The Biofab War (8 page)

Before the Terrans could speak, the captain was gone and Lawrona was ushering them down the corridor.

D
etrelna was sure he’d just closed his eyes when Kiroda signaled. “Captain, we’re orbiting the third planet.”

Groaning, he rolled over and pressed the commlink. “It’s called Terra. Put us in orbit over our guests’ point of origin and ask them to the bridge. I’ll be right there. And wake Lawrona up,” he added, rolling to his feet.

“But sir, he just went to his cabin.”

“He’s young, he’s thin—he doesn’t need much sleep.”

“We’ll set you down with the landing party,” said Detrelna to the Terrans a few moments later. The bags under their eyes told of sleeplessness. In their boots, I’d be sleepless, too, he thought. “I’d appreciate your showing Subcommander Kiroda the site and acting as liaison when local authorities arrive.”

“You anticipate detection?” asked John.

The captain nodded. “
Implacable’s
shielded, but the shuttle’s not. It will knife past your air defenses before an interceptor can launch. But its landing point will be quickly found.” He chuckled. “I’d like to be in your defense headquarters for the next few hours. Good luck. Kiroda, if you need—”

He was interrupted by a cry of “Enemy contact!”

“Report,” ordered Detrelna, whirling to face Lawrona.

“Three vessels,” the first officer said, slender fingers playing over his console, eyes scanning the readout. “Just came out of hyperdrive almost where we did. At present course and speed, about five hours to contact.”

“Identification?” asked the captain, sinking into the command chair.

“Three heavy cruisers of the new
Berserker
class.”

Detrelna ignored Kiroda’s astonished whistle.

“They’ll have detected us,” said Lawrona, turning from the tacscan.

“We can’t outfight three heavy cruisers, Captain,” Kiroda said, walking toward his station. He left four very worried Terrans standing by the door. “Shall we prepare for hyperspace?”

“You run, Captain,” said John, grim-faced, “and you’ll leave four billion defenseless humans . . .”

Detrelna jabbed a blunt finger at the angry Terran. “Don’t tell me my duty, sir!” he snapped. “I commanded
Dauntless
at Taqar—a relic against a Scotar flotilla. I lost two hundred fine people, but we bought time for an evacuation convoy. You are, however, correct,” he said, temper ebbing. “We can’t run. Not without knowing if those ancient, hypothetical defenses would protect you from a very real enemy. We stand.”

“Captain, three heavy cruisers?” Lawrona said, quietly seconding Kiroda’s protest.

“We will fight and we will win, gentlemen,” said Detrelna with unfelt confidence. He turned to the Terrans. “As for you, please stay with the landing force until our return. They’ll need your help even more now. I can’t spare many people. Kiroda.” He fixed the young officer with a piercing gaze. “If you are in imminent danger of being overrun by a Scotar assault force, destroy as much of that installation as you can. You’re authorized to arm these and any other Terrans at your discretion.”

“Sir, the Non-Interference Directive?” said Kiroda.

“Waived—tactical necessity. You’ll be staying here for now?” he asked, turning to McShane. Better, though still a bit pale, the professor sat at the flag station.

He nodded. “I’d be of little use in a fight right at the moment.”

Accompanying the landing party to the restored Hangar Deck, Bob warmly embraced Zahava and Greg as they boarded the stubby-winged shuttle.

“You know what your chances are,” said John, lingering.

Bob nodded. “About as good as yours if those Scotar cruisers get through. Besides”—he grinned—”I’ll go out astride the deck of a starship, battling alien hordes. Beats the hell out of cancer.”

Minutes later as McShane followed his commando escort back to the bridge, the battle klaxon sounded.

The small ship settled with a quiet whoosh atop Goose Hill. Fighting back waves of nausea, John managed to croak, “Do you always pilot like that, Subcommander? Or only when you have guests?” He knew all of his bones were broken.

Seemingly untouched by the g-forces, the Kronarin officer bounded past his passengers to the airlock. Deftly fingering a control panel, he opened both doors. Fresh sea air wafted in. “If you’d seen the sensors,” he said as his squad fanned out, securing the perimeter, “you’d have dived, too. Your atmosphere’s a vast detector web. We’ve no shield to stop missiles—I’d rather outrun them before they’re fired.”

Plunging like a meteor through the stratosphere, they’d executed a series of punishing turns. Pressed deep into his padded chair by the brutal pressure, John had watched, gasping for air, as they’d plummeted through the clouds. Cobalt blue, the Atlantic rushed up, filling the overhead screen. Only at the last possible instant had a ribbon of dun-colored land appeared, curving out into the water. The shuttle’s gentle landing had belied its violent descent.

John staggered to his feet. “I thought these warsuits doubled as pressure suits?” he said accusatively. “I blacked out more than once.” He and Zahava helped an ashen-cheeked Greg to his feet.

“Without them, you’d be dead—we all would,” said Kiroda, turning in the airlock. “But they are better warsuits than pressure suits. Not even the Imperials could mutate so many physical laws with one construct. Come help us unload the cargo. You’ll feel better.”

They began moving supplies and equipment from the shuttle. Rubble still blocked the site’s top entrance, but there was no sign of Langston or his men.

Leaving two crewmen on guard, the small party worked quickly, carrying containers down to the hill’s shoulder and stacking it before the rock-choked doorway. They finished as the sun was slipping into the Atlantic, turning the calm sea a burnt-ochre.

“Now what?” asked Zahava, eyeing the rubble.

Kiroda sighed. “Give them the rifles, Danir.”

Nodding, the NCO walked to a rectangular box, sliding back the top. The rifles he handed the Terrans were a gray, dully burnished metal. Stock, trigger guard, safety catch—all looked the same as on any rifle the three had held before. Only the lack of a protruding magazine and the odd muzzle gave the weapons an alien look.

“This will probably get me court-martialed,” Kiroda said resignedly, picking up a rifle. His men stood behind him in a small knot, watching the lesson.

“This is a Confederation Fleet Commando Ion-Laser Rifle, Model-Thirty-Two—an M32. It’s a line-of-sight weapon, firing a stream of ions along a laser beam. The M32 has greater range and power than the M11A pistol.” He patted his holster. “It doesn’t require any gift of intellect to use one. Just point”—he aimed casually into the rubble—”and fire.” A boulder exploded with a bang, pierced by a thin red bolt. The blaster made a distinctive shrilling when fired.

“Adjust the beam so.” He twisted the muzzle, then fired again. The beam fanned wide, partially melting a boulder. “Please,” Kiroda implored, tossing his rifle to Danir, “keep the safety on. One more thing—recall that the Scotar can appear human. If your communicator”—he touched the pendant at his throat—”sounds like this . . .” A high-pitched whine made them wince. “. . . then there’s a Scotar within twenty yards. Shoot whomever you think you see without hesitation—your mother, your lover, your child—and you may live. Understood?”

His students nodded.

“Good.” He smiled. “Now for some target practice and how to change the chargpak. Help us blast through the rubble. I want to be safely inside by dark.”

The hungry red beams soon ate away the tons of rubble. With everyone helping, they made Kiroda’s deadline.

B
ill Sutherland smiled at the young blond-headed guard. “Do you know what a John Doe warrant is?” he asked, leaning on the big security desk.

The man shook his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was a stubborn set to his mouth.

“It’s issued by a federal judge who agrees with me that some of Leurre’s staff conspired to kill one of my men,” he continued easily. “We’re empowered to detain anyone we believe part of that conspiracy. You’re obstructing our investigation, which makes you an accessory after the fact and subject to arrest. Understand?”

“Yeah.” A corner of his mouth curled up—more grimace than smile.

“So why not cooperate? It’ll save FBI Special Agent Flannigan here”—he nodded to his right—“from having to haul you in.” Tall, thirtyish, black Irish good looks, Flannigan stood with Tuckman, Bakunin and Sutherland’s team in the deserted lobby of the Leurre Institute. The guard was the only other human being they’d seen since their arrival.

Sullenly answering Bill’s questions, he’d given nothing away. No, he didn’t know where Dr. Langston was. No, there was no one here today. Yes, the Institute was usually open on Friday. No, he would not look at their search warrant. They’d have to wait until he could locate someone in authority.

Bill’s soft persuasion seemed to work. “Okay”—the guard shrugged—“if you have to search, search. There’s nothing I can do. But there really isn’t anyone here. And I don’t know where the Director is.”

Sutherland turned to his men. “Okay, let’s begin. You all know where to go and what to look for. Remember, we don’t have to uncover the whole iceberg—the tip will do for now. Anything on Foxfire, Antonucchi’s murder, the Goose Hill site. By tonight we’ll have fifty men down here helping us. You’ve all got handsets.” He held up his own small handset. “If you find something, tell us. I’ll be here in the lobby with the DCI and Colonel Bakunin, in case any of the staff show up.”

“Why weren’t your people at Otis, Bill?” asked the Director as the agents boarded an elevator.

His deputy shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe Langston caught up with them—an unpleasant possibility. Or maybe they went back to the site.” His face brightened. “Of course, that’s just what they’d do! McShane would want to poke around in there before we sealed it off.”

Tuckman nodded. “Let’s finish the preliminaries here, then get to the site.” Turning to the guard, he asked, “How do we get to Goose Hill from here?”

“It’d be easier if I drew you a map.” The man opened a drawer as Tuckman turned back to Sutherland.

“This reminds me of an operation we ran in Vienna after the war,” he said. “We didn’t know . . .”

Impaled on a brilliant shaft of purest indigo, Tuckman stood for a surprised instant, then fell to the floor, his chest a charred smoking ruin. A high-pitched whine pierced the air. The guard turned his strange weapon on Sutherland, then slid from sight beneath the big teak desk, a faint pop heralding his disappearance.

Bakunin holstered his slim, silenced Italian automatic.

Dazed and pale, Sutherland closed Tuckman’s sightless eyes. Walking to the security station, he retrieved the strange long-barreled pistol from the desktop—then saw the guard’s body.

“Bakunin,” he croaked, gesturing. The Russian followed him behind the desk. They stood looking down at the dead six-foot insectoid: deep-green, bulbous-eyed, it faintly resembled a huge praying mantis, except for the tentacles tapering from its two upper limbs, the tentacles still twitching in death. A webbed belt hung with unfamiliar equipment girdled its thorax, viscous green liquid oozing from a neat hole between its eyes.

Standing there over the dead alien, the stench of Tuckman’s burnt flesh filling the room, the small, high moments of Bill Sutherland’s life touched his mind. The clapboard Indiana farmhouse, acres of white unfurled behind it on washday. Dad, Grandpa and the uncles playing around the cribbage board on Christmas Eve, sipping bourbon, the air heavy with blue cigar smoke. Lois’s encircling warmth that first time in the back of his old Chevy, under a full August moon, the air rich with the scent of wild roses. Inge’s startling blue eyes, that day in Berlin. Emmy-chan in the snow at Nikko, and much, much later, lying before their fireplace in McLean, the firelight dancing along her soft, golden skin. It all felt very fragile now.

“Bakunin,” he said softly, “I think we’ve found a little green gremlin.” Unnoticed, his hands shook.