Stephen Berry - The Battle for Terra Two

"The coffee shop's open all night, mezzanine level. Bill it to your room number. They make a nice Spanish omelet. Do take that bloody parka off first." Guan-Sharick's eyes closed again.

Dropping his coat on the desk chair, John went to the window and drew back the curtain. Their room was at least fifteen stories up. Cars moved along the boulevard below; lights shone from the buildings opposite. It could have been any downtown nightscape in any of a hundred cities.

Turning back to the room, he put the attache case on the desk and opened it. Taking out the familiar blue-vinyl CIA briefing book, he settled into the armchair, opening with a sigh to the first of some two hundred pages.

"I feel like a centurion being sent across the Rhine," said John. He and the S'Cotar were walking down the Air Canada concourse. Harrison wore the black uniform of an Urban Command major, leather flight bag slung over his shoulder.

"More like Hadrian's Wall," said Guan-Sharick. "A positon of limited retreat." The S'Cotar seemed recovered from its wound, striding briskly beside John, cheeks ruddy with health, golden hair cascading over white cable-knit sweater. Faded jeans, docksiders and powder-blue down jacket completed the image.

"What if I can't take the portal?" asked John as they reached the boarding gate.

"Then you'll be staying on Terra Two-you won't like it. And don't look for help from above. There are no K'Ronarins in this reality-we checked. Where K'Ronar should be is an asteroid belt."

"Must have made you feel good."

"Luck, John." The blonde kissed him quickly on the lips, two lovers parting, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Choking back the bile that rose to his throat, John wiped his lips with his jacket cuff, glaring after the S'Cotar.

"Final call for Air Canada, Flight One-Seven to Boston," warned the public address system. "Now boarding, gate fourteen."

John's uniform didn't exempt him from the security check. Luggage and person electronically probed, he hurried across the lounge and down the carpeted ramp, making the plane just as the stewardess reached out to pull the door shut.

The aircraft's interior looked like any wide-bodied Lockheed or Boeing, but the blurb in the seat pocket described it as a Fokker-Hughes 803. About half the passengers were American military, most of them wearing the brown-wool class A's of the U.S. Army. Taking the aisle seat, John fastened the seat belt and closed his eyes, falling asleep as the big jet roared down the runway.

"…pee." John opened his eyes. The obese young man in the next seat was shaking his arm. "I'm sorry, but could you get up? I've got to pee."

"Sure." Stepping into the aisle, he let the man out; a round, top-heavy form draped in gray Harris tweed that seemed almost to float, balloonlike, toward the lavatory.

A moment later, the uniformed stewardess appeared, pushing a coffee-and-pastry cart. Giving up on sleep, John took coffee and sweet rolls for himself and his absent neighbor.

Returning from the lavatory, the man introduced himself as he ate. "Walt Wenschel," he said, putting down the pastry and extending his hand.

"Harrison. John Harrison." Shaking the hand, John felt the honey frosting transfer from Wenschel's plump fingers to his. "You live in Boston, Walt?" he asked. Freeing his hand, he slid it under the tray table, rubbing his fingers on his napkin.

"Moving there." He smiled. "One-year, tax-free Urban Zone assignment. I'm a research chemist with Patch-Grumbacher. PG's got a small facility inside the Green Line. Pretty safe, great tax break for PG and me.

"You part of the UC garrison, John?" asked Wenschel.

"G2. Intelligence officer."

The chemist nodded absently. "Want your sugar?" He nodded to the two white packets. "Please, take them."

John closed his eyes as Wenschel stirred four packets of sugar into his cup.

The chemist turned back to him a moment later, set to discourse on Urban Zone tax credits. John was asleep, breathing deeply, chair reclined.

Boston's Saltonstall Airport was a stark, white utilitarian box, all sharp right angles, high ceilings and fluores-cents. Much smaller than the Montreal facility, it held few passengers, mostly male, all well-dressed, and soldiers- lots of soldiers-patrolling in pairs or flanking doorways, deadly little machinepistols slung over their shoulders. Walking from the Air Canada gate toward the waiting area, John counted eighteen of the black-uniformed troopers. None were over thirty, and all were white, with the shifting eyes and expressionless faces of professionals. He felt those eyes follow curiously as he crossed the room, black patent-leather boots clip-clopping on alabaster-white tile.

Have a good look, you bastards, he thought. I've come to save you from slimy green bugs and worse. "Major Harrison."

A short, bald UC officer in black fatigues and combat boots was coming through the waiting area, a. 45 holstered to the webbed belt around his waist, two troopers behind him. "Captain Grady, sir," said the older man, saluting. "Garrison adjutant. Welcome to Boston, Major."

"Thank you, Captain," said John, returning the salute. One of the troopers took his bag.

"We have transport waiting," said Grady. "The Hospital's ten minutes by chopper."

"The Hospital?" said John as Grady led the way toward a "Restricted Access" door.

The captain smiled-the thin smile John came to associate with Terra Two. "They built headquarters on a big hill, over in Roxbury. There was a hospital there once."

The chopper looked like a Vietnam-vintage Huey to John, a black-painted troop carrier complete with helmeted door gunner. Engines roaring, it swept them up and out over the harbor, skirting the brightly lit shore for a few minutes, then turning inland as the city lights vanished.

Holding a safety strap, John stood behind the gunner, ignoring the damp, chill wind knifing through the door cracks. Stars above, dark ground below-he saw little else through the closed plexiglass gunport. Once, far off, there was a glimmer of light, quickly gone.

He gripped the safety strap as the helicopter banked suddenly, dropping toward the brilliantly lit helipad that had flared to life below. The helipad topped an unlit, sprawling structure of uncertain shape, its outline twisting into surreal shadow beyond the landing lights. As they touched down, John saw other Huey-like choppers to one side, and smaller, deadly looking gunships to the other.

"The Hospital," said Grady as they touched down.

Outside, the lights went off, dying to a sullen glow for a few seconds, then vanishing. "Don't want to draw fire," explained the UC officer. The gunner swung the door wide as the rotors died.

"Here." Grady handed John a black helmet with an equally dark visor. "You use starhelms in CIB, Major?" he asked, pulling one on.

"Never used one," said John. Imitating Grady, he fastened the helmet and dropped the visor.

The Huey's dark interior resolved into the phosphorescent hues of infrared-Captain Grady and his squad were now a S'Cotarish green.

"Jungle maintenance would be a bitch," said Grady, making the small jump onto the concrete. "We have elevators. Follow me, please."

Troopers patrolled the roof, green-and-red from a distance, green closer up. The walls were sandbagged, topped with razor wire and interspaced by tarpaulined machine guns and mortars. At the far end of the roof, four sleek surface-to-air missiles pointed skyward.

Walking behind Grady, John saw a tier of circling radar dishes, set atop a square concrete mast above the elevators.

An elevator was waiting, dark inside except for the control panel. As the door shut, the light came on. The two men removed their starhelms.

"UC doesn't have any friends in the neighborhood, does it?" said John.