Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

"Then why the hell are you here?" Sutherland asked peevishly, the boat's evasive maneuvers beginning to affect his stomach. "The Order of Lenin?"

"The order of Comrade General Branovsky, Bill. Recall that we're the only Terrans allowed aboard the Fleet, pending a formal exchange of ambassadors…"

Sutherland gave a derisive snort. "The secret selection squabble at the UN could go on forever. Maybe we should ask POCSYM to build us a Terran ambassador acceptable to all Terrans!

"I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"That I'm here both to show the hammer-and-sickle and to keep an eye on you. The head of my Directorate told me, explicitly, what would become of me if you, capitalist lackey, went without me anywhere in the Fleet. The General's a Stalinist with a gift for vivid imagery. Thus we've toured a score of ships together and are now embarked on this pleasant excursion."

Another near hit shook the boat.

"Missile," noted L'Wrona, calmly checking his blaster.

"Two minutes to target, Commander," the pilot called. "We're through the shield. I have the landing zone in sight."

"Attention, all boats," said L'Wrona. "Two minutes to target. Subcommanders, get your sections in position on the double. We've got to follow through on Fleet's salvo, overcome any outside resistance and enter the citadel before the enemy rallies.

"Good luck.

"And you three," he added to the Terrans, "stay close to me."

Deep within the citadel lay Defense Control, nestled behind ten-foot walls of battlesteel, accessible only by teleport or transport. Tier upon tier of consoles filled the bowl-shaped room, screens flickering above them.

Gaun-Sharick arrived, answering an urgent summons.

They appear to be enemy scout craft, Glorious, reported the Watch Leader, antennae wavering uncertainly. But that formation is unknown to us.

Commando attack craft, replied Gaun-Sharick, watching a telltale. The ion emission patterns are the same. And that's an Imperial assault formation. Note the double prongs. Idiots.

Sound the alert. Reinforce our warriors in POCSYM's area. Signal all batteries to open fire.

The alarm went out, orders and responses flashing back and forth. Unwelcomed responses.

Impedance on all command-control circuits, Glorious. We cannot fire.

POCSYM. It was a dry curse. Shield status?

Maximum.

Start recircuiting missile batteries nearest Sector Red Twelve. They'll be trying for POCSYM's area.

New orders were issued. Nearer the surface, in hardened defense clusters, technicians began the laborious task of recalibrating scores of shipbuster batteries.

Have no concern, Glorious. The shield will stop them. If they tarry too long before retreating, we will have enough firepower to destroy them.

Perhaps. Carry on, Watch Leader. I'm going to Barracks Cluster Blue Thirty to oversee the reinforcing of Red Twelve.

Nothing happened. Gaun-Sharick remained where he was, unmoving. Then his thoughts came to every S'Cotar in the citadel.

Do not be alarmed. Some of our special ability is temporarily blocked. We of Command will soon remove the impediment.

Swarm Leaders, Blue Thirty, move your forces into Red Twelve. Use the old tube system. A human assault force is trying to reach POCSYM's Central Control. Kill them.

Surface Guard, Red Twelve, deploy.

Missiles firing in Red Twelve, Glorious. The Watch Leader's tentacles flew over his console. Counter jamming now. Telekinesis will be restored soon.

On thousands o? channels, in ever-changing codes, creator and created fought.

The boats landed close to each other, churning up the dust in the small lunar valley. The webbing automatically retracted, the bulkheads dropping away. All but engines and pilot modules lay open to the vacuum.

"Deploy," barked L'Wrona, leading the rush to the nearest cover. In three minutes the one thousand men of his command were in position, a long, thin line of silver-suited figures extending along the base of a ridge.

L'Wrona signaled the advance. Reaching the ridge's crest in a series of practiced, graceful leaps, the troopers threw themselves prone in the ancient dust. Awkward, bounding at first in every direction, the three Terrans eventually reached the top, their bodies still uncertain in the light lunar gravity.

Below the humans lay a large box canyon. Suited figures with too many limbs moved from the far end, emerging from an entrance in the farthest wall. As the humans watched, more warriors poured into the canyon, leaping to take up positions on the flanking ridges-one of which now had human tenants.

"Hot time in the ol' town tonight," a voice murmured.

"Mr. Sutherland, your communicator's open," said L'Wrona. "Admiral, we're in position."

"Acknowledged," came L'Guan's voice. "Commencing fire."

Those who looked up saw a brilliant beam of red flash down from space. Stayed by an invisible hand, it halted a mile above the canyon. Hesitating briefly, the S'Cotar continued their advance, still unaware of the commandos.

More beams joined the first, forming a great cone of energy whose focal point began to glow-red, crimson, finally cherry. Too late the biofabs turned, scurrying back toward the

In a soundless blast of showering rock, the fusion beams won through, becoming a hundred dancing spears that touched the S'Cotar surface guard, then vanished.

Nothing moved in the canyon.

L'Wrona stood, a lone silver man shining in silhouette against the rising Earth's soft pastels. Lying in the dust, Sutherland watched as the Commander raised the long-barreled blaster above his head. Despite his helmet's darkened glass, Bill had to squint against the fierce golden reflection from the inlay just below the weapon's safety: crossed swords beneath a five-pointed star, a device soft-burnished by the hands of the Margraves of U'Tria.

A young Daniel come to judgment, thought Sutherland even as L'Wrona cried, "Assault!" his voice long, wavering. It sounded to Bill more like an invocation than an order.

Gaining the canyon floor in a few long leaps, the humans passed the S'Cotar's ashes, heading for the gate. At a hundred yards, L'Wrona halted his command with raised pistol. "Admiral, the gate, please."

A quick red lancet bored through the thick battlesteel, leaving behind a smoldering hole. Beyond stretched an empty corridor, most of its lighting still functioning.

A scream whirled the troopers about. Not all the biofabs had died in the bombardment. A hidden squad had sprung up, surprising the rear guard. Three men died before the massive return fire swept the warriors away.

L'Wrona turned back to the entrance. Blaster leveled, he warily entered the citadel.

There were no side corridors, the commandos found as they advanced; just the main one, leading to a very large elevator. "Ship lift," observed L'Wrona. "Too small for anything the S'Cotar have. Imperial Survey probably used it last. Let's see if it works." He pushed the call button.

The elevator arrived quickly, mammoth doors sliding noiselessly open. It was empty. The blasters raised to greet it slowly lowered.

"V'Arta," said the Commander, "remain here with your section to cover our withdrawal." His friend nodded, then began organizing the hundred men of C Section into a defense ring around the lift.

"H'Nar," said Zahava, laying a restraining hand on L'Wrona's shoulder, "how do you know the elevator isn't booby-trapped?''

"I don't," he said, stepping into the elevator. The first section trooped in past him. "I count on the S'Cotar's arrogance. They'd never have thought we could penetrate their home base. Time is short, Zahava. Coming?" The Terrans boarded.

The descent was rapid, uneventful, the levels flashing by on the big overhead indicator-levels marked not in S'Cotar, but in a large, unical script Zahava found she understood. "High K'Ronarin," L'Wrona explained. "The mother tongue of us all. K'Raoda thinks your own Indo-European root language one of its descendants."