Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

The chairs swiveled slowly about. Six empty chairs.

Drop your weapons or die where you stand, hissed something cold in all their minds.

The bridge swarmed with warriors.

K'Raoda had briefed McShane as the three of them rode the small, open hovercar through Revenge's broad, empty corridors-more roadways than corridors-eerily still save for the vehicle's quiet purr.

"All we know of the mindslaves comes from POCSYM and N'Rar's Annals of the Empire," said the young officer. "Both say you must dominate the mindslaves, force them to your will."

He broke off, grabbing for a sidebar as D'Trelna banked sharply around a corner at full speed, yet another of Bob's cigars clenched between his teeth.

"Sorry," grunted the Captain. "You may not believe it, but I once fit into the cockpit of an esper fighter."

"Professor," continued the Tactics Officer, "you must overcome their initial resistance. It's imperative."

"And if I fail?"

D'Trelna spoke as K'Raoda hesitated. "They'll burn your cognitive centers out just to feel you twitch," he growled. "Don't fail."

They pulled up before a small door neatly lettered "Sym-biotechnic Control Facility."

"Remember," added K'Raoda, "don't mindlink until POCSYM has us in orbit. And leave your communicator open on tactical. We'll be on the bridge, driving this battlewagon. You've got forty-five minutes to take control. Assuming our friends succeed aboard Nasqa, we'll need all the firepower you can give us. Good luck."

As soon as he was inside, they drove off.

An innocuous little room, thought Bob, to house something that excited so much horror.

Two thickly padded armchairs faced a soaring, blank screen-"primary battleboard," POCSYM had called it. Above each chair hung a translucent, bowl-shaped helmet, similar to POCSYM's teaching helms.

"Just sit in one of the chairs," POCSYM had instructed. "The helmet descends. What happens then varies each time. But you, not the mindslaves, must control events. And beware: they're treacherous."

The condemned man enjoyed a hearty last cigar, thought the academician, patting his pockets as he walked down the spiral staircase into the pit. Reaching the bottom, he groaned: D'Trelna had filched his last panatela. C'est la guerre. He smiled wistfully, recalling another war, other faces.

Bob wasn't long alone with his memories before D'Trelna called, "We're in space, Professor. Please begin."

"Tactical. Beginning now." He sank into one of the comfortable chairs, remembering, as the helmet lowered, to repeat "Tactical," keeping the channel open. The helmet settled down over his ears.

It began at once.

Hall, comrade, came a single, gentle whisper that was also many. Welcome to our sepulcher. Long have we waited. What service may the penitent perform for Emperor and Empire?

The Empire is dust, thought Bob. You may, however, save all humanity from that which would destroy it.

Surely a noble task, comrade, came the ghostly chorus. We would know more, but sense that time is precious. Open your mind to us, that we may know all.

Thank you, no. You've earned a durable reputation for malevolence.

One in which we take some pride, comrade.

There was a fierce buzzing, as of angry bees in condave, then the attack Bob had expected struck.

Sharp stingers probed his mind's defenses, trying to win through. But the needles of raw mental energy couldn't penetrate, deflected by the professor's shield.

Oblivious to the hatred tearing at him, Bob was calmly reviewing Descartes's proofs for the existence of God.

"Tight little coffin," said John, looking about the tiny cell into which the Terrans were crammed, deep within Nasqa. The gray of the surrounding walls was broken only by the slight shimmer of the force field securing the doorway. A small, oval-shaped hole in the corner of the floor was the only amenity.

"They were expecting us," said Zahava after a moment's glum silence.

"How, though?" asked John, tentatively feeling the force field with his fingertips. The shimmer became a blur and he could move his hand no further. Giving up, he turned back to his companions.

"Maybe we triggered their intruder alert system after all," suggested Sutherland.

"They'd have cut us down as we arrived," John said. "No. Zahava's right-it was a trap, carefully laid. Nasqa's crew had some lead time."

"Well, what now?" asked Bakunin. "They're probably going to interrogate us as they did your late President."

"We've got to escape-soon," said Zahava.

"Surely, Andre," Sutherland said, eyeing the Russian with a certain satisfaction, "the KGB must have a technique for breaking out of jail? Or do you just concern yourselves with keeping people in them?"

"Not my department, Bill," responded Bakunin with a negligent wave of his hand. "And a cheap shot, too, after all we've been through."

Their conversation was ended by the arrival of two warriors and a transmute. The doorway barrier vanished.

Come with us. The S'Cotar pointed their blasters at John, their leader motioning him away from the others with a flick of his pistol.

Silent till now, Greg elbowed his way past John. "We're all idiots," he said irritably, stepping in front of the leveled weapons. "We forgot about the warsuits-and so did they!"

With a shout, he threw himself on the aliens, dragging them down even as they fired.

"Take 'em!" barked John.

It was short and messy, the humans kicking and gouging for the eyes, the insectoids fighting back with tentacles and mandibles, Zahava ending it with a captured blaster.

The victors stood, a collection of bruises and cuts. All but Greg. The lanky geologist lay unmoving between two of the enemy dead. Gently turning him, John saw why: most of Greg's stomach was gone. His warsuit had failed, as he must have known it would, beneath the close fire of several weapons.

John gently closed his friend's sightless eyes and stood, face grim and set. "I say we still have time to take the bridge. Agreed?''

From somewhere deep within Descartes, McShane half noticed the mindslaves' attack waning, the once-sharp buzzing now muted. Distant but distinct, a voice called his name.

"D'Trelna to McShane. S'Cotar forward elements are coming within range. See if you can activate the Weapons systems. Bridge monitors still show them down."

With a small mental sigh, Bob carefully shelved Descartes, then called, Brothers, sisters, I call upon you to right ancient wrongs.

The buzzing stopped.

I exhort you by the names of all those whom you condemned to your fate, right the wrong you've done. Destroy the enemy now before you.

The whisper that was one-yet-many sounded again.

Bob pondered his reply.

Yes, he finally answered. I promise. Help us now and it shall be done.

When?

When the enemy is destroyed.

It is agreed.

The battleboard came alive, transformed into a three-dimensional projection of the solar system. The advancing S'Cotar were now well inside the orbit of Mars, deployed in a great wedge pointed straight at Earth.

They are within our range, comrade. You have but to give the command.

He spoke it aloud. "Fire."

The Terrans had almost reached Nasqa's bridge when the alarm sounded, this time for them.

Not that the four could hear it. A passing group of warriors whirled and fired. Thanks to the warsuits and Zahava's vigilance, the insectoids died in the exchange, not the humans.

Then it was a desperate, running battle the rest of the way to the bridge. John leading, they weaved through a maze of corridors, blasting down the enemy before them, keeping those behind at bay.

A mixed party of warriors and transmutes guarded the bridge, weapons ready. They opened fire just as John and Zahava lobbed the small spheroids taken from their utility belts.