The Battle for Terra Two

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Chapter 9

  Detrelna looked up from his desk complink. “I really hate this, Hanar,” he said to Lawrona, sitting in front of the desk. “Had I known when they gave me these”—he tapped the stylized, four-pointed silver star on each collar—“that I’d be confined to quarters half the watch, filling out moronic reports . . .”

  Implacable’s captain smiled. “You’re only happy when the battle klaxon’s banging away, Jaquel. How’s Harrison doing?”

  “Better.” Detrelna stared at the complink, not really seeing it. “Sick Bay says his new heart’s holding. They’ll be waking him up soon.”

  “When can we debrief him?”

  “Two days, local.”

  Lawrona rose, walking to the armor glass. He stood looking at the Voltran’s Glory for a moment, then turned to Detrelna. “We don’t know what happened on Terra Two yet. That bothers me, Jaquel.”

  “Guan-Sharick told Sutherland the portal’s gone, Hanar. That’ll have to do for now. Medical won’t bring him out of it until regeneration’s over.”

  “I hate taking that bug’s word for anything.”

  “Only for now, Hanar. Only for now. Computer, resume.”

  “Resuming,” said the too-perfect voice. “State composition and current tactical deployment of task force and reason for such deployment.”

  “Computer, just copy the last entry under this category and change date to current.”

  “Illegal command.”

  Detrelna’s face flushed dangerously. “Computer, nothing has changed since the previous entry. Copy previous entry.”

  “All entries of this nature must be original.”

  Detrelna reached for the large crystal water carafe.

  “Damaging a peripheral device will not injure main computer,” said the computer. It had lost five other screens to the same hairy hand before discovering that disingenuous sentence.

  “Blood pressure, Jaquel,” warned Lawrona. “Blood pressure.”

  “Very well.” The carafe returned to the desktop. “Composition of force: two vessels. The Laal-class battle cruiser Implacable, Captain Hanar Lawrona, Margrave of Utria, commanding. And the Sirin-class destroyer Voltran’s Glory, Captain Hotan Satur commanding. Both warships are in geosynchronous orbit one hundred and seventeen standard units above the planet Terra. Task force is awaiting Fleet reevaluation of original mission versus current situation, planet Terra. See previous reports. Terra Two, cross references Shalan-Actal, Guan-Sharick and John Harrison, file reference . . . Computer, will you condescend to insert the file reference?”

  “Of course, Commodore.”

  “Thank you. End and file.”

  “Filed.” The screen blanked, quickly folding back into the comparative safety of the desktop. Detrelna shook his head. “I hate that thing.”

  “It’s only a machine, Jaquel—it’s not malevolent.”

  “Maybe.” Detrelna sat up, opening the top drawer of his desk. “Let’s talk about malevolent machinery.” He held out the golden triangle. “Here.”

  Lawrona took it, looking at the device set into the metal: a silver starship against a gold sun, a blue eye in each corner of the triangle.

  “Early Empire,” said Lawrona, holding it up to the light. “Fourth Dynasty at the most. And beautifully detailed—the eyes are uncanny.” He set it on the desktop.

  “Under magnification those eyes have a retina pattern—the same retina pattern.”

  “Interesting. Where’d you get it?”

  “Harrison brought it back from Terra Two.”

  Lawrona eyes widened. “How . . . ?”

  “How, indeed?”

  “T’ata?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Detrelna tapped out a command then took a steaming cup of brown liquid from the desk beverager. “Harrison was briefly conscious on the way to the hospital. He gave that triangle to McShane, taken from a destroyed killer machine.” The commodore sipped his tea.

  “You ran it?”

  Detrelna nodded, setting down the t’ata. “You were close, Hanar. Third Dynasty—the House of Dolan.”

  The captain sat down. “Gods. The Machine Wars.”

  “Correct. The Empire built self-replicating, self-improving helpers. Said helpers decided man was obsolete. Man disagreed. Empire tottered, Fleet reeled, Emperor and dynasty fell—but the machines were wiped out.”

  “Then these aren’t the machines Pocsym warned against—they can’t be,” said Lawrona. “Those machines predated man by millennia.”

  “Insufficient data, as our tame computer would say.” Detrelna thoughtfully circled the cup rim with a thick finger. “I would like very much to get to Terra Two.”

  “You can’t—not if Harrison destroyed the portal.”

  “There may be another way.” He turned, staring through the armorglass at Earth and its Moon beyond. A silver spacecraft drifted by, running on n-gravs for the hanger deck aft.

  “Shuttle coming in.” He glanced at the wall chronometer. “American, I believe. If it’s more social scientists with those quaint recording machines and inane questions, I’m hiding.”

  “But they’re so earnest, Jaquel,” said Lawrona dryly.

  The commodore raised an eyebrow. “You were certainly very earnest with that lovely young anthropologist—the one who shared your quarters, for what? Two watches?”

  Lawrona blushed. “You’re a voyeur, Detrelna.”

  “Bored—merely bored.”

  The alert klaxon brought them to their feet, startled.

  “Battle stations. Battle stations.” The view through the armorglass blurred as the shield went to battle force. “This is no drill,” warned the bridge. “This is no drill.”

  Detrelna took an M11A from his desk.

  “Command officers to the bridge. Command officers to the bridge.”

  Weapons in hand, the two rushed into the corridor. Officers and crew filled the passageways, running for their posts.

  Captain and commodore burst onto the bridge, the battle klaxon still rattling through the long miles of the ship.

  “Status,” said Lawrona to the XO, Commander Tolei Kiroda.

  “Mr. Sutherland—” began the young officer.

  “I requested Tolei bring the ship to alert, Hanar,” said Bill Sutherland. The CIA Director stood to their right, by navigation.

  “What is the nature of the emergency?” asked Lawrona, eyes flicking o the tacscan up on the main board. Terran communications satellites, space junk and Voltran’s Glory standing five units off to port. All green plotted, all normal.

  The battle klaxon stopped.

  “As I was having breakfast this morning, Guan-Sharick appeared, au naturel, said four words and vanished. I left the granola scattered over the floor and grabbed the next shuttle from Andrews. I didn’t dare use the commnet.”

  “What did the bug say?” asked Detrelna.

  The nearest bridge crew pretended not to listen. “He said, ‘The portal is back.’”

  “Shit,” said Detrelna in English. He sank into the flag officer’s chair, behind and above the captain’s.

  “Maintain high alert, Commander Kiroda,” ordered Lawrona. “All Scotar countermeasures into effect.”

  “He also said to warn you—the machines need another star drive to punch through to their home universe. They’ll be coming for one of yours.”

  “Sir, Voltran’s Glory’s shield has been down for half the watch,” said Kiroda.

  Lawrona and Detrelna exchanged worried glances. “Tolei, why didn’t you report that?”

  “It’s only an anomaly during high alert, sir.”

  Detrelna shook his head, mumbling something. He punched into the commnet. “Commodore to Voltran’s Glory.”

  A woman’s round face filled his commscreen. She was about Detrelna’s age, with close-cropped, graying hair. The bottom edge of the pickup just caught the gleam of the starship captain’s silver insignia on her collar.

  “How’s that shield comin
g, Hotan?” asked Detrelna.

  “Just about ready, Commodore,” she said. “We’d have had it sooner, but I’m short three shield techs. Shore leave.”

  Detrelna grunted. “Very well. Keep me posted.” His finger paused over the cutoff.

  “Oh, Hotan. Just got a skipcomm from Fleet.” He smiled knowingly. “Admiral Tabul sends you his warmest compliments.”

  The destroyer captain’s face brightened. “Detrelna, you’ve made my watch.”

  “And you mine,” said Detrelna as her image disappeared. He swiveled the chair to face Lawrona. “I think we should send Voltran’s Glory our warmest compliments, Hanar.”

  “Agreed.” The captain turned to Kiroda. “Voltran’s Glory is taken, Tolei. Blow her away.”

  Kiroda had heard the exchange between Detrelna and the destroyer. Calling up gunnery control, far amidships, he began speaking into the commnet, face pale and angry.

  “Good God!” said Sutherland, aghast. “Are you sure?”

  Detrelna nodded wearily. “Satur would never let more than one shield tech go at a time. No competent captain would. And Satur is . . . was . . . very competent.”

  “But . . .” protested the Terran.

  “Admiral Tabul’s been dead for ten years, Bill,” said Lawrona. “He died in our first battle with the Scotar. He and Satur had a brief marriage contract. It didn’t end pleasantly. She cheered his death posting.”

  “Gunnery will not fire without authenticated confirmation from both captain and commodore,” reported Kiroda.

  “Target’s shield just came up,” reported Taral from the tactics console. “Battle force.”

  “Ahead flank,” ordered Lawrona. “Full evasive pattern. Prepare for hostile fire.”

  Detrelna slammed down the commnet switch. “Master Gunner! Detrelna! Flanking Councilor Seven to Archon Two. Open fire!” Lawrona followed with his own code.

  Both ships fired as one, thick red fusion beams lashing from squat, gray weapons blisters, tearing at each other’s shields—shields that turned red as the moments dragged by. Five minutes into the battle, and the destroyer’s shield began sliding into umbra, the new color lapping out in concentric circles from the beam points.

  “We outgun him ten to one,” said Detrelna to Sutherland. “He can’t outrun us. Even if he made jump point, he’d have to drop his shield to jump. We’d vaporize him with a missile.” They watched as the umbra blazed into scarlet, obscuring the other ship.

  “Why isn’t he favoring us with their signature suicide attack, Hanar?” asked the commodore. “He can’t last much longer.”

  As he spoke, Voltran’s Glory ceased firing, its shield slowly changing back to umbra.

  “He’s diverting weapons energy to shield,” said the captain, punching into a tactics readout.

  “Buying time,” said Detrelna. “For what?” He checked his own instruments, then looked back at the screen, squinting.

  “Tolei, split screen. Give me base-plus-five magnification, grids one-seven by two-five. There’s a color anomaly and he’s headed right for it.”

  The screen split, the right still showing Voltran’s Glory, encased in the blazing cocoon of its shield, moving at flank, and a growing circle of something blacker than even the obsidian of space—something blotting out the stars as it expanded.

  “Maximus,” said Sutherland. “It’s like the Maximus portal Guan-Sharick described, only bigger, spaceborne. That ship’s headed for Terra Two.”

  ”Gunnery,” snapped Lawrona. “Full missile salvo. Now!”

  Missiles flashed from their launch blisters, long silver needles closing on Voltran’s Glory as she slipped through the portal.

  Where the hole in space had been, stars shone again. The missiles continued on, straight for the Lesser Magellanic Clouds.

  “Gone,” said Lawrona.

  “Confirmed,” said Kiroda, checking the full battlescan.

  “Gone to Terra Two.” Sutherland sank into a vacant chair. “Why?”

  Detrelna shook his head, grim-faced. “Any number of unpleasant possibilities. With the excitement over, we’ll have to—”

  “Alert. Alert.” It was computer. “Incoming ordnance. Incoming ordnance.”

  Kiroda punched tacscan up on the big screen. Five arrows were converging on the central blip of Implacable. “Our missiles are coming home.”

  “Run for jump point, Tolei,” said Lawrona. “Gunnery, destruct those missiles.”

  There was a brief pause. “They don’t respond, sir.”

  “The shield will have to take it,” said Lawrona.

  “They’re queuing,” said Kiroda, looking up from a telltale. The five arrows were now in a straight line, chasing Implacable as she fled outsystem. The XO typed a rapid series of commands to the hull sensors. “And they’re shielded,” he said, looking to Lawrona.

  “Try for jump point, Hanar,” said Detrelna. “Taral,” he said to the Tactics Officer, “change shield frequency—random setting.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” asked Sutherland.

  “Sabotage,” said Detrelna. “Someone—something—has gotten to our missiles. Only a shield can penetrate another shield—if they have the same shield frequency. But shield frequencies are changed daily—randomly programmed, manually implemented by Weapons. So all missiles are unshielded. One counts on fusion fire to weaken the enemy’s shield enough for simultaneous missile hits to punch through. Someone’s gone to the trouble of shielding those missiles—someone on this ship—smart money says those missiles and our main shield are now on the same frequency.”

  “Which you’re changing,” said Sutherland.

  Detrelna looked back at Kiroda. The XO was reentering the same data command again, scowling. “Smart money also says whoever could infiltrate our physical and programming security could imbed a frequency-lock command.”

  Gripping the bridge railing, Sutherland looked at the screen. Implacable was speeding toward the glowing blue circle of the jump point, but the missiles were closing even faster.

  “Shield programming’s dead-trapped,” said Taral. “Change shield frequency now and the shield fails.”

  “I sense a master’s tentacle in this, Hanar,” said Detrelna. “Are we going to make it?”

  “Computer says almost,” said Lawrona.

  Detrelna shook his head. “I will not be killed by my own weapons. It’s embarrassing.” The commodore sat silent, brooding as the gap between ship and missiles grew slim.

  The bridge was very quiet, all eyes hypnotized by the five needles of death now only a few heartbeats away.

  “Hanar!” said Detrelna, coming out of his chair. “If the compensator programming’s not tied into those missile shields . . .”

  Lawrona swore—a rarity. “Gunnery, on my order, hit the lead missile.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Taral, advise me the instant their shields drop. Tolei, drop our shield.”

  Kiroda typed an authenticator, followed by a command. “Shield down, sir.”

  “Gunnery, fire!”

  Touching the lead missile, the fusion beam triggered its warhead. A miniature sun blossomed where the missiles had been, vanishing as cheers swept the bridge.

  “What happened?” asked Sutherland.

  “Counter-programming in our missiles allows them to compensate for certain changes in target status,” said Detrelna. Sitting down again, he dialed up a cup of t’ata. “Target turns, missile turns, it speeds up, the missile speeds up, it jams, the missile counterjams. But shielding’s not a category—those weapons aren’t shield-bearing designed. And for complex but perfectly logical reasons, a shield would have to have been set through the counter-programming.

  “We dropped our shield; the missiles dropped their shields.” He sipped his t’ata. “And so, unlike the crew of Voltran’s Glory, we live.”

  Chapter 10

  “You’re looking better,” said Sutherland.

  “How was I looking?” John did a final chin-up th
en dropped to the mat. It was main watch—the two had the officers’ Rec Area almost to themselves.

  “Dead,” said Sutherland. Grabbing a horizontal bar, he did two chin-ups. “Medtechs were wheeling you from George Washington U’s emergency ward to a shuttle, life support gear stuck into every vein. You were the color of the deck.” He scuffed the gray battlesteel with his shoe. “I was rehearsing a speech for your wife.”

  Taking a running start, John cartwheeled to the end of the mat, then back flipped to his feet. “Nothing like a new heart.”

  “Very nice.”

  They walked to the beverager. John punched up a cup of water, holding it out to Sutherland. The CIA Director shook his head.

  “Any rejection problems?”

  “None.” He gulped down the water. “It’s my own tissue, vat grown and installed by Qinil and the med staff.”

  “Prime stuff. Remind me to check in here for my coronary.”

  “Heard from Zahava?”

  “Just a postcard, shuttled up from the Embassy. I’ll call her Saturday.”

  Sutherland frowned. “She doesn’t know?”

  “Her sister in the hospital, me with a broken heart? She’d have freaked. I’ll tell her when she gets home.” He tossed the cup down a disposer.

  “You must be getting restless, sitting up here, convalescing.”

  John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you want, Bill?”

  “You. You’re needed back on Terra Two. The Kronarins found the Scotar portal and we’ve confirmed it. Time to raise some hell.”

  “No way.” He stepped back a pace. “I almost got killed! But for the Kronarins I’d be dead meat.”

  Sutherland held up his hands. “All I ask is that you come with me to our leader’s briefing.”

  “Is this leader short and round?”

  “He is.”

  “When and where?” he sighed.

  “Fifteen minutes. Deck four.”

  “OK. Let me shower and change.”

  “Who’s going to raise this hell?” he asked a few minutes later, as they rode the lift.

  “Lawrona and the commandos.”