had a grand time at the wedding, last June in Salzburg."

Fwolkes was silent, face expressionless. The intelligence chief continued in the same light tone. "Equally distressing, though, was your HQ.

"Erich, did you feel that steamy heat?"

Zur Linde nodded. "Like the reptile house at the zoo," he said, eyes on the brigadier.

"Thirty-five centigrade in there, Charles, at least. Those machines shouldn't work at that temperature. Yet all their lights were twinkling merrily, the equipment humming, everything the picture of brisk efficiency. Except, as Erich notes, the room had the climate of the reptile house. The smell of it, too.

"You can't smell, can you?"

"Obviously, the equipment isn't as sensitive as you believe, Hans," said Fwolkes.

"Christian, Charles. You always called me Christian."

"Please," Fwolkes implored, glancing nervously toward the gate, "we've got to get back
..."

He broke off, starting as the gate blew up, briefly lighting the circling woods and the advancing gangers.

"Quick! If we run, we can
..."

"Imagine my great joy, though, Charles," Hochmeister continued as first ganger squads passed the gate, "to find you alive and well. This after Gabriela wrote only last week of your death in a car wreck—ashes to follow.

"Doesn't Charles look remarkably well for a corpse, Erich?"

"Indeed," said zur Linde, pulling his pistol.

"And what do you make of all this?" Fwolkes asked, cold amusement in his voice.

"That you—whoever or whatever you are—have taken control of Maximus; a control we know you're busy extending into vital areas of the American government. That your origins are probably the same as the—phenomenon— the Trojan horse around which we built the Troy of Maximus. That you mean this weary world ill."

Fwolkes stood motionless as a sibilant whisper filled the admiral and zur Linde's minds.

We mean no harm. We merely seek sanctuary. In our universe, we are a hunted race. We lost a war—we would have been exterminated had we stayed.

"You are called . . . ?" asked Hochmeister after a moment.

Shalan-Actal, servant to the S'Cotar.
"That's not your true form, is it, Shalan-Actal of the S'Cotar?"

Rippling, the Fwolkes-form shimmered away, replaced by six feet of mantislike insect, erect on four of its six limbs, its two upper limbs ending in gently undulating tentacles. Bulbous red eyes shifted between the two men before it melted back into the brigadier.

"We could use an ally of your stature, Admiral," the Fwolkes-thing said, taking a step toward them. "Return with me to
..."
It stopped at the sight of the two slim 9mm Walthers pointed at its thorax.

"I gather you accessed Earth through the object here at Maximus," said the admiral. "A gate of some sort?" The other nodded.

"We will return to your steamy little nest, bug," said Hochmeister, "but not with you. With the gangers. Then we'll have a good look at your gate. Who knows? Maybe we can form an alliance with your enemies—assuming even that to be true."

"You don't believe me?"

"Produce the real Maximus staff as witnesses to your goodwill, Shalan-Actal, then I may believe you.

"No? Well, then, shall we?" The admiral pointed downhill with his free hand. "If you'd be so kind as to lead?

"Erich, if it even stumbles, shoot." Tight-lipped, zur Linde nodded.

Five more S'Cotar appeared, flicking into existence beside Shalan-Actal. These were sturdier, larger insectoids, whiplike tentacles holding strange rifles. It was their mandibles, though, that held Hochmeister's attention—long, serrated, they were clicking softly. Warriors.

Rather, I think you will accompany us back to the compound, Admiral, Captain.

"Telepathic, telekinetic," said Hochmeister, impressed. "You're dangerous, Shalan-Actal." He fired once, a shot that became a fusillade as a ganger squad charged from the brush, minimacs blazing.

Shalan-Actal vanished as his reinforcements died.

"Major, you heard that?" asked the admiral, turning from the heaped insects as John stepped into the road, a squad of wide-eyed Vipers behind him. The gangers stared wide-eyed at the dead S'Cotar.

"Enough of it, Admiral."

"There can't be too many of them or we'd be dead," said zur Linde.

"Do you concur with me, Major," asked Hochmeister, "that this place must be taken, now?"

The arcflares had stopped. The darkness brought with it the same strange quiet the two Germans had experienced walking down the road. Not even a cricket chirped.

"How long have you known what was wrong here, Admiral?" asked John, suspicious of the other's unruffled acceptance of a Vermont mountain aswarm with aliens.

"Everything? Only just now. But we've known something was very wrong up here for some time—as you evidently have. I need your help, Major."

"This is just reconnaissance in force," lied John. "Surely you don't expect
our
help, Admiral?"

Hochmeister nodded.

"Why should we help you?"

"Are you familiar with the classical concept of an
umphalos,
Major?" asked Hochmeister, reloading his pistol and slipping it away.

"The Greek notion of a world navel, a confluence of all the conflicting forces in the universe in one place at one time. Oedipus at Colonus. So?"

"Exactly," said the admiral. "Are you the Committee's court Jew, Major?"

John gave no hint.

"Well, no matter. We are now at such a confluence, as you so well put it. Our world hangs in the balance. These creatures, these S'Cotar, may even now be swarming through their device up there. There's no time to call in regular forces. We must take them with what we have."

"What's in it for us?" demanded Heather. Arriving with a fresh contingent of gangers, she'd been silent till now, looking at the dead S'Cotar, listening to John and Hochmeister.

The admiral was shocked. "I should think knowing you've saved humanity from these creatures would be reward enough."

"It isn't," she assured him. "Though it's interesting to hear a monster like you calmly invoke humanity."

"I may be a monster by your simplistic standards," said Hochmeister, checking his watch, "but at least I am your monster. Would you prefer the bugs?