The Biofab War (23 page)

Guan-Sharick stood before the Council of the Magnificent, the only five Scotar of his rank. Evacuation klaxons sounded from outside the chamber.

Can interplanet teleportation be restored?
asked Tuan-Lagark, the Senior.

Not before POCSYM blows up.
Guan-Sharick’s thoughts were tinged with anxiety.

Tuan-Lagark’s antennae wove an acceptance-resolution pattern.
You are the last hope of our race. Allow the humans to escape. Go with them—bide your time until you can call forth our deep-hoarded strength.

You can deceive their instruments?
asked another.

Easily. I march with them, eat with, sleep with them.

Go then. Avenge us and restore the Race.

Guan-Sharick bowed low and left.

Lawrona moved up and down the column, ordering, pleading, cajoling.

“Close up!”

“Watch your flank, there!”

“Sergeant, that man’s dead. Cycle his blaster.”

“Move! Move! We can sleep when we’re dead.”

It was the voice of POCSYM that kept them going, methodically counting the waning moments.

“Sixty count to destruct.

“Forty-five count to destruct.”

At destruct minus twenty, singing mixed with the blasters’ shrill.

“What’s that?” Lawrona demanded, not breaking stride. The gauntlet run, they were nearing the lift. The rear guard now bore the brunt of the counterattack.

“It’s the ‘Soldiers Chorus’ from the Terran opera
Aida
, Commander, the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers who die entombed together. You’ll never know how apt it is for my end.”

The point squad reached the lift. “I’m in contact with C Section, Subcommander Varta,” the squad leader reported. “They’re under heavy attack.”

Jogging into sight of the lift, Lawrona was finally able to raise Varta. “What’s your status? Topside secure?”

The whine of massed energy weapons filled Lawrona’s ears as Varta reported.

“For now, Hanar. But get here quickly. Most of us are dead.”

“E and G Sections, into the lift,” the commander ordered. Pointing to three familiar figures, he added, “Stay here until we’ve secured ground level.”

Harrison and Zahava supported a third, limping form between them. “I’m going with you, Hanar,” said John. “Would you detail someone to help Zahava with Colonel Bakunin? He tried to stop a suicide wave by himself.” A burn hole gaped halfway up the Russian’s right leg. Half his calf muscle was gone. “Anna?” he murmured, drowsy from the narcotics as a burly sergeant took John’s place.

“Ten count to destruct,” said POCSYM as the elevator rose. “Sorry I can’t dispose of all the Scotar for you. You’ll have to clean the rest out of this system, especially the few left on Terra. And some of their ships are still loose in the galaxy. They’ll menace shipping and isolated colonies for years. I’m sending the locations and defense specs of all biofab secondary bases to
Vigilant,
Commander.”

The lift opened on C Section, drowning in a sea of biofabs.

“C Section, drop!”

The troopers fell away, leaving a clear field of fire.

“Fire!”

To John, firing from the third and standing rank, the volley was a river of red flame leaving only the stench of charred insect behind, Scotar bodies heaped like cordwood around the Kronarins.

“Secure the area,” ordered Lawrona as the last of Scotar died. He sent the lift back down. “Varta?” he called, looking for C Section’s subcommander.

“Dead, sir,” said a badly wounded corporal as a medic reached him.

“Seven count, Commander, max,” warned POCSYM as the lift disgorged two more sections. “Stability’s decreasing.”

Lawrona seemed not to hear.

“
Vigilant
to ground force,” came the admiral’s voice over the commnet. “Advise status.”

Lawrona said nothing. He stood unmoving, looking at the charnel house that had been C Section.

“Sir?” said a commtech, touching the commander’s arm.

Lawrona shook his head. “Ground force,” he said dully.

“That you, Detrelna?”

“No, sir. Lawrona. The captain joined us but insisted on commanding the rear guard. He should be here at ground level shortly. Sir,” he continued, vitality seeping back into his voice, “it’s imperative that the boats be brought into the canyon adjacent to the citadel entrance.”

“There and waiting, Commander. POCSYM’s been sharing his departure countdown with us. Get your people out of there.”

The third and final load of troopers came off the lift, Detrelna at their head. “I heard that,” he said. “Come on, Hanar, let’s get the wounded and run!”

“Five count to destruct,” POCSYM intoned.

“To the boats!” shouted Lawrona, waving his people past him toward the blasted gate.

John ran for his life, staggering under the weight of the half-dead commando over his shoulder, lungs bursting, pain knifing up his legs. With agonizing slowness, the black circle that was the tunnel’s end grew larger, its dark maw drawing him, moving him on despite the searing pain filling his chest. The black was freedom: freedom from the citadel, from the Scotar, from the evil that was POCSYM. Freedom, for a while, from death. A red haze of exhaustion blurring his vision, John broached the surface, breaking free with a single, soaring leap and bounding toward the boats.

“Go! Go! Go!” shouted Detrelna, as what was left of the raiders scrambled into the assault craft.

They were high up and banking sharply when a mile-wide hole punched through the lunar rock, shooting debris and atomized Scotar into space.

Orderly chaos ruled
Vigilant’
s hangar deck. Crash crews and fire crews raced to the assault boats. Medics in hovering medcarts were behind them and began quickly transporting the wounded.

High on the glass-walled hangar bridge, Kiroda and one of
Vigilant’
s subcommanders watched a set of telltales, prepared to seal the hangar deck if a Scotar trace showed. With all boats in and the scan negative, they activated the shield and went down to help.

Admiral Laguan and McShane found Lawrona, Detrelna and the Terrans sitting hollow-eyed on the deck, drained, their gear scattered around them. Laguan started to speak, then stopped. Turning to his aide, resplendent in braided dress uniform, he said tersely, “Anything they want, get it.” He walked away, the spring gone from his step.

Bob bent, kissed John and Zahava, then left without a word, following the long line of medcarts into the heart of
Implacable.

P
resident Martin appeared on prime-time TV a week after the lunar battle, his address preceded by wild speculation—speculation fueled by rumors of clandestine military operations along the New England coast. Rumors that President MacDonald and CIA Director Tuckman hadn’t been killed when Air Force One crashed into the Atlantic. Rumors of a military alert suddenly called at a time of international calm. And rumors of strange radar reports, leaking through the suddenly tightened security nets of a dozen nations.

Martin’s delivery of the facts about POCSYM, the Kronarins and the Biofab War was made in his usual crisp, dry Iowan tones—he might have been speaking on monetary reform.

The jaded Washington press corps, already inconvenienced by the President’s choice of the Capitol’s West Portico for his news conference, were further miffed by the difficulty in getting there—the Mall and all adjacent streets had been closed without explanation, creating an unmoving Friday evening gridlock. Many of the reporters had to trot, walk or waddle from their gridlocked cars.

Tired, sweaty and miffed, and unhappy to be outside on a windy day, at first they weren’t sure of what they were hearing. By the time Martin had finished, though, everyone knew he’d cracked, latest victim to the pressures of high office.

“Poor SOB,” whispered
The
New York Times
to Reuters in the embarrassed silence. “Nixon was content to chat with his predecessors’ portraits.”

Reuters said nothing, instead turning
The
New York Times
around with a hand to her shoulder, pointing at the great bulk of
Vigilant
as she silently came in over the Tidal Basin, blotting out the night sky, US fighter jets escorting her. Hovering over the Mall, she filled it from Monument to Capitol, instrument pods, weapons blisters and observation bubbles a blaze of light, red, green and white navigation lights flashing down her length.

It was, after the shock subsided, the biggest party Earth had ever seen. Wherever the Kronarins landed—and they landed only by invitation—the formal reception quickly became a street festival lasting days. When it finally ended and the exhausted guests had returned to their ships and found their beds, life went on much as before. But with the expectation that things would soon be changing.

The hundreds of Treaty signators pledged their nations’ help against the presumptive AI invasion and concluding the Biofab War. The Kronarins, in return, promised technical aid, colonization rights throughout the galaxy and the option of Terran application for Confederation membership. This last would bring with it the star drive, the caveat being that application had to be a unanimous one from all sovereign Earth states. And there was still one holdout.

The fat old man stood at his window, watching an angry red sunrise fire the gold capping Ivan the Great’s bell towers. The East is Red. He snorted, turning back to his desk with its heap of reports summarizing the huge demonstrations demanding Russia ratify the Treaty.

Sighing, he poured himself another shot of vodka, tossing it down with practiced ease. Leaning back in the creaky old armchair, big feet on the desk, he unbuttoned his shirt collar. Heavy with medals and ribbons, his uniform jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the ancient horsehair sofa. Lacing his fingers over his impressive gut, the old man looked the high white ceiling, ignoring the polite knock on his door. At the second, less tentative knock, he grunted, “Come.”

“Ah, Bakunin.” He sat up, taking in the other’s battledress and holstered pistol, and poured himself another shot. “Care for a drink, Andréyev Ivanovich? Or should I call you André as your Western friends do?”

Bakunin shook his head. “Sir, I have the unpleasant duty of placing you . . .” he began.

The old man waved the bottle at him. “Please, André, why the haste? You New Decembrists have always been a slow and careful group. Why not savor your victory, even though it came from above?” He cast his eyes heavenward.

Bakunin couldn’t hide his surprise. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew.” He took another shot, finishing the bottle. “I played this game a long time. So, I’m under arrest for obstructing the Treaty?” he asked with a wisp of a smile.

“You’re under arrest for corruption, sir.”

He shrugged. “A few weeks ago, it was called business. I’d be interested in your analysis of how we came to this moment, and the part your most recent assignment played in it. Did the Biofab War do this to us?” His hand swept over the reports.

Bakunin shifted his weight uneasily. “It served as a catalyst for much that would eventually have happened. Our refusal to ratify the Treaty would have denied Earth Kronarin technical aid. It was intolerable to all but those of you with a well-financed interest in keeping the status quo. Our neighbors were growing belligerent, ready to force your hand. But instead it forced the Kronarins’ hand. They hinted they’d let the Treaty proceed without Russia as long as the rest of the world ensured we never benefit from it. We’d be embargoed.”

“We’ve been embargoed before,” said the President dismissively.

“Not by everyone, backed by the resources of an interstellar civilization. We’d have lost three hundred years, again the primitives of Europe—of the world this time. Russia would’ve ceased to exist as a state, swept under a tsunami on the floodplain of history. We’d be remembered as a very stupid people.”

“That would be wounding,” sighed the President. “Someday they’ll thank me, you know.”

“How so, sir?”

“By not ratifying that treaty, I forced fifty years of social evolution upon us in but a few weeks.”

“A very self-serving perception, Mr. President.”

“Isn’t it though?” he chuckled. “Remember the technique when you own time comes. Shall we go?”

“I don’t believe it.” With exaggerated care, John dazedly set the phone on the patio table.

Zahava looked up from her coffee, concerned.

“That was our agent,” he said slowly. “The book . . .”

“Not more changes!” she cried.

Returning from
Vigilant,
John, Zahava and Bob had worked day and night for on their book,
First Contact.
It was all there, from their first meeting with Bill to the final battle. John had air-expressed it to New York last Friday and never been far from the phone since.

Before he could reply, McShane, Bill Sutherland and a third man came onto the patio.

“Look who dropped in!” boomed McShane.

“André!” They rose to greet the Russian.