Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

The K'Ronarins weren't the only ones, though, capable of finding and refitting old Imperial ships. Using such a vessel, the S'Cotar gave the appropriate recognition codes and landed far from civilization. Destroying their ship, the transmutes scattered across the globe. Congratulating themselves on penetrating POCSYM's defenses, they began their search for the computer.

Over the next half century, they found and destroyed many of the small transporter/temple sites, used by the Colonial Service teams for intraplanetary movement and training of locals. They had no luck, though, in finding any of the main bases.

POCSYM was able to subtly alter their detector readings. Twice, the S'Cotar thought they'd scanned an underground installation. Each time, their assault force teleported into solid rock, miles below the surface. No third attempt was made.

Knowing they couldn't seize Terra until POCSYM was taken out, and finding their resources to do so inadequate, the S'Cotar established a base on a Martian satellite. From there, they augmented their force on Earth, teleporting at great risk through POCSYM's defenses. Thus reinforced, the insectoids infiltrated key posts in one of the more powerful Terran states. With its resources clandestinely at their disposal, the S'Cotar hoped to locate and quietly destroy the pesky computer. Implacable's unexpected arrival and the imminent discovery of a functioning transporter site by the Terrans had forced the S'Cotar into a premature battle…

Stephen Ames Berry

The Biofab War

John awoke to something soft beating him in the face. Reaching out, he wrested the small, round pillow from Zahava's hands.

"Mouth breather!" she accused. "You were snoring!" She slid from his grasp, stepping onto the deep-carpeted floor. "Pleasant dreams?" she asked, ducking into the bathroom.

"Enlightening, perhaps. Shouldn't believe everything you dream, though." Rising, he looked for his clothes. "Seems to be a pilferage problem," he grumbled, not finding them.

"You'll find fresh Colonial Service uniforms in the wardrobe," advised POCSYM's voice.

"Do you always eavesdrop?" He opened the wardrobe door. Duplicates of last night's attire, clean and flawlessly pressed, hung there. Warsuits and blasters lay neatly stacked atop a shelf.

"Actually, yes. It's my programming. I'm sorry if it offends you."

"What time is it?" asked John.

"Ten-ten A.M., eastern standard time."

"Do you keep track of the time in each zone?" he asked, poking about the wardrobe's shelves.

"No. I listen to a lot of FM-mostly classical," confessed POCSYM. "I got the time check from one of the Manhattan stations."

"Oh."

"Yes, I've monitored radio and television transmissions since their inception. It helps keep me abreast of the geopolitical situation, and allows me to record changes in the mores and folkways of the various cultures.

"I have statistical evidence, in fact, that minor changes in social mores are frequently engineered by the media."

"Comforting," drawled John, ending his search of the wardrobe. "You wouldn't happen to have a razor, would you?"

"Depilatory cream is on the third shelf behind the bath mirror. You should find all necessary toiletries there."

Before John could move, Zahava closed the bathroom door. A shower started.

"Anyone else up yet?" he asked.

"I am," boomed a voice. Bob came in, looking a bit absurd in his Colonial Service uniform. "Don't let our pompous wizard bamboozle you," he said, jerking a thumb toward the wall. "For all its supposed scientific objectivity, it's accumulated an extraordinary number of operatic recordings. It favored me with an original cut of Caruso in The Barber of Seville- Caruso, John! God only knows how he… it… got it."

Sitting on his bunk, tugging on a boot, John grunted, "We all have pronoun problems with Mr. POCSYM.

"Were you given the same dream as we were?" he asked, squeezing his left foot into the tight-fitting K'Ronarin boot.

"Mighty ships, pigmy humans, Imperial noblesse oblige!" Bob smiled.

"You doubt?" asked John, rising.

"Someone should be a doubting Thomas. I'm bunked with D'Trelna and that cynical old space dog ate it up. If he did, the rest probably did.

"Oh, I accept all this"-he waved a vague hand about-"a priori. Direct evidence and the reasoned judgment of our intellect says this isn't a Borges fantasy. But we have only POC-SYM's word for this revisionist history-three-dimensional and in living color though it may be. No, I reserve judgment. You?"

"The same. Logic compels caution. We've been thrust into the midst of a galactic war whose-"

The bathroom door vanished. Steam billowed in, a naked form dimly visible through the mist. Bob's hasty exit ended the conversation.

At breakfast, John asked a question that'd been nagging him. "CIA and KGB, working as a team?" His gaze shifted between Bakunin and Sutherland. "Things must really have changed since I left. You'll put yourselves out of a job."

Zahava and Greg looked up with interest. McShane, listening intently to K'Raoda, took no notice.

"Not really our fault," said Sutherland between mouthfuls of what looked like fresh blueberry blintzes, bacon and coffee. "It started with Admiral Canaris's Abwehr," he said, naming the Third Reich's military intelligence arm.

"Abwehr stumbled onto a site very much like the one at Goose Hill." Bakunin picked up the tale. "It was used by the French Resistance as a storage and staging area. An Abwehr raiding party arrived at the site just as what we now know were S'Cotar transmutes dropped in-probably looking for POCSYM." He paused, sipping coffee.

Sutherland pushed his plate away with a contented sigh. "The meeting between the Nazis and the S'Cotar was Hobbes-ian: 'nasty, brutish and short.' The bugs teleported away, destroying the site as they left. Only one of the Abwehr unit lived through the carnage. He carried a map, snatched from the S'Cotar, showing the probable locations of POCSYM's transporter sites."

"An SS officer got the map," said Bakunin, picking up the story, "then gave it to us and the Americans after the war. By that time, though, all the sites we could find had been destroyed. As proved true with the CIA's explorations."

"Why did you and the Russians cooperate, Bill?" asked Greg. "Especially during the cold war." Unnoticed, the window now showed a red-sailed galley skimming an azure sea. High above its fifty-oared deck, something gold caught the sun.

"Each side was sobered," said Sutherland, stirring cognac into his coffee, "by the way those transporter sites had been destroyed. Someone-something-used energy weapons far beyond our ken." He watched the cream curdle to the surface.

"Confronted by this, we didn't rush to embrace like kids trapped in a wild storm-not quite. Let's just say that on this topic, and this topic alone, there's been a warm rapprochement over the years, carried on at the highest levels of government.''

"I have a question for the good Captain," said John, appropriating some of Sutherland's cognac. "If the S'Cotar can teleport-and we know they can-why did they storm Goose Hill a second time? Why not just teleport in and blow us to pieces while we were still outside? They had the location from their first attack."

D’Trelna, seated next to McShane, was puffing on one of Bob's cigars. He removed the panatela from his mouth, thoughtfully regarding its profile before answering.

"Frankly, I don't know. And I don't like it. Their entire method of operation has been different in your solar system. Downright incompetent, really. All we can do is hope that they continue that way, for whatever reason." He stuck the cigar back into his mouth.

"Another question," said Zahava. "How do you explain the invisibility of all those warriors over the years? If, as you say, they're nontelepaths, how could they maintain a protective illusion?"