The Biofab War (Biofab 1)

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Chapter 17

  A transparent blister atop the great ship, Revenge’s bridge was the size of Implacable’s hangar deck. Detrelna found its cavernous, many-tiered vastness even eerier than the still, dead corridors he’d just traversed taking McShane to the mindslaves.

  Only ten of Implacable’s crew could be spared to man the mindslaver and they were scattered, effectively swallowed within the gloom of the huge bridge.

  Despite having done it before, the captain took the command chair, center of the fifth and highest level, with great reluctance. T’Nil had sat in that chair, and S’Tar and Q’Nor—the legendary Emperors of the Second Dynasty, men whose sagas were forever part of the Empire’s rich tapestry. “You may lift ship, POCSYM,” he said quietly.

  After fifty centuries, T’Nil’s Revenge was space-borne again.

  “All systems except weapons are operational,” said Kiroda from the station beside the captain’s. “We don’t have the maneuverability we would with a full crew, but we can move.”

  “She doesn’t need to be anything but an orbital fort,” said Detrelna. “Is that Implacable?” he asked, looking up to his right. A silver ship made tiny by distance hung there.

  “Sure is,” confirmed the young officer. “I’d know that old hulk anywhere.” His eyes returned to his console. It was a marvel, infinitely more sophisticated than anything aboard Implacable.

  “Speak with respect, sir,” said Detrelna softly, still looking up. “She’s the best ever made without brainstrip technology. She’s fast and she’s clean—unlike this wondrous horror.” He dropped his gaze, gesturing about the shadowy bridge.

  The two men retreated into silence.

  It only seems a long time, Detrelna reassured himself, watching the Scotar fleet on his screen. It really hadn’t been that long since the assault team left—untrained friends sent against the mother ship of a cruel and crafty foe. Nor that long since he’d sent McShane alone into that metallic shaft of a room, an old man pitted against millennia of intelligent, festering malevolence.

  It has been a long time, fat man, sneered a voice deep within him. Too long. They’re dead and you’ve lost. You should have run while you could, but no, the hero of T’Qar doesn’t run. He—As he squelched the voice, everything broke.

  “Nasqa party returned. Mission accomplished,” reported an elated Lawrona from Implacable.

  A dot in the center of the enemy fleet projection winked out. A new and distant sun flared briefly in the direction of the now-scattering Scotar. “Nasqa has self-destructed,” reported Lawrona.

  “Hang on to your chinstraps up there,” said a tired voice on the commnet—McShane’s voice.

  “We’ve lost the helm, Captain.” Alarmed, Kiroda pressed a series of unresponsive controls.

  “Shield’s up,” called a familiar voice. “Weapons systems arming.”

  “What’s the effective range of an Imperial mindslaver, Mr. Kiroda?” asked the captain, unperturbed.

  “No idea, sir.” The Tactics Officer gave up on the console, turning to face Detrelna. “The Annals tiptoe around a lot of this.”

  “I think we’re about to find out.” He looked up at the waves of sleek deadly missiles pouring away from them.

  You must help us. The sibilant whisper came again into Bob’s mind. But it’s never really left, he thought tiredly.

  How?

  Join your mind with ours. The enemy is many. Only with your help can we prevail.

  Hesitantly, Bob sent out a tentative tendril of thought.

  Something dark and strong coiled around it, pulling the rest of him into a swirling vortex of white-hot hate. Before he could feel more than a twinge of terror, the vortex coalesced into a surging river of incandescence. The river became thousands of raging streams, each pushing a small, cold point of light toward a larger one. Bob was one with the streams. A lifetime’s hostility sublimated to the dictates of civilization was being called forth.

  Seen from Revenge, the new suns lived just long enough to become a great fireball, then died. The mindslaves had kept their word.

  “Gods of our fathers!” exclaimed Lawrona from Implacable’s command chair as an ensign deactivated series after series of dead sensors. “What was in those warheads?” he asked over the commnet.

  “Maybe we could pry one open,” suggested Kiroda, looking out through Revenge’s again transparent dome. It had opaqued in instant response to the blinding light, clearing just as quickly once the danger passed.

  “Maybe we won’t,” grumbled Detrelna.

  “Did you track those missiles, Lawrona?” he asked. “The detectors here are still a mystery.”

  “We couldn’t, Captain. They vanished a few seconds after launch.”

  “Check your hyperspace scans.”

  “They went into hyperdrive!” came the startled response. “But hyper drives aren’t that small—why, even the Imperials—”

  Kiroda broke in excitedly. “The mindslaves! It must be! Somehow they can hurl weapons through hyperspace and drop them on target. But those detonations? What’s in those warheads?”

  “Minute quantities of matter/antimatter, held in stasis.” POCSYM spoke for the first time in hours. “The stasis field is released when the weapons arrive on target. You’ve just seen the result.”

  A low, keening moan interrupted them.

  The captain rose. “Professor, can you hear me?” he called anxiously.

  Another moan was the only response.

  “Kiroda, you have the con. Medtech Qinil with me.” Detrelna made for the door. A slight figure detached itself from a chair two tiers down, scrambling up an access ladder to join him, medkit strapped to his back.

  Bob broke free of the ebbing stream. Or was shoved from it, he could never remember. His next recollection was of something shining—the helmet?—lifting away from him. Then an all-consuming pain invaded his skull. “They’re eating my brain!” he cried, or so Detrelna later swore.

  Qinil was sure the captain would kill them, racing the hovercar around sharp corners at full speed, recklessly banking and swerving. They were at the mindslave chamber in minutes, Detrelna charging through the door and down the stairs to kneel over Bob. The Terran lay stretched out on the floor, ominously still, his breathing shallow. He opened his eyes, blinking weakly as Qinil examined him. “Captain,” he managed to croak. “Captain. The mindslaves . . . you must kill them. My word . . . agreed to help us . . . them die.”

  Detrelna blinked and avoided the injured man’s piercing gaze. “Well?” he asked as Qinil administered a hypo.

  “Shock, fever, exhaustion. I’ve given him a sedative. He’ll need lots of rest, but barring complications he should be fine.”

  “Captain,” Bob whispered hoarsely. Seizing Detrelna’s tunic with both hands, he pulled the Kronarin’s face to within inches of his own. “Your word!”

  “I can’t!” cried the officer, pulling away. He stood, his face set. “You did a great and wondrous thing, my friend. But you exceeded your authority with that promise. And mine. Without those brainstrips, Revenge is just another toothless relic. And we may yet need her.”

  “If you could only have felt their anguish—and the terrible catharsis that’s their only pleasure, Jaquel,” said Bob, rallying voice and mind for a final plea. “They desire only oblivion—deserve it as a mercy.”

  “You’re suggesting, Bob,” came the gentle rejoinder, “that we can only save those brainstrips—legally centuries dead, their names forgotten—we can only save these dead things by killing them.”

  He bent down and lifted one of McShane’s arms. “Help me get him to sick bay, Qinil. He’s delirious.”