The Biofab War (24 page)

“In the flesh.” Bakunin grinned, sinking into a chair. But for the close-cropped hair he might have been an assistant professor, with his corduroy jacket, leather-patched at the elbows, casual summer pants and penny loafers.

“You have a lovely home,” he said. “The older I am, the more I like fine old things.”

Climbing above the brick wall, the hot August sun had coaxed open the last of the morning glories. A pair of cardinals flirted in the big oak overhanging the wall, red and gray plumages soaring high into the greenery.

“So what brings you back to the States?” asked John. “A well-earned rest?”

“Kronarin liaison.” The Russian sipped a cup of coffee. “And I wanted to see the world’s greatest tourist attraction.”

“So you’re going out to Andrews to tour
Vigilant
?” Bob asked. Bakunin nodded, crossing his legs. “I’d think you’d have seen enough of her.”

“I wanted to see her here, crowds lined up outside her, kids running between the landing struts and people gawking at the fusion cannon. Then maybe I can accept this all really happened. Call it a pilgrimage for my psyche’s sake.” He unconsciously rubbed his healed calf muscle.

“Then?” asked John.

“Then off to New York. I’m empowered by my government to sign the Terran-Kronarin Treaty.”

“Thank God.” McShane sighed, standing to shake the surprised Colonel’s hand. “And thank you, André. This hand I’m holding will free us from our small pocket of the universe.”

“You exaggerated, sir,” he flushed, pleased.

“And how’s the CIA’s new Director?” asked Zahava, lighting a cigarette.

“You mean ‘the dedicated intelligence officer whose brilliance and daring saved not only his country but his planet’?” quoted John, smirking maliciously.

“Enough,” pleaded Bill, holding up his hands. “The President was too effusive—you’ve no idea how horrible it is to be anointed a demigod. People at work vying for the honor of bringing me coffee. And I get swamped when we go out—my face is too well-known.” He shook his head. “No wonder you three wouldn’t let the President or me mention your contributions.”

“And otherwise?”

“Otherwise, Zahava, I’m busy, keeping track of changes in Russia, liaison with Laguan and Ambassador Zasha’s people helping organize the Expedition.”

Bob buttered another croissant. “When does that leave?”

“As soon as Fleet mops up the Scotar in our system. Maybe two months.” Adding a generous glob of boysenberry jam to the roll, he took a heroic bite.

“Detrelna’s going to lead it,” said Sutherland. “He’s been promoted commodore. And Lawrona’s now captain of
Implacable.
”

Reaching under the table, John brought the cold bottle of Dom Perignon and some champagne flutes from their hiding place. “I have two announcements.” The loud pop of the cork scattered the cardinals.

“One.” He began pouring. “Our book has been sold to a publishing consortium for an advance of twenty-five million dollars. Sadly, they wouldn’t let us retain the digital book rights.”

Zahava’s jaw dropped.

“Venal swine,” said McShane. “Congratulations!” he toasted.

“You get a third, Bob,” said John.

McShane drained his glass as Sutherland and Bakunin pounded backs and pumped hands, congratulating the trio.

When the tumult died, John continued. “Two. Miss Tal and I are getting married next weekend by a compliant rabbi. You’re all invited.” Zahava’s anguished “I don’t have a dress!” was drowned by boisterous best wishes.

“And I also have an announcement,” she said as Harrison refilled the glasses. “Admiral Laguan’s accepted John’s and my request to join the Trel Expedition.”

“What request?” he asked.

“The one I submitted last week through Bill.”

John put down his glass. “Mindslaves. Biofabs. Machiavellian cyborgs. AIs—whatever those turn out to be. And most dangerous, gallant allies.” He tossed down the wine. “I can hardly wait.”

“Want to come along, Bob?” asked Zahava.

“Thank you, no,” he said firmly. “I’m going to spend my dotage with my family. Besides,” he added cheerfully, “one of us should stay and see to the spending of the royalties.”

“My friends,” said John, slightly tipsy, “a great writer once said mankind would always prevail, so long as we remember that the basest of all things is to be afraid. A final toast,” he offered, golden glass held high. “To humanity and its future, bright and unafraid!”

“To the future!”

The End

Stephen Ames Berry is the author of four science fiction novels first published by Ace and Tor, and of a technothriller,
The Eldridge Conspiracy,
a tale spun from his time at the Pentagon and the myth of the U.S. Navy’s World War II ship invisibility project, the Philadelphia Experiment. A graduate of Boston University, Berry has a master’s in information systems and was a systems analyst and data architect for the Navy Department and Harvard University. He lives in Florida, where he’s a teacher of wayward youth and the slave of entitled cats.

The saga of
Implacable
continues on the next page with the first two chapters of
The Battle for Terra Two.

D
etrelna finished the last line of his report. Sighing, he clasped his fingers over his ample belly and leaned back in the big chair. “Computer, top of text, please,” he said, reading from the beginning:

TO: Grand Admiral Erlin Laguan
FleetOps, Kronar
FM: Commodore Jaquel Detrelna
Special Task Force, Terra

Sir:

Task force is at authorized strength, with two capital ships: the Yatal-class destroyer,
Voltran’s Glory
, just arrived, and the Laal-class cruiser
Implacable
, Captain Hanar Lawrona commanding. We are ready to proceed to the coordinates of the Trel cache, but are still awaiting the arrival of our relief force.

I again urge Admiral, that our relief force be dispatched. I realize that with the destruction of the Scotar many of the liberated quadrants are in a state of near anarchy. I realize that Fleet is scattered on urgent missions of relief and rescue throughout the Confederation. I realize that this expedition, founded on the word of an ancient, possibly demented cyborg, must have a low priority. Yet, Admiral, if there is the smallest chance that POCSYM was telling us the truth, that this universe is in peril of invasion from a parallel reality, it would be utter folly . . .

The door chimed.

“Computer hold,” said Detrelna, pressing the entry tab.

Captain Lawrona came in.

“You’re just in time to finish this report, Hanar. It needs an aristocrat’s touch.”

Lawrona sank into the room’s other armchair. Younger, taller, much thinner than Detrelna, his aquiline features and flawless uniform were a sharp contrast to the commodore’s double chin and unbuttoned tunic. “Nothing from FleetOps yet?”

“Two ships, Hanar!” Pushing himself from his chair, Detrelna paced the carpet in front of the armorglass. “All we need are two ships—Sekan-class frigates will do. Just something with missiles and fusion cannon to sit up here in case the Scotar survivors down there try anything.” He turned to look beyond the armorglass to the soft blue-white world below. Three hundred miles beneath
Implacable
, most of North America was wreathed in cloud.

“The Terrans have Scotar detectors in most public buildings now, Jaquel,” said Lawrona. “They’re stamping out thousands more every day. One firm’s even manufacturing a combination smoke-Scotar detector. Don’t you think that limits the bugs?”

Shaking his head, the commodore turned from the armorglass. “I suppose the handful that are left should be cowering in the jungles, yet…”

“Yet what?” said the captain as Detrelna sat down. “The Scotar high command is dead. The Illusion Master Guan-Sharick is dead. Their fleet is wiped, their warriors killed. Their citadel on Terra’s moon is just another crater. The galaxy, Jaquel, is free of the Scotar. Let’s get on with our mission.”

Detrelna slapped the desk. “No, Hanar. If I felt we could leave Terra undefended, we’d have left last month. And until fresh ships arrive . . .”

They looked up as the door chimed. Detrelna opened it with the flick of a thick finger.

A young blonde yeoman entered, carrying a silver tray with two crystal goblets and a decanter of amber liqueur.

“Satanian brandy, gentlemen,” she said, setting the tray on the light brown traq wood desk.

Detrelna’s eyes lit. “Hanar, you never cease to surprise me.” Eagerly, he unstopped the decanter. “I thought we wiped the last of this after the Gatal raid.”

“We did,” said the captain, rising, looking at the yeoman.

“Will that be all, sir?” she asked Detrelna.

“There are four hundred and seven crew on this ship,” said Lawrona. “We’ve been together at least two years. I know every face, every name. Yours I don’t know, yeoman. That bothers me.”

Detrelna watched, unmoving, a goblet in each hand.

“I’m a replacement, sir,” she said, cool green eyes meeting the captain’s cold blue ones.

Lawrona’s black leather holster was suddenly empty, his long-barreled M11A pointing at the blonde. “We’ve had no replacements.”

“Your mind’s always been slower than your blaster, Lawrona,” said the yeoman. “Your victory over us was a gift from POCSYM. You should be hanging from a meat hook, my lord.”

“Guan-Sharick,” said Detrelna, carefully setting down the goblets. “I recognize the sarcasm.”

“Impossible,” said Lawrona. “Guan-Sharick died beneath the Lake of Dreams.”

“The margrave would like to see some green carapace,” said Detrelna.

A six-foot-tall green insectoid stood where the blonde had been, antennae swaying, tentacles falling from narrow shoulders. It shuffled two of its four long, three-toed feet.

A jig perhaps, Lawrona?
hissed a cold voice in their minds.

“No,” said Lawrona, grimacing.

“I preferred the woman,” said Detrelna.

The blonde reappeared.

“Any reason the captain shouldn’t put a big ugly hole through you?”

“If he kills me,” said Guan-Sharick, pointing at Lawrona but looking at Detrelna, “all sentient life in this galaxy dies.”

Detrelna’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Perhaps we should talk,” he said. “Is this any good?” He held up the decanter.

“The best, Commodore,” smiled the blonde.

Half filling two goblets, Detrelna held one out to Lawrona. “Brandy, Hanar?”

“I’d rather shoot the bug,” said Lawrona, tight-lipped.

“Captain Lawrona, holster your weapon and join me in a drink. That’s a direct order, Hanar.”

Reluctantly holstering the blaster, Lawrona took the goblet in his left hand. “Direct, not lawful,” he said, sipping. His right hand stayed on the M11A’s silver-inlaid grips, his eyes on the Scotar.

“How is it, Captain?” asked the Scotar.

“Potable.”

“Why isn’t every intruder alarm on this ship screaming?” asked Detrelna.

“I’m wearing a device that foils your sensors, Commodore. A prototype developed at the war’s end.”

“And the shield?” said Lawrona, still facing the Scotar as he put his goblet on the desk. “You can teleport through a class-one shield?”

“Yesterday’s visitors’ shuttle,” said Guan-Sharick. “I was the well-endowed professor of physics”—the Scotar’s features rippled, bosom swelling, face becoming oval—“whom you so gallantly offered to guide through
Implacable
.” The original blonde reappeared. “Effective.”

Detrelna put his empty glass down. “Excellent brandy. Pre-war?”

The Scotar nodded. “From the Alor vines on Tykal.”

“The best indeed. Now, anthropomorphic vorg slime,” Detrelna continued easily, “what’s this about all sentient life in the galaxy?”

“May I sit?” asked the Scotar.

“No,” said Lawrona.

Without apparent transition, the blonde was seated on the gray sofa to Detrelna’s left, slender legs crossed at the ankles. “I need your help.”

“Help? Us?” Lawrona laughed bitterly. “You monsters wiped out billions of defenseless people, torched planets, mind-wiped whole populations . . .”

“Not precisely monsters, Captain,” said the blonde. “Biofabs—biological fabrications of the Imperial cyborg POCSYM Six. A society of aggressors designed to test your mettle, condition you against the enemy which POCSYM and his long-dead designers believed were coming at you from an alternate universe. A hypothesis your expedition is about to test.”

“You’d have wiped us if we hadn’t wiped you,” said Lawrona. “Eight billion corpses rotting on scores of planets isn’t a conditioning exercise.”

The Scotar shrugged. “If we hadn’t wiped much of your corrupt fleet and your rotting republic, something else would have—the invasion POCSYM predicted, some nastiness out of the old Imperial Marches. Life’s a quirky gift, Margrave—you often have to risk it to keep it. We reminded you of that.”

“Too costly a lesson,” said Lawrona softly, weapon on Guan-Sharick. “You killed my world.”