Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

The battle soon disintegrated as more and more S'Cotar arrived, the humans disappearing beneath struggling piles of S'Cotar.

The corridor nearly secured, a party of warriors directed by a transmute began working on the transport room door, burning into it with a large, semiportable blaster.

"Not long now," said D'Trelna, watching the battle on his monitor. Picking up his blaster, he turned to face the now-glowing door.

McShane lifted a rifle from beside K'Raoda and quietly joined Implacable's Captain. "Civilization, my friend, usually requires old men to die quietly, antiseptically. I thank you for letting me go with good friends in an epic stand for humanity. It's something given to few." He clicked the safety off.

"Sir!" called K'Raoda, looking up. "I think-"

"Might as well draw your sidearm and join us, Subcom-mander," said D'Trelna. His eyes were riveted on the door, now glowing a fierce red. Waves of heat washed into the room. "Keep to one side. They've got a semi going."

"Captain," the Tactics Officer said sharply, not obeying, "I've received an acknowledgment from-"

The S'Cotar were gone.

Like that.

After a stunned moment, those of the defenders who could rise did so, looking uncertainly about.

"Where'd they go?" called Sutherland, helping Bakunin out from under a dead warrior. The KGB officer retrieved his blade from the S'Cotar's thorax, wiping it on the corpse and returning it to his boot sheath.

"Far, far away, I hope," he said wearily.

"You can thank Subcommander K'Raoda for our deliverance," said D'Trelna, exiting through the still-smoldering but operable transport room doorway. "He seems to have aroused the computer."

"Indeed he has, Captain," said a deep, resonant voice. It was the same rich contralto Zahava, Bob, Greg and John had last heard ordering them into the transport web. "I've sent the S'Cotar where they'll do no further harm."

"Identify yourself," snapped D'Trelna, looking about. He could spot no speakers anywhere, yet the voice filled the corridor.

"I am Planetary Operations Control System, Mode Six, programmed by the Imperial Colonial Service on K'Ronar, Imperium 2028," the unruffled voice responded.

K'Raoda's jaw dropped. "Captain, that was…"

"I know. Five thousand years ago, more or less. "Where did you send the S'Cotar, computer?"

"My operational acronym is POCSYM Six, Captain. As for the enemy, they've been placed in the center of the sun."

"Why did you take so long to respond?" demanded K'Raoda.

"Can you defend this planet against further attack?" the Captain asked.

"Please, gentlemen," demurred POCSYM. "First let me assure you that there is no further danger of direct assault.

"Secondly, with your permission, let me convey the dead and wounded to Implacable and yourselves to comfortable quarters, where we can talk."

D'Trelna cast a glance at where two medics, Terran and K'Ronarin, were doing what they could for the wounded- fully a fifth of the human force. He tried to ignore the still, shrouded forms lying along the wall, but couldn't.

"All right." The Captain sighed. "But I must speak with my ship."

"You're already in touch with them, Captain," said POCSYM. "Every word of this conversation and a video are being transmitted to your bridge."

"D'Trelna to Implacable. What is your status?"

L'Wrona's voice filled not just the commnet but the air as well. "All secure, sir. All enemy craft disappeared-they didn't go into hyperspace. They just vanished. Could POCSYM have-"

"You assume correctly, Commander L'Wrona. I transported all attack craft to the same place as their ground force."

"Pouff!" exclaimed Bakunin, with a gesture.

"'Pouff to many familiar things soon, Colonel," said Sutherland, tiredly removing his helmet. "Including, I suspect, the dictatorship of the proletariat."

"Very well," D’Trelna said. "Transport when ready."

The Goose Hill site stood empty.

"'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,'" quoted McShane, opening his eyes.

His first impression was of a big room awash with sunlight, the air redolent of roses. Baroque music was playing.

Looking around, he filled in the gaps: the room was large, comfortably furnished in flawlessly sculpted teak, a long, luxuriant table its centerpiece; there were roses, four bouquets of American beauties gracing the side tables beneath bay windows; and it was music of the Baroque period, possibly Vivaldi. No devotee of the period, McShane reserved judgment.

"Vivaldi, I think," said John. "One of the Seasons."

The others, equally tattered, tired and begrimed, stood silently drinking in the room's subdued elegance. John glanced out a window and started.

"Who are those men?" he asked. "And what are they building?"

They all turned to look. In a hollow, perhaps a mile away, thousands of tiny figures labored atop three huge stone terraces, busily constructing a fourth.

"Nabopolassar throws a tower to heaven in honor of Mar-duk," said POCSYM. "When it's done, it will have eight stories totaling two hundred and eighty-eight feet and contain a statue of Marduk cast in twenty-six tons of pure gold. It will be thrown down by Xerxes, pondered over by Alexander and partially restored by Koldewy."

"The Tower of Babel," breathed McShane.

"Yes, Professor," POCSYM confirmed. "Etemenanki- the Tower of Babel. Classical hubris at its height. I thought it might entertain you.

"I have videos of all major human works and disasters of the past fifty centuries. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah is particularly affecting, but not before dinner, which now awaits."

Turning back to the room, they saw the table now groaning under a vast selection of steaming entrees, some Terran, some K'Ronarin.

"I've attempted to select food from each culture which would be palatable to the other," said POCSYM.

"POCSYM," John said wearily, "we've no wish to be impolite, but we are a bit travel-stained." Their warsuits were caked with green slime and dirt. "Might we wash up?"

"Of course, Mr. Harrison. I've been remiss as a host.

"Through the door"-an exit appeared where a wall had been-"are the old staff quarters. Each room has toilet facilities. Two men to a room."

As they filed out, POCSYM added, "No need to hurry-I'll put the food in stasis." The steam stopped in midrise over the food.

"Actually, this works out rather well," said the computer, its voice accompanying them down the broad, mosaic-tiled corridor. "The wines will have a chance to breathe."

"This can't be five thousand years old!" protested Greg, waving his long-stemmed crystal wineglass. "It looks new."

Something light, airy and Viennese played merrily in the background: Roses from the South.

"All but my basic monitoring and defense clusters were in stasis until just before dinner, Mr. Farnesworth," said POCSYM. "Although on a very passive, almost subconscious level, I was observing your group's activities."

"You avoided a question before dinner, POCSYM," said the Captain, eating what Zahava was sure must be either sau-teed eel or snake. Like the rest, he now wore coveralls bearing the insignia of the Imperial Colonial Service: clasped hands surmounting a silver-wreathed planet.

"Why did you wait so long to intervene? You saw our casualties."

"I regret the delay, Captain," the earnest baritone responded. "But it took some while to determine that you were actually the legitimate heirs to the Imperium and then to activate my defense circuits. Recall that I've been on standby for fifty centuries."

"Can you defend Terra?" asked Sutherland.

"Can and have, sir, within certain limitations, but only if so ordered by the senior K'Ronarin officer."

"So ordered," said D’Trelna between mouthfuls.