Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

"Please, follow my and my officers' orders explicitly. We don't harbor delusions of cultural or intellectual superiority. But when it comes to fighting this particular plague, we're experts. We have the scars to prove it.

"Agreed?"

"We're with you," said Sutherland. "What choice do we have?" he added, firmly shaking D'Trelna's hand. "What are your instructions, Captain?"

"Select your men from the military force topside, Mr. Sutherland," said the K'Ronarin. "Take them to the supply shuttle-it's the third one on the beach-for weapons. Brief them, then have them report here to me."

With a nod, Bill led his team from the room, wondering what he'd tell the square-jawed infantry Colonel now uselessly deploying his men along the hill. A lie couched in truth, probably. It usually worked.

"I'll command the ground action," D'Trelna said as the door closed. "Commander K'Raoda will continue trying to activate the defenses. If I'm killed, he'll assume command, followed by Sergeant D'Nir of my commandos.

"Now, gather around, please." He spread a map of the installation out on top of the equipment. "Let me explain our strategy-such as it is."

Montanoya hung up the phone. "We can't contact Goose Hill or Otis," he said to the other man in the Oval Office. "Best we can do is raise one of the bridge blockades or that destroyer off Falmouth. The Cape's undergoing some very sophisticated jamming." The calmness of his voice surprised him.

Sixtyish, Mexican-American, one of his country's finest career ambassadors before becoming National Security Advisor, Montanoya felt powerless. It wasn't the aliens or the K'Ronarins or the pending battle; it was the lack of data. The future of his planet, the survival of humanity were being decided on a spit of land five hundred miles north and he didn't know what was happening.

"Should we send more troops?" asked Doug MacDonald, the first liberal Democrat president in four terms. At present, MacDonald looked haggard, in spite of his Southern California good looks. He hadn't slept or eaten since the whole madness started.

"Last word we had was that most of our forces were withdrawing at the K'Ronarins' request. Seems we're not equipped for a thirtieth-century war."

"I can't take this, Jose. The entire course of human history's being decided out there and here we sit, waiting for the damn phone to ring." He nodded curtly. "The hell with it. Have them call Andrews and ready Air Force One. We're going to Cape Cod."

Montanoya protested, despite feeling similar sentiments. "I wish you'd reconsider, sir. Evidently that place's going to be hell on earth soon. Given the type of weapons used-"

MacDonald cut him short. "The entire character of civilization is already being altered, Jose. Just contacting an alien culture will change it. And under these traumatic circumstances, none of us may survive the experience.

"No." He turned from the window. "I'm of no use here-I might as well be in the thick of it.

"You don't have to come, Jose," he added gently.

Montanoya's sallow complexion grew even darker. "You didn't say that when we were boarding an LST for Omaha Beach, Doug," he said softly. "I'll forget you said it now."

He walked over to FDR's mahogany desk and picked up the phone.

"Enemy contact, sir," reported the crewman to L'Wrona's right.

"Let's have a look," the XO ordered.

The battlescreen flared into life. Five darting needles rushed in V formation over the Earth's curve, rapidly closing on the much larger arrow of Implacable.

"Battlestations. Stand by Weapons crews." L'Wrona keyed into Tactics. Glancing at the readout, he said, "Message to ground force. 'Enemy contact. Five Deadeye class fighters. We are engaging. Message ends.'"

"Ninety seconds to weapons range," N'Trol reported from the Tactics console.

Three of the needles peeled off, dropping away. The other two continued straight toward Implacable.

"Message to ground force," said L'Wrona. "'Be advised three enemy interceptors on heading Terra. Message ends.'

"Stand by to engage. Independent fire."

An instant later the serenity of space was torn by streaking missile and probing beam.

"Here they come!" cried D'Nir, looking up from the portable detector screen.

D'Trelna bounded from K'Raoda's side to the detector. A quick look was all he needed.

"Tactical," he snapped. "Everyone get below. We're about to be blasted by S'Cotar fighters."

"I'm getting too old for this," wheezed McShane as he and John ran from the hilltop down the rocky path to the tunnel's blasted entrance. The passageway was filled with tense men adjusting warsuits and checking weapons. There was little conversation.

From his position at the detector screen, D'Trelna watched as the sleek black fighters dived on Goose Hill, dropped small glowing orbs of destruction, then wheeled, clawing for altitude as the greatest explosion yet rocked the hill.

"That's to cut off our retreat!" shouted the Captain above the roar. John and Bob burst into the room.

"The proverbial kitchen sink?" asked Bob.

"Small version of a planetbuster," D'Trelna said. "Very small."

K'Raoda was still coolly entering series after series of Imperial computer codes into the terminal as fast as they flashed over the screen from Implacable's archives.

D'Trelna alerted the men waiting in the passageway. "Any second now they'll start materializing. Good luck." Drawing his sidearm, he checked it, then laid it carefully on the console.

"And good luck to you, old friend," said John, leaving to join Zahava and Greg in the tunnel. He gave the older man a fond hug.

"Keep your head down," growled the professor. "You haven't got your degree yet.

"How close do they have to be to teleport, Captain?" he asked, turning to the officer as the door slid shut.

"Technically, from anywhere on the planet or in orbit. But I'll bet their staging area is nearby. They have to rally transmutes and warriors from across Terra, brief them and launch a coordinated attack. Nearby." He nodded.

"And, Professor, they'll be very damned good."

John and Zahava stood diagonally opposite each other in the passageway, a pattern repeated one hundred yards to either side of the transport room.

(K'Raoda, briefly leaving his post to help position the men, had cheerfully told Zahava the formation's name: Last Ditch Gambit. "Delays but never stops them.")

Each end of the formation was anchored by two small, floating spheres, constantly patrolling back and forth, up and down. Six more of the machines guarded the length and breadth of the vaulted ceiling above the men's heads. On their usefulness the Captain had had a few words earlier.

"Good only for the first wave or two, but they will take the edge from the enemy's advantage of surprise.

"After thirty seconds, the guard spheres will self-destruct- the S'Cotar can reprogram small robots. We'd be cut down by our own guns."

The S'Cotar were in the corridor, firing as they materialized.

John snapped a shot into the nearest warrior. The bolt burned through a mandible, boring into the alien's brain. Dying, its twitching tentacles sent a deadly blue beam glancing harmlessly off John's warsuit. As the insectoid fell, he turned, parrying a knife thrust with his rifle.

The pattern of one-on-one combat was being repeated the length of the passageway, as hellish energies again gouged into the scarred tunnel rock, blasting through flesh and stone with impunity.

The guard spheres, their time up, died, sinking to the floor with a soft whoosh. One landed next to where Greg and a warrior fought, the man trying to keep the insectoid's pincers from his throat, the alien straining to keep the other's knife from its gut.