Stephen Berry - The Battle for Terra Two

He turned to Heather. "Get everyone out. I'm going to blow this before we're overrun." Even if I have spend the rest of my short life on this pisshole world, he thought, pulling flat gray packets of plastique from his fieldjacket.

"He's right," said Hochmeister. "Let's go."

No one moved. "Not your show, Admiral," said the Malusi, turning to Heather. "Well?"

"Pull everyone out. Get that defense line turned around, facing the building."

Malusi nodded curtly, issuing orders that sent the gangers running for the doors. He, Hochmeister and zur Linde followed. The Bantu turned at the door, waved and was gone.

Alone with their dead and the hiss of burning machines, Heather and John rimmed the console and its force field with plastique and set the detonators. Running best they could on the blasted, blood-slicked concrete, they were almost to the door when S'Cotar stormed from the portal, flicking ahead to block their retreat. Warriors intercepted them, dragging them back to the console, where a transmute waited, antennae weaving impatiently.

Disarm that, it ordered, dipping a tentacle toward the detonator. Wave after wave of warriors were pouring through, flicking almost as they appeared. Gun and blaster fire filtered in.

"Do it yourself, v'org slime."

Harrison, you will live long enough to curse the day you met the K'Ronarins or our traitorous Illusion Master. I am Shalan-Actal.

"You're the traitor," said Harrison. "You betrayed all sapient life in two universes."

Those baleful red eyes turned on him for a second, then to the console.

Obeying an unspoken order, a warrior stepped forward, tentacles reached for the detonator.

John pivoted, kicking his guard hard in the genital sac. As the warrior folded, he grabbed its blastrifle.

The warrior holding Heather shoved her toward John and raised its rifle. John sidestepped, firing. Arms flailing, face wild with fear, Heather lost her balance and fell backward into the portal. Leaping after her, rifle high, John took a blaster bolt in the back as the plastique exploded.

Pain, pain, falling, falling…

We have MacKenzie, Glorious. She arrived in the breeding vault an instant before the explosion. What of Harrison?

No trace. He is probably just so many scattering atoms. Probably?

Our knowledge of the machine is slight, Glorious. It might have a failsafe. He may be alive?

And on Terra One, if the machine reverted to its last inter spatial setting before shutdown. It was never designed for intraspatial transport. The Imperials had matter transporters.

Clean this mess up, see to the machine. I will be with allied commander. We must move quickly.

A delicate green-red fantasy copied from the Han dynasty, the dragon kite rose a few yards, trembled, then dove into the soft earth.

"Run faster, Jason!" the old man called to the boy. "Into the wind!"

The Mall in front of the Smithsonian was alive with tourists, bicyclists, joggers and kite flyers, all reveling in the sudden glory of Indian summer.

"Let Melaine try, Jason," said McShane, tugging his khaki shorts back up over his comfortable belly.

Pouting, the auburn-haired eight-year-old relinquished the string to his sister. Standing by his grandfather, he silently willed her to fail.

She almost made it, expertly holding the string between spread fingers, running toward the Capitol on fast, sturdy legs. Trailing up behind her, the dragon soared, dipped, soared, then barrel-rolled down out of sight into the Sculpture Garden's walled pit.

Melaine stomped her foot, saying something no nine-year-old of Bob's generation would have said.

McShane laughed and began winding in the string. "OK, gang, let's try again. Jason, would you kindly rescue Puff from the Rodin?"

The boy took off around the shrubs and down the stairs. He was back in a moment, empty-handed. "Grampa!" he said wide-eyed, pointing to where the string disappeared. "A man came out of the air! He's got a gun!"

McShane suppressed a sudden rush of fear. Finishing with the now-taut string, he set it down and searched his baggy pockets. "Maybe I'll talk with him while I get the kite. You two get something at the refreshment stand." He handed Jason a five-dollar bill. "Large lemonade for Gramps."

Bob gauged the line of tourists at the distant green-and-white kiosk-ten minutes. Long enough.

The kids ran off. Waiting till they were in line, McShane turned for the Sculpture Garden. Fool, he thought to himself. Why not just call a cop? Because you taught political philosophy most of your life, and know what Machiavelli meant by civic virtue. Besides, it might just be another of Jason's invisible friends, like the large talking toad that guarded the basement. Even if it was a S'Cotar, it was probably miles away by now.

Walking across the grass, he stumbled and fell. A jogger broke stride, helping him back to his feet. Clumsy old man, he thought, thanking the woman as she handed him his blackthorn Irish walker. Third time this week. Suddenly tired, he stepped carefully down the stairs and into the garden.

The man sat on a bench beside a Henry Moore, head buried in his hands, black uniform singed and torn. It was the weapon, though, that stopped Bob cold, heart pounding: a S'Cotar blastrifle, gleaming dully where it rested against the bench. There should be no S'Cotar weapons left on Earth, at least, not in human hands.

As Bob forced himself forward, the man staggered to his feet, raising the blaster. His were the wide, glazed eyes of someone in shock.

"John!"

"Bob!" The rifle dropped. "Home?"

"Home," said McShane. "But how?"

He moved quickly, catching John as the other fell. Only then did he see the blaster wound, a charred two-inch hole running from below the left shoulder and out the left side, where ribs had been.

"You!" he shouted at a young couple coming down the stairs, baby asleep in a backpack. "Get an ambulance." They stared at him.

"Across the street, in the Smithsonian. Tell the guard to call an ambulance. Move!"

The woman turned and ran up the stairs as the man hurried over. "What can I do?"

"Help me treat for shock. Prop his feet up."

"He… he doesn't seem to be breathing."

Bob dropped to the ground, ear to John's chest. There was no heartbeat.

The baby started to cry.

Kneeling in the gravel, Bob moved through the measured cadence of CPR, not hearing the baby, not seeing his grandchildren. Until the medic gently shook his shoulder, there was nothing but his hands and lungs ministering to the dead.

DTrelna looked up from his desk complink. "I really hate this, H'Nar," he said to L'Wrona, 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'*captain smiled. "You're only happy when the battle klaxon's banging away, J'Quel.

"How's Harrison doing?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Better." DTrelna 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."

L'Wrona rose, walking to the armor glass. He stood looking at theV'Tran's Glory for a moment, then turned to DTrelna. "We don't know what happened on Terra Two yet. That bothers me, J'Quel."

"Guan-Sharick told Sutherland the portal's gone, H'Nar.

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, H'Nar. 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.''