Stephen Berry - The Battle for Terra Two

The Heather MacKenzie in his briefing should have been in a physics lab on the West Coast.

"Heather," he smiled, taking her hand. His eyes flicked to her coiled-rattler shoulder badge. "Where's Ian?"

Ignoring his questions, she turned to the boy. "Jorge, Tomas left your supper upstairs." She pointed to the balcony. "We got some chocolate bars in today."

Face brightening, Jorge bounded up the stairs.

Heather watched him go, then turned back to John. "He hasn't spoken since his mother was killed in a skirmish, three years ago," she said quietly, shaking her head. "If we only had somewhere decent to send him.

"Sit down, John, please," she said, indicating one of the chesterfield chairs flanking the hearth. They sat.

"Any trouble getting to St. Mark's?"

"No," he said. "I found your note and half a CIB shoulderbadge yesterday, in my boot." The note, disintegrating after he'd read it, gave only a time and place. "I checked out a recon chopper, landed it near St. Mark's and met Jorge."

"And how are you going to explain all that to Aldridge?"

He shrugged. "A G2 has to have some autonomy. Engine trouble forced me down near turf. I repaired it and returned. I've arranged for engine trouble if they look."

"They'll look," she said.

"Where is Ian, Heather? And why aren't you back at Berkeley?"

"My brother's dead," she said. John shook his head. "How?"

"We were scouting Maximus, as requested. We landed in a small valley about a mile from its outer perimeter…"

They'd left their machines-salvaged UC choppers-and moved out on foot: Ian, Heather and a few Vipers. The gangers were in their late teens, early twenties, a mixed group of blacks, Hispanics, Orientals and white ethnics. All were platoon leaders, picked and trained by Ian over the past two years, bloodied in skirmishes with Aldridge's troopers. They were the nucleus of the guerrilla army Ian had molded from a thousand turf-seasoned gangers, part of the "dusky horde" troubling zur Linde's sleep.

Seen through binoculars from the brush, Maximus conveyed a seedy air of neglect: a weathered chain-link fence and a gate, the fence sagging away into the forest, rusty chain and padlock securing the gate. There was no guard, just a peeling sign: "U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY-KEEP OUT." Rising from behind the gate, a narrow dirt road snaked up the mountain, twisting from sight around a bend. Weeds flourished between the road's shallow ruts.

Ian passed the big Zweiss 12x50s to his sister. She looked, shook her head and handed them back. "You're thinking ofattacking that? Why not just wait for a storm to blow it over?"

Ian laughed, looking back at Maximus. He was a big, lantern-jawed man, with his sister's red hair and their mother's green eyes. "Watch," he said, pointing to a sparrow alighting on the fence. Zap! Heather gasped as the bird vanished in a blue flash. Gray smoke rose from a misshapen lump beneath the wire.

"Can't that be shorted?" she asked uncertainly.

"Sure," he nodded. "Once you get through the mines. Then there's the minefield on the other side. And the road's mined too, probably rigged for command detonation. Surviving all that-and we could, 'cause the Outfit's provided maps-at the top there's a battalion of rent-a-Brits: Scots Guards under a brigadier. They're in a heavily fortified position with light artillery. Only after getting past them would we reach the research facility, a brutish agglomeration of concrete and glass-all sharp edges- with staff quarters, labs, power plant, barracks, admin building."

"I see," she said. "But you still haven't told me the reason for all this. Or why you dragged me all the way across the country to be here."

"Two reasons. The people I work for asked for my evaluation of Maximus's defenses. As these same people also provide the Vipers with weapons, materials and training," he pointed to himself, "I agreed." Leaning closer, he dropped his voice. "I've never heard Angel, my controller, sound scared. But he's scared about Maximus. Something up there's frightened the bejesus out of him."

"As for the other reason… Julio!"

The young platoon leader scampered over. "Tell my sister what you told me, please."

During the War, the government had brought levies of cane workers from Puerto Rico to man the vital mainland factories. With thousands of Americans dying every week on the Russian steppes, the draft had stripped the cities of all but the youngest, the oldest and the sickest. It was hoped that the Hispanics would prove docile, tolerating the substandard wages and deteriorating living conditions, the 108-hour work weeks. Many had. But their children, those who survived '68, hadn't.

"Until last year," said Julio in careful, faintly accented English, "Maximus used laborers and cooks from fringe burbs near turf, rotating them every three months. My cousin Raoul was part of a construction crew. At least, that's what they told him when he was hired." The dead UC trooper's field jacket was too large for Julio's small frame. Rocking slightly on his heels, he hugged himself for warmth. "He came home a month overdue. He was old. Old." He shook his head, awed by the memory. "My age, but he looked eighty. Shaking, gnarled hands, wrinkled face. And his mind…"

"Senile?" prompted Heather.

"He could barely sign the monthly disability check."

"Disability check?" Social insurance in America had died young. Social security had been converted to war tax in the dark months of '48 and never restored after the fighting died in '53.

Julio nodded. "Two hundred a month. We moved to West Roxbury, bought a trailer." Cleared of rubble, West Roxbury had no gangers and enjoyed nominal social services. Trees and playgrounds dotted the miles of trailer "parks" -refurbished war surplus units sold and financed for a handsome profit by government licensed brokers to the minorities and ethnics working the industrialized inner burbs.

"How is Raoul?" asked Heather.

"Dead," he said flatly. "Heart failure, arteriosclerosis."

"If we could access UC's data base, we'd know what they're doing up there," said Ian.

"Angel told you nothing?" asked Heather.

"Indirectly he did," Ian smiled wryly. "He asked me if I thought the Berkeley physics department could spare you for a few months. I suggested someone from the Outfit. He said that was 'very tenuous ground,' and changed the subject."

"What sort of physics are they doing up there?" she wondered.

"If we go in, maybe you can tell us." He and Julio rose, giving her a hand up. "But Angel was very firm about wanting a theoretical physicist,. not a bomb guy from Livermore."

"Odd," she said, half to herself. "Now what?"

"Julio and I are going to make a photorecon in the Bell. We did it two months ago, but Angel wants fresh pics." The Bell was the fastest of their choppers, the only one with cameras. "Coming up under their radar, we'll be gone before they can react. But the rest of you get clear first, just in case."

Hiking back to the valley, all but Ian and Julio headed southeast in the big Hueys. After ten minutes, the two took the Bell over the fence at full throttle, following the road up the hill.

Their first pass held no surprises: the same cold architecture as before, no discernible movement anywhere. It was after their second pass, just turning for home, that the Messerschmitt dropped on them from the clouds. Ian tried for the treeline, but the ME's missiles were faster.

Heather didn't see the Bell go down-they were too far away. The orange blip disappearing from her radar told all. Tears streaming unnoticed down her face, she sent the Huey even lower, almost brushing the treetops. Winding out of the Green Mountains and into New Hampshire, she took them home.

It was a setup, John saw. A setup engineered by Guan-Sharick to attract attention to Shalan-Actal's base-to Maximus.