The Biofab War (20 page)

“We’re sitting in the hive from hell, sipping sherry?” said Zahava.

“But very fine sherry. Have no fear. I’m forbidden to harm you. And I control the Scotar.”

Detrelna gave a bitter laugh. “You kill millions of my people, then say you’re forbidden to harm us! Gods! What sort of warped men created you?”

“Ordinary people, like you, though touched by greatness. People trying to do their duty as they saw it, Captain. People who made a far greater sacrifice for their ideals than any of you ever will.

“Enough. I’m ending your ordeal. My mission’s a success: you represent an armed, unified, vigilant humanity, the goal of my creators. Captain, I acknowledge your authority and submit to arrest. As a symbol of my loyalty and good faith, I’m destroying the Scotar.”

Langston’s image vanished.
Treachery
! Guan-Sharick stood before them antennae swinging in agitation
. You promised us their worlds if we defeated these soft things!

“They just look soft, Guan. And their worlds were never mine to give. You had to take them. You failed, and with all the advantages I gave you. You’re now only a dangerous encumbrance, a scattered infestation. In the Scotar bodies your researchers dissected, Captain did you find a small protein chip grafted to the brain?”

“We thought it had something to do with their special abilities. The chips either dissolved when removed or blew up.”

“They’re installed at birth by my servos and govern the Scotar’s telekinetic and telepathic gifts. Those chips make everything possible. As Guan-Sharick knows, they contain a matter/antimatter power source. And as he also knows, they’re my hold over the Scotar. When they’re outsystem, my drone ships pace them, armed with the biofab kill code. Most of them are now in-system and in range. I’ll demonstrate. Stand clear of Guan-Sharick—this will be messy.”

Langston reappeared, eyebrow raised. Its smile broadened as the seconds passed. “Problem?”

“Captain,” said POCSYM urgently, “the biofabs have immobilized my destruct programming and transporter capability.”

In a fluid movement of arm and wrist, John drew and fired. The Scotar vanished.

“You must retake my control facility, Captain.”

“Why?” asked the captain said, finishing his sherry.

“You can’t leave them at your back with the AIs coming. You can kill most of the biofabs in this system, Captain. But it will cost you dearly. You’ll have to blow them out of the asteroids and moons, fighting against excellent defenses. I doubt if you can take this base, though—not without killing everyone on Terra. This is a Class One Imperial Citadel. The Scotar can sit here and blast your fleet to pieces. Only a planetbuster could take this base out.”

“Suggestions?” asked the Kronarin officer.

“A ground assault’s your only hope. With my help, it will work. I’ve already sealed off a direct route from a surface entrance to Central Control. There you can restore and activate my biofab killing capability and this war is over. Also, only I know the location of a Trel stasis cache. You haven’t a chance against the AIs without it.”

“Not much choice, is there?” said John.

Detrelna shook his head. “All right, POCSYM. But first transmit the location of this alleged cache to
Implacable
. If it proves a hoax, I’ll take you apart with a spanner wrench.”

“Complying now.”

After confirming Lawrona’s receipt of a nav heading deep within a quadrant abandoned since the Fall, Detrelna sketched the situation for Admiral Laguan.

“No, Detrelna!” exclaimed his senior officer. “An unknown base swarming with Scotar warriors? Our troopers would be slaughtered, warsuits or not.”

“Admiral, it’s our only chance,” replied the captain with equal force. “That installation can stand up to a full fleet bombardment forever. POCSYM’s cut biofab reinforcements off from the control area. For now. We have to attack.”

“Admiral, this is POCSYM. I can give your commandos protection from most ground fire and get them through the shield. But you must seize the moment.”

There was a long pause on the commlink, then a sigh. “Very well. We’ll sortie the entire Fleet Commando. Gods save us all if they walk into a trip.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve no transporter capability, POCSYM?”

“No.”

“Very well. Detrelna, you’ll have to come out with commandos. Rendezvous with them at POCSYM’s Central Control. Luck to you.”

Detrelna finished his drink and rose reluctantly, drawing his pistol. “We’re going to need more than luck. POCSYM, show us the way to your control facility.”

L
aguan turned to Captain Sinar. “Signal Commander Lawrona ‘Away All Boats.’ All ships standby gunnery crews.” His outer calm was in sharp contrast to his feelings. Laguan hated sending his people into harm’s way. Old friends who told him it was but part of the “mantle of command” he quietly lost touch with. He stood watching the assault boats form up beneath his fleet’s guns, backdropped by the stark shadows and pale yellow of Terra’s moon.

For political expediency, Erlin Laguan was an Imperial. “Restore the Empire, restore our strength!” “Empire and Destiny!” Secretly he loathed the movement and its jowly councilors, fascistic brother officers, unctuous politicos.

The Grand Admiral had become a Fleet officer because it was the family tradition. He’d worked hard, done well and risen slowly—they’d all risen slowly in the cozy sedateness of the prewar Fleet. Then the Scotar came—came early on a weekend morning he’d never forget: the initial contact reports, the cascading alerts from FleetOps, Planetary Guard action reports as fragmented as they were unbelievable—beings appearing and disappearing, slaughtering at will, defenses destroyed, key personnel perfectly mimicked. Confusion, defeat, silence. He’d put his flotilla on high alert and rushed from one wasted planet to another. Ambushed at first, he’d learned to be the hunter, lurking near Scotar supply routes and likely next targets. Others had died stupidly, leading their crews to death in gallant suicide runs on the vastly superior Scotar fleets, as though they were part of the great Imperial Fleet of yore, not its hollow heir.

One thing had led to another and now here he was, sending a lot of hard-nosed kids off to die because it was the only way to win, to finally end it and take his people home—some of them.

Lawrona received the attack order aboard one of the assault boats holding station between the fleet and lunar surface. “Take her in,” he ordered the pilot. The stubby little craft banked, dropping toward the moon’s dark side. The other boats followed in W formation. After five thousand years the Imperial Guard was returning to battle, led by its hereditary Lord-Captain. As the engines whined higher, Lawrona recalled his briefing by the admiral.

“So that’s it, Commander. I’m risking the entire Commando to end this war. You’re clear on your orders?” Laguan’s image filled
Implacable’s
bridge screen.

“Yes, sir. Leading the Fleet Commando, I’m to assault a Class One Imperial Citadel, fight my way down two miles to POCSYM’s Central Control area and secure it. I’m to then quickly repair any damage done to vital systems by Scotar sabotage and activate the biofab destruct module, killing the Scotar and ending the war. There’s been no mention of how we’re to return, sir.”

“If they’re dead, Commander, you walk out. If they aren’t, you are. POCSYM will get you through the shield, keeping it open for us to give you some surface cover. After that you’re on your own. We’re sending over a briefing scan, furnished by POCSYM. It shows the best route in, defenses and probable ambush points. It’s the best we can do.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

“I served with your father, long ago—we were cousins, you know.”

“My mother often spoke of you, sir.”

“Did she?”

“Father spoke of your tour together on the old
Steadfast,
sir.”

“Gods. That hulk! He had nothing good to say about anyone, I’m sure.”

“Not a word.”

“That was him,” said the admiral, sparing Lawrona his insincere condolences. “The assault is yours, Commander My-Lord-Captain Lawrona,” Laguan said formally, saluting. “Bring them hell. And bring them home.”

“Yes, sir.”

A sharp jolt broke the commander’s reverie. “Ground defenses have opened up.” The pilot’s voice sounded thinly over the commnet.

“You should’ve stayed behind,” said Lawrona, turning to the three figures strapped next to him in the boat’s crash webbing. The rest of the boat’s contingent were similarly suspended, a nest of warsuited spiders. The assault boats had no room for such frills as gravity generators or g-chairs.

“John’s down there,” said Zahava, tightening a strap. “I agree that Bill and André shouldn’t be here—they’re too old.”

“I’m not too old,” Sutherland said, his glare filtered out by the helmet’s tint. “I jog two miles every morning, not deluding myself that I hate every step. Besides, if I live through this, I can retire.” Another sharp jolt interrupted him, swinging the passengers in their webs. “If I live through this,” he repeated.

Another near hit shook the boat.

“Missile,” noted Lawrona.

“Two minutes to target, Commander,” the pilot called. “We’re through their shield. Landing zone in sight.”

“Attention, all boats,” said Lawrona. “Two minutes to target. Subcommander, once we hit, get your sections in position on the double. We’ll follow through on Fleet’s salvo, overcome outside resistance and penetrate the citadel before the enemy rallies. Luck to you.”

“You three,” he added to the Terrans, “stay close to me.”

Deep within the citadel lay Defense Control, nestled behind ten-foot walls of battlesteel, accessible only by teleport or transport. Tier upon tier of consoles filled the bowl-shaped room, screens flickering above them.

Guan-Sharick arrived in answer to an urgent summons.

They appear to be enemy scout craft, Glorious,
reported the Watch Leader, antennae wavering uncertainly
. Their configuration is unknown to us.

Commando attack craft. The ion emission patterns are similar. And that’s an Imperial assault formation. Note the double prongs. Idiots.
It wasn’t clear if he meant his warriors or the commandos.
Sound the alert. Reinforce our units in POCSYM’s central area. All cannon commence fire.

The alarm went out, orders and responses flashing back and forth. Unwelcomed responses.

Impedance on all command-control circuits, Glorious. We cannot fire.

POCSYM
. It was a dry curse
. Shield status?

Maximum.

Start rerouting missile battery nexus beginning with those nearest Sector Yellow 12.

Nearer the surface, in hardened defense clusters, technicians began the laborious task of recalibrating scores of shipbuster batteries.

Have no concern, Glorious. The shield will stop them. If they live long enough to retreat, we’ll have enough firepower to destroy them.

Carry on, Watch Leader. I’m going to oversee the reinforcing of Yellow 12.

Nothing happened. Guan-Sharick remained where he was, unmoving. Then his thoughts came to every Scotar in the citadel.

Do not be alarmed. Some of our special ability is temporarily blocked. We of Command will soon remove the impediment.
Swarm Leaders, Blue 30—move your forces into Yellow 12. Use the old tube system. A Kronarin assault force is trying to reach POCSYM’s Central Control. Counterattack and destroy. Surface Guard, Yellow 12, deploy and counterattack.

Missiles firing in Yellow sector, Glorious.
The Watch Leader’s tentacles flew over his console.
Counter-jamming now. We are attempting to restore telekinesis.

On thousands of frequencies in ever-changing codes, creator and created fought.

The boats landed amid churning dust in the small lunar valley. The webbing automatically retracted, bulkheads dropping away. All but engines and pilot modules lay open to the moon’s harsh light.

“Deploy!” called Lawrona, leading the rush to the nearest cover. In moments his commandos were in position, a long thin line of silver-suited warriors extending along the base of a ridge.

Lawrona signaled the advance. Cresting the ridge in a series of graceful leaps, the troopers threw themselves prone in the ancient dust. Awkward, bounding at first in every direction, the three Terrans joined them, their bodies uncertain in the light gravity.

Below them lay a large box canyon. Suited figures with too many limbs moved about at the far end, emerging from an entrance in the farthest wall. As the humans watched more warriors poured into the canyon, leaping to take up positions on the flanking ridges, one of which now had human tenants.

“Bring it!” said a voice.

“Sutherland, maintain tactical comm discipline,” ordered Lawrona.

“Which is what?”

“Shut it. Admiral, we’re in position.”

“Acknowledged, Commander,” came Laguan’s voice. “Incoming fusion fire.”

A brilliant beam of red flashed down. Stayed by an invisible hand, it halted above the canyon. Hesitating briefly, the Scotar continued their advance, still seemingly unaware of the commandos.