The Biofab War bw-1

by Stephen Ames Berry

  The S'Cotar made a spirited stand. But though a match for the K'Ronarins in numbers, weapons and discipline, they had no warsuits. Their forward ranks blasted away by the troopers, their flank harried by the two men flitting in and out of the smoke, the warriors were soon compressed into a small, ragged square. A final volley of grenade and blaster fire finished them.

  Gasping, their eyes bloodshot, D'Trelna and Harrison were given a boisterous reception by the attack force.

  John was glad to trade the metallic air of the warsuit D'Nir brought him for the corridor's stench: burning machine and burnt flesh, both biofab and human. It'd been steadily tugging at his stomach.

  A slight, wiry figure ran from the last subsection to arrive, throwing her arms around John, an embrace made cumbersome by rifle and helmet.

  "You're all right?" they both asked at once, then burst into laughter.

  "Andre and I are," the woman lied, trying to hide her arm. "But Bill's badly wounded. He's been medivaced to Vigilant."

  "You are hurt!" Gently, John tugged Zahava's arm into sight from behind her back. "Why didn't you go back with the wounded?" he demanded angrily. "Ever the hero!"

  "I'm a soldier!" the Israeli retorted, just as angry. "Don't think that just because you're a man…"

  A few yards away, another heated exchange was taking place.

  "You're on a fool's errand, H'Nar," said D'Trelna, wearily pulling a warsuit on over his begrimed uniform. "POCSYM can't destroy the S'Cotar. The damage is too extensive. Once again, biofabs have bested their maker."

  L'Wrona's joy at finding his friend alive was replaced by anger.

  "I left a trail of ashes getting here, J'Quel. The ashes of good men-boys, most of them. And now you're telling me they died for nothing!*." He snapped the last word, glaring.

  POCSYM's voice filled the air, ending the conversation. "The fault is mine. I underestimated the S'Cotar capacity for innovation and foresight. I have created a Frankenstein's monster, Mr. Harrison, Miss Tal, Colonel. A R'Actol Plague, Captain, Commander. Unlike those constructs' creators, though, I will accept the consequences of my actions.

  "Reactors are now running to critical. You have ninety minutes to retrace your steps."

  D'Trelna and L'Wrona exchanged alarmed looks. "Can we do it?" asked the Captain.

  "Very little margin for error. Certainly not enough to live on, J'Quel." He managed a humorless smile, shrugging his shoulders. "Hell, we're not going to sit here praying.

  "Prepare to move out! Section leaders, pick up your wounded. We're leaving on the double."

  "POCSYM," John said as the troopers reassembled. "Are you a mindslaver?"

  "Yes." The cool reply came over the tactical band. "I gather you found a cadaver room."

  A cadaver room. "Yes. But you gave yourself away much earlier, when you first showed us Revenge. You laughed. K'Raoda told me that not even the Empire could program humor into its machines. Humor isn't logical."

  "I'm afraid it was the young Subcommander's prattling about 'truth' that brought out the professor in me, Mr. Harrison. Several professors, actually." The ultimate mindslaver paused.

  "But all of my original brainpods were filled by volunteers-dedicated men of vision who conceived this entire scenario. Men who truly had the courage of their convictions."

  "No doubt they did," said John. "Fanaticism isn't a Terran invention." The entire assault force was listening to their exchange, even as the men prepared to move out. "But how long did those original brains last? A thousand years? Surely no more.

  "You're not just a Weapons system, as were the mindslaves aboard Revenge. You're a Planetary Operations Command System. Constant use would wear out many of your components, wouldn't it? Where did the replacements come from, POCSYM? Did you have the S'Cotar snatch Terrans? Did you later use K'Ronarin captives?

  "How many through the centuries, POCSYM? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands?"

  "A modest number, Mr. Harrison, when weighed against my mission: the preservation of humanity."

  "A humanity you were prepared to sacrifice in order to save,

  POCSYM."

  "My actions were necessary to ensure the survival-"

  "Your actions were a five-thousand-year-old megalomania, inspired by men who believed themselves omniscient. Through you, they strove for omnipotence and immortality.

  "You don't know if the human race, left to its own devices, wouldn't have stood off this alleged intergalactic menace. You merely assumed it wouldn't. And based on that assumption, you unleashed a horror upon your own people-a horror that almost destroyed them.

  "Spare me your hollow piety, POCSYM. You're just an ancient malignancy left to fester in the body of galactic humanity."

  L'Wrona led the column out, the wounded tucked into the formation's center. "Now we run the gauntlet," Bakunin commented, trotting behind John and Zahava.

  It was one long, running battle. The biofab reinforcements had come up, filling every side corridor with warriors. Racing past each intersection, the humans were raked with blaster fire from hand weapons, shoulder arms and semis. Grenades rained down on them.

  There was no time to clean out the S'Cotar ambushcades, not enough troopers left had there been time. Warsuit failures soared, casualties rose, suicide charges slowed the withdrawal.

  The shrill of blasters self-destructing became a continuous, unnerving whine.

  ****

  Gaun-Sharick stood before the Council of the Magnificent, the only five S'Cotar who equaled him in age and rank. Evacuation klaxons sounded from outside the chamber.

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

  Not before POCSYM blows us up. There was a tinge of anxiety to Gaun-Sharick's thought.

  Tuan-Lagark's antennae wove an acceptance-resolution pattern. You are the last hope of our race, Gaun-Sharick. Allow the humans to escape. Go with them, biding your time till you can call forth our deep-hoarded strength.

  You can deceive their instruments? asked another Councilor.

  Easily, Luan-Ortar. I march with their men, sleep with their women and they know me not. He touched the medallion about his throat. Wearing this, I am safe.

  Go then. Revenge us and restore the Race.

  He bowed low and was gone.

  ****

  L'Wrona moved up and down the column, ordering, pleading, cajoling.

  "Close up.

  "Watch your flank, there.

  "Section Leader U'Trna, send two squads to reinforce the rear guard.

  "Sergeant, help that trooper, he's hit.

  "That man's dead. Cycle his blaster.

  "Come on! Come on! Pick up the pace!

  "You're not tired. Commandos never tire."

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

  "Sixty minutes to destruct.

  "Forty-five minutes to destruct."

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

  "What's that?" L'Wrona 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 Ai'da, Commander, the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers who die entombed together. You'll never know how singularly apt it is for my funeral."

  The point squad reached the lift. "I'm in contact with G Section, Subcommander V'Arta," the squad leader-D'Nir- reported. "They're under heavy attack."

  Jogging into sight of the lift, L'Wrona was finally able to raise V'Arta. "What's your status, N'Trol? Topside secure?"

  The whine of massed energy weapons filled L'Wrona's ears as V'Arta reported.

  "For now, H'Nar. But you'd better get up here fast. Most of us are dead."

  "E and G Sections, into the lift," the Commander ordered. Pointing to three familiar figures, he added, "You stay here until we've secured ground level."

  Harrison and Zahava supported
a third, limping form between them. "I'm going with you, H'Nar," said John. "But 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 the calf muscle was gone. "Anna?" he murmured, drowsy from the narcotics, as a burly sergeant took John's place.

  "Ten minutes to destruct," said POCSYM as the elevator rose.

  "I regret I can't dispose of all the biofabs for you," it continued. "You'll have to clean their remnants 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 some years.

  "I am now transmitting the locations and defense specs of all biofab secondary bases to your flagship, Commander."

  The lift opened on C Section, dying in an ocean of biofabs.

  "C Section, drop!"

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

  "Shoot!"

  To John, firing from the third and standing rank, their volley seemed a great river of red flame smothering the packed bodies fused into a charred wall around C Section's few survivors.

  "Secure the area," ordered L'Wrona, sending the lift back down. "V'Arta?" he called, looking about.

  "Dead," said a badly wounded corporal as a medic reached him.

  "Seven minutes, Commander, max," warned POCSYM as the lift disgorged two more sections. "Stability's decreasing. It could actually go anytime."

  L'Wrona seemed not to hear.

  "Vigilant to ground force," came the Admiral's voice over the commnet. "Advise status."

  L'Wrona said nothing. He stood unmoving, looking at the chamel house that had been C Section.

  "Sir?" said a commtech, touching the Commander's arm.

  L'Wrona shook his head. "Ground force," he said dully.

  "That you, D'Trelna?"

  "No, sir, L'Wrona. The Captain joined us but insisted on commanding the rear guard. He should be here at ground level in a few moments. Sir," he continued, some vitality coming back into his voice, "it's imperative that the boats be brought into the canyon adjacent to the Citadel entrance. We-"

  "There and waiting, Commander. POCSYM's been sharing the countdown with us. Get your command out of there."

  The third and final load of troopers came off the lift, D'Trelna at their head. "I heard that," he said. "Come on, H'Nar, let's get the wounded and run! We've got-"

  "Five minutes to destruct," POCSYM intoned.

  "To the boats!" shouted L'Wrona, waving toward the blasted gate.

  John ran for his life, staggering under the weight of the half-dead commando over his shoulder, lungs bursting, pain shooting up his legs. With agonizing slowness, the black circle that was the tunnel's end grew larger, framing the heads of those in front of him. The black of space drew him, moving him on despite the searing pain filling his chest. The black was freedom: freedom from the Citadel's G-generators, from the S'Cotar, from the ancient 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 D’Trelna, as what was left of the raiders scrambled into the landing craft.

  They were fifty miles up and banking sharply when a hole miles wide was punched through the lunar rock, sending dust, atomized metal and S'Cotar into space.

  Orderly chaos ruled Vigilant's Hangar Deck. Crash crews and fireguards raced to the boats, ready if the explosion had torn up the craft. Medics in hovering medcarts rushed in behind them, quickly moving out the wounded.

  High on the glass-walled hangar bridge, K'Raoda and one of Vigilant's subcommanders watched a set of telltales, prepared to seal the Hangar Deck, wounded or no, if a S'Cotar trace showed.

  With all boats in and the scan negative, they went down to help.

  L'Guan and McShane found L'Wrona, D’Trelna and the Terrans sitting hollow-eyed on the deck, drained, their gear scattered around them.

  L'Guan started to speak, then stopped. Turning to his aide, resplendent in braided dress uniform, he said tersely, "Anything they want, get it.'' Slowly he walked away, the spring gone from his step.

  No one seemed to notice as Bob bent over, kissed John and Zahava, then left without a word, following the long line of medcarts into the heart of the ship.

  Stephen Ames Berry

  The Biofab War

  Chapter 23

  President Martin had appeared on prime-time TV a week after the lunar battle, an address preceded by the wildest 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 sea. Rumors of a secret Red Alert called at a time of abnormal 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 K'Ronarins and the Biofab War was made in his usual crisp, dry lowan tone; he might have been lecturing on torts. -

  The pampered 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 the final mile from their stalled, overheated cars.

  Tired, sweaty, at first they weren't sure 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 s.o.b.," whispered the New York Times to Reuters in the embarrassed silence following the statement. 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 came in over the Tidal Basin, blotting out the night sky.

  Silently hovering over the Mall, she filled it from Monument to Capitol, every instrument pod, weapons blister and observation bubble a blaze of light.

  It was the biggest party Earth had ever seen. Wherever the K'Ronarin landed-and they landed only by invitation-the formal reception quickly became a street festival lasting days. When it finally ended and the guests had gone back to their ships, life went on much as before. But with the expectation that things would soon be changing.

  They would.

  The hundreds of Treaty signators pledged their nations' help against the presumptive Enemy. The K'Ronarins, 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 stardrive, the catch 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 detailing the dissolution of the Warsaw Bloc, the ongoing disintegration of the Soviet Empire.

  Sighing, he poured himself another shot of vodka, tossing it down with practiced indifference. 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 again counted the cracks in 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 without comment the other's battledress and assault rifle, then poured himself another shot. "Care for a drink, Andreyev Ivanovich? Or should I call you Andre, as your Western friends do?"

  Silent and grim, Bakunin shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Sir, I have the unpleasant duty of placing you-" he began formally.


  The old man waved the bottle at him. "Please, Andre, why the haste? You New Decembrists have always been a slow and careful group. Why not savor your victory?"

  Bakunin couldn't hide his surprise. "You knew?"

  "Of course we knew." He took another shot, finishing the bottle. "Not enough and too late. But we knew. Don't forget, we played this game a long time." The nearby chatter of automatic weapons briefly turned their heads.

  "I was seven when Lenin and Trotsky took the Winter Palace, Andre. Never thought I'd outlive the Revolution." More intense, the gunfire drew nearer.

  "Perhaps, sir, the Revolution has outlived itself," said Bakunin with a wisp of a smile.

  The head of KGB's Second Chief Directorate gathered himself in, sitting up at his desk. "I'd be interested in your analysis of how we came to this moment, and the part your most recent assignment had 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.

  ''The Presidium's refusal to ratify the Treaty cut us off from K'Ronarin technical aid. We'd have been thrown back three hundred years, the primitives of Europe-of the world this time."

  Z'Sha, the courtly K'Ronarin Ambassador, had taken the UN Security Council veto graciously, going on to sign separate treaties with every member nation of the General Assembly save one.

  "All it took was a spark, once the word got out. Poland flared up over food-nothing new. In a week, though, Hungary, East Germany and Czechoslovakia had risen, Yugoslavia had seceded. We were in the midst of the Third Revolution. In two weeks, Georgia led the Autonomous Republics in revolt. All the armies in the world couldn't have stopped it. Ours mostly disintegrated, caught by a tidal wave on the floodplain of history."

  "And had we ratified the Treaty, Andre? Would that have saved us?"

  "Ratifying the Treaty would only have postponed it, sir.

  Not ratifying it compressed fifty years of social evolution into a single month."