The Biofab War (22 page)

“Let’s go, Bill,” Bakunin said, wearily extending a hand.

There was only a hoarse whisper in response. “Don’t think so.”

Only then did they see where the knife had torn a gaping hole in his stomach. Crimson blood flowed, mingling with the biofabs’ green life stuff.

“Hang on, we’ll get you back to the boats,” said Bakunin as Zahava called for a medic.

“Forget it,” Bill whispered, face serene from his medcot’s drugs. “Funny, isn’t it,
Tovarich
Colonel? Think you’ve seen it all . . . spent final years pushing paper, then retire.” A cough racked his body, sending blood dribbling from his mouth. “What happens?” He smiled, more rictus than grin. “You end up fighting bug-eyed monsters with a FSB operative and some starship troopers.” He coughed again, not as deeply.

Arriving with a medic and two stretcher-bearing commandos, Lawrona overheard the last of Sutherland’s eulogy. “Touching, but you’re not going to die today. You’re going back with the wounded and into a medical regenerator. Then you’re going to get well—fast. There’s a ship on the way with our new ambassador. The death of a senior Terran national under my protection would cast a definite pall over the treaty talks.”

“You can’t spare any more men to take out casualties,” countered Bill weakly from the stretcher.

“I don’t care if I have to storm that control area alone,” Lawrona snapped, eyes smoldering. “We always take out our wounded. Take him away. Safe trip.”

Sutherland waved limply as his bearers joined a long line of similarly burdened soldiers. Zahava, Lawrona and Bakunin watched as they disappeared around the corridor.

“Nor do we leave our dead for carrion eaters,” said the commander. “Help me. You know what to do.”

They’d watched before as the troopers had set their dead comrades’ weapons to delayed-destruct, placing them beneath the crossed arms of the fallen. This time they helped. It didn’t take long.

“Move out!” Lawrona ordered.

As his men double-timed by, he stood alone, saluting his dead for a long moment before joining the column.

Small shrill explosions and pure white light raced past them toward the enemy, a sense of benediction in their wake.

O
nly once had John and Detrelna encountered Scotar: two sentries, headshot before they could raise an alarm.

Cautiously peering around yet another curve in the seemingly endless corridor, the two men spotted a small group of biofabs hastily erecting a barricade before a set of opened blast doors, their backs to them.

“Detrelna to POCSYM,” whispered the captain for the hundredth time.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Captain.” POCSYM’s voice was as assured as ever. “I’ve finally circumvented the biofabs’ comm block. You’re at the control facility?”

“Yes. What’s the status of the assault?”

“They’re twenty minutes from you, Captain, and coming fast. They’ve taken heavy casualties. I’m in contact with Commander Lawrona.”

“Can you put us in touch with them?” asked John.

There was a pause, a brief hum, then, “Captain, are you all right?” asked Lawrona, concern in his voice.

“We’re fine. What about you? POCSYM says you’ve sustained heavy casualties.”

Lawrona quickly sketched the raid’s progress.

“There are just a few biofabs at the control facility,” reported Detrelna. “Why is that, POCSYM?”

“Many of this garrison went to man the ships you destroyed, Captain. The rest are busy trying to kill your commandos. This is a vast installation—you’ll have a brief period of grace before Guan-Sharick marshals his forces.”

“It’s hasn’t been the Prime Base Annual Ball.”

“They’ve overcome all my attempts to block their counterassault, Commander. But I still control most missile and beam defenses. And I’ve put a crimp in their special abilities. Reinforcements are approaching by travel tube, though. Fail at the control area, and you’ll have a much warmer reception on the way back.”

“Lawrona, this is Harrison. I think the Captain and I can take that control room. Do you agree, Jaquel?”

“I’ve been saving something special for such an occasion.” He tossed John a small black ball, taking another from his belt. “Stun grenade. Push the little button on the top and throw. Detonates on contact. We’ll take that control room, Hanar, and hold it till you arrive. Please do arrive. Ready, John?”

The Terran nodded.

“Toss on three.”

They chucked their grenades and hugged the wall. As the teeth-rattling blast ended, the men charged around the corner. Blasting the stunned warriors, they ran between the closing doors.

The room was half the size of
Implacable’s
bridge. John counted twelve consoles, screens and equipment banks. Hearing a noise to his left, he ducked as a bolt of raw blue energy flashed by, tearing into the wall.

The men came up firing at the third console, blowing it apart in a shower of flame and sparks. Its exoskeleton aflame, a Scotar burst for the door, shrieking in pain. Detrelna killed it with a negligent flip of his wrist, a shot to the head. “That’s it,” said as they finished checking the room.

“Yes, but the doors are broken,” noted John, pointing to the entrance. The blast doors stood wide apart.

“I’ll guard outside. See if you can get POCSYM’s damage fixed.” Easing his through the narrow opening, the captain was gone.

“What now, POCSYM?” asked John.

“The fifth console to your right there’s a large red button labeled ‘Fire Suppressant.’ It’s the biofab destruct manual override. Push it.”

John went to the console, found the button and pressed it. “Well?”

“Alas!” said a chagrined POCSYM. “They’re very much alive, including those bearing down on you.”

John went to the door. “Jaquel!” he called. “It didn’t work. Incoming Scotar!”

The captain was behind the half-finished barricade, M11A in hand. “Do what you can.”

“Now what?” asked John, slipping back into the room.

“Open the inspection hatch by turning the two fasteners at the upper corners clockwise,” said POCSYM. “Now drop the panel and stand aside so I can see,” John did, noticing the machine’s insides were a fused blob.

“I was afraid of that.” POCSYM sighed.

The sound of blaster fire and explosions rolled in from the corridor, followed by Detrelna backing hastily through the doors, firing as he came. Blue bolts shot past him, blasting gouging chunks out of the wall and setting fire to the equipment. Tendrils of smoke rose, drifting upward and out doorway.

Ignoring the growing flames, the two men knelt to either side of the opening, sweeping the passageway with a deadly crossfire, taking down of a score of warriors. There was a sudden lull in the attack. Detrelna risked a quick look. “That was just first attempt. Not much cover behind that barricade.”

“They’re falling back to regroup,” said John as they checked their weapons.

“So, what are you going to do after the war, John?” asked Detrelna, slipping home a fresh chargpak.

“Build a new life, raise a family, make a stand for a few simple verities.”

“The simple verities.” The captain looked wistful. “Good friends, a shared life, peace in the land, joy in the children. Some of those I still have. And you?”

John shrugged. “This many-part war—assuming we win—will open the galaxy to us, to Terra. Just the realization of that may well sweep away many of the underpinnings of my life—of billions of lives. In a decade much of the political and cultural reality I’ve known will be supplanted by what? You’ve brought us a large question mark, starship captain. Is your future as ambiguous?”

The captain shook his head. “I’ve grown-up sons, a modest pension and a brother-in-law who needs help running our cargo line. The war’s taken its toll there, too.” He glanced down the corridor. “Here they come!”

Raising their pistols, the men opened fire.

Billowing, acrid smoke filled the room as a virtual wall of return fire triggered more flames. “They’re working their way along the wall,” coughed Detrelna. “Soon come the grenades.”

“POCSYM, can’t you do something about this smoke?” John said between coughs.

“No. I’ve only observation functions left in that section.”

“Enough. Let’s get better air,” said Detrelna.

Eyes streaming, they charged into the corridor, weapons blazing. Scotar warriors filled the corridor, pouring indigo blaster fire at the warsuited humans.

Lawrona rounded the bend at the head of his commandos. “Assault!” he shouted, firing as the biofabs turned to meet them.

The Scotar never wavered, trading volley for volley, dying where they stood. A match for the Kronarins in numbers, weapons and discipline, but they had no warsuits. Their forward ranks fell as their flank was harried by the two men flitting in and out of the smoke. Compressed into a small ragged square, the Scotar were finished by a final volley of grenade and blaster fire.

Gasping, their eyes bloodshot, Detrelna and Harrison sank to the floor amid a boisterous reception.

A slender figure ran from the last subsection to arrive, throwing her arms around John, an embrace made cumbersome by their weapons.

“You’re all right?” they both asked and burst into laughter.

“André and I are,” she lied, trying to hide her arm. “But Bill’s badly wounded. He’s been medevaced to
Vigilant.”

“No! And you
are
hurt!” Gently, John tugged Zahava’s arm into sight from behind her back. “Why didn’t you go back with the wounded?” he demanded angrily. “Ever the hero!”

“I’m a soldier!” she retorted, just as angry. “Don’t think that just because you’re a man . . .”

A few yards away another heated exchange was taking place. “We’re on a fool’s mission, Hanar,” said Detrelna, wearily pulling a warsuit on over his begrimed uniform. “POCSYM can’t destroy the Scotar. Once again, biofabs have bested their maker.”

Lawrona’s relief at finding his friend alive was replaced by anger. “I left a trail of ashes getting here, Jaquel. The ashes of good men and women—kids, mostly. And now you tell me they died for
nothing
?!”

POCSYM’s voice filled the air. “The fault is mine. I underestimated the Scotars’ capacity for innovation and foresight. I’ve created a Frankenstein’s monster. A Ractol Plague, Captain, Commander. Unlike their creators, I accept responsibility. My reactors are now running up to critical. This complex will soon self-destruct. You have little time to retrace your steps.”

Detrelna and Lawrona exchanged alarmed looks. “You might have discussed this,” said Detrelna, “before blowing everyone up.”

“This is the discussion,” said the Imperial cyborg. “And it’s over.”

“Can we make it to the to assault boats?” asked the captain.

“Too close to call,” said Lawrona. “You all heard that. Prepare to move out! Section leaders, distribute your wounded. We’re leaving on the double.”

“POCSYM,” asked John as the troopers formed up. “Are you a mindslaver?”

“A simple term for something so complex, but yes. I gather you found a cadaver room?”

A
cadaver room? thought John. “Yes. But you gave yourself away much earlier, when you showed us
Revenge.
You laughed. Kiroda told me that not even the Empire could program humor into its machines. Humor isn’t logical.”

“I’m afraid it was young Mr. Kiroda’s prattling about ‘truth’ that brought out the professor in me, Mr. Harrison. Several professors.” The ultimate mindslaver paused. “But all of my original brainpods were filled by volunteers–the dedicated visionaries who conceived my mission. People who truly had the courage of their convictions.”

“Fanaticism and megalomania aren’t unique to Terra.” The entire assault force was listening to their exchange, even as the men prepared to move out. “But how long did those original brains last? Your brain crèches must have required constant replenishment. You’ve far more extensive operations than a mindslaver like
Revenge—
you’re a Planetary Operations Command System. Where did the replacement brains come from, POCSYM? Did you snatch Terrans? Did you later use Kronarin captives? How many through the centuries? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands?”

“A modest number, Mr. Harrison—negligible when weighed against my mission, the preservation of humanity.”

“A humanity you were prepared to sacrifice in order to save. You’re an ancient malignancy left to fester in the body of galactic humanity.”

“Colorful. Whatever I may be, I am soon no more. Save yourselves.”

Lawrona led the column out, the wounded tucked into the formation’s center. “Now we run the gauntlet,” Bakunin commented, trotting behind John and Zahava.

It was one long running battle—the biofab reinforcements had come up, filling every side corridor. Racing past the intersections, the humans were raked with blaster fire from hand weapons and shoulder arms. Grenades dropped on them and rolled beneath their feet.

There was no time to clean out the Scotar ambushes, not enough troopers left had there been time. Warsuit failures soared, casualties rose, suicide charges slowed the withdrawal, pursuit harried them. The shrill of commando blasters self-destructing became a continuous whine.