The Biofab War (15 page)

“Attacks grew bigger and bolder. Fleet, responding to the public outcry, built more and more of the new symbiotechnic dreadnoughts, equipped with the brains of convicts and the terminally ill. Within five years fleets of these great ships were scouring the galaxy, searching for the brigands’ base—a hopeless task, it seemed, given the vast number of possible hiding places, the dearth of accurate intelligence. Heeding the cries of anguished relatives and friends of the hundreds of thousands of missing colonists and spacemen, an already overtaxed Empire dug ever deeper to build more ships to end the scourge. End it did—unexpectedly.

“A task force under Admiral L’Rar T’Nil—a cagey old war dog brought out of retirement to hunt down the pirates—received a frantic distress call from the mining colony of Rilnoa. Traveling at flank speed, T’Nil’s force dropped out of drive almost on top of the unsuspecting outlaw fleet—sleek vessels, bearing no insignia, but deployed in standard Fleet pattern. Although taken by surprise, the brigands made a fierce stand. Only when T’Nil’s marines stormed the bridge of the sole surviving pirate ship did resist to the end. And only then did the diabolical truth come to light.

“These were no ‘pirates.’ They were mindslavers—avaricious men ruthlessly collecting functioning human brains. Brains that they sold to Imperial Fleet contractors to build more mindslavers to hunt down the nonexistent pirates. The captured ship was a brainstrip facility. The colonists’ brains were carefully removed and their bodies harvested for spare parts.

“The mindslavers had only partially scrubbed their records before dying, vivisected within their own ship. A complete list of their shareholders was recovered. It contained some of the most powerful and wealthy names in the Empire: senators, industrialists, financiers, senior officers, privy councilors, members of the royal family—the top ten percent of the top one percent of the Empire. All had profited handsomely from the venture.

“T’Nil was a brilliant strategist, and not just in space, adept at the political infighting that pervaded both Court and Fleet. More, he commanded the fierce loyalty of his officers and men, for he’d been given back his old battle group, Task Force 47. They’d followed the Admiral into hell more than once. Now he asked them to do so again, for he knew his command and life would be forfeit if he sent an honest report of the action. Task Force 47 disappeared, captured ship in tow. With unseemly haste, T’Nil and his men were proclaimed deserters and traitors, tried in absentia and sentenced to death.

“Two months later, raiders in Fleet uniform seized all the communications stations over Kronar and broadcast graphic proof of all I’ve just told you to a horrified, sickened Empire: brainless, recognizable heads, holograms of the brainstrip vessel, airtight documentation. The ensuing popular revolt was brief but bloody enough for a general catharsis.

“Did I mention T’Nil’s daughter? She was on R’Noa. Her father arrived too late to save her or his grandchildren.

“Even before his coronation, T’Nil rounded up all the masters of the de facto Mindslavers Guild and had them publically brainstripped and placed to serve this monstrosity now before us. The other mindslaves were mercifully destroyed and the mindslavers converted to conventional craft. Thus ends my truth, Subcommander,” said POCSYM. “May it inform your own.”

“Why was she sent here?” Kiroda asked.

“I wasn’t told. I suspect, though, that the disintegrating Empire didn’t want
Revenge
falling into the hands of, say, a rebellious sector governor.”

“And the mindslaves?” asked Bob.

“Functional, as is the rest of the ship. I’ve had her in stasis, of course. The mindslaves . . .”

The computer was checked by Detrelna’s upraised hand. “Yes?” the captain said into his communicator.

“Sir, message from Admiral Laguan.” Lawrona read it to him.

“I have something to add,” said POCSYM. “Please check your tacscans, Commander. Do you confirm what my satellites have detected?”

As Lawrona turned toward the screen an ensign called, “Enemy force emerging from hyperspace.”

Next to Pluto a swarm of tiny red dots were forming into a huge phalanx.

“Scotar battle fleet has entered the system near the ninth planet, sir,” reported the first officer. “They’re forming their assault wedge.”

“How many?”

Lawrona hopefully tapped the telltale. The figures didn’t change. “Two thousand five hundred and twenty-eight,” he reported. “Heavy cruisers, destroyers, scout and patrol craft, supply and transport vessels—lots and lots of transports. It’s not a casual visit.”

“Where’s their command ship?” asked the captain.

“Can’t tell at this range, sir.”

“I have her,” said POCSYM.

They were back in Central Control, facing a hologram of the solar system. “My apologies,” the computer said, “but it seemed less cumbersome.” In the midst of the red dots now advancing on Earth glowed a single green light. “The command ship,” said POCSYM. “She is
Nasqa
—‘Deadly Wraith,’ about a mile in diameter, a crew of three thousand.”

“Well, Captain?” asked John.

Detrelna was silent, eyes distant. He ran his fingers through thinning hair. “POCSYM,” he said finally, “can you defend Terra against such a huge force?”

“Gallantly, Captain, but very briefly.”

“Can you put
Revenge
in orbit?”

“Easily.”

“Can you put an assault team aboard
Nasqa
before those ships come within range of Terra?”

“Yes.”

“My friends”—Detrelna smiled—“let’s adjourn to the meeting room and discuss a mad scheme I have. It’s just insane enough to work.”

“The hell you are!” John stormed at McShane. “You heard what the captain said. His own men are afraid to mindlink with those creatures. What makes you so damned omnipotent?”

No sooner had Detrelna announced his twofold “mad scheme” than Bob had volunteered for what John thought its most dangerous aspect: mind linking with the disembodied brains aboard
Revenge.

The professor calmly regarded his angry ex-student. “I saw no rush of volunteers,” he observed dryly. “Also, I submit myself as the logical candidate.” He poured water from an onyx carafe into a matching cup and sipped. “It’s been speculated that only Terrans, with their heart rate higher than Kronarins, have a chance of arriving aboard
Nasqa
undetected.”

Speculated was the word for it. Two months ago the Kronarins had captured a Scotar courier ship. Along with new deployment and withdrawal protocols, it carried modifications specs for their ships’ security systems. Henceforth, penetration alarms would be keyed only to the Kronarin heart rate. The Scotar had evidently been plagued by false intruder alerts triggered by too broad a detection program.

Rigging the courier’s drive to overload, the Kronarins had blown the ship up along with her dead crew, hard by the Scotar advance. They could only hope the aliens had bought the accident and left their program modifications intact.

“Thus, all Terrans now here fit for combat may attempt entry,” said Bob. “Unfortunately, the surviving U.S. troopers left with Mr. Montanoya; his ‘witnesses,’ he called them.”

“He’ll need them for credibility,” said Greg.

“Knowing the cobwebbed minds cluttering our senior government posts, I’m sure he will,” said Bob. “If he appeared alone crying, ‘Watch the sky! Watch the sky!’ they’d put him in a rubber room. But that leaves only the five of you. As we know, the Kronarins refuse to meddle with what is to them abomination. The good captain here will only ask his crew to man the less exotic parts of
Revenge
.”

“Never give an order you know won’t be obeyed,” murmured Detrelna, sitting on the table’s edge, eyes occasionally flicking to the screen and the advancing Scotar fleet.

“Further,” continued Bob, “without the mindslaves and the weapons systems they control,
Revenge
is just another ship. Correct, Captain?”

Detrelna nodded.

“Someone who is expendable, unburdened by ancient legend and possessed of a disciplined mind must serve as, well, mindslave liaison. I am that man—Hobson’s choice: Take me or do without.”

Before anyone else could try to dissuade him, POCSYM spoke. “
Nasqa
will be within transporter range in thirty minutes and her fleet within bombardment range of Terra in four hours.”

“
Nasqa
assault group will don warsuits and arm. Be back here in twenty minutes for transport,” ordered Detrelna, rising.

“Crazy old coot,” John muttered as he walked past McShane, affectionately squeezing the professor’s shoulder.

Bob turned his head, winked and lit a cigar, exhaling a wreath of pungent smoke.

Wonder if he’ll look so smug in the slaver’s mindlink helmet
, Kiroda thought, seated across from Bob. Pouring himself a glass of water, he toasted McShane.

T
he handful of Terrans strode purposefully down the gray curving corridor of
Nasqa
. Scotar scuttled and flitted about, paying them no mind.

“They’re arrogant and literal-minded,” POCSYM had said earlier, as the teaching helms settled over their heads. “Arrive undetected and they’ll think you’re transmutes disguised as humans. You’ll make it to the bridge.”

When the helms lifted, three lost minutes later, they knew
Nasqa
: her layout, crew disposition, bridge operations—knew her as well as any Scotar. It was hard-won data, gleaned by POCSYM and Fleet Intelligence over the years. The bridge crew should number no more than six. If the humans reached the bridge, they might win.

Maybe, thought John, running his thumb along the smooth leather of his holster.

POCSYM had put them as near to their objective as possible in so distant a moving target. The Terrans had walked only a hundred yards before reaching the bridge. Scotar came and went through the round open doorway.

An alarm screamed amid strobing lights. Thinking the worst, John turned to shoot the nearest aliens. But the Scotar ran past, ignoring them. Giant blast doors began trundling shut. In a moment the bridge would be sealed.

“They’re getting ready to engage
Implacable
,” whispered Sutherland, drawing up beside John.

“Now or never,” said John. “Let’s go.”

Caution aside, he led the rush through the closing doors.

Nasqa
’s battle board showed the position of her fleet relative to two dots midpoint between Earth and Moon—two dots, John noted with relief.
Revenge
had joined
Implacable
.

High-backed chairs fronted the six bridge positions, hiding their occupants from view. “Turn slowly and you won’t be hurt,” lied John, seeking to spare only the consoles.

The chairs swiveled slowly about. Six empty chairs.
Drop your weapons or die where you stand,
hissed something cold in all their minds.

The bridge swarmed with warriors.

Kiroda had briefed McShane as the three of them rode the small open hovercar through
Revenge’s
broad empty corridors—more roadways than corridors—eerily still save for the vehicle’s quiet purr.

“All we know of mindslaves comes from POCSYM and N’Rar’s
Annals of the Empire
,” said the young officer. “Both say you must dominate the mindslaves, force them to your will.”

“N’Rar wrote from personal experience?” asked Bob.

“No,” said Kiroda. He broke off, grabbing for a sidebar as Detrelna banked sharply around a corner at full speed, yet another of Bob’s cigars clenched between his teeth.

“Sorry,” grunted the captain. “You may not believe it, but I was a fighter pilot once.”

“I’m sure the hovercar has unique handling characteristics, sir,” said Kiroda, knuckles white on the sidebar. “Bob,” he continued “it’s imperative you overcome the mindslaves’ initial resistance.”

“And if I fail?”

Detrelna spoke as Kiroda hesitated. “They’ll burn your brain away and feed on your death agonies. Don’t fail.” They pulled up before a small door neatly labeled
Symbiotechnic Control Facility
.

“Remember,” added Kiroda, “don’t mindlink until POCSYM has us in orbit. And leave your communicator open on tactical. We’ll be on the bridge, driving this battleboat. You’ve got forty-five minutes to take control. Assuming our friends succeed aboard
Nasqa
, we’ll need all the firepower you can give us. Good luck.”

As soon as he was inside, they drove off.

An innocuous little room,
thought Bob,
to house such evil.
Two thickly padded armchairs faced a soaring, blank screen. A “primary battle board” POCSYM had called it. Above each chair hung a translucent bowl-shaped helmet, similar to POCSYM’s teaching helms.

“Sit in one of the chairs,” POCSYM had instructed. “The helmet descends. What happens then varies. But you, not the mindslaves, must control events. Beware: they’re treacherous.”

The condemned man enjoyed a hearty last cigar,
thought the Bob, patting his pockets as he walked down the spiral staircase into the pit. Reaching the bottom, he groaned. Detrelna had filched his last panatela.
C’est la guerre.
He smiled wistfully, recalling another war, other faces.