Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

"Lab worker in marine biology tried to shoot me," he said slowly, walking to the desk. "I shot first, then she, it-" He stopped short, spotting Tuckman's head protruding from behind the security station. "What happened?" he asked hoarsely.

"First, holster your weapon," ordered Sutherland. Flannigan complied, slipping his revolver into the holster nestled under his left arm. ' 'Now look behind the desk. Was that what you killed?"

Flannigan peered down over the desk top. Biting his lower lip, he nodded. "It killed the DCI," he surmised, looking up.

Bill nodded. "Never knew what hit him. And neither do we," he added, hefting the dead alien's weapon.

"I'll recall the others, Tim." He placed a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Get yourself some coffee. There are some vending machines down that hall, on the left." He pointed to where a corridor curved out of sight across the lobby, opposite the elevators. "I'll call you."

The agent had gone perhaps ten yards when Bill called casually, "Oh, Tim. When did you become right-handed?"

Flannigan whirled, hand flashing toward his pistol even as Bakunin reached for his own gun and Sutherland fired. A bright-blue bolt took the agent full in the face. His form shimmering, he fell like a stone.

Two dead insectoids now lay in the Institute's lobby, their deep-hued green a stark contrast to the floor's blue-veined Florentine marble.

"You know, Sutherland," said Bakunin, putting his pistol away, "we-you and me-are the only ones here we know aren't… those." He nodded at Flannigan's killer, its short, thin neck ending in a charred stump. "The safest thing, I regret to say, would be to shoot your men as they get off the elevator." He stopped at the American's hard stare.

"Tovarich Colonel Bakunin," said Sutherland coldly, "you are a ruthless son of a bitch. If Marsh, Johnson and Yazanaga aren't Marsh, Johnson and Yazanaga, I'll know. But until I know, all are innocent."

The KGB officer shrugged. "You're a sentimental fool, Sutherland," he said. "And as for ruthless, which of us just spoke of nuking his own country?"

"Did it occur to you, Bakunin, that Flannigan might have been a gremlin all along?" Before the Russian could answer, Bill picked up his radio and recalled his men. Receiving the last acknowledgment, he turned to the phone, then paused. "Why did they jump us, Bakunin? They could easily have carried off the masquerade."

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "they thought we knew more than we did. Or maybe something is happening elsewhere that we're unaware of, Sutherland. I mean, where are they all?" He looked around the deserted lobby. "They should have swarmed over us."

Picking up the phone again, the CIA officer dialed out. "They knew, Bakunin. They knew they were blown! But not by us. It all must tie into the site and my missing people. As soon as I make this call. ..

"Yes, Jose Montanoya, please. William Sutherland, CIA. Find him. This is a national emergency."

Stephen Ames Berry

The Biofab War

McShane was enjoying the hospitality of Implacable'* bridge. He'd just polished off a plateful of tasty, unfamiliar food when L'Wrona called, "We'll be within range in four hours, Captain." The XO sat at the Tactics station vacated by K'Raoda. "No change in enemy status."

"Engagement point?" D'Trelna eyed the three S'Cotar ships' position, shown relative to Implacable'^ on the central screen.

"Midpoint between the asteroid belt and the fourth planet."

L'Wrona turned to McShane. "Did you know that asteroid belt was once a planet, destroyed artificially?"

Bob started. "How can you tell?"

"Radiation traces common to the whole belt. Someone dropped a planetbuster on it a few million years ago. Planet-busters have very long half-lives."

"Stand by for hyperspace," the Captain ordered. Turning away from the screen, he met his men's startled looks.

"Sir, I thought we were going to fight," said L'Wrona after an instant's hesitation.

"Oh, we are," D'Trelna replied. "But we're no match for three heavy cruisers, even with our hodgepodge of Imperial systems."

He smiled at their confusion. "Our drive, though, because it is Imperial, allows for short, very precise jumps. We're going to drop right into that task force."

"Sir, the drive has never been tested to those tolerances," protested N'Trol. He took a step away from his station. "Anything could go wrong."

"Archives assures us that the Imperials ran their drives to such close tolerances," replied the Captain easily.

"But sir, that was thousands of years ago!"

"Bah! You overhauled that equipment yourself, Commander, no more than six months ago. You're the best engineer in the Confederation, N'Trol. That drive will perform as specified, I have no doubt." D'Trelna waved down any further protests.

"I'm warmed by your respect for my command ability," he said gravely. "Now shall we stand by for hyperspace?"

They had jumped to it, L'Wrona running figures and laying in coordinates, the rest busying themselves at their stations. An alert klaxon hooted.

"Cycling up, Captain. Two minutes eight seconds to jump." The XO's tone was one of quiet efficiency.

"Quite a little democracy you have here, Captain," Bob observed amid the bustle.

"We've been an independent rabble for a long time, Professor." D'Trelna smiled crookedly, half-turning toward the Terran. "A trait, happily, not yet undone by the present emergency.

"There are some"-his face clouded-"who'd like to see a return to the grand ways of the Imperium. The glory of battle, the unthinking obedience, the stifling of initiative. And perhaps, if this war continues much longer, they'll have their way." Lips pursed, he nodded thoughtfully, then stabbed a finger at the deck. "But not on my ship," he growled.

"How long is the jump?" McShane asked after a moment.

"Ten nanoseconds," said L'Wrona, picking up on the question.

"Please tell our guest what an error of a picosecond would do," D'Trelna said. "I want him to appreciate my daring."

The XO nodded, looking up from his console, his work finished. He swiveled to meet McShane's gaze. "One picosecond short will cause us to blow up, far from our target. One picosecond over and we'll explode inside the sixth planet."

"An event that wouldn't do us or the planet much good," D'Trelna observed dryly.

L'Wrona glanced back at his console. "One minute to jump."

"Set all Weapons systems to automatic, Mr. N'Dreyna," the Captain ordered the Weapons Officer, "and tie them in with Tactics' program."

"All systems tied in, sir," the young Ensign reported.

"Should I strap myself in, or something?" Bob asked, hands searching his chair for belt or harness. There wasn't any.

"Don't worry." The XO leaned back in his chair, eyes on the screen. "It will be over before our minds can comprehend-one way or the other.

"Thirty seconds."

"If we're very lucky," the Captain said to no one in particular, "their shields will be down, so far from Terra. We'll emerge from nowhere and blow them away."

"Fifteen seconds."

"Of course," he mused, "if not…"

"Ten seconds."

"Their shields will be up…"

"Five seconds."

"And they'll blast us."

"Jump!"

McShane thought his stomach flopped, but later wrote it off to imagination. There seemed to be no transition. One instant they were alone in space, the next the screen blazed with light. It was over before Bob could blink.

"All targets destroyed!" The usually reserved L'Wrona leaped up, pounding his smirking Captain on the back. Implacable reverberated to jubilant whoops and the screech of alarms touched off in celebration.

Good-naturedly enduring the tumult for a moment, D'Trelna finally held up his hands. "All right, everyone! Stations, please!