The Biofab War (Biofab 1)

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Chapter 18

  “This man”—Admiral Laguan beamed, draping an affectionate arm about Detrelna’s broad shoulders—“once led me such a wild chase through an uncharted asteroid belt that I marvel to be alive.” Chuckling, he slipped his arm away to hook a drink from a passing steward.

  The Kronarin fleet had shown up eight days after the Scotar’s destruction. Standing well off Terra, its senior officers had flitted down—via POCSYM—to a series of meetings with the heads of all but one of Earth’s most powerful nations. Not quite ignoring its invitation, Russia had sent a freshly debriefed Andréyev Bakunin to the conference as an observer, a continuing status he now shared with the two Americans and the Israeli, also just returned from home.

  The meetings, held on a secluded ranch in the high desert of New Mexico, had been cordial, reinforcing the existing groundwork of mutual trust. The Kronarin Ambassador, once he arrived, would find the Terrans receptive to a mutual aid pact. (John thought “mutual” a sop to Earth’s collective ego.)

  Laguan was every inch the professional soldier-diplomat: tall, handsome, with silver-streaked hair and aquiline features. He stood resplendent in his bemedaled jet-black dress uniform, a gracious, charming host to the Terrans and Kronarins thronging Vigilant’s spacious reception hall.

  “You really couldn’t catch me?” asked Implacable’s skipper. “I thought you were toying with me!” Both burst into laughter.

  “Maneuvers?” asked John, sipping his drink.

  “Maneuvers? This old pirate? Ha!” the admiral laughed. “He was a smuggler, running—what was it that time, Jaquel, null-grav spices?”

  “No, sir. Surface-to-space missile parts for the colonists on Qatul Seven. As you’ll recall, Admiral, our myopic policy was to close our eyes and pretend that the Scotar would just go away.”

  “As you can see, we’ve had our differences. When the entire Confederation finally came around to Jaquel’s way of thinking, he came in one day and offered his services. It was because of his unusual background and subsequent record that I chose him to lead this expedition. You signed up when, Captain, nine years ago?” he asked, draining his glass. A crewman whisked it away.

  “Yes, sir. Just after the debacle of Utria Nine. And a difficult nine years it’s been, Admiral,” continued Detrelna. He reminded Zahava of a pugnacious bulldog that had once hung around her apartment building, terrifying the neighborhood kids.

  “Oh, I think we have them now, Captain,” said the senior officer, exuding a quiet confidence. “Or rather, they no longer have us, thanks to all of you.” His gaze swept the circle of his listeners: John, Zahava, Montanoya, Sutherland and Bakunin, the last of whom wore the dress uniform of an FSB colonel. “Our forces are already reoccupying planets they’ve pulled out of.”

  Sutherland, dressed in the Outfit’s uniform—two-piece designer suit, hand-finished white shirt, silk tie and Swiss cordovans—raised his glass, saluting Laguan. “I’d like to thank you, sir, for a grand reception, and for my being the first Terran to enjoy a Manhattan in Earth orbit.”

  The admiral gave a slight bow and added mischievously, “Actually, someone from your country’s diplomatic corps claimed that record over an hour ago.” He glanced about the room. “He seems to have gone off with one of the women of my bridge crew. Perhaps setting another new record.”

  Zahava, earlier unrecognized by Bill in a lavender Dior gown, turned to Montanoya. “How did you convince all these people to come, José?” she asked. Her long-stemmed crystal wineglass swept over the gathering.

  The hall thronged with military and civilians, Kronarin and Terran, all in after dinner attire and wearing translators. The U.S. Marine Corps Chamber Orchestra, smartly set off in mess whites, was playing Bach. The Earth hung seemingly just beyond the transparent far wall, a green, brown and blue orb broken by swirling mists of white.

  “I wish I could say it was my diplomatic skill,” replied Montanoya, his own eyes taking in the reception. “Credit where it’s due. The recent ground, air and space actions lit up Earth’s battle boards like a Christmas tree. They probably didn’t tell you, Admiral, but several idiots wanted to start lobbing nukes at both the Kronarin and Scotar fleets. But when the morons saw the numbers and weaponry involved, cooler heads prevailed. Fortunately, one of those heads belonged to our then-Vice President, Pete Martin.” He stopped to light a cigar.

  “You’ve stunned the world into at least a temporary peace,” he continued, exhaling a great wreath of smoke. “Hostilities of any sort have ceased in most areas of the globe. It’s as if the world were holding its collective breath, waiting to see if you’re going to conquer us, lend technical aid or ask for colonization rights.” He smiled at Laguan’s startled expression. “My summation of yesterday’s Situation Report from our State Department.”

  “Surely the masses know nothing of this?” asked Bakunin with a twinge of alarm.

  “The ‘masses,’” said Montanoya, slowly hissing the s’s, “know nothing, Colonel. You can rest assured—for now.”

  The Russian’s bourbon and spring water stopped halfway to his lips. “Surely sir, you—the United States—don’t intend to unilaterally reveal all of this to an unprepared world!”

  “Maybe your half isn’t prepared, Colonel.” He smiled the National Security Advisor. ”But ours is. So are the Chinese. And with a neo-populist instead of a plutocrat in the White House, look for that announcement to come soon—and forcefully.

  “Actually, Zahava,” he said, turning back to the Israeli, “I had to turn people away from this reception to cull down to the hundred or so Vigilant could accommodate. You’d think more people would have sense enough not to let their atoms be scattered about.” More smoke billowed toward the transparent bubble that was the ceiling.

  “Good evening, Admiral, Captain, everyone,” spoke an assured voice.

  They turned to greet Lawrona. At his side was a black-clad commando officer, about Lawrona’s age but taller, blond, blue-eyed.

  “My cousin, Subcommander Notal Varta, Fleet Commando,” said Lawrona, introducing him.

  Very distant cousins, thought John. Both wore duty uniforms with sidearms.

  Laguan nodded at Varta, then turned to Lawrona. “How stands the Fleet, Commander My-Lord-Captain?” he asked cheerfully.

  “All quiet, sir. Fine party,” he said, listening for a moment to the strings. “Different music, but nice.”

  “Hanar’s more into the Shatina Sound,” Varta grinned.

  “Probably not the right crowd for Shatina,” observed Laguan, eyes scanning the dignitaries. “Now if this were a gathering of malcontented teens . . .”

  “Some malcontented teens become reliable Fleet officers,” said Lawrona.

  “You were a quiet malcontent, Hanar,” said the Grand Admiral. “Which given your father, was understandable.”

  “We just looked in on our patient,” said Lawrona, referring to McShane. “He’s chipper and feisty. Fleet Surgeon says he can rejoin us tomorrow.”

  “Just as well,” said John. “He was threatening to break out of there. Was he abusing the help again?”

  “No—he broke out,” sighed Lawrona. “We caught him exploring the Media Center on Six Deck. His curiosity’s admirable, but he needs to rest. We hauled him back to sickbay. But I’d say he’s on the mend. We’d best get back to the bridge. Good evening all, Admiral, Captain.”

  Lawrona and Varta melted into the crowd.

  “And I mustn’t neglect my other guests,” said Laguan. “You’ll excuse me?”

  John turned to Detrelna. “‘Commander My-Lord-Captain Lawrona’?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  Detrelna waved a hand. “Titles—like freckles, you’re sometimes born with them. The admiral’s an Imperial, a bit nostalgic for the days of Empire and Destiny—likes the ancient titles as long as he doesn’t have to live under them.” He flagged down a steward, relieving him of a platter of luscious-looking meat canapés. “My first officer is heir to a great tradition
,” he said, munching. “Lord-Captain of the Imperial Guard, Defender of the Outer Marches, Margrave of Utria. The titles are mostly courtesy. The last Imperial Guardsmen fell millennia ago, the Outer Marches haven’t been heard from since POCSYM bid his creators farewell and the attack on Utria—Lawrona’s home system—precipitated this war and left his birth planet a broken world.” He paused. “Canapé?” he offered.

  “You ate them all,” said Bakunin.

  Detrelna gave the platter to a waiter. “The titles do convey the right to lead the Fleet Commando, if it ever should fight as a unit again. The Commando traces its origins back to T’Nil’s Task Force 47 Marines—the unit that seized Imperial Communications and later formed the core of T’Nil’s own guard. But with the war winding down, I doubt Lawrona will get to exercise his birthright.”

  Admiral Laguan reappeared. Slipping up to Detrelna, he whispered urgently in the other’s ear, walking quickly away even as the captain nodded. “Duty calls.” Detrelna sighed, putting down his glass and stepping toward the arched entrance way.

  “Seems to be calling others, too,” said John. They followed his gaze—a steady trickle of Kronarin officers were slipping away, their departure sparked by a hurried whisper from Laguan.

  “Captain, we’re almost family,” John said with a hurt look. “Level with us.”

  “Really. I can’t.” He looked embarrassed.

  “Afraid you’ll frighten the natives, Jaquel?” asked Sutherland.

  “Come with me. I’ll explain outside.” They passed a mixed group of European and Asian diplomats listening attentively to a crimson-uniformed Survey officer.

  Gaining the corridor, Detrelna broke into a brisk trot. Startled, the others ran after him.

  “Revenge’s watch crew just signaled ‘Intruder Alert,’” he explained hurriedly. “We’re assembling a force on the Hangar Deck. POCSYM will transport.”

  In five minutes they were on the Hangar Deck. Some of the hastily gathered commandos were still fastening their warsuits when Laguan ordered POCSYM to “Transport!”

  The Terrans never knew if they’d been included because of design or haste. Regardless, they faced Revenge’s surprised bridge crew with two dozen Vigilant commandos.

  “Not here, Captain!” Kiroda called urgently from the command tier. “The mindslave bays!”

  Detrelna cursed. “How many Scotar?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Fleet hasn’t installed Scotar detectors yet. We sealed the bridge and called for help.”

  “POCSYM,” the captain said into his communicator. “Think you can get us to the right coordinates this time?”

  They were in the corridor outside the now-sealed door of the mindslave area. Only Detrelna had been there before.

  “No time to burn our way in,” he grumbled. “They’re probably after the brainpods. Kill the mindslaves and this ship’s just so much scrap metal. Blastpak.” Motioning everyone back, the captain placed the charge. Setting the timer, he joined them behind the corridor’s sheltering curve.

  “Temperature in brainpods rising into critical,” reported Kiroda, worriedly eyeing a bridge monitor. “They must be using a semi.”

  The explosion preempted any response.

  Detrelna charged through the still-glowing doorway, pistol at the ready. He froze at the railing, looking down into the room, stunned. The commandos halted behind him.

  “Are you crazy, man?” he shouted, bounding down the stairs and knocking a big semiportable blaster from McShane’s hands. The weapon had gouged a hole deep into the nearly seamless access hatch set in the rear bulkhead, the last barrier before the brain crèches.

  McShane stood mute, staring at the wall. John and Zahava made their way through the commandos to his side.

  “Bob,” said John softly, laying a gentle hand on his mentor’s shoulder.

  “I gave my word.” McShane said. “My only regret, Captain, is that I failed.” His eyes bored into Detrelna’s own. “It’s wrong and you know it.”

  The captain averted his eyes. “Look—”

  “Don’t tell me you need this ship, Jaquel,” said McShane. “You’ve wiped out the main Scotar force—your own Intelligence says so. Once you find their home world, you can mop up with your regular forces.”

  “Bob, I—”

  “How do we differ from the Scotar, Jaquel?”

  Caught off guard, the Kronarin stumbled. “Well . . . why, why we’re human, of course.”

  “Isn’t it rather the attributes of our humanity—love, compassion, mercy—that distinguish us from other intelligences, Captain?”

  “Professor, you must leave.”

  “How then, Captain,” pressed McShane, “are we human if we enshrine hatred, eschew compassion and remain merciless in the face of such suffering as is here?” He jerked a thumb toward the brains.

  “POCSYM,” said Detrelna coldly, “transport Mr. McShane and myself to Vigilant’s sick bay. Return the rest of our force to Vigilant’s Hangar Deck.”

  A few hours later, while McShane was under close guard, someone who knew how to use a blastpak—Laguan was never able to find out who—finished the job, commuting the mindslaves’ sentence of eternal torment to one of sweet oblivion.

  John and Zahava had a suspect, though. Confronted with his name later, McShane would only smile inscrutably and say, “The triumph of decency over duty is rare and wondrous.”