The Biofab War
Authors: Stephen Ames Berry
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Space Opera, #Alien Invasion, #First Contact, #Galactic Empire, #Genetic Engineering, #Hard Science Fiction, #Science Fiction, #High Tech
by
Stephen Ames Berry
“Space opera in the Grand Ol’ Tradition.”
Other Realms
“Kickbutt military science fiction!”
Amazon reader review
To my fellow Ace and Tor author Melisa Michaels, in appreciation of her support, encouragement and many kindnesses.
Stephen Ames Berry’s novels have been published by Ace/Berkley and Tor/Macmillan. His latest novel is
The Eldridge Conspiracy.
This edition differs from the original Ace Books’ edition. It’s been rewritten to reflect present-day Earth and changes later in the series. The plot is unaltered and the heavy blaster fire unabated. Kronarin vowel markers denote retention of High Kronarin spelling conventions.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
The Battle for Terra Two
The AI War
Final Assault
The Eldridge Conspiracy
Copyright © 1984 by Stephen Ames Berry
Revised edition © 2012 Stephen Ames Berry
All rights reserved
Publishing History
Ace Books edition May 1984
Biofab Publishing revised Kindle edition November 2012
V.4
Acknowledgements
Editing
Last Draft Editing
Formatting and Conversion
Paul Salvette
BB eBooks
Cover
Linda Jane
Technical Consultant
Stephen Robert Gusmer
THE BATTLE FOR TERRA TWO – CHAPTER 1
THE BATTLE FOR TERRA TWO – CHAPTER 2
Chapter 1
“M
r. Natrol,” said Detrelna, “we hang naked in space, solar winds caressing our asses. There are things out here wanting to kill and eat us. How much longer on the shield, please?”
“Watchend, Captain,” replied
Implacable’s
engineer, his distraction clear over the commlink. “We’ll have it up by watchend.”
“You’ve chanted that the last three watches.”
“It’s risen from chant to certainty, Captain. Internal security systems are finally on line. Internal and external shield systems shouldn’t be interdependent, but are. The Empire probably quick-rigged repairs just before the Fall and that’s how she went into stasis. But now we can concentrate on the main shield.”
“Everything on
Implacable’s
either quick-fixed or inscrutable, Engineer. Regrettable you had to repair internal shielding first—it’s not as vital as our exterior shield—little chance of a Scotar assault force flitting onboard so far from home. Will I be seeing the comforting glow of our main shield when I look out the armorglass at watchend?”
“Maybe. It would speed repairs if you didn’t ask how they’re going every time I crawl into some dusty hole. So unless you’d care to come down from the bridge and grab a spanner…”
Detrelna switched off with a snort. Swiveling the command chair back toward the big screen, he caught sight of Hanar Lawrona’s grin. “Something funny, Commander My-Lord-Captain?” he asked, exaggerating the title.
“You can’t bait me with that anymore, merchant,” his first officer said good-naturedly, turning back to his console. “And you really shouldn’t harass Natrol. He’s the best engineer in Fleet—probably the only one who could’ve kept this relic moving across the galaxy.”
“He’s an ass.”
“No doubt,” said Lawrona. “A very competent ass.”
And so are you,
he thought.
Half the slim aristocrat’s age and twice his size, the captain’s image would never adorn a recruiting poster. Luckily for
Implacable
, the ex-Shtarian trader was as brilliant as he was large.
Lawrona looked up. “Be logical, Jaquel. We’re a long way from the war. There’s no reason for the Scotar to be this far out. Probably no reason for us to be, either.”
“Laguan called this vital mission, Hanar,” said Detrelna, invoking Fleet’s Grand Admiral. “If Archives thinks there’s a chance of finding an intact Imperial matter transporter anywhere in this galaxy, then a ship must be sent. Look on it as a shakedown cruise.”
“Maybe.” Lawrona shrugged. “But how many missions sent at Archives’ request have turned up anything? Two? Four. Out of how many? A hundred?”
“Yes, but one of those was an Imperial citadel with a squadron of cruisers in stasis.”
“A badly functioning stasis field, Jaquel. And one still marginally functioning ship. Our communications, weapons and defenses are unreliable.”
“Tell me something new,” said Detrelna, dialing up a cup of steaming hot t’ata from the chair arm. “At least the beverager works.” A chime sounded.
“Coming up on space normal,” said Kiroda, the very young, very bright subcommander manning Navigation.
If they get any younger
, thought the captain, suppressing an urge to check with Natrol,
we’ll have to toilet train
. “Very well, Mr. Kiroda. Shipwide,” he said over the commnet. “This is the captain.” His voice echoed through the long miles of
Implacable
. “We’re entering a star system unexplored since before the Fall. I expect no trouble—we’re far from home and enemies. We’ll make ready, though. Prepare for battle stations. All personnel into warsuits. Captain out.”
Taking the silvery packet from a yeoman, Detrelna rose, unbuckling and setting aside his long-barreled blaster. Shaking open the warsuit, he tugged it on over boots and brown duty uniform, as did the rest of the bridge crew.
It didn’t look like much, that bit of silver foil. A recently recovered product of the millennia-dead Kronarin Empire, its secret still a mystery, the warsuit could briefly absorb blaster fire and double as vacuum and pressure suit.
“Let’s do it, Commander Lawrona,” ordered the captain.
“Battle stations. Battle stations,” Lawrona intoned, the klaxon briefly seconding him.
“All sections report ready,” reported Lasura a moment later.
“Stand by for space normal,” Kiroda said. All eyes turned to the big screen and the gray of hyperspace.
“Space normal . . . now!”
A tugging at the stomach, slight pain in the head, and it was over. Swirling nebulae and a billion hard points of light filled the screen, set among the obsidian of space normal.
“So. Here we are,” said Detrelna. “Anything, Hanar?”
The first officer’s long tapering fingers flew over his board. “Nothing,” he said finally, looking up from the telltales. “At least nothing hostile. Primitive radio signals from somewhere in-system—too fragmented for immediate analysis. I’ll set computer on it. Permission to launch a survey probe?” At Detrelna’s nod, he gave the order. What looked like one of the many small hull instrument pods shot from the cruiser.
“What have you got for me, Mr. Kiroda?” asked Detrelna.
“Class Five sun, at least ten planets,” said the young officer. “No ships’ traces, no functioning Imperial comm or nav beacons.”
“Which means we probe from planet to planet, looking for Imperial remains.”
“Best chances are with the inner planets, given this system’s configuration and those signals,” said Lawrona.
“Agreed,” the captain nodded. “Follow that probe, Mr. Kiroda. Hanar,” he said, rising. “Stand down from battle stations. I’m going to get some sleep. Call me if anything at all happens. You have the bridge, Commander,” he added formally, relinquishing his chair and his ship to Lawrona and heading for the closed armored doors. “And keep checking on Natrol.”
Leaning back from the desk screen, Detrelna reread the diary entry:
Arrived today in a star system unexplored since Imperial dreadnoughts last kept the Pax Galactica 5,000 years ago. Is this yet another idiocy conceived by the pedants of Archives in collusion with the cretins of Intelligence? There’re no traces of Imperial bases or survey satellites, though there may be a pre-space civilization on one of the inner planets. Have launched and am following a survey probe there.
The hastiness of
Implacable’s
refit becomes more painfully obvious each day. Our shield’s been down for what seems several lifetimes and two of our fearsome High Imperial Mark 88 fusion batteries couldn’t heat a cup of t’ata. Our most urgent equipment malfunction is the shield. If we’re attacked by another ship, or if Scotar infiltrators don’t obligingly teleport into a security-shielded zone such as Hangar Deck, we’re dead.
Filing the dairy entry, Detrelna punched up and devoured two large helpings of varx scrapple then dropped into bed, his blaster’s comforting lump beneath his pillow.
Awakening at midwatch, he called Engineering. “Well?”
“Fine, thank you, sir. And yourself?”
“Natrol!”
“Still down, but . . .” He continued hastily, forestalling an awesome tantrum, “we’ve traced the flaw—a relay junction behind some Hangar Deck bulkheads. I’ve got two techs on it. They should’ve reported by now.”
“Check and advise. Bridge, Detrelna. What’s our status and location, Hanar?”
“As you heard, still no shield. Internal security fields are available at need. We’re midpoint between the fifth and fourth planets. We’ve confirmed the signals are coming from the third planet. Sensor probes are negative. The outer worlds we’ve passed aren’t habitable and have no resources worth extracting—nothing there to interest the Empire. Number three’s the most likely.” He glanced at the data trail threading his screen. “Coming up on number four now. Several small moons. Little atmosphere—just another dead . . .” He broke off, blinking. “Kiroda, Lasura, check radiation sensors. N17 band just went off scale.” He checked the trace. “Confirm,” he said tensely.
“Confirmed.”
“Confirmed.”
Computer spoke urgently. “Alert! Alert! N17 sweep. N17 sweep. Request battle stations. Request battle stations.”
“Battle stations!” snapped Lawrona. “Jaquel,” he said into the commlink. “N17.”
“Peak, down, off?” shouted Detrelna over the din as battle klaxons rattled through the ship. He swung out of bed, pulling on his warsuit.
“Yes, but this far out?” said Lawrona.
Another voice came into the commband as the klaxons stopped. “Bridge. Engineering. Hangar Deck isn’t responding.”
“Scotar detected on Hangar Deck,” said the computer. “Security fields activated.”
“Captain here. That’s it, gentlemen—Hangar Deck. It’s their standard assault pattern—target the largest open area.” He tugged on his boots. “Apologies, Natrol. Thank the gods you got our security fields on line.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Don’t run with it. Hanar, speed, not subtlety.” He stood, strapping on his blaster. “They’re trapped—now we kill them. I’m closest—I’ll lead the counterattack. You trace that sweep to their base and take it out.”
“Jaquel!” his first officer protested. “Firefights are mine!”
“And you’re welcome to them. There’s no time to trade places. I was shooting it out with Mitan’s corsairs while you were still in the Academy. If nothing else, I’ll draw fire from the assault. Out.” With that, he ran into the corridor past crewmen hurrying to their posts.
Sealed behind the bridge’s thick battlesteel doors, Lawrona sat in the Captain’s chair, softly drumming his fingers on the arm. “Well?” he demanded, unknowingly mimicking Detrelna.