The Biofab War (11 page)

“Over there.” Not taking his eyes from the screen, the officer gestured toward their neat small stack of equipment.

The sergeant, no older than Kiroda, ran to the pile. Tumbling it in his haste, he yanked out a flat gray packet, then hurried back down the corridor.

Kiroda typed in another sequence. “How long?” he asked over the commnet.

“Assuming maximum delay at the ladder—twenty minutes,” Danir reported. The NCO reappeared a moment later, sans blastpak. “It’ll detonate when the first warrior reaches the bottom rung. It’s set for just Scotar.”

John poked his head through the doorway. “If you don’t get that thing working soon, we’re going to be fatally overcrowded.”

“If I do,” replied Kiroda, “the defenses may be inoperative. And if I don’t, we won’t have to spend much longer in these dreary tunnels. Sergeant, plant the nuclear demolition charge on this equipment. Set timer for command detonation and detonation within three feet of any non-humanoid life form.”

A dull
KRUMMP!
punctuated his order, the floor shaking dust billowed in from the ruined altar well. Gagging and wheezing, the humans switched their warsuits to internal atmosphere.

The installation’s scrubbers quickly swept the air clean, affording a clear view of the first wave of Scotar as they rounded the tunnel, firing. Crouching low, the defenders fired back.

One crewman lost an arm to concentrated fire. His suit sealed the blood-gushing stump, clamping off the wound and filling his body with painkillers, but not before his agonized shrieks had filled the commnet.

The humans cut down the first wave of warriors. Another wave followed. And another. And another, charging unwavering into the human’s blaster fire. The corridor became a charnel house heaped high with Scotar.

John’s blaster quit without warning. A quick look showed over half a charge left. Hearing curses, he looked up. All of their weapons had failed.

“Damper field!” spat Danir. He drew a wicked-looking knife from his boot sheath.

“Their blasters won’t work, will they?” asked Greg. He peered down the tunnel’s curve, around which the Scotar had withdrawn.

“No.” Leaning his useless rifle against the wall, the NCO took up position midtunnel. “It’ll be small consolation, though. Form on me.” The other commando and the three Terrans fell in beside him. “Commander!” he called. “Now or never.”

“Never,” said a resigned voice. Knife in hand, Kiroda came to stand with his men.

John felt a hand squeeze his arm. Zahava stood next to him. “The French have a saying,” she said with a sad smile. “
‘Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse.
’ You know it?”

“Yes, and it’s very depressing. Today’s not our day to perish, he said, giving an answering squeeze. “My bad knee doesn’t hurt.”

“So, some good news,” quipped Commander Kiroda.

The warriors came at them six abreast, leaping toad-like over their dead, sweeping down on the humans, a great green flood. At twenty paces, John gamely fell into a fighting crouch, his left knee throbbing again.

“Drop!” roared a voice from behind. The humans dropped, faces to the rock floor, as a hail of gunfire tore into the Scotar. The victorious charge became a rout.

Firing from the hip, Sutherland led his men after the retreating warriors. A final burst of fire killed the last of them just as they reached their blasters, stacked beside the altar well. The five men walked slowly back to where John and Zahava stood, helmets under their arms.

“Long night, Bill?” John smiled weakly, clapping a hand to his friend’s shoulder.

“Long night,” said John.

Bill nodded. “Like Mr. Scrooge, I keep hoping I’ll soon wake up to a familiar world.”

Zahava, ever direct, kissed Sutherland soundly on the lips.

He grinned, tired but appreciative.

“Something out of an opium dream,” said Sutherland, nudging a torn Scotar corpse with his rifle butt. “And who those people are, I’m afraid to ask,” he said, nodding toward the Kronarins. “They supplied your space opera props?”

“They’re from a nearby starship,” said Greg, helping carry the unconscious crewman into the transport room. Sutherland merely nodded. Bakunin, standing nearby examining a blast rifle, didn’t look up.

“I can see you’re overwhelmed by the news,” said John.

“I was overwhelmed hours ago. Now I’m just trying to cope. What are they called?”

“They’re Kronarins,” said Zahava. “Their ancestors built this installation, centuries ago. Apparently, we’re cousins—a lost colony.”

“And the big green bugs?”

“Scotar. The two are fighting a war of extermination,” John said.

“Who’s winning? The Scotar?”

“Yes.”

Sutherland grunted. “Joy.”

Kiroda had vanished into the transport room just after the warriors’ destruction. He reappeared, intent on the small scanner he was holding. After a moment he looked up, relieved. “All enemy forces have left the area.” He gave a crooked grin. “We did it—we held. And it’s because of you that we did,” he said to Sutherland. “Thank you.” He held out his hand.

“I can’t understand you,” said Bill, shaking hands, “but I can guess. You’re welcome.”

“By a clever oversight, I neglected to bring translators with us.” Kiroda led them into the transport room. Bakunin, exploring, looked up as they trooped in.

“May I present Colonel Andréyev Ivanovich Bakunin, Russian Federation,” said Sutherland. “These two people’—he indicated John and Zahava—“work with me.”

Bakunin nodded pleasantly. “May I know their names?”

“No.” Bill looked at Greg. “You, I don’t know,” he said.

“If you’re Joe Antonucchi’s boss, you might recognize my fingerprints from a piece of granite I gave him.”

“
Implacable
to ground force.” Detrelna’s voice came from their commlinks. “What’s your situation?” A ragged cheer preceded Kiroda’s report.

“I’m coming down with reinforcements,” the captain said, an anxious McShane hovering at his elbow. “By the way, fifty Terran rotoplanes are closing on you—ETA two minutes. I assume they’re friendly.” (He assumed nothing. Four batteries were locked on the unsuspecting Rangers.)

John relayed the information to Sutherland.

“Rapid Deployment Force out of Ft. Devens. I’d better get up there. Where’s the front door?”

His men hadn’t been idle. A rope ladder now dangled down the altar well, its bottom draped over and dead Scotar. He made a face then swung up the ladder, Kiroda close behind. “Why didn’t that blast collapse this shaft?” he asked, climbing.

“It’s not rock—it’s an battlesteel alloy,” said Kiroda.

“I don’t know about anyone else,” said Bakunin, “but I need rest.” The Russian lay down on the floor and was instantly asleep.

“Food for those who want it,” said Danir, passing out handfuls of tasteless protein wafers.

Tired but hungry, the remaining allies ate.

“Y
es, but why didn’t they teleport?”

Detrelna’s bull-like voice filled the cramped transport room. “You should all be dead!” He’d landed and promptly taken command. Unlike Kiroda, he’d brought extra translators.

Rumpled green tunic unbuttoned, the captain perched precariously atop one of the slender console chairs, drumming his fingers on the instrument panel. “Too many unanswered questions, gentleman,” he said to the Kronarins and Terrans gathered around him. He enumerated them on his blunt fingers. “One. The Scotar have been in your solar system for some time. That’s obvious from the base we destroyed, their take-over of the scientific facility and their destruction, according to your own evidence, of other transporter stations.

“Two.” A second finger rose. “Given all that, you people,”—he nodded toward the Terrans—“have no more right to be alive than my landing party. The Scotar should have swept through you like voracious insects devouring a grain field. Just as they should long ago have devoured this planet. Why didn’t they?

“And three.” A thumb came up. “They should have teleported down that tunnel once they were through the outer door and could visualize the area. Hell! They should have overrun you on the hilltop. Why didn’t they use the ability that has cost us so dearly—an ability that threatens to sweep us from the galaxy? They don’t need to scuttle about—they can flit anywhere.” He slapped the dull black metal on the console. “Bah! I’m not an Alien Psych officer. Let’s continue ponder these points as we go about staying alive. Questions?”

“Are we in any immediate danger of attack?” asked Sutherland. He’d exchanged the Scotar blaster for a Kronarin rifle, now slung over his shoulder. Marsh, Johnson, Yazanaga and Bakunin were also toting Fleet M-32s. (“If we survive this,” Sutherland had said as Danir had passed out the rifles, “don’t even think of taking those home.”)

“Tactics Officer?” Detrelna deferred to Kiroda.

“Almost certainly,” answered Tolei, his work at the terminal momentarily set aside. “The Scotar always counterattack. We’ve been granted this brief lull as they rally everything they’ve got left in your system—spacecraft, transmutes, warriors—and launch a coordinated assault. Right now they’re probably marshaling on the opposite side of the planet from
Implacable
. The festivities should resume soon. Like the captain, I don’t know why they haven’t used their special abilities.”

“How long before your fleet arrives?” asked McShane.

“A week, maybe two.” Detrelna held up a hand, stifling the murmur of dismay. “Not soon enough to help us, but in time to take on any major Scotar reinforcements. If we can hold till then, we may win.”

“How can we help?” asked Bakunin. “More troops?”

“Pretty free with our guys, isn’t he?” one of the Americans whispered.

“No.” Detrelna shook his head. “In fact, you should withdraw all but a small number of men—say forty. If we can’t hold these few tunnels with a hundred, we can’t hold them at all. Don’t forget, the Scotar have a fix on these coordinates now. They should be dropping right into our ranks. We can’t afford to be packed asses to elbows down here—we’d be slaughtered.” he rose from his chair. “They love slaughtering. Torturing, too.

“I have no authority over you, my friends,” he continued. “But circumstance has united us against a vicious and deadly foe. It’s a war of extermination—no treaties, no quarter. Either we kill the Scotar or they kill us—every man, woman and child in the galaxy. We can make no mistakes—there’ll be no second chances. Follow our orders explicitly. When it comes to fighting this plague, we’re experts—and have the scars to prove it. Agreed?”

“We’re with you,” said Sutherland. “What choice do we have?” he added, shaking Detrelna’s hand. “What are your orders, Captain?”

“Select your men from the military force topside. Take them to the supply shuttle for weapons—it’s the third one on the beach. Brief them, then have them report here to me.”

With a nod, Bill led his team from the room, wondering what he’d tell the square-jawed infantry colonel now uselessly deploying his men along the hill, as though expecting waves of enemy infantry. A lie couched in truth, probably, he thought—it usually worked.

“I’ll command the ground action,” Detrelna said as the door closed. “Commander Kiroda will continue trying to activate the defenses. If I’m killed, he’ll assume command of the defense, followed by Sergeant Danir. Gather around, please.” He spread Kiroda’s sketch of the installation out on top of the equipment. “Let me explain our strategy—such as it is.”

Montanoya hung up the phone. “We can’t contact Sutherland or Otis,” he said to the other man in the Oval Office. “Best we can do is raise one of the bridge blockades or that destroyer off Falmouth. The Cape’s undergoing some very sophisticated jamming.” The calmness of his voice surprised him.

Sixtyish, Mexican-American, one of his country’s finest career ambassadors before becoming National Security Advisor, José Montanoya felt powerless. It wasn’t the aliens or the Kronarins or the pending battle; it was the lack of data. The future of his planet and the survival of humanity were being decided on a spit of land five hundred miles north and he didn’t know what was happening.

“Should we send more troops?” asked Doug MacDonald, the first liberal Democrat President in four terms. Despite his Southern California good looks, MacDonald looked haggard. He hadn’t slept or eaten since the whole madness started.

“Last word we had was that most of our forces were withdrawing at the Kronarins’ request. Seems we’re not equipped for a thirtieth-century war.”

“I can’t take this, José. Human history—maybe human survival—is being decided out there and here we sit, waiting for the damn phone to ring.” He nodded curtly. “The hell with it. Have them call Andrews and ready Air Force One. We’re going to Cape Cod.”

Montanoya protested, despite feeling similar sentiments. “I wish you’d reconsider, sir. That place’s going to be hell on earth soon. Given the types of weapons used—”

MacDonald cut him short. “The entire character of our civilization’s already being altered, José. Contact by an alien culture will change it. And under these traumatic circumstances, it may not survive the experience. No.” He turned from the window. “I’m of little use here—I might as well be in the thick of it. You should stay here, José. I need you at the Pentagon.”