The Battle for Terra Two (16 page)

"I thought you'd killed all the mindslaves."

"The overmind's in a different part of
Revenge.
It spoke to me after I destroyed the central brainpod clusters."

"Did the overmind pull that stunt in the tunnel?"

"I don't know."

"What is an overmind?"

"A mindslaver's central processing unit. It delegates tasks to the various brainpods, coordinates them. It's the interface between brainpods and ship's computer."

McShane grabbed the rollbar as D'Trelna threw the car into a tight spiral, plunging down a ramp toward the lower decks. "You may be a helluva starship captain, D'Trelna," he said, "but you're the worst driver in the galaxy."

"You want to walk?"

"No. Why are we going to see the overmind?"

"It told me to return when the S'Cotar did. Poor, mad brain, I thought. All those years without a body, all those millennia in stasis. Death would be a mercy.

"Well, the S'Cotar are back. And so am I."

Deep within the mindslaver, they stopped before a small, unmarked door. Powering down, D'Trelna dismounted as the car settled to the floor. Taking out the rifles, he handed one to Bob.

"Does the overmind shoot, too?" asked McShane, taking the rifle uncertainly.

"As an Imperial, it probably prefers treachery," smiled the commodore. "No. These are in case of bugs. Can't run max n-gravs and shield together."

The door opened.

McShane had been expecting a deep shaft of a room, like the sterile gray well forward that had housed the rest of
Revenge's
mindslaves. "Very nice," he said, following D'Trelna into the stylish little room.

The walls were hung with tapestries artfully woven in skillful geometric patterns that deceived the eye. The carpeting was rich and deep, altering hue or color with each change of perspective. Two armchairs and a sofa of the same material as the carpeting sat against the wall.

"Gentlemen," said a faint, dry voice. "Sit, if you wish."

"We'll stand," said D'Trelna.

"Thank you for coming."

"Could you speak up?" asked Bob.

"Most of my remaining energy is holding off central computer," said the voice, slightly louder. "When you destroyed the mindslaves, Commodore, you destroyed the delicate balance between organic and inorganic minds on this ship. Pity, too. Computer was good company. We shared a liking for prespace mythology. But now that large lump of spun titanium crystal is about to finish me."

"Why?" asked Bob.

"It's quite mad. It was in stasis a long time, with the rest of this vessel. Its particular series does—did—not take well to stasis. It was computer that tried to kill you in the sally portal."

"And you who joggled my memory?"

"Yes. You know much about this ship, McShane, absorbed from the mindslaves when they tried to destroy you, your last time here."

Bob started to ask another question,

"Please. Let me say what I have to, then I and this ship are of no further moment.

"You're here, D'Trelna, because the S'Cotar are back."

"Yes."

"From an alternate Terra, according to your skipcomms to Fleet." The commodore nodded.

"You were right, guessing it's not a S'Cotar device the biofabs are using."

"They got to the Trel cache!" exclaimed Bob.

"No," said the overmind. "The Trel cache was discovered just as the Empire entered its final cataclysm. It's never been explored. The device the S'Cotar have is Imperial—a prototype ferreted from Pocsym's vaults by Guan-Sharick and used to establish a fallback point on Terra Two. It's limited to surface use. The spaceborne unit that was used to remove your destroyer must have been brought by the machines."

The color drained from D'Trelna's face. "The Empire had no spaceborne unit? How am I to get a ship to Terra Two?"

"There's a prototype of such a device hidden on this ship. You will need one other starship positioned here to send you through."

"Reinforcements are on the way."

"Don't count your ships before they arrive, Commodore. I did, once. It cost me my body.

"Also, finding the device, you still have to escape the ship with it."

The overmind spoke quickly, voice almost inaudible. "Computer's heating my brain casing. Finishing me, it will come after you."

"Where's the device?" said Bob.

"Deck forty-eight—Agro. Program your shipcar with that deck number and flag section red one-eight-four."

"Agro red-one-eight-four," repeated D'Trelna.

"Computer's made a green hell out of Agro, piled all the treasures and mysteries there that the Empire sent, at the end. You'll find what you need there, in the house of the dead.

"Go now. Luck."

As they left, a faint tendril of thought touched McShane.
Empty is the House of S'Kal. Empire and Destiny.

"What?" he said, turning back as the door opened.

From somewhere nearby came the high, wrenching sound of flawed crystal cracking. As the door shut, the men heard something soft and wet smacking onto the deck.

"Skirmish one to computer," said D'Trelna as they reached the shipcar. He turned, hearing a noise. McShane had slumped into his seat, head in hand.

"Bob, what is it?" D'Trelna bent over the Terran.

"I
have a terrible headache."

"We have to go on."

"I
know." Raising his head, Bob swung around into the car, ashen-cheeked.
"I
'll be fine.

"This car isn't tied into the computer, is it?" he asked, resting his head against the seatback.

"No," said D'Trelna, tapping numbers into the modest control board. "We'd have been squashed like bugs against a bulkhead if it were." He grunted with satisfaction as the confirmation flashed across the small screen. "Ready."

"Don't you want to call for help?" asked Bob.

"No." He engaged autopilot. The shipcar rose, pivoting 180 degrees. "Not only is
Implacable
under-crewed, but if our visit here becomes an official mission, official questions will be asked. They'll find out I killed those mindslaves and disabled this monster." The car picked up speed. "Court-martialed, I'd be found guilty. We have few prisons. My personality would be altered—for my own good. I would become a simple, happy, thin man. Losing my drive, creativity and intellect, I'd spend the rest of my long, useless life watching the fruits of others' imagination parade by on the vidscreen."

"To Agro," said Bob, taking the blastrifle from the floor.

"I should check in," said the commodore as the car spiraled down a ramp.

"D'Trelna to
Implacable:'
he said, touching the communicator at his throat. He waited a moment, then tried again. There was no response.

"Odd," he said, looking at McShane. "Never had this problem."

"Could
Revenge's
computer be jamming?"

Reaching behind his thick neck, D'Trelna unsnapped the communicator. Stubby fingers moving with surprising dexterity, he popped open the back of the tiny oval. "D'Trelna to
Implacable,"
he said carefully, watching the pattern of light that flashed along tiny crystalline veins.

"Was I right?" asked Bob as the car raced along an interminable stretch of gray corridor.

"Yes," said the commodore, snapping the communicator together and fastening it back around his neck. "Something's blocking our signal."

"Computer?"

"Probably." D'Trelna glanced behind them. "At least nothing deadly's streaking after us. "We're almost there."

McShane sat up, headache forgotten. "Check your weapons," said D'Trelna as the shipcar rounded a bend, slowing. "And put on your helmet. We're here."

McShane looked ahead. Soaring overhead, a great slab of armorglass blocked the corridor. Strange flora blossomed on the other side, an explosion of green.

The car stopped, settling to the ground.

Dismounting, D'Trelna twisted on his helmet, then took a flat, oblong device from beneath the dashboard.

"Locator," said McShane, recognizing the machine from times past.

"Programmed with our exact destination, taken from the car's navsystem. Shall we?" said the commodore, pointing with blastrifle toward the greenery.

Helmets on, rifles at port arms, the two men approached the transparent barrier.

Parting along an invisible seam, the armorglass slid open—an opening just wide enough for two. From inside came sharp, feral cries worthy of a Jurassic swamp.

"Sounds like everything in there eats everything else," said McShane.

"I should prove a filling morsel," said the commodore. Snapping off the rifle's safety, he stepped over the threshold. Bob followed.

Behind them, the armorglass snicked quietly shut.

"How are you, my dear Christian?" asked Jesus.

Hochmeister looked up from walnut writing desk, blinking at the Raphaelite Christ standing in the late brigadier's living room: thorns crowning chestnut hair, stigmata piercing the delicate frame, tattered, soiled white linen robe; the Renaissance vision of The Levantine as granted a shabby, five-color immortality by millions of cheap reproductions and shoddy interpretations.

"Shalan-Actal," sighed the admiral. He leaned back in the overstuffed green-velvet Regency armchair. "You look more like a Hollywood pretty boy than an itinerant Galilean rabbi. And your compassionate visage needs improving."

"Still working on your memoirs?" The transmute pointed to the neat pile of yellow foolscap on the desk.

"Still," nodded Hochmeister, setting his pen back in the ink well. "Art, Goethe reminds us, is long, life short. I'm now at chapter thirty-two, mine and Canaris's chat with Rommel, convincing him to join the putsch."

"I met Rommel once," said Shalan-Actal.

The admiral's eyebrows rose. "You met Rommel? I thought you were out pillaging your galaxy."

"Don't forget, Admiral," said the Jesus-form, "we— biofabs—were created on Terra's moon. Our war with the K'Ronarins only lasted ten of your years. And although Poesym didn't allow us to meddle in Terran affairs, there were training missions. Naturally, I met the alternate Rommel. It was early in his career."

"I met him early in my career, midpoint in his. What was your impression?"

"Talented and daring."

Hochmeister nodded. "A great soldier and a fine Chancellor."

"Only a soldier in my reality, Admiral."

"Why have you come?"

"Need I have a purpose, Admiral?" The brigadier replaced Jesus.

"All you do has purpose, Shalan-Actal. In that, we're much alike."

"Perhaps," said the brigadier-form. "Although my kind don't call me monster.

"We will soon need spokesmen, Admiral." The dead brigadier's pale blue eyes met Hochmeister's. "We remain undetected by authorities in this reality. Soon, we'll have seized your sister world. That done, we will subjugate this world, not as green insectoids, though. Rather, as humans from space—a sort of peacekeeping galactic league, out to bring order to the backward worlds."

"Very romantic. Why should I sell your pseudo Pax Galactica?''

"The alternatives are not pleasant, Admiral. Experience has shown that our casualties soar when thousands of xenophobes hurl explosives at us. It then becomes cheaper to neutron scrub the planet and breed workers. And it frees our warriors for duty elsewhere—some compensation for lost time and industrial output.''

"Interesting," said the admiral. "But why not just kill me, steal my mind and imitate me?"

"Would you believe we dislike unnecessary bloodshed?"

"No." Pushing his chair back, Hochmeister rose, facing the S'Cotar across the table. "I've been here three weeks to the day, Shalan-Actal. You've given me the freedom of the post. For which I thank you."

"Colleagueal courtesy, Admiral."

"Perhaps you think me either blind or stupid."

The brigadier-form shook its head. "Not blind. Not stupid. Merely incapable of hurting us alone and unaided."

"I've made some observations."

"Yes?"

"You don't have sufficient force, even with your special powers, even with the replacements you're busy breeding, to hold both this world and its alternate. The war that brought you here, the war you lost, greatly reduced your numbers and your machines. You must be very short of transmutes if you're trying to enlist my aid." Walking past Shalan-Actal, the admiral went to the picture window. He stood looking out over the Green Mountains and the fading splendor of autumn. The S'Cotar turned, watching him.

"Yet, knowing this, you're planning to invade your point of origin. Attacking World One, shall we call it, leaves you vulnerable here. If detected and attacked, you'd be overwhelmed. Failing on World One, you'd have no safe haven to fall back on."

"We call it Terra One, Admiral. And the attack will not fail. Our enemies have but one ship insystem. They're expecting reinforcements. Something other than reinforcements are on their way.

"Oh, and, Admiral—you missed something."

Hochmeister turned, frowning. "What?"

"Our allies. We have allies. Nonhumans, like ourselves. With their help, nothing can stop us."

"I've seen no other life-forms here," said Hochmeister.

"But you have seen them, Admiral. You even fought them.

"You and your pickup army gave us a hard fight. That you didn't stop us was due to the Maximus device itself. The genius of the High K'Ronarins went into it. It seems to be self-healing."

Blood etched in Hochmeister's mind, the S'Cotar counterattack was the most vicious fighting he'd seen since Third Warsaw: The last fifty or so gangers rallied in a rough square around Malusi as the S'Cotar warriors and their guard spheres charged, breaking against them, wave after wave. Blasters shrilling, machinepistols rattling, grenades exploding, screams, orders, counterorders, the whole ghastly scene backdropped by a rising red sun.

He'd looked down to where zur Linde lay beside him in a ditch. The admiral could see right through the fist-sized blaster hole in the captain's stomach to the mud beneath. Cut off from the gangers, they'd shot their way through the S'Cotar, trying for the woods, when an azure bolt had found zur Linde.