The Battle for Terra Two (14 page)

"Are they taking the bugs from behind?"

Sutherland shook his head. "No. We're going to take them from the front. Those commandos will prevent the S'Cotar from accessing something in that building. Then they have a vital mission elsewhere. They're not to be wasted in this operation."

"And we are?" said Griswold, face pale.

"It's necessary," said Sutherland. "Otherwise, Colonel, in a few months, maybe sooner, you'd be fighting swarms of S'Cotar for this planet. Fighting and losing." He checked his watch. "Time."

Expressionless, the colonel spoke into his handset. "Red Pack Leader to Red Pack Pitcher. Execute, execute. Tango one niner."

From behind them came the dull
kruump!
of mortars firing.

"Fix bayonets!" shouted Griswold, looking up and down the line. "Fix bayonets!" He cocked his .45.

"Bayonets . . . ! Bayonets
...!''
The command echoed down the line. Drawing his combat knife, Griswold stepped from the ditch, bracketed by blaster fire. "Follow me!" he cried, voice high above the din. "Forward!"

Kismet, thought Sutherland, as the line surged forward. I'm going to be killed fighting bugs in an amusement park.

Taking an M16 from the dead, he joined the charge.

The first mortar barrage fell short of the S'Cotar line, turning two concession stands to matchsticks.

The next six didn't, exploding among the warriors, halving their numbers, splattering Xanadu's red walls green.

Through his one remaining eye, Sug-Atra saw the marines coming, bayonets gleaming through the smoke and flames.

Assault!
he ordered the warriors.

A ragged line, the S'Cotar charged, weapons blazing.

Bleeding in a dozen places, Sug-Atra tried to teleport inside. Nothing. A piece of shrapnel had done something profound to his special abilities. Turning, he limped painfully up Xanadu's stairs. As he reached the top stair, H'Nar L'Wrona stepped through the doors and shot him dead, tumbling his body back down the stairs.

The Margrave stood looking out over the carnage for a moment, watching the olive-drab wave roll over the S'Cotar, then went back inside.

Along the midway, marines with dripping combat knives stooped low, taking weregeld from the S'Cotar.

"You could have taken those bugs from the rear, Captain," said Griswold quietly. He looked too exhausted to be angry.

"We'd have been exposed to your fire, Colonel," said L'Wrona earnestly. "Worse, we'd have exposed this building to it. A single ember falling through to the wrong place, and every man who died today would have died in vain."

"You're a hard man, L'Wrona."

"I know."

The two stood on Xanadu's steps, backdropped by the amusement park's smoldering ruins. Firemen hosed the hot ash and twisted metal that had been weapons positions and kiddie rides, their lines snaking in from the yellow pumpers out on the MacArthur Boulevard. From the parking lot came the whirr of medevac choppers as triage teams hurried down the long rows of stretcher cases. Wounded with the best chance of survival if medevaced now would go first. The rest would either go later or in the fleet of ambulances clogging the far end of the parking lot. Many would die where they lay.

To the west, a blood-red sun shone through the smoke and haze.

The S'Cotar lay where they'd fallen.

"I lost over two hundred good men today, Captain," said Griswold, looking over the midway.

"We lost billions fighting those things," said L'Wrona. "Billions."

"I want to see that portal, Captain," said Griswold, turning back to La'Wrona. "I'm entitled."

"How did you know about the portal?" frowned L'Wrona. "Sutherland."

"Ah. Well, you're right. You are entitled." He opened a door, motioning Griswold in. "We're leaving in a few minutes. You can see us off."

"This is bigger than the Maximus portal," said John, staring at the pit filling Xanadu.

"How much bigger?" asked Lieutenant S'Til.

"Twice, at least. They must have widened the other end."

Looking at that too-dark pool, John felt what he'd first sensed on the side of the portal—deep, rippling power, lurking just below the surface—a power somehow controlled by a slim machine a universe away.

The portal nearly filled Xanadu. The building itself was facade, a slice of Hollywood on the Potomac. The back could be rolled open, two great garage doors that trundled on rubber casters across a cement apron. First seeing that, John had had a vision of something huge, gray and monstrous coming up from the pit, abristle with fusion turrets, moving silently out into the night on n-gravs, force field shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

The stench of burning men and machines wafted through the ragged blaster hole in the left door.

Led by L'Wrona, the commandos and the three Terrans had slipped in from the woods between Glen Echo and Mac Arthur Boulevard, the battle along the midway covering them as they'd moved through the fence, under the roller coaster and up to the building's rear. Blasting a hole through the wall, they'd poured in—there were no S'Cotar. Taking up positions, they'd waited, silently killing the four S'Cotar who'd come in.

The biofabs lay in a thick pool of green beside the door, necks slit by broad-bladed assault knives. The commandos lined the side of the pit, blastrifles at port arms, every other man facing out. Pacing slowly behind them, Lieutenant S'Til impatiently tapped the MllA's long barrel against her hard, slender leg. John stood to one side, away from the door.

"What are we waiting for?" he asked. "L'Wrona," said S'Til.

* * * *

"Major Harkness," called Sutherland, spotting Gris-wold's XO. "Where's the colonel?"

Young, black, the untreated cut across his left cheek still bleeding, Harkness turned from the radio, eyes glazed with fatigue. "Behind those concessions stands," he said, waving toward a charred heap near the Ferris wheel.

Sutherland headed down the midway, treading carefully past the dead. Bodies often entwined, marines and warriors lay where they'd fallen, knives, bayonets and guns against knives, serrated mandibles and blasters.

Sutherland tried not to look at the faces. The assault had been bad enough, but it had been fast, a blur of motion: shoot, move, shoot, move. For the first time since Korea, he'd used a bayonet, performing a clumsy but tenable parry-and-long-thrust series. This was worse, he thought, stumbling over a helmet. Something out of Goya, those young, dead, tormented faces staring sightlessly, throats ripped out, necks broken, holes you could put your fist through. And everywhere the stench of burnt flesh, hanging in a low haze over the clouds of flies come to feast.

He found Griswold behind the concession stand, face down in the dirt, a neat round hole through each temple. There was no blood—just a dead man, his mind stolen.

Sutherland turned in time to see L'Wrona and Griswold enter Xanadu, a good hundred yards away. Communicator lost in the chopper wreckage, he cursed and began running.

The Terran colonel paused at his first sight of the portal, then advanced gingerly to the edge, peering down. Brushing past the commandos, L'Wrona followed.

"This is it?" asked Griswold, looking at L'Wrona.

The captain nodded. "A hole in the heart of the universe."

"Ever hear of George Bernard Shaw, Margrave?" asked the colonel. L'Wrona shook his head.

"A brilliant, crusty man. He said, 'The devil has all the best lines.' It's true."

"I don't understand."

"I'll give you an example, L'Wrona."
Follow me and die.

L'Wrona fired as the transmute leaped into the portal. Sutherland burst through the door. "Transmute!" he gasped. "Griswold!"

Pulling his knife, L'Wrona jumped after transmute. "Go!" shouted S'Til.

John and the commandos plunged into the portal.

Sutherland stood alone in Xanadu, breathless, watching the ripples fade in the black pool.

He was still watching when the portal flicked off, leaving a deep raw gash in the red clay and sand.

"How's he doing, Q'Nil?"

The words drifted distantly, touching and slowly stirring his consciousness. K'Ronarin, he thought. Bluff, gruff. D'Trelna.

McShane opened his eyes.

"He's coming around now, Commodore."

D'Trelna stood at the foot of the bed, round face concerned. Beside him, thin and detached, Medtech Q'Nil was checking life readings off the unit's medscan. The three were alone in a small, cheery room, walls done in warm earth tones with matching bed coverlet.

"I didn't die," said Bob hoarsely.

"Close," said Q'Nil. Stepping around the bed he poured water from a carafe into a disposable cup, handing it to McShane.

Nodding his thanks, the professor downed it in two loud gulps. "How long have I been out?"

"Two weeks," said D'Trelna as S'Nil took the cup, tossing it into the disposer with an economical flip of his wrist.

"You took a blaster bolt through the chest," said Q'Nil. "Plus shock and some complications. Otherwise, you'd have been up sooner.''

Bob pulled open the front of his green bed gown. A patch of curly gray chest hair was missing, but the skin was smooth and seamless. "What complications?"

"A nasty viral infection," said Q'Nil. "Surely you're aware of it?"

"I have cancer," said Bob evenly. "Is that what you mean?"

"Whatever you call it," said Q'Nil. "We flushed it— took a few days. Very elusive, very adept at hiding from the immuno system. Altering one of its proteins, though, strips its camouflage. We introduced an antigen that did that, then kept you under while your body cleaned up."

Barefeet slapping onto the cold gray deck, McShane was out of the bed, gripping a surprised Q'Nil. "My God, man! You can cure cancer?"

"If we couldn't, you wouldn't be bruising my arm, Professor."

"Sorry," he said, letting go. "It's just that I expected to wake up dead, as my granddaughter says."

"Nothing wrong with your right hand," said Q'Nil, rubbing his left tricep. "How's the rest of you feel?"

"Great. Wonderful!" Vibrant, his voice filled the room. "Better than I have in months." He threw his arms above his head, then bent to touch his toes. "I couldn't have done that a few weeks ago.

"Are there side effects?"

Q'Nil nodded somberly.

"What?" asked Bob, voice suddenly tight.

"You may experience some flatulence."

"That's it?"

"That's it," said Q'Nil. "Now, if you'll excuse me, others await my healing touch." He left, the door hissing shut after him.

Bob sat down on the edge of the bed—sat down hard and was silent for a moment. "I'm alive and others are not," he said finally, studying the backs of his hands. "Is it because we're friends, J'Quel?"

"You are alive. Others are alive," said D'Trelna. "Not because we're friends, but because the Fleet of the Republic has extended aid and comfort to all casualties of the battle of the portal."

McShane smiled ruefully. "Sorry, J'Quel. I'm a pious old coot."

"You're not that old."

"You are going to release this discovery to Terra?"

"Sent it down to Liaison in New York five days ago," said D'Trelna. "They've forwarded it to all accredited Terran legations."

Bob shook his head. "There's a bloated medical bureaucracy with a vested interest in not having this released. Unless pressure can be brought
..."

D'Trelna smiled his Cheshire smile.

"What have you done, J'Quel?'

"I felt a senior officer should personally transmit this marvelous discovery to Liaison. In the absence of Captain L'Wrona, I undertook that duty. Unfortunately, I'm not familiar with some of the communications protocols. The transmission was in the clear, in all known Terran languages on every operable voice and data frequency."

"These things happen," said Bob, eyes sparkling.

D'Trelna nodded sadly. "True, true. I will no doubt be reprimanded, should anyone be stupid enough to complain."

"And the reaction?"

"Tumult. Jubilation. Crowds. Demands.

"Q'Nil says the antigen is easily made and will work on all viral variants. Clinics are being set up to supplement existing medical facilities. Three months"—-he puffed his cheeks—"pouff. No more cancer."

"You're a good man, D'Trelna," said McShane.

"True," said the commodore. Turning to the wall locker, he tossed boots and brown duty uniform onto the bed. "Get dressed. Fresh Kansas steak awaits in my quarters."

Tugging the boots on, McShane was suddenly aware of a gnawing hunger in his belly.

"Wine, Bob?"

"Just a tad. I'd better not overdo it."

D'Trelna poured from the graceful, long-necked bottle, topping McShane's delicate crystal goblet. Dining alone, the two sat at the big t'raq-wood table in
Implacahle's
spacious flag quarters.

"Delightful," said McShane, savoring the wine's rich, tangy bouquet. "From what strange vineyard under what far, exotic sun?" he asked. Holding the goblet up to the armorglass wall, he watched the crimson liquid catch the starlight.

D'Trelna read the label. "Modesto, California."

"A passable burgundy," said McShane, setting the goblet down.

"So, they got through the portal and that's all we know?"

Nodding, D'Trelna sliced off another wedge of medium-rare porterhouse. "That's all we know. Portal's still down, Fleet reinforcements are due shortly." He frowned, steak halfway to his mouth. "I don't know how long I can hold that flotilla here. The Confederation's a mess. Liberated planets are in dire need of everything, S'Cotar ships still attack understrength convoys. We even have pirates." He chewed the steak.

"Pirates?" said Bob, eyes widening. "Honest-to-God space pirates?"

"Honest-to-God space pirates—corsairs. Units that escaped the S'Cotar, lived off badly needed supply convoys during the war and are now raiding the liberated quadrants. Most of them are pre-war Fleet—rotten before the shooting started."

"Lovely. Will you be the senior-officer-present when your reinforcements arrive?"

"No."