Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

"E and G Sections, into the lift," the Commander ordered. Pointing to three familiar figures, he added, "You stay here until we've secured ground level."

Harrison and Zahava supported a third, limping form between them. "I'm going with you, H'Nar," said John. "But would you detail someone to help Zahava with Colonel Bakunin? He tried to stop a suicide wave by himself." A burn hole gaped halfway up the Russian's right leg. Half the calf muscle was gone. "Anna?" he murmured, drowsy from the narcotics, as a burly sergeant took John's place.

"Ten minutes to destruct," said POCSYM as the elevator rose.

"I regret I can't dispose of all the biofabs for you," it continued. "You'll have to clean their remnants out of this system, especially the few left on Terra. And some of their ships are still loose in the galaxy. They'll menace shipping and isolated colonies for some years.

"I am now transmitting the locations and defense specs of all biofab secondary bases to your flagship, Commander."

The lift opened on C Section, dying in an ocean of biofabs.

"C Section, drop!"

The troopers fell away, leaving a clear field of fire.

"Shoot!"

To John, firing from the third and standing rank, their volley seemed a great river of red flame smothering the packed bodies fused into a charred wall around C Section's few survivors.

"Secure the area," ordered L'Wrona, sending the lift back down. "V'Arta?" he called, looking about.

"Dead," said a badly wounded corporal as a medic reached him.

"Seven minutes, Commander, max," warned POCSYM as the lift disgorged two more sections. "Stability's decreasing. It could actually go anytime."

L'Wrona seemed not to hear.

"Vigilant to ground force," came the Admiral's voice over the commnet. "Advise status."

L'Wrona said nothing. He stood unmoving, looking at the chamel house that had been C Section.

"Sir?" said a commtech, touching the Commander's arm.

L'Wrona shook his head. "Ground force," he said dully.

"That you, D'Trelna?"

"No, sir, L'Wrona. The Captain joined us but insisted on commanding the rear guard. He should be here at ground level in a few moments. Sir," he continued, some vitality coming back into his voice, "it's imperative that the boats be brought into the canyon adjacent to the Citadel entrance. We-"

"There and waiting, Commander. POCSYM's been sharing the countdown with us. Get your command out of there."

The third and final load of troopers came off the lift, D'Trelna at their head. "I heard that," he said. "Come on, H'Nar, let's get the wounded and run! We've got-"

"Five minutes to destruct," POCSYM intoned.

"To the boats!" shouted L'Wrona, waving toward the blasted gate.

John ran for his life, staggering under the weight of the half-dead commando over his shoulder, lungs bursting, pain shooting up his legs. With agonizing slowness, the black circle that was the tunnel's end grew larger, framing the heads of those in front of him. The black of space drew him, moving him on despite the searing pain filling his chest. The black was freedom: freedom from the Citadel's G-generators, from the S'Cotar, from the ancient evil that was POCSYM. Freedom, for a while, from death.

A red haze of exhaustion blurring his vision, John broached the surface, breaking free with a single, soaring leap and bounding toward the boats.

"Go! Go! Go!" shouted D’Trelna, as what was left of the raiders scrambled into the landing craft.

They were fifty miles up and banking sharply when a hole miles wide was punched through the lunar rock, sending dust, atomized metal and S'Cotar into space.

Orderly chaos ruled Vigilant's Hangar Deck. Crash crews and fireguards raced to the boats, ready if the explosion had torn up the craft. Medics in hovering medcarts rushed in behind them, quickly moving out the wounded.

High on the glass-walled hangar bridge, K'Raoda and one of Vigilant's subcommanders watched a set of telltales, prepared to seal the Hangar Deck, wounded or no, if a S'Cotar trace showed.

With all boats in and the scan negative, they went down to help.

L'Guan and McShane found L'Wrona, D’Trelna and the Terrans sitting hollow-eyed on the deck, drained, their gear scattered around them.

L'Guan started to speak, then stopped. Turning to his aide, resplendent in braided dress uniform, he said tersely, "Anything they want, get it.'' Slowly he walked away, the spring gone from his step.

No one seemed to notice as Bob bent over, kissed John and Zahava, then left without a word, following the long line of medcarts into the heart of the ship.

Stephen Ames Berry

The Biofab War

President Martin had appeared on prime-time TV a week after the lunar battle, an address preceded by the wildest speculation; speculation fueled by rumors of clandestine military operations along the New England coast. Rumors that President MacDonald and CIA Director Tuckman hadn't been killed when Air Force One crashed into the sea. Rumors of a secret Red Alert called at a time of abnormal international calm. And rumors of strange radar reports, leaking through the suddenly tightened security nets of a dozen nations.

Martin's delivery of the facts about POCSYM, the K'Ronarins and the Biofab War was made in his usual crisp, dry lowan tone; he might have been lecturing on torts. -

The pampered Washington press corps, already inconvenienced by the President's choice of the Capitol's West Portico for his news conference, were further miffed by the difficulty in getting there: the Mall and all adjacent streets had been closed without explanation, creating an unmoving Friday evening gridlock. Many of the reporters had to trot the final mile from their stalled, overheated cars.

Tired, sweaty, at first they weren't sure what they were hearing. By the time Martin had finished, though, everyone knew he'd cracked, latest victim to the pressures of high office.

"Poor s.o.b.," whispered the New York Times to Reuters in the embarrassed silence following the statement. Reuters said nothing, instead turning the New York Times around with a hand to her shoulder, pointing at the great bulk of Vigilant as she came in over the Tidal Basin, blotting out the night sky.

Silently hovering over the Mall, she filled it from Monument to Capitol, every instrument pod, weapons blister and observation bubble a blaze of light.

It was the biggest party Earth had ever seen. Wherever the K'Ronarin landed-and they landed only by invitation-the formal reception quickly became a street festival lasting days. When it finally ended and the guests had gone back to their ships, life went on much as before. But with the expectation that things would soon be changing.

They would.

The hundreds of Treaty signators pledged their nations' help against the presumptive Enemy. The K'Ronarins, in return, promised technical aid, colonization rights throughout the galaxy and the option of Terran application for Confederation membership. This last would bring with it the stardrive, the catch being that application had to be a unanimous one from all sovereign Earth states. And there was still one holdout.

The fat old man stood at his window, watching an angry red sunrise fire the gold capping Ivan the Great's bell towers. The East is Red. He snorted, turning back to his desk with its heap of reports detailing the dissolution of the Warsaw Bloc, the ongoing disintegration of the Soviet Empire.

Sighing, he poured himself another shot of vodka, tossing it down with practiced indifference. Leaning back in the creaky old armchair, big feet on the desk, he unbuttoned his shirt collar. Heavy with medals and ribbons, his uniform jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the ancient horsehair sofa. Lacing his fingers over his impressive gut, the old man again counted the cracks in the high white ceiling, ignoring the polite knock on his door.