The Biofab War Page 8

  Suddenly it came to Bill. He knew how to bypass the summit.

  "There's a tunnel leading from the site here to the beach," he said, sweeping his light along the embankment as they walked. "My people escaped through it and one of them left his stick as a guide. If we're lucky, it'll still be there."

  Yazanaga spotted it, just as more explosions rocked the ground: a blackthorn walker leaning precariously against a great boulder. As they approached at a trot, the ground shook again and the stick fell with a clatter, rolling to a stop at their feet.

  Picking up the stick, Bakunin skeptically eyed the weathered granite. "So?"

  "So... this!" With the air of a conjurer, Sutherland flashed his light into a small niche above where the stick had leaned. A tiny green light winked back as a great stone slab swung noiselessly aside.

  The agents stood blinking in the yellow circle of light from the tunnel. Johnson gave a low whistle of astonishment.

  Another barrage rocked the hill, sending a shower of loose rock down on their heads.

  "Don't you believe it." Bill clicked his M-16's safety off. "My instincts tell me this is only the end of the beginning, as the man said."

  "The same instincts that got us lost for two days in the sewers under the sixteenth aggrandizement, no doubt."

  If Sutherland heard the crack, delivered sotto voce, he ignored it. "After you, Tovarich Colonel," he said, gesturing toward the entrance.

  The Russian shook his head. "Your tunnel, you lead."

  Rifle leveled, Bill stepped warily into the passage. Marsh, Yazanaga and Johnson, veteran cold warriors all, followed, weapons poised. Bakunin, bringing up the rear, covered the doorway till the slab swung shut, then trotted after the Americans.

  "Piece of junk!" K'Raoda said through clenched teeth, glaring at the console's merrily twinkling lights. It was the first time Zahava had seen him lose his composure.

  "All the positions were lit before," she said, staring at the other consoles, all dark.

  ''I think the last time you triggered the defenses,'' speculated the K'Ronarin. "Perhaps your metabolism is a bit different from ours. Or perhaps the computer has standing orders to transport intruders to the nearest manned station. Perhaps Implacable qualified. And perhaps I don't know what the hell I'm talking about," he concluded ruefully, returning to his task.

  "According to the Imperial War Archives," he added, hopefully typing a fresh sequence of numbers, "the ground defenses can be activated from a remote terminal—assuming we're faced with a Mode Two or Three system. Anything higher and all bets are off." Zahava watched the screen respond to the input with a fresh burst of figures. Figures her brain knew, through the magic of the translator, to be mathematical symbols akin to calculus.

  "Hmmm." K'Raoda stared hard at the new figures.

  "Maybe?" asked the Israeli, peering eagerly over his shoulder.

  "Maybe. I don't know." He rubbed his eyes. "What's worrying me is that the Planetary Operations Command series had a reputation for chattiness that's endured over fifty centuries. If this one were functioning, we shouldn't be able to shut it up."

  They looked up, startled, as the shrill of blaster fire echoed down the tunnel.

  "Cover the hall," ordered the officer, tapping again on the trilevel keyboard.

  Rifle at high-port, Zahava ran from the room.

  * * * *

  The outer door flared white, atomizing. Aiming carefully, the handful of humans fired into the packed S'Cotar, dimly visible through the haze and smoke. Harmless-looking, a small black ball rolled in.

  The K'Ronarin commtech moved first.

  "Grenade!" he cried, hurling himself atop the ball.

  Even though his body absorbed much of the fearsome heat that vaporized it, his retreating comrades would have been broiled without their warsuits.

  The commando Sergeant, D'Nir, leading, the survivors charged into the altar chamber and down the ladder into the lower tunnel. John, in the rear, secured the altar stone with a blast to the wall sensor. "That should hold 'em," he growled.

  "Not for long," said the commando, running ahead of him. The small troop halted where Zahava waited, just outside the control room.

  "Commander, I need a blastpack," D'Nir said, bursting in on K'Raoda.

  "Over there." Not taking his eyes from the screen, the officer gestured toward their neat, small stack of equipment.

  The Sergeant, no older than K'Raoda, ran to the pile. Tumbling it in his haste, he yanked out a flat gray packet, then charged back down the corridor.

  K'Raoda typed in another sequence. "How long?" he asked over the commnet.

  "Assuming maximum delay at the ladder—twenty minutes," D'Nir reported.

  The NCO reappeared a moment later, sans blastpack. "It'll detonate when the first warrior reaches the bottom rung," he reported. "I set it only for that life form."

  John poked his head through the doorway. "If you don't get that thing working soon," he said, "we're going to experience fatal overcrowding."

  "If I do," replied K'Raoda, "the defenses may be inoperative. And if I don't—well, be grateful that we won't have to spend much longer in these dreary tunnels.

  "Sergeant, plant nuclear demolition charges on this equipment. Set timers for command detonation and detonation within three feet of any nonhumanoid life form."

  A dull krump punctuated his order. The floor shook as dust billowed in from the ruined altar well. Gagging and wheezing, the humans switched their warsuits to internal atmosphere.

  It took only a moment, though, for the installation's scrubbers to sweep the air clean, affording a clear view of the first wave of S'Cotar as they rounded the tunnel, firing.

  Crouching low, the defenders blasted back.

  One crewman lost an arm to concentrated fire. His suit sealed the blood-gushing stump, clamping off the wound—but not before his agonized shrieks had filled the commnet.

  The first wave of warriors, cut down, were followed by another. And another. And another, charging unwavering into the human blaster fire. The corridor became a charnel house, heaped high with dead S'Cotar.

  John's blaster quit without warning. A quick look showed over half a charge left. Hearing curses, he looked up. All of their weapons had failed.

  "Damper field!" spat D'Nir. "This is it." He drew a wicked-looking knife from his boot sheath.

  "Their blasters won't work, will they?" asked Greg. He peered down the tunnel's curve, around which the S'Cotar had withdrawn.

  "No." Leaning his useless rifle against the wall, the NCO took up position midtunnel. "It'll be small consolation, though. Form on me. Skirmish order."

  The other commando and the three Terrans fell in beside him. "Commander!" he called. "Now or never."

  "Never," said a resigned voice. Knife in hand, K'Raoda came to stand with his men.

  John felt a hand squeeze his arm. Zahava stood next to him. "The French have a saying," she said with a sad smile. "'Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse.' You know it?"

  "Today's not our day to perish, my friend." He gave an answering squeeze, then let her hand fall away. "My bad knee doesn't hurt."

  The warriors came at them six abreast, leaping toadlike over their dead, sweeping down on the humans, a great green flood. At twenty paces, John gamely fell into a fighting crouch. His left knee was throbbing.

  "Drop!" roared a voice from behind. "Hit the deck!" The humans dropped, faces to the rock floor, as a hail of gunfire tore into the S'Cotar. The victorious charge became a rout.

  Firing from the hip, Sutherland led his men after the retreating warriors. A final burst of fire killed the last of them just as they reached their blasters, stacked beside the altar well. The five men walked slowly back to where John and Zahava stood, helmets under their arms.

  "Long night, Mr. Director?" John smiled weakly.

  "Long night, Mr. Harrison." Bill nodded, smiling back. "In fact, I keep hoping I'll wake up soon."

  "No chance. Thanks, Bill." He clapped his friend on t
he shoulder.

  Zahava, ever direct, kissed Sutherland soundly on the lips.

  "More. More." He grinned, tired but appreciative. She kissed him again.

  "Something out of an opium dream," said Sutherland, nudging a torn S'Cotar corpse with his rifle butt.

  "And who those people are, I'm afraid to ask," he said, nodding toward the K'Ronarin survivors. "I gather they supplied your galactic opera costumes?"

  "They're from a nearby starship," said Greg nonchalantly, helping carry the unconscious crewman into the transport room. Sutherland merely nodded, eyes distant. Bakunin, standing nearby examining a blast rifle, didn't even look up.

  "I can see you're overwhelmed by the news," drawled John.

  "I was overwhelmed hours ago." The CIA officer sighed. "Now I'm just trying to cope, moment to moment. What are they called?"

  "They're K'Ronarins," said Zahava. "Their ancestors built this installation, centuries ago."

  "And the big green bugs?"

  "S'Cotar. The two are fighting a war of extermination," John said.

  "Who's winning?"

  "The S'Cotar."

  Sutherland grunted. "This gets cheerier by the minute."

  K'Raoda had vanished into the transport room just after the warriors' destruction. Now he reappeared, intent on the small biosensor he was holding. After a moment he looked up, relieved. "All enemy forces have left the area." He gave a crooked grin. "We did it—we held.

  "And it's because of you that we did," he said to Sutherland. "Thank you." He held out his hand.

  "I can't understand you," said Bill, shaking hands, "but I can guess. You're welcome."

  "By a clever oversight, I neglected to bring translators with us." K'Raoda led them into the transport room. Bakunin, exploring, looked up as they trooped in.

  "May I present Colonel Andreyev Ivanovich Bakunin, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics," said Sutherland. "These two people"—he indicated John and Zahava—"work with me."

  Bakunin nodded pleasantly. "May I know their names?"

  "No." Bill looked at Greg. "You, I don't know," he said.

  "If you're Joe Antonucchi's boss, you might recognize my fingerprints from a piece of granite I gave him."

  "Implacable to ground force." D'Trelna's voice boomed from the commset and over all the communicators. "What is your situation?" A ragged cheer preceded K'Raoda's report.

  "I'm coming down with reinforcements," the Captain said, an anxious McShane hovering at his elbow. "By the way, fifty Terran rotoplanes are closing on you—ETA two minutes. I assume they're friendly." (He assumed nothing. Four batteries were locked on the unsuspecting airborne troops.)

  John relayed the information to Sutherland.

  "RDF troops from Devens." He nodded. "I'd better get up there. Where's the front door?"

  His men hadn't been idle. A rope ladder now dangled down the altar well. He made a face, then swung up the ladder, K'Raoda following close behind.

  "I don't know about anyone else," said Bakunin, "but I need rest." The Russian lay down on the floor and was instantly asleep.

  "Food for those who want it," said D'Nir, passing out handfuls of tasteless protein wafers.

  Tired but hungry, the remaining allies ate.

  Chapter 12

  "Yes, but why didn't they teleport?"

  D'Trelna's bull voice filled the cramped transport room. "You should all be dead!" He'd landed an hour ago, marched in and promptly taken command. Unlike K'Raoda, he'd brought extra translators.

  Rumpled green tunic unbuttoned, the Captain perched precariously atop one of the slender console chairs, drumming his fingers on the instrument panel. "Too many unanswered questions, gentlemen," he said to the K'Ronarins and Terrans gathered around him. He enumerated them on his blunt fingers.

  "One. The S'Cotar have been in your solar system for some time. That's obvious from the base we destroyed, their takeover of the oceanographic facility and their destruction, according to your own evidence, of other transporter stations.

  "Two." A second finger rose. "Given all that, you people"—he nodded toward the Terrans—"have no more right to be alive than my landing party. The S'Cotar should have swept through you like voracious insects devouring a grainfield. Just as they should have devoured this planet years ago. Why didn't they?

  "And three." A thumb came up. "They should have tele-ported down that tunnel once they were through the outer door and could visualize the area. Hell! They should have overrun you on the hilltop. Why didn't they use the ability that has cost us so dearly—an ability that threatens to sweep us from the galaxy?"

  He slapped the dull black metal on the console. "Bah! I'm not an Alienpsych officer. Let's keep those points in mind, though, and get on to the specifics of staying alive. Questions?" .

  "Are we in any immediate danger of attack?" asked Sutherland. He'd exchanged the S'Cotar blaster for a K'Ronarin rifle, now slung over his shoulder. Marsh, Johnson, Yazanaga and Bakunin were also toting Fleet M-32s.

  "Tactics Officer?" D'Trelna deferred to K'Raoda.

  "Almost certainly," answered the younger man, his work at the terminal momentarily set aside. "The S'Cotar invariably counterattack. We've been granted this brief lull, I suspect, so they can rally everything they've got left in your system— spacecraft, transmutes, warriors—and launch a coordinated assault. Right now they're probably marshaling on the opposite side of the planet from Implacable. The festivities should resume soon, I think."

  "How long before your fleet gets here?" asked McShane.

  "A week, maybe two." D'Trelna held up a hand, stifling the murmur of dismay. "Not soon enough to help us, obviously. But soon enough, I hope, to take care of major S'Cotar reinforcements. If we can hold till then, we may win. If not..."

  "How can we help?" asked Bakunin. "More troops?"

  ("Pretty free with our men, isn't he?" someone—Marsh?— stage-whispered.)

  "No." D'Trelna shook his head. "In fact, you should withdraw all but a small number of men—say forty. If we can't hold these few tunnels with a hundred men, we can't hold them at all. Don't forget, the S'Cotar have a fix on these coordinates now. They should be dropping right into our ranks. We can't afford to have it packed asses to elbows down here—we'd be slaughtered." He rose from his chair.

  "I have no authority over you, my friends. But circumstance has united us in arms against a vicious and deadly foe. It's a war of extermination; without treaties, without quarter. Either we kill the S'Cotar or they kill us—every man, woman and child in the galaxy. We can't make any mistakes. There are no second chances.

  "Please, follow my and my officers' orders explicitly. We don't harbor delusions of cultural or intellectual superiority. But when it comes to fighting this particular plague, we're experts. We have the scars to prove it.

  "Agreed?"

  "We're with you," said Sutherland. "What choice do we have?" he added, firmly shaking D'Trelna's hand. "What are your instructions, Captain?"

  "Select your men from the military force topside, Mr. Sutherland," said the K'Ronarin. "Take them to the supply shuttle—it's the third one on the beach—for weapons. Brief them, then have them report here to me."

  With a nod, Bill led his team from the room, wondering what he'd tell the square-jawed infantry Colonel now uselessly deploying his men along the hill. A lie couched in truth, probably. It usually worked.

  "I'll command the ground action," D'Trelna said as the door closed. "Commander K'Raoda will continue trying to activate the defenses. If I'm killed, he'll assume command, followed by Sergeant D'Nir of my commandos.

  "Now, gather around, please." He spread a map of the installation out on top of the equipment. "Let me explain our strategy—such as it is."

  * * * *

  Montanoya hung up the phone. "We can't contact Goose Hill or Otis," he said to the other man in the Oval Office. "Best we can do is raise one of the bridge blockades or that destroyer off Falmouth. The Cape's undergoing some very sophisticated jamming." Th
e calmness of his voice surprised him.

  Sixtyish, Mexican-American, one of his country's finest career ambassadors before becoming National Security Advisor, Montanoya felt powerless. It wasn't the aliens or the K'Ronarins or the pending battle; it was the lack of data. The future of his planet, the survival of humanity were being decided on a spit of land five hundred miles north and he didn't know what was happening.

  "Should we send more troops?" asked Doug MacDonald, the first liberal Democrat president in four terms. At present, MacDonald looked haggard, in spite of his Southern California good looks. He hadn't slept or eaten since the whole madness started.

  "Last word we had was that most of our forces were withdrawing at the K'Ronarins' request. Seems we're not equipped for a thirtieth-century war."

  "I can't take this, Jose. The entire course of human history's being decided out there and here we sit, waiting for the damn phone to ring." He nodded curtly. "The hell with it. Have them call Andrews and ready Air Force One. We're going to Cape Cod."

  Montanoya protested, despite feeling similar sentiments. "I wish you'd reconsider, sir. Evidently that place's going to be hell on earth soon. Given the type of weapons used—"

  MacDonald cut him short. "The entire character of civilization is already being altered, Jose. Just contacting an alien culture will change it. And under these traumatic circumstances, none of us may survive the experience.

  "No." He turned from the window. "I'm of no use here—I might as well be in the thick of it.

  "You don't have to come, Jose," he added gently.

  Montanoya's sallow complexion grew even darker. "You didn't say that when we were boarding an LST for Omaha Beach, Doug," he said softly. "I'll forget you said it now."

  He walked over to FDR's mahogany desk and picked up the phone.

  * * * *

  "Enemy contact, sir," reported the crewman to L'Wrona's right.