The Battle for Terra Two

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “Good. We’re leaving now. I’ve got a shuttle over in Lincoln Park. Get what personal things you want to bring—the Fleet of the Republic will provide clothing and toiletries.”

  Twenty minutes later they were trudging unplowed streets, overnight bags in hand. “What’s the rush?” asked Zahava. The snow was ending with the day, the sun trying to appear.

  “The cruiser Kotran pirated was assigned to the Trel Expedition,” said Detrelna. “It has a full mission briefing in its computer, including coordinates. We have to get there before he does.”

  The two men stood on the roof of the CIA building, looking across the river to the city. Low in the east, between the clouds, the first stars were appearing. In the grove beyond the parking lot, an owl hooted.

  Suddenly the younger man grabbed the other’s arm.

  “There!” said Sutherland, pointing to where a shuttle rose above the city. It crossed the Potomac, coming in low and fast over the CIA complex. Passing the roof, it barrel-rolled, then climbed high, silver hull catching the brilliant red sunset.

  The two found themselves waving.

  “God go with them,” said McShane, as the shuttle vanished.

  “Amen,” said Sutherland.

  “Buy you a drink, Bob?”

  “Certainly.”

  They went inside, leaving the night to the snow and the stars.

  The End

  Endnote

  Without tinkering with T2’s intricate plotline, I’ve tidied up the original, done some tweaking and replaced those hyphens used as Kronarin (K’Ronarin) vowel makers in the original version with vowels. (They seemed fun at the time.)

  I’m delighted that T2’s now an ebook, ensuring that the wily Detrelna and Implacable will be forever between us and evil, just a jump or two away.

  Upshield! Upship!

  About the Author

  Stephen Ames Berry is the author of four science fiction novels first published by Ace and Tor, and of The Eldridge Conspiracy, a tale spun from his time at the Pentagon and the myth of the Navy’s World War II ship invisibility project, the Philadelphia Experiment. A graduate of Boston University, Berry has a master’s in information systems and was a systems analyst and data architect for the Navy Department and Harvard University. He lives in Florida, where he teaches in a program for wayward youth and is a slave to entitled cats.

  Berry’s Other Books

  The Biofab War

  The AI War

  Final Assault

  The Eldridge Conspiracy

  The saga of Implacable continues on the next page with the first two chapters of The AI War.

  The AI War

  Chapter 1

  The chirp roused Detrelna from a light sleep. Lifting the long-barreled blaster from the night table, he slipped to the side of the door, bare feet silent on the carpeting.

  The chirp sounded again, closer. Detrelna flicked off the safety.

  The door hissed open. Someone came into the bedroom, features and clothing indistinguishable in the dark. Moving with feline grace, the figure stole to the bedside, steel glinting dully in upraised hand.

  The lights flared on. “Drop it!” snapped Detrelna. He stood blocking the door, a short fat man in a rumpled red sleep gown, blaster leveled.

  The broad-bladed commando knife fell to the floor.

  “Turn—slowly.”

  The intruder was young and wiry-framed, wearing the black uniform of a Fleet commando, corporal’s hashes on his sleeve. He had the callused palms and wary balanced stance of a fighter. Calculating gray eyes gauged the distance to Detrelna. Too far. “How’d ya know?”

  Combine production world, thought Detrelna. Slum kid, grew up fast and tough. “If you were a real commando, you’d know—to the trained ear, a lock on override’s like a battle klaxon. You’re not crew. Who sent you?”

  A sound sent Detrelna’s eyes flickering toward his office. The fake commando leaped—and died, shot through the heart.

  “Two out of two,” said the man, stepping from the office, facing Detrelna across the dead body. He held a Terran pistol pointed at the floor—a blue-chromed Italian automatic capped by a silencer.

  “Two what?” said Detrelna, blaster centered on the man’s chest.

  “Assassins, Commodore. The other I took care of before she reached your quarters.” Thin and balding, he wore an Engineering tech’s white jumpsuit.

  “And you are?”

  “Colonel Ragal, Fleet Counterintelligence Command. I came in with your replacements last watch. As did this one and his friend.” He nodded toward the body. “Shall we step into your office?”

  Laying his pistol on Detrelna’s big traq wood desk, Ragal sat in the commodore’s chair, swiveling to look out the armorglass wall at Terra and the North American continent, eight hundred miles beneath. A low front was moving across the Midwest—a cottony, gray-white mass busily adding another foot of snow to the Great Plains.

  “Nice view,” said the colonel, swinging back around. “There’re no windows in the Engineering techs’ bay.”

  “I’ll have some put in,” said Detrelna, standing in front of his own desk and not liking it. “You got an ID, CIC ghost?”

  “A covert agent, carry an ID?”

  “And the Terran weapon?”

  “Ship’s internal security isn’t programmed to read gunfire. Had those thugs come for you with Terran pistols, we wouldn’t be talking now.”

  “Why were they after me?”

  The colonel stared past Detrelna at the gray bulkhead. “Detrelna, Jaquel,” he recited. “Officer commanding, Task Force 197, currently standing off Terra. Born Shtar. Mother engineer, father merchant. Was himself Shtarian merchant for a number of years, engaged in independent trade. Served in prewar Fleet as fighter pilot during the Aran Action. Offered services during the third year of the Scotar War. Commissioned captain, appointed command Laal-class cruiser Implacable. Figured prominently in discovery and destruction of the main Scotar citadel. Promoted commodore. Figured prominently in the discovery and destruction of a Scotar fallback point in an alternate universe. Eight battle ribbons, four unit citations, the Valor Medal, with cluster, the Cross of Sodal, with cluster.”

  Ragal looked at Detrelna. “You must be as competent as you are fat—they’re stingy with the Cross. Cool, too. Murderers come for you in the night, but the only thing you seem upset by is my sitting in your oversized chair.”

  “You’re marksmanship’s more impressive than your manners. And my chair’s standard issue,” he lied. “Who sent them?”

  The colonel sighed. “You line officers. You really don’t know, do you, Detrelna? Sit down.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  Ragal shrugged. “Important people want you out of the way, Commodore. Dead, brainwiped, disgraced—whatever. An order for your arrest is being sent from Kronar to Admiral Sagan. That I stopped our fun couple dead will only hasten it.”

  Detrelna perched on the edge of the small sofa, blaster beside him. “Arrest? On what charge?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Whatever they trumped up. It’s political—an excuse to imprison or brainwipe you.”

  “Political? I’m not political. My family’s not political.”

  “Haven’t been home for a long time, have you, Detrelna?”

  The commodore shook his head.

  “You and Captain Lawrona came out of the war as our chief heroes—there’s a docudrama based on your exploits running in four quadrants. You wouldn’t recognize yourself.” He was bemused by other’s blank look. “You didn’t know? No one approached you for the vid rights?”

  “My wife holds full writ for me. She mentioned something about vid rights . . .”

  “You’re popular and not an Imperial. Oddly enough, neither is Lawrona.”

  “The margrave’s an oxymoron—an enlightened aristocrat.”

  “The Imperial party’s afraid of you both. You, they want home to brainwipe.”

  “Not Lawrona?”

  “
No. As Margrave of Utria and Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard, he can’t run for Council—violates the Second Covenant. Alone he’s no threat. Historically no candidate with both the Traders’ Guild and the aristocracy behind him’s ever failed to win a Council seat. Run with Lawrona supporting you, you’ll be Council Chair.”

  Detrelna stood, face resolute. “I’ll submit to arrest and be exonerated.”

  “You’ll submit to arrest and be brainwiped! The court-martial would be secret, the tribunal paid off. People who hire assassins don’t blink at rigging trials, Commodore.”

  “This is insane! I have no political ambitions!” Hearing himself shout, he sat back down. “What do I do?”

  “Leave. Now. Head out on the Trel Expedition, just as you’re supposed to. Before that arrest order arrives. Sagan is a combat officer—order acknowledged and you’ll be headed home, shackled, the watch after that order reaches the command ship.”

  “But . . .”

  “You want to spend the rest of your life drooling in front of a vid screen, Detrelna? Then just sit on your cheeks and wait.”

  “Why is CIC intervening?”

  “Because if they take you, they’ll scrub the Trel Expedition. We don’t want that.”

  Detrelna made up his mind. “We’ll jump at firstwatch. And you?”

  The colonel rose, slipping the pistol into his jumpsuit. “I’ll be around. I have work to do. Get us out of here.”

  Implacable’s bridge was quiet. Thirdwatch—the starship equivalent of nightshift—was ending. The first officer looked up as the armored doors opened. “Good morning, sir,” he said, relinquishing the conn.

  “Morning, Tolei,” said Lawrona, taking the captain’s chair. “Are we ready?”

  “We’re ready.” Commander Kiroda stretched. “The last of the supplies are on board, and Sagan finally sent over the rest of our replacements.”

  “About time.” Lawrona scanned the ship’s status report. “Anything from the admiral?”

  “Leaving us alone for now.”

  Both looked up at the main screen. Five long, gray ships hung above Terra—like Implacable, resurrected Imperial cruisers, bristling with weapons batteries and instrument pods.

  “The less I see of her cheery face . . .” said Kiroda.

  The doors hissed open again. Detrelna came onto the bridge, a tired-looking man in a wrinkled, brown duty uniform and holstered blaster.

  “Morning, Jaquel,” said Lawrona, turning toward Detrelna.

  The commodore nodded absently, standing beside the captain’s station, eyes on the screen. “Hanar,” he said quietly, “an order for my arrest is being sent to Sagan.”

  The captain frowned, adjusting the resolution on a telltale. “The Imperial Party?”

  “Why does everyone know this but me?”

  “You’re not for them, Jaquel, therefore you’re against them. You’d be a grave threat to them if you ran for Council.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Hanar.”

  “Am I?” The captain stood. He was a sharp contrast to the older officer: tall, thin, with aquiline features, his uniform impeccably cut, silver inlaid blaster grips protruding from his gleaming varx leather holster. “Those slime profited from the war—they and their friends in the industrial combines. And now they’re profiting from the cleanup. Billions dead, millions brainwiped, scores of planets in ruins. The restoration contracts will run for years. And this talk of keeping Fleet at wartime strength, ‘reclaiming’ the old Imperial quadrants. Inspired by greed, all of it.”

  “Greed and glory lust,” said Detrelna. “Here’s something you don’t know, Hanar.” Quickly he told Lawrona about the assassination team and Ragal. The captain showed surprise only at Ragal’s name.

  “You know what Ragal is, Jaquel?”

  The commodore shook his head.

  “He’s a Watcher.”

  Detrelna’s eyes widened. “A Watcher? A Scotar hunter on our ship? Gods of my fathers.”

  “Admiral Sagan for the Commodore,” said the comm officer, Lakan.

  Detrelna smiled tightly. “Perhaps it’s about the supply requisitions. Put it on the board, Lakan. You should all hear this.”

  The five cruisers vanished from the main screen. A woman looked out at them, her graying hair tied back in a severe bun, the golden triangle of an admiral second on her collar. Watchful green eyes scanned Implacable’s bridge. Sagan sat at a traq wood desk identical to Detrelna’s, backdropped by a slab of armorglass and a view of Terra’s moon. Her gaze settled on the commodore. “Jaquel,” she said.

  “Admiral.” He nodded, sweaty hand gripping the leather back of the empty command chair.

  “Important people want your ass in the brig, Commodore,” she said, raising a steaming cup of t’ata to her lips, sipping.

  “Really?”

  “You don’t seem very surprised.”

  “I had some warning.”

  She shrugged. “No matter. This,” she dangled a commslate disdainfully between thumb and forefinger, “has the wrong sign-off. Fleet Security can only issue orders of arrest over the signature of a FleetOps flag officer. This bears the signature of a Councilman and is thus not a lawful order. I’ve requested clarification, Detrelna. It’ll take a while, going deferred priority. Meantime, I’ve received orders to reinforce Commodore Awal. The corsair Kotran’s base has been located. I’m leaving one ship on station off Terra. The rest of us are joining the blaster party.”

  Detrelna and Lawrona exchanged glances. “May we join the fun, Admiral?” said Detrelna. “We owe Kotran.”

  “No.” She put her cup down. “The instant I receive that corrected order I’m sending a shuttle for you. Head out on your mission—now.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  “Don’t thank me, Detrelna. Just do your job—find out if there’s anything to this Trel thing. I’ll deliver your compliments to Kotran.” Something tugged at her lips—it might have been a smile. “Will a Mark 88 fusion salvo do?”

  “It will.”

  “Luck. You’re going to need it, out there in the Blue Nine.”

  “Luck to you, too,” said Detrelna as the view of space and Sagan’s flotilla returned to the screen.

  Lawrona turned to his first officer. “Make for jump point at flank, Tolei. You have the Trel coordinates plotted?”

  “Jump-plotted and set, Captain,” said the young commander.

  “Lakan, lock down all communications until after we jump.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mission briefing, Jaquel?” asked Lawrona.

  The commodore shook his head. “Not until after the final jump.” He turned for the door. “Let’s keep the good news to ourselves for a few weeks, Hanar.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Seeing to the cleaning of my quarters. Have medical send a casualty team there.”

  The gray doors hissed shut behind him.

  “Shield to battleforce, Commander Kiroda,” ordered Lawrona, taking the command chair.

  Kiroda touched a key. Far amidships and deeply armored, the computer responded, executing the first of a series of commands. “Making for jump point at flank, sir,” said the first officer.

  Surrounded by the faint blue shimmer of her shield, Implacable slipped out of Earth orbit.

  “Blue Nine?” said Toral as the captain spoke to Lakan.

  “They haven’t gone shipwide with that,” said Kiroda dryly, watching the jump approach figures thread across a telltale.

  “When do they tell us?”

  “Briefing, I suppose. By which time everyone will know.” He nodded at the main screen. “Want to say good-bye to Terra, Yaga?”

  “We almost got killed there half a hundred times, Tolei.” He looked up as Sagan’s flotilla vanished and Terra shrank to just another small light. “It was wild, wasn’t it?” He grinned.

  “Sure was. Will we ever see it again?”

  “You know what they used to say, when someone died on Fleet du
ty?” said Kiroda, returning to his instruments.

  Toral watched the light disappear. “‘Jumped to Blue Nine.’”

  Neither said anything until they reached jump point.

  Chapter 2

  “There are other contractors in this quadrant with your skills, Kotran,” said Barol, setting down his drink. The hard blue points of his eyes belied the laugh lines crinkling them. To the uninitiated, Barol was just another restaurant owner—a jovial man, grown round on his own rich food and the easier times since war’s end.

  Kotran knew what lay beneath was a man as hard and as cold as himself. “There aren’t any in this quadrant with the resources your client needs,” he said. "If you think you can do better—luck.” He started to rise.

  A surprisingly strong hand gripped his arm, pulling him back to his seat. “Let’s not be hasty, Captain. Another drink?”

  “It’s your liquor.”

  Catching the server’s eyes, Barol held up two fingers.

  There were three restaurants worthy of the name in Satak. Barol’s was atop the Bureau of Agriculture building and boasted a view of Satakport. Sitting at the bar, the two watched an agro freighter come gliding in on silent n-gravs, miles of oblong black against a perfect blue sky.

  “It’s just that since you failed your last mission,” said Barol as the drinks came, “my client’s uneasy about employing you again.”

  “A fluke.” Kotran sipped his drink—a tart, yellow wine from the southern hills of Satak. “If my ex-commander’s brother hadn’t been aboard Implacable, we’d have succeeded.” He glanced approvingly at himself in the bar glass—a wiry, light-complexioned man with thinning hair and the casual, well-cut clothes of a prosperous merchant.

  “Yes. But he was aboard. And it did fail.” Barol held up a hand as Kotran started to protest. “Because of your prior efforts on his behalf, my client is willing to forget that fiasco.”

  “Generous. What does your client want?”

  “As usual, I wasn’t told.” Reaching into his pocket, he took a small white cylinder and handed it to Kotran. “It’s all in there. Mission and delivery specs. Same terms as the last venture—less my client’s deposit on that debacle, of course.”