Stephen Berry - The Battle for Terra Two

"Go now. Luck."

As they left, a faint tendril of thought touched McShane. Empty is the House of S'Kal. Empire and Destiny.

"What?" he said, turning back as the door opened.

From somewhere nearby came the high, wrenching sound of flawed crystal cracking. As the door shut, the men heard something soft and wet smacking onto the deck.

"Skirmish one to computer," said D'Trelna as they reached the shipcar. He turned, hearing a noise. McShane had slumped into his seat, head in hand.

"Bob, what is it?" D'Trelna bent over the Terran.

"I have a terrible headache."

"We have to go on."

"I know." Raising his head, Bob swung around into the car, ashen-cheeked. "I 'll be fine.

"This car isn't tied into the computer, is it?" he asked, resting his head against the seatback.

"No," said D'Trelna, tapping numbers into the modest control board. "We'd have been squashed like bugs against a bulkhead if it were." He grunted with satisfaction as the confirmation flashed across the small screen. "Ready."

"Don't you want to call for help?" asked Bob.

"No." He engaged autopilot. The shipcar rose, pivoting 180 degrees. "Not only isImplacable under-crewed, but if our visit here becomes an official mission, official questions will be asked. They'll find out I killed those mindslaves and disabled this monster." The car picked up speed. "Court-martialed, I'd be found guilty. We have few prisons. My personality would be altered-for my own good. I would become a simple, happy, thin man. Losing my drive, creativity and intellect, I'd spend the rest of my long, useless life watching the fruits of others' imagination parade by on the vidscreen."

"To Agro," said Bob, taking the blastrifle from the floor.

"I should check in," said the commodore as the car spiraled down a ramp.

"D'Trelna toImplacable:' he said, touching the communicator at his throat. He waited a moment, then tried again. There was no response.

"Odd," he said, looking at McShane. "Never had this problem."

"CouldRevenge's computer be jamming?"

Reaching behind his thick neck, D'Trelna unsnapped the communicator. Stubby fingers moving with surprising dexterity, he popped open the back of the tiny oval. "D'Trelna toImplacable," he said carefully, watching the pattern of light that flashed along tiny crystalline veins.

"Was I right?" asked Bob as the car raced along an interminable stretch of gray corridor.

"Yes," said the commodore, snapping the communicator together and fastening it back around his neck. "Something's blocking our signal."

"Computer?"

"Probably." D'Trelna glanced behind them. "At least nothing deadly's streaking after us. "We're almost there."

McShane sat up, headache forgotten. "Check your weapons," said D'Trelna as the shipcar rounded a bend, slowing. "And put on your helmet. We're here."

McShane looked ahead. Soaring overhead, a great slab of armorglass blocked the corridor. Strange flora blossomed on the other side, an explosion of green.

The car stopped, settling to the ground.

Dismounting, D'Trelna twisted on his helmet, then took a flat, oblong device from beneath the dashboard.

"Locator," said McShane, recognizing the machine from times past.

"Programmed with our exact destination, taken from the car's navsystem. Shall we?" said the commodore, pointing with blastrifle toward the greenery.

Helmets on, rifles at port arms, the two men approached the transparent barrier.

Parting along an invisible seam, the armorglass slid open-an opening just wide enough for two. From inside came sharp, feral cries worthy of a Jurassic swamp.

"Sounds like everything in there eats everything else," said McShane.

"I should prove a filling morsel," said the commodore. Snapping off the rifle's safety, he stepped over the threshold. Bob followed.

Behind them, the armorglass snicked quietly shut.

"How are you, my dear Christian?" asked Jesus.

Hochmeister looked up from walnut writing desk, blinking at the Raphaelite Christ standing in the late brigadier's living room: thorns crowning chestnut hair, stigmata piercing the delicate frame, tattered, soiled white linen robe; the Renaissance vision of The Levantine as granted a shabby, five-color immortality by millions of cheap reproductions and shoddy interpretations.

"Shalan-Actal," sighed the admiral. He leaned back in the overstuffed green-velvet Regency armchair. "You look more like a Hollywood pretty boy than an itinerant Galilean rabbi. And your compassionate visage needs improving."

"Still working on your memoirs?" The transmute pointed to the neat pile of yellow foolscap on the desk.

"Still," nodded Hochmeister, setting his pen back in the ink well. "Art, Goethe reminds us, is long, life short. I'm now at chapter thirty-two, mine and Canaris's chat with Rommel, convincing him to join the putsch."

"I met Rommel once," said Shalan-Actal.

The admiral's eyebrows rose. "You met Rommel? I thought you were out pillaging your galaxy."

"Don't forget, Admiral," said the Jesus-form, "we- biofabs-were created on Terra's moon. Our war with the K'Ronarins only lasted ten of your years. And although Poesym didn't allow us to meddle in Terran affairs, there were training missions. Naturally, I met the alternate Rommel. It was early in his career."

"I met him early in my career, midpoint in his. What was your impression?"

"Talented and daring."

Hochmeister nodded. "A great soldier and a fine Chancellor."

"Only a soldier in my reality, Admiral."

"Why have you come?"

"Need I have a purpose, Admiral?" The brigadier replaced Jesus.

"All you do has purpose, Shalan-Actal. In that, we're much alike."

"Perhaps," said the brigadier-form. "Although my kind don't call me monster.

"We will soon need spokesmen, Admiral." The dead brigadier's pale blue eyes met Hochmeister's. "We remain undetected by authorities in this reality. Soon, we'll have seized your sister world. That done, we will subjugate this world, not as green insectoids, though. Rather, as humans from space-a sort of peacekeeping galactic league, out to bring order to the backward worlds."

"Very romantic. Why should I sell your pseudo Pax Galactica?''

"The alternatives are not pleasant, Admiral. Experience has shown that our casualties soar when thousands of xenophobes hurl explosives at us. It then becomes cheaper to neutron scrub the planet and breed workers. And it frees our warriors for duty elsewhere-some compensation for lost time and industrial output.''

"Interesting," said the admiral. "But why not just kill me, steal my mind and imitate me?"

"Would you believe we dislike unnecessary bloodshed?"

"No." Pushing his chair back, Hochmeister rose, facing the S'Cotar across the table. "I've been here three weeks to the day, Shalan-Actal. You've given me the freedom of the post. For which I thank you."

"Colleagueal courtesy, Admiral."

"Perhaps you think me either blind or stupid."

The brigadier-form shook its head. "Not blind. Not stupid. Merely incapable of hurting us alone and unaided."

"I've made some observations."

"Yes?"

"You don't have sufficient force, even with your special powers, even with the replacements you're busy breeding, to hold both this world and its alternate. The war that brought you here, the war you lost, greatly reduced your numbers and your machines. You must be very short of transmutes if you're trying to enlist my aid." Walking past Shalan-Actal, the admiral went to the picture window. He stood looking out over the Green Mountains and the fading splendor of autumn. The S'Cotar turned, watching him.

"Yet, knowing this, you're planning to invade your point of origin. Attacking World One, shall we call it, leaves you vulnerable here. If detected and attacked, you'd be overwhelmed. Failing on World One, you'd have no safe haven to fall back on."