The Battle for Terra Two

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Kotran’s eyes narrowed. “But we can jump?”

  “There is no barrier to our jumping,” she said wearily. “Only to disengaging that magic black cube.”

  “But we can’t jump with it in the drive.”

  “Correct.”

  “Disengage the destruct programming?”

  “He’s looped the destruct programming back into the tickle line. Try to change destruct programming you’ll trigger it. There’s another problem. You know we’re long overdue for a full overhaul.”

  “The better ports just wouldn’t have us, Number One.”

  “We’ve got measurable power core leakage. Nothing biologically hazardous, but enough to maybe spark a backsurge. If that surge were near the tickle line . . .”

  “Got us by the shorts, hasn’t he?” said Kotran, running a hand through his hair. “What can we do?”

  “Cut power down to emergency levels. Vital equipment only. Cold concentrates, cold showers, minimal life support.”

  He gave the necessary orders, turning back to Atir as the lights dimmed. “I’m going to get Commodore Fats and his friends, Number One. It would almost be worth dying to strand them in an alternate reality.”

  “Nothing’s worth dying for.”

  “Perhaps. I’ll find a way.”

  “You do that,” she said, stripping off her radiation suit. The brown Fleet-duty uniform beneath was rumpled, the underarms dark with sweat. “I’ll be showering with the last of the hot water.”

  Kotran sat a long while in the command chair, his thoughts growing even darker and colder than his ship.

  “Clean,” said Satil, pocketing her detector.

  Lawrona leading, the commandos, Hochmeister and Harrison swept into the tunnel, a long black line moving warily rifles ready, wind screaming ahead of them down the dark tunnel.

  Should have kept my starhelm, thought John, flashing his light ahead. Oblong-shaped, a good twenty feet across, the tunnel rose at an easy angle, disappearing beyond the range of the slim utility lights.

  “No sediment,” said Lawrona, flicking his light along the pipe bottom’s pristine concrete. “Admiral, isn’t this used?”

  “No,” said Hochmeister, walking to the captain’s left. “It was dug for an atomic reactor—prematurely. The reactor was never approved for construction by the Reich. The pipe doesn’t breach the complex, so it’s unguarded.”

  “How many reactors has the Reich allowed outside of Germany, Admiral?” asked John.

  “I’ve read your dissertation, Harrison,” said Hochmeister, eyes and light sweeping the wall to his left. “You had an entire section on that issue—over thirty pages.” He looked at John. “You’re the alternate Harrison, aren’t you?”

  “Assuming we get out of this, Admiral,” said Lawrona, “I’m sure Fleet Intelligence could find a post for you.”

  “Everyone’s offering me jobs I don’t want, Captain,” said Hochmeister. “First the bugs, now you. I’m needed here—civilization’s roving proconsul.”

  “You call what I’ve seen civilization?”

  “Germany, all of Europe, is quite civilized, Mr. Harrison,” said the admiral. “We’ve recovered from fascism, rebuilt from the war, aided less fortunate allies, held the Russian bear at bay. I shudder to think what this world would have happened had we—or the Soviets—let the atomic genie out of its bottle.”

  “Equality, perhaps?”

  “Ah! Here we are.” Hochmeister’s light picked out a seemingly random scattering of feldspar along the left wall. “As best I could tell, this is the portion nearest the other breeding vault. From here,” he sighted his light to the right, along the tunnel, “the pipe runs up and away from the vault.”

  “Your guess seems very close, Admiral,” said Lawrona. “We’ll go with this one. Set your blastpak, Satil.”

  “Natron,” called the commando officer. “Blastpak.”

  The corporal hurried forward, shrugging the flat orange pack from his shoulders. Taking it, Satil knelt and set it against the wall. Unfastened, the top revealed a miniaturized console, complete with screen. The screen glowed green as Satil pressed a button: ENTER TARGETING INSTRUCTIONS, it responded.

  “Narrow focus, Satil,” said Lawrona. “Edge down the blowback—there’s not much cover.”

  “You wouldn’t know how thick the wall is, would you, Admiral?” asked Satil, looking up at Hochmeister.

  “No idea,” he said. “They weren’t about to show me blueprints.”

  “The wall is eight meters thick, Lieutenant,” said a voice from beyond the small circle of light.

  Lawrona swung his utility light around. Twenty-four blasters followed the beam.

  “Beyond the wall,” said Guan-Sharick, stepping forward as the light found him, “is granite, honeycombed with breeding chambers.” The transmute’s eyes glowed red in the beam.

  “Admiral Hochmeister,” said John. “Guan-Sharick. Guan-Sharick, Admiral Hochmeister.”

  “You look just like Shalan-Actal, Guan-Sharick,” said the admiral.

  “Appearances can be deceiving, can’t they, Admiral? Or should I say Colonel? One more thing, Lawrona.” The transmute looked at the Margrave. “The growth accelerant Shalan-Actal’s using in the nutrient cell walls—it’s highly volatile. A few well-placed shots and the cavern will torch.”

  The Scotar was gone.

  Everyone looked at Lawrona. “Use the bug’s figures, Satil,” he said after a few seconds. “The rest of you, back off and take cover.”

  Outside, the blizzard howled.

  “Well, what have we here?” said Kotran, his breath fogging the tactics scan.

  “Incoming ship,” said Atir, looking over his shoulder. She rubbed her hands, red from the cold, then reached over, making a careful adjustment. More data flowed into the readout. “Radal-class dreadnought—latest thing out of the yards.”

  “He’s signaling, Captain,” said Sakal. Still wearing a commander’s uniform, the big red-bearded corsair was the only other person on the bridge.

  Kotran stepped to the Engineering station, turning on the bridge lights and bringing the heat up. “Get your jackets off,” he ordered, stripping down to his tunic.

  “There,” he said, sitting back in the command chair, as warm air flowed from the floor vents. “Put him on, Sakal.”

  “Commodore Detrelna?” asked the young captain whose face appeared in the monitor. Kotran noted the double row of battle ribbons on her tunic.

  “No, Captain,” he said. “I’m Captain Taral. You’re our reinforcements?”

  “The first part of them. Another dreadnought and two cruisers were jump-scheduled a watch after us.”

  “And you are?”

  “Captain Giryn, commanding the Radal-class dreadnought Victory Day.”

  “Welcome to the Terran system, Captain,” smiled Kotran. “My first officer says you’re authenticated and cleared for insystem.”

  Giryn frowned, touching a finger to her ear. “Captain,” she said, “Your authentication failed. And we read you as a light cruiser and two frigates, not a Laal-class cruiser and a destroyer.”

  “Oh?” Kotran looked perturbed. “Now I’m confused, Captain. Didn’t FleetOps advise you? Implacable and Voltran’s Glory have been lost—max casualties.”

  “Detrelna, dead?” she asked, disbelieving.

  Kotran nodded. “And Lawrona, too. There was a Scotar attack from that parallel reality—wiped both ships just as we came insystem. The Scotar fell back through their portal as we approached.”

  “And your codes?”

  “We’re a pickup force—been on deep-space patrol for the last three years. Our codes are obsolete. We’ve no skipcomm buoy. And the attack that wiped Detrelna’s force also took out their skipcomm buoy.”

  “I can’t believe Detrelna’s dead.” Giryn shook her head. “I served under him for a year—a harrier squadron inside Scotar space. He brought us home with only forty-percent casualties.”

  “Believe me,” sai
d Kotran, “he’s gone.”

  “I’ll deploy a skipcomm buoy, Captain.”

  Kotran held up a hand. “Don’t—not until we’ve met.”

  “Why . . .”

  “I don’t want to explain over the commnet. I’ll brief you when we rendezvous.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll shuttle over as soon as we arrive.”

  Kotran smiled. “Please, bring your crew over, too. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen new faces.”

  “Can you accommodate several hundred?” she asked.

  “Not only accommodate them, Captain—I think we can promise you a memorable reception.”

  “Certainly looks like Terra One,” said Detrelna. He sat at the flag officer’s station, watching Australia and New Zealand roll by on the main screen.

  “The population centers are smaller,” said Kiroda, reading a comparison scan. “Sydney and Melbourne are about a third the size of their alternates.”

  “We’ll be coming up on the Maximus site in a moment,” said Taral. “No ship traces . . . wait. Scanning a Probe-class scout, mark one-three, two-one-four.”

  “Gunnery,” said Detrelna, “standby. Incoming target.”

  “Negative life support,” said Taral, reading the scans. “Negative drive core flow to hull jump nodules.” He looked up, surprised. “She’s a derelict.”

  “Abandoned,” said Kiroda, reading his own telltales. “Why?”

  “Maybe to augment Voltran’s’ drive?” said Detrelna. “If the machines’ universe isn’t on the next plane to this one, like Terra Two, they may need more power to punch through.”

  “How’d they get that scout here?” said Kiroda.

  “Piece by piece through the Maximus portal,” said Taral.

  “He’s right,” said Detrelna. “That scout’s no larger than one of our shuttles. If we haven’t picked up traces of our destroyer by the time we reach Maximus, deploy scanning satellites.”

  “Got them,” said Taral a few moment later as they passed over California. Computer recorded without commnet a coastline radically different than that of Terra One.

  “Mark one-seven, five-two-nine—just above . . .” He frowned. “They’re creating a portal. Same general parameters as Maximus and the space portals—some minor energy anomalies.”

  “Scan to screen,” said Detrelna. His eye narrowed as the scan graphics came up: two green points of light equidistant from a single circle—a circle that grew larger as they watched. Targeting data began threading across the board.

  “No shield,” said Kiroda. “They’re diverting all energy to the portal.”

  “That’s Voltran’s Glory, all right,” said Detrelna, reading the data.

  “Coming within their scan range,” said Taral.

  “Sitting up here bare-assed.” The commodore punched into the commnet. “Gunnery. Detrelna. Imperial One-Seven to Archon Five. Take targeting feed and blow that ship away.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Botul. “Destroy target.”

  “Attention. Attention.” It was Computer—calm but very loud. “The portal has closed. The portal has closed.”

  They all looked up at the screen. The two green lights and the black were still there, the black continuing to expand.

  “Computer—verify,” said Detrelna, annoyed.

  “Our portal, Commodore,” said Taral, checking a permanent rearward scan. “Our portal is gone!”

  “Verified,” said computer. “Portal to Terra One is gone.”

  “Kotran!” Detrelna lunged for the commlink. “Gunnery. Redoubt One to Flanking Commander Two. Abort that kill order!”

  “Order aborted, Commodore,” said Botul. “Just.”

  “Machine failure?” suggested Kiroda.

  “Kotran,” repeated Detrelna.

  “Gunnery. Take out Voltran’s shield nexus.”

  Far amidships, in gunnery control, Botul called up a projection of Voltran’s Glory. Marking the forward shield nexus in flashing amber, he fed in the targeting data and pushed. “Execute.”

  A stylus-thin red beam flicked from the number seven fusion battery, spanned two and half thousand miles of space and disintegrated a hull relay pod the size of a basketball.

  “Shield nexus destroyed, Commodore,” reported the gunner.

  “Very well.”

  “Something unwholesome is coming through the portal very soon,” said Detrelna as they continued to close on the two ships, “or they’d have run.”

  He turned toward Engineering. “Lock a tractor beam onto that ship, Natrol. Pull it away from the portal,” he said. “Carefully. It’s our only way home.”

  Shalan-Actal flicked from the auxiliary command post, deep in the Vermont granite beneath Maximus, onto the bridge of Voltran’s Glory. Four transmutes worked the instruments, teleporting between twenty-four bridge stations. At the twenty-fifth station, a bubble hovered above the command chair. About five feet in diameter, its interior swirled with a sullen red haze.

  You and we haven’t much time, said the Tactics Master.

  We have enough time, replied a chill thought. We are within the prescribed area. When this flashes, a blue beam sprang from the top of the bubble, touching a telltale, our portals are joined. Reinforcements will pour through. Nothing can stop us.

  You were stopped twice before—banished from this reality, said Shalan-Actal. By the Empire and by the Trel of prehistory.

  The crimson mist swirled darker. The Empire is dust. The Trel even less.

  You are about to be tractor-towed and boarded. The Kronarins need that portal device. They are many, we and you are few. They will retake this ship.

  Not before the Armada of the One is here. Our ships carry many such portal devices. We will retake the Home Universe. We will find the Betrayer.

  The telltale flashed blue.

  Victory, said bubble.

  Kronarin commandos have penetrated the breeding vaults! came the distant alert. They’re firing the chambers!

  I will not save you at our expense, said the transmute, antennae weaving in agitation. You are on your own, Forward Commander of the One.

  Shalan-Actal flicked back to Maximus, taking the handful of Scotar from the ship with him.

  The last hundred warriors of the once Infinite Hosts of the Magnificent huddled in the old British barracks, sheltering around propane heaters from the blizzard howling under the eaves. Hatched and raised in dry, warm caverns beneath Terra’s moon, serving mostly aboard starships, this was their first exposure to a planet’s wilder elements. They stood in small, uncertain groups, feet shuffling uneasily in the flickering light from the emergency generator.

  Take arms! ordered the Tactics Master. The Kronarins are torching the last hope of the Race!

  The blast was still echoing when Lawrona ducked into the hole. Following, John saw a dark blur of himself, mirrored in the fused black surface of the blast hole and then he was through, standing on a gray granite floor.

  “Good God!” He looked up and around. “It’s huge.”

  Ringed by catwalks, the breeding vault soared fifteen levels—thousands of small hexagonal chambers, all a misty jade-green. Gray equipment banks filled the half mile of floor, red-white light pulsing along scan and control feeds up to the chambers. Half a dozen unarmed Scotar techs lay dead, cut down by the Kronarins.

  Lawrona twisted his blaster muzzle right, two soft clicks. “First squad, set weapons on diffuse beam,” he ordered as the last of the commandos entered the cavern. “Fire those cells.” Aiming two-handed at the top tier of cells, he pulled the trigger, sweeping the broad beam slowly along the cell walls.

  “It certainly is ‘volatile,’ said Hochmeister, standing beside John. The two shielded their eyes as fierce green-tinged flames leaped high.

  Fire raced along the catwalks as the commandos emptied their weapons into the walls. Thick, pungent smoke drifted down.

  “Scotar!” shouted a commando.

  Shalan-Actal and his force materialized in the
vault’s center. Blasters shrilled, blue-and-red bolts knifing through the smoke.

  Choking, tears streaming down his face, John held his fire again and again as uncertain targets drifted through the smoke.

  Something shoved him, hard. Caught off balance, he sprawled to the floor as a burning section of fused wall fell, exploding where he’d stood, showering him with molten fragments.

  A thin hand reached down. John took it, letting Hochmeister help him up. The admiral tried to speak, then coughed. Shaking his head, he pointed toward the blast hole. John nodded. Together, they staggered toward the tunnel.

  “Out!” Lawrona ordered over the commnet. “Fall back!’

  Feeling their way along the wall, John and Hochmeister made it to the blast hole.

  The smoke wasn’t as thick in the tunnel. Others staggered after them, choking and coughing, throwing themselves to the floor and the fresh stream of cold, clear air.

  It slept, dimly aware that it was many yet one. Sleeping, it grew, the bonds between it entwining and thickening. Sensed but untested, it felt its strength also growing—strength it perceived as a warm glow, having no concept of strength, no concept of anything other than self. Soon it would awake, an odd child of power, hungry and curious.

  The pain struck without warning, a searing, devouring pain.

  Wounded, it awoke, child of a warrior race. Terrified and angry, it lashed out.

  Wheezing from the smoke, Shalan-Actal dropped Corporal Nytron. The commando’s head lolled to one side, neck broken, eyes blue and startled, staring sightless into the fire.

  They are falling back through the blast hole, reported a warrior. Pursue?

  One file only. All others, deploy foggers, tiers one through . . .

  The fire went out, like a light turned off. The smoke was gone. The Scotar watched, unbelieving, as the breeding chambers repaired themselves, a green blur of speed.

  The pain easing, it sought the source. There. Down there.

  You are a fool, Shalan-Actal. You were warned about the growth accelerant.

  Guan-Sharick? The Tactics Master followed that tendril of thought—within range. He tried flicking himself at it. He couldn’t teleport.