Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

The S'Cotar made a spirited stand. But though a match for the K'Ronarins in numbers, weapons and discipline, they had no warsuits. Their forward ranks blasted away by the troopers, their flank harried by the two men flitting in and out of the smoke, the warriors were soon compressed into a small, ragged square. A final volley of grenade and blaster fire finished them.

Gasping, their eyes bloodshot, D'Trelna and Harrison were given a boisterous reception by the attack force.

John was glad to trade the metallic air of the warsuit D'Nir brought him for the corridor's stench: burning machine and burnt flesh, both biofab and human. It'd been steadily tugging at his stomach.

A slight, wiry figure ran from the last subsection to arrive, throwing her arms around John, an embrace made cumbersome by rifle and helmet.

"You're all right?" they both asked at once, then burst into laughter.

"Andre and I are," the woman lied, trying to hide her arm. "But Bill's badly wounded. He's been medivaced to Vigilant."

"You are hurt!" Gently, John tugged Zahava's arm into sight from behind her back. "Why didn't you go back with the wounded?" he demanded angrily. "Ever the hero!"

"I'm a soldier!" the Israeli retorted, just as angry. "Don't think that just because you're a man…"

A few yards away, another heated exchange was taking place.

"You're on a fool's errand, H'Nar," said D'Trelna, wearily pulling a warsuit on over his begrimed uniform. "POCSYM can't destroy the S'Cotar. The damage is too extensive. Once again, biofabs have bested their maker."

L'Wrona's joy at finding his friend alive was replaced by anger.

"I left a trail of ashes getting here, J'Quel. The ashes of good men-boys, most of them. And now you're telling me they died for nothing!*." He snapped the last word, glaring.

POCSYM's voice filled the air, ending the conversation. "The fault is mine. I underestimated the S'Cotar capacity for innovation and foresight. I have created a Frankenstein's monster, Mr. Harrison, Miss Tal, Colonel. A R'Actol Plague, Captain, Commander. Unlike those constructs' creators, though, I will accept the consequences of my actions.

"Reactors are now running to critical. You have ninety minutes to retrace your steps."

D'Trelna and L'Wrona exchanged alarmed looks. "Can we do it?" asked the Captain.

"Very little margin for error. Certainly not enough to live on, J'Quel." He managed a humorless smile, shrugging his shoulders. "Hell, we're not going to sit here praying.

"Prepare to move out! Section leaders, pick up your wounded. We're leaving on the double."

"POCSYM," John said as the troopers reassembled. "Are you a mindslaver?"

"Yes." The cool reply came over the tactical band. "I gather you found a cadaver room."

A cadaver room. "Yes. But you gave yourself away much earlier, when you first showed us Revenge. You laughed. K'Raoda told me that not even the Empire could program humor into its machines. Humor isn't logical."

"I'm afraid it was the young Subcommander's prattling about 'truth' that brought out the professor in me, Mr. Harrison. Several professors, actually." The ultimate mindslaver paused.

"But all of my original brainpods were filled by volunteers-dedicated men of vision who conceived this entire scenario. Men who truly had the courage of their convictions."

"No doubt they did," said John. "Fanaticism isn't a Terran invention." The entire assault force was listening to their exchange, even as the men prepared to move out. "But how long did those original brains last? A thousand years? Surely no more.

"You're not just a Weapons system, as were the mindslaves aboard Revenge. You're a Planetary Operations Command System. Constant use would wear out many of your components, wouldn't it? Where did the replacements come from, POCSYM? Did you have the S'Cotar snatch Terrans? Did you later use K'Ronarin captives?

"How many through the centuries, POCSYM? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands?"

"A modest number, Mr. Harrison, when weighed against my mission: the preservation of humanity."

"A humanity you were prepared to sacrifice in order to save,

"My actions were necessary to ensure the survival-"

"Your actions were a five-thousand-year-old megalomania, inspired by men who believed themselves omniscient. Through you, they strove for omnipotence and immortality.

"You don't know if the human race, left to its own devices, wouldn't have stood off this alleged intergalactic menace. You merely assumed it wouldn't. And based on that assumption, you unleashed a horror upon your own people-a horror that almost destroyed them.

"Spare me your hollow piety, POCSYM. You're just an ancient malignancy left to fester in the body of galactic humanity."

L'Wrona led the column out, the wounded tucked into the formation's center. "Now we run the gauntlet," Bakunin commented, trotting behind John and Zahava.

It was one long, running battle. The biofab reinforcements had come up, filling every side corridor with warriors. Racing past each intersection, the humans were raked with blaster fire from hand weapons, shoulder arms and semis. Grenades rained down on them.

There was no time to clean out the S'Cotar ambushcades, not enough troopers left had there been time. Warsuit failures soared, casualties rose, suicide charges slowed the withdrawal.

The shrill of blasters self-destructing became a continuous, unnerving whine.

Gaun-Sharick stood before the Council of the Magnificent, the only five S'Cotar who equaled him in age and rank. Evacuation klaxons sounded from outside the chamber.

Can interplanet teleportation be restored? asked Tuan-Lagark, the Senior.

Not before POCSYM blows us up. There was a tinge of anxiety to Gaun-Sharick's thought.

Tuan-Lagark's antennae wove an acceptance-resolution pattern. You are the last hope of our race, Gaun-Sharick. Allow the humans to escape. Go with them, biding your time till you can call forth our deep-hoarded strength.

You can deceive their instruments? asked another Councilor.

Easily, Luan-Ortar. I march with their men, sleep with their women and they know me not. He touched the medallion about his throat. Wearing this, I am safe.

Go then. Revenge us and restore the Race.

He bowed low and was gone.

L'Wrona moved up and down the column, ordering, pleading, cajoling.

"Close up.

"Watch your flank, there.

"Section Leader U'Trna, send two squads to reinforce the rear guard.

"Sergeant, help that trooper, he's hit.

"That man's dead. Cycle his blaster.

"Come on! Come on! Pick up the pace!

"You're not tired. Commandos never tire."

It was the voice of POCSYM, though, that really kept them going, methodically counting the waning moments.

"Sixty minutes to destruct.

"Forty-five minutes to destruct."

At destruct minus twenty, singing mixed with the blasters' shrill.

"What's that?" L'Wrona demanded, not breaking stride. The gauntlet run, they were nearing the lift. The rear guard now bore the brunt of the counterattack.

"It's the Soldiers Chorus from the Terran opera Ai'da, Commander, the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers who die entombed together. You'll never know how singularly apt it is for my funeral."

The point squad reached the lift. "I'm in contact with G Section, Subcommander V'Arta," the squad leader-D'Nir- reported. "They're under heavy attack."

Jogging into sight of the lift, L'Wrona was finally able to raise V'Arta. "What's your status, N'Trol? Topside secure?"

The whine of massed energy weapons filled L'Wrona's ears as V'Arta reported.

"For now, H'Nar. But you'd better get up here fast. Most of us are dead."