Stephen Berry - The Battle for Terra Two

Kismet, thought Sutherland, as the line surged forward. I'm going to be killed fighting bugs in an amusement park.

Taking an M16 from the dead, he joined the charge.

The first mortar barrage fell short of the S'Cotar line, turning two concession stands to matchsticks.

The next six didn't, exploding among the warriors, halving their numbers, splattering Xanadu's red walls green.

Through his one remaining eye, Sug-Atra saw the marines coming, bayonets gleaming through the smoke and flames.

Assault! he ordered the warriors.

A ragged line, the S'Cotar charged, weapons blazing.

Bleeding in a dozen places, Sug-Atra tried to teleport inside. Nothing. A piece of shrapnel had done something profound to his special abilities. Turning, he limped painfully up Xanadu's stairs. As he reached the top stair, H'Nar L'Wrona stepped through the doors and shot him dead, tumbling his body back down the stairs.

The Margrave stood looking out over the carnage for a moment, watching the olive-drab wave roll over the S'Cotar, then went back inside.

Along the midway, marines with dripping combat knives stooped low, taking weregeld from the S'Cotar.

"You could have taken those bugs from the rear, Captain," said Griswold quietly. He looked too exhausted to be angry.

"We'd have been exposed to your fire, Colonel," said L'Wrona earnestly. "Worse, we'd have exposed this building to it. A single ember falling through to the wrong place, and every man who died today would have died in vain."

"You're a hard man, L'Wrona."

"I know."

The two stood on Xanadu's steps, backdropped by the amusement park's smoldering ruins. Firemen hosed the hot ash and twisted metal that had been weapons positions and kiddie rides, their lines snaking in from the yellow pumpers out on the MacArthur Boulevard. From the parking lot came the whirr of medevac choppers as triage teams hurried down the long rows of stretcher cases. Wounded with the best chance of survival if medevaced now would go first. The rest would either go later or in the fleet of ambulances clogging the far end of the parking lot. Many would die where they lay.

To the west, a blood-red sun shone through the smoke and haze.

The S'Cotar lay where they'd fallen.

"I lost over two hundred good men today, Captain," said Griswold, looking over the midway.

"We lost billions fighting those things," said L'Wrona. "Billions."

"I want to see that portal, Captain," said Griswold, turning back to La'Wrona. "I'm entitled."

"How did you know about the portal?" frowned L'Wrona. "Sutherland."

"Ah. Well, you're right. You are entitled." He opened a door, motioning Griswold in. "We're leaving in a few minutes. You can see us off."

"This is bigger than the Maximus portal," said John, staring at the pit filling Xanadu.

"How much bigger?" asked Lieutenant S'Til.

"Twice, at least. They must have widened the other end."

Looking at that too-dark pool, John felt what he'd first sensed on the side of the portal-deep, rippling power, lurking just below the surface-a power somehow controlled by a slim machine a universe away.

The portal nearly filled Xanadu. The building itself was facade, a slice of Hollywood on the Potomac. The back could be rolled open, two great garage doors that trundled on rubber casters across a cement apron. First seeing that, John had had a vision of something huge, gray and monstrous coming up from the pit, abristle with fusion turrets, moving silently out into the night on n-gravs, force field shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

The stench of burning men and machines wafted through the ragged blaster hole in the left door.

Led by L'Wrona, the commandos and the three Terrans had slipped in from the woods between Glen Echo and Mac Arthur Boulevard, the battle along the midway covering them as they'd moved through the fence, under the roller coaster and up to the building's rear. Blasting a hole through the wall, they'd poured in-there were no S'Cotar. Taking up positions, they'd waited, silently killing the four S'Cotar who'd come in.

The biofabs lay in a thick pool of green beside the door, necks slit by broad-bladed assault knives. The commandos lined the side of the pit, blastrifles at port arms, every other man facing out. Pacing slowly behind them, Lieutenant S'Til impatiently tapped the MllA's long barrel against her hard, slender leg. John stood to one side, away from the door.

"What are we waiting for?" he asked. "L'Wrona," said S'Til.

"Major Harkness," called Sutherland, spotting Gris-wold's XO. "Where's the colonel?"

Young, black, the untreated cut across his left cheek still bleeding, Harkness turned from the radio, eyes glazed with fatigue. "Behind those concessions stands," he said, waving toward a charred heap near the Ferris wheel.

Sutherland headed down the midway, treading carefully past the dead. Bodies often entwined, marines and warriors lay where they'd fallen, knives, bayonets and guns against knives, serrated mandibles and blasters.

Sutherland tried not to look at the faces. The assault had been bad enough, but it had been fast, a blur of motion: shoot, move, shoot, move. For the first time since Korea, he'd used a bayonet, performing a clumsy but tenable parry-and-long-thrust series. This was worse, he thought, stumbling over a helmet. Something out of Goya, those young, dead, tormented faces staring sightlessly, throats ripped out, necks broken, holes you could put your fist through. And everywhere the stench of burnt flesh, hanging in a low haze over the clouds of flies come to feast.

He found Griswold behind the concession stand, face down in the dirt, a neat round hole through each temple. There was no blood-just a dead man, his mind stolen.

Sutherland turned in time to see L'Wrona and Griswold enter Xanadu, a good hundred yards away. Communicator lost in the chopper wreckage, he cursed and began running.

The Terran colonel paused at his first sight of the portal, then advanced gingerly to the edge, peering down. Brushing past the commandos, L'Wrona followed.

"This is it?" asked Griswold, looking at L'Wrona.

The captain nodded. "A hole in the heart of the universe."

"Ever hear of George Bernard Shaw, Margrave?" asked the colonel. L'Wrona shook his head.

"A brilliant, crusty man. He said, 'The devil has all the best lines.' It's true."

"I don't understand."

"I'll give you an example, L'Wrona."Follow me and die.

L'Wrona fired as the transmute leaped into the portal. Sutherland burst through the door. "Transmute!" he gasped. "Griswold!"

Pulling his knife, L'Wrona jumped after transmute. "Go!" shouted S'Til.

John and the commandos plunged into the portal.

Sutherland stood alone in Xanadu, breathless, watching the ripples fade in the black pool.

He was still watching when the portal flicked off, leaving a deep raw gash in the red clay and sand.

"How's he doing, Q'Nil?"

The words drifted distantly, touching and slowly stirring his consciousness. K'Ronarin, he thought. Bluff, gruff. D'Trelna.

McShane opened his eyes.

"He's coming around now, Commodore."

D'Trelna stood at the foot of the bed, round face concerned. Beside him, thin and detached, Medtech Q'Nil was checking life readings off the unit's medscan. The three were alone in a small, cheery room, walls done in warm earth tones with matching bed coverlet.

"I didn't die," said Bob hoarsely.

"Close," said Q'Nil. Stepping around the bed he poured water from a carafe into a disposable cup, handing it to McShane.

Nodding his thanks, the professor downed it in two loud gulps. "How long have I been out?"

"Two weeks," said D'Trelna as S'Nil took the cup, tossing it into the disposer with an economical flip of his wrist.