The Biofab War (25 page)

“Captain my Lord Lawrona,” said Detrelna, voice flat and hard, “you will holster your weapon, sir.”

“As the commodore orders.” Lawrona slid his blaster back into its holster, then clasped his hands behind his back, expressionless.

“If this isn’t convincing,” said Detrelna, “you’re dead.”

Guan-Sharick shrugged. “During the war,” it began, gaze shifting between the two men, “we found an Imperial device in this system that could access alternative realities.”

Detrelna mumbled something. The other two looked at him. He shook his head. Nothing. “Continue.”

“Gaining a crude understanding of this machine, we used it to establish a base on an alternate Terra—Terra Two, we called it. This covert base was to continue research into the use of the device and serve as a fallback for us in the remote chance that we lost the war.” The blonde smiled wryly—an engaging smile. Detrelna marveled as always at the transmute’s flawless mimicry of its dead victim’s mannerisms. “As this base was not part of the war, we placed it in charge of a troublesome Tactics Master.”

“Tactics Master?” said Detrelna.

“Ten years you fought us, Commodore,” said Guan-Sharick, surprised, “and you don’t know what a Tactics Master is?”

“Your command structure was mostly a mystery. Whenever we captured one of you, you’d blow up. Hard to interrogate deck scrapings.”

“A Tactics Master is—was—roughly the equivalent of a second admiral—the senior-most in-system commander.”

“Leader of a heavy task force,” said Lawrona.

Guan-Sharick nodded. “Shalan-Actal distinguished himself early in the war. It was he who planned and executed the assault on your home world of Utria, Margrave.”

Lawrona’s face was graven in stone.

“He was a zealot, though,” continued the Scotar. “As the war dragged on, we saw the need to conserve resources. Shalan did not. He’d rather torch a planet than capture it, shoot humans rather than use them as labor, burn cities in reaction to minimal guerrilla activity, rather than convert their industrial plant to our war effort. He grew more erratic and finally was relieved, sent into what we thought was a harmless exile.”

“Terra Two,” said Detrelna.

“Terra Two,” said Guan-Sharick. “There he conducted unauthorized experiments with the device. During one such experiment he contacted entities in another parallel universe—entities with a similar device. It was like two opposite tunnels meeting.”

The blonde stood, pacing in between desk and sofa. “When you won the war, Shalan formed an alliance with these entities. They’re silicon-based life forms—machines of beings long-dead. They’re now on Terra Two, a small force of them, trying to reestablish the connection between that world and their own universe. When they do that, they’ll come pouring through their portal, take Terra Two and then Terra One.”

“How do you know that?” said Lawrona.

The Scotar faced Lawrona. “I was there. I heard, I saw. And I escaped, Margrave. Even now Shalan’s transmutes are hunting me.”

“Where’s their portal on Terra?” asked Detrelna.

“No.” The Scotar shook its head. “You might do something rash. If you attack that portal, you’ll spark a counterattack—one you may not stop with two ships.”

“Of course we’d stop it,” said Lawrona. “You’ve said the machines are few. And how many bugs could this Shalan have been allowed in his exile?”

“Few, but they’re breeding up to strength. Fast, using an untested growth accelerant.”

“Assuming this is true,” said Detrelna, “what do you want us to do?”

“Engineer Natrol requests permission to lower the shield for periodic maintenance,” reported Kiroda,
Implacable
’s third officer.

Detrelna sighed. “What did Natrol really say, Tolei?”

“He said, sir, ‘Tell Fatty and the Fop to let me fix the number eight shield generator or we’ll be eating meteors next watch.’”

“Understood,” said Detrelna. “Thank you, Tolei. I’ll advise Natrol directly.” He turned to Lawrona. “What do you think?”

“It has to be fixed,” said the captain. He looked at the blonde. “As long as slime here doesn’t flick an assault force on board.”

“I could do that very easily,” said Guan-Sharick. “You’re well within teleport range of the Terran surface. But I’ve no force left. If Shalan knew I was here, though, he’d try for me.”

“Does Shalan know?” asked Lawrona.

“I don’t know.”

Commodore and captain exchanged glances. “Let’s do it,” said Lawrona.

Detrelna nodded curtly. “Agreed.” He spoke into the commlink. “Chief Engineer.”

“Engineering. Natrol,” said a surly voice.

“Natrol. Fatty here. Fop and I agree that you may lower the shield.”

“About time.”

“Natrol, hard as it is to believe, there are other considerations than the care and feeding of your . . .”

The commlink telltale winked out.

“Well!” said Detrelna. “He’s getting worse, Hanar.”

“Why do you tolerate him?” asked the Scotar.

“The same reason you did your Shalan-Actal—he’s very competent,” said Lawrona.

“Natrol’s the finest engineer in Fleet,” said Detrelna. “He resents having been drafted from a very lucrative job.”

“He resents all humans,” said Lawrona. “He should have been a Scotar.” He touched his communicator. “Bridge. Captain. Shield’s going down for repair. Go to high alert, coordinate with Engineering on outage.”

“All sections, high alert.” Kiroda’s voice echoed through the great old ship. “High alert. Shield is going down for repair. Shield will be down. All sections to high alert. All sections acknowledge.”

“You won’t give us the portal location,” said Detrelna as the alert call ended. “What proof can you offer?”

A small white cylinder appeared in the blonde’s hand. “Everything is on this commwand. But all I need”—the Scotar smiled ruefully—“all we need, is one man. One special Terran who can stop Shalan-Actal. A man who’d never work for me, Commodore—but he’d work for you.”

“The shield is down,” announced the bridge. “The shield is down.”

Guan-Sharick rose, extending the commwand.

As Detrelna stepped around the desk, a transmute flicked into existence beside him, firing at Guan-Sharick. The blonde vanished. The blue bolts tore through the sofa, exploding against the bulkhead.

Lawrona drew and fired, two quick, red bolts as the battle klaxon sounded and Detrelna threw himself to the floor.

“All secure, Jaquel,” Lawrona called over the klaxon. The transmute lay dead on the floor, an arm’s length from the commodore, viscous green blood oozing from a hole in its thorax, staining the maroon carpeting.

Detrelna stood, pulling himself up by the desktop, the commwand in his other hand.

The door hissed open. Lawrona whirled, blaster ready. A reaction squad of black-uniformed commandos surged in, commando Lieutenant Satil leading. Captain and commandos faced each other over the dead Scotar, weapons leveled.

“Captain to Flanking Councilor Four,” said Satil.

“Concede,” said Lawrona, lowering his weapon.

“Sir.” Satil saluted, M11A to her chest. If Lawrona had given an actual game move she’d have killed him.

“Clean this up, Lieutenant,” said Lawrona. He spoke briefly with the bridge, then turned to Detrelna. “Just that one,” he said, as two commandos dragged the biofab’s body out. “The rest of the ship’s clean. Where do you think our visitor went?”

“To safety.” Back in his chair, Detrelna poured another drink for himself. “Join me, Hanar.” He indicated the captain’s almost untouched glass.

As Lawrona sat on the armchair, blaster in hand, Detrelna slipped the commwand into the desktop reader. “Computer,” he said, “Scan, read aloud and file contents to main memory, command access only.”

They listened for the rest of the watch, Detrelna making an occasional note. When it ended, the shield was back up and the brandy half gone.

“So,” said Detrelna, setting down his pen, “if this is all true, we need Harrison.”

“If it’s true,” said Lawrona, “yes.”

“We’ll have to brief the Terrans,” said Detrelna.

“And our ambassador?”

“After the Terrans,” said Detrelna firmly.

“He’ll scream,” said Lawrona.

“Let him. Security of the Confederation—military priority.”

“Communications,” said the commodore into the commlink, “get me the American Central Intelligence Director, Bill Sutherland.” He glanced at the time readout, doing a quick conversion. “He’s probably at home, asleep. Get him up. Tell him we’ve one last world to win.”

“H
ear from Zahava?” asked McShane, helping himself to another cup of John’s coffee.

“Early yesterday.” Using a fork, he slid the waffles from the little electric oven onto the two plastic microwave plates. “There’s a seven-hour time difference between here and Israel.”

“How’s her sister doing?”

“Better. Cardiac’s a tricky thing, though. Syrup?” he asked, putting a plate in front of McShane.

They faced each other across the breakfast bar; McShane stolid, white-bearded, with red suspenders stretching from the top of his corduroys over his blue flannel shirt; John, thirty years his junior, in faded jeans and a read cardigan.

“No, thank you. No waffle, either.” He pushed the food back, thumb and forefinger to the plate edge. “TV-dinner plates, pop-up breakfasts. You’re living on this swill?”

“Not worth cooking for one,” said John, squeezing a layer of cold syrup across the waffle. The sunlight flooding the kitchen lent the topping the look of thick, yellowed varnish.

“When’s she coming home?” asked McShane, adding milk to his coffee.

“It could be a few months. Natie’s got two kids and there’s no one else to help.”

“What brings you to the Hill so early in the day, Bob?”

“Checkup.” He tapped his chest. “Iron-poor blood or something. I’m not twenty-nine anymore, but I shouldn’t need a four-hour nap every afternoon.”

The phone rang. John reached out, taking the receiver from the wall. He listened for a few seconds, then hung up.

“Wrong number?” asked Bob, sipping his coffee.

John shook his head. “My former employer, I think.”

“You think?”

“A voice I’ve never heard hit me with a hot-shit authenticator and the words ‘Gather at the river. Thirty minutes.’”

“What, the Potomac?”

“Yes. I know where—it’s a stretch along the canal in Georgetown.”

“When I was a boy,” said McShane, “back in the Pleistocene, kids used to run off to join the circus. Your crowd ran off to join the CIA.” He set his cup down. “Are you driving?”

“No.” John rose, taking the dishes to the sink. “Car’s in the shop for a brake job.”

“I can drop you at Foggy Bottom.” He tucked in the bar stool. “Wear your mitties—it’s cold out there.”

“You need a what?” Harrison stared at Sutherland.

“A hero,” said the CIA Director. “We need a hero.”

“A hero’s a sandwich, Bill.” He watched as a sudden gust sent a yellow-red cloud of maple leaves swirling into the canal. “Or a word in a eulogy.”

A chill October wind had driven all but the hardiest joggers from the towpath. More would venture out later, after work, but for now the two men had the Georgetown riverfront to themselves.

“Guan-Sharick can get you there,” said Sutherland, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his camel-hair topcoat. “You have to get yourself back.”

“By taking the other end of this Shalan’s portal?”

“Yes.”

“Why me? Why not a transmute?” As they walked, he turned the collar of his parka against the wind. “Our old buddy Guan-Sharick could just rip out some poor bastard’s mind, imitate him, turn this resistance movement against Shalan-Actal and his base.” Stooping, he picked up a flat stone. “Find another hero, Bill. I’ve retired.” He skimmed the weathered shale across the brackish canal surface, one-two-three. It sank mid-channel.

“There’s no one else,” said Sutherland. “And Guan-Sharick can’t steal a dead man’s mind.” He took the photo from his pocket. “Here’s who you’d be replacing.”

John stared at the snapshot. The man was in his mid-thirties, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, with a familiar ironic grin. He wore a jet-black dress uniform and high-peaked cap with gleaming visor. “Me,” said John. “Only not me.” He looked up. “My double on Terra Two?”

“Your dead double,” said the CIA Director, taking back the photo. “Major Harrison was killed in a motorcycle accident last week. Very T.E. Lawrence, but very bad timing. He’d just finished his doctoral dissertation at McGill and was to report to his new post in Boston.”

“Guan-Sharick was going to replace him?”

Sutherland nodded. “He saw the accident and disposed of the remains. Then he flicked through Shalan’s portal and appealed to Detrelna and Lawrona for help.”

“Now that I’d like to have seen,” smiled John. The smile faded. “So in another reality, I’m a corpse.” He pointed to the photo. “What’s that shroud he’s wearing?”

“Class-A uniform—CIA Counter Insurgency Brigade. Sort of a Yankee doodle Waffen SS, now fighting in Mexico.”

“Mexico?”

“But he’s been seconded to the Urban Command garrison in Boston as intelligence officer.” Sutherland laughed at Harrison’s expression. “You’re going to love Terra Two, John.”