Chapter 12
“Yes, but why didn’t they teleport?”
Detrelna’s bull-like voice filled the cramped transport room. “You should all be dead!” He’d landed and promptly taken command. Unlike Kiroda, 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, gentleman,” he said to the Kronarins and Terrans gathered around him. He enumerated them on his blunt fingers. “One. The Scotar have been in your solar system for some time. That’s obvious from the base we destroyed, their take-over of the scientific 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 Scotar should have swept through you like voracious insects devouring a grain field. Just as they should long ago have devoured this planet. Why didn’t they?
“And three.” A thumb came up. “They should have teleported 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? They don’t need to scuttle about—they can flit anywhere.” He slapped the dull black metal on the console. “Bah! I’m not an Alien Psych officer. Let’s continue ponder these points as we go about staying alive. Questions?”
“Are we in any immediate danger of attack?” asked Sutherland. He’d exchanged the Scotar blaster for a Kronarin rifle, now slung over his shoulder. Marsh, Johnson, Yazanaga and Bakunin were also toting Fleet M-32s. (“If we survive this,” Sutherland had said as Danir had passed out the rifles, “don’t even think of taking those home.”)
“Tactics Officer?” Detrelna deferred to Kiroda.
“Almost certainly,” answered Tolei, his work at the terminal momentarily set aside. “The Scotar always counterattack. We’ve been granted this brief lull as they 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. Like the captain, I don’t know why they haven’t used their special abilities.”
“How long before your fleet arrives?” asked McShane.
“A week, maybe two.” Detrelna held up a hand, stifling the murmur of dismay. “Not soon enough to help us, but in time to take on any major Scotar reinforcements. If we can hold till then, we may win.”
“How can we help?” asked Bakunin. “More troops?”
“Pretty free with our guys, isn’t he?” one of the Americans whispered.
“No.” Detrelna 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, we can’t hold them at all. Don’t forget, the Scotar have a fix on these coordinates now. They should be dropping right into our ranks. We can’t afford to be packed asses to elbows down here—we’d be slaughtered.” he rose from his chair. “They love slaughtering. Torturing, too.
“I have no authority over you, my friends,” he continued. “But circumstance has united us against a vicious and deadly foe. It’s a war of extermination—no treaties, no quarter. Either we kill the Scotar or they kill us—every man, woman and child in the galaxy. We can make no mistakes—there’ll be no second chances. Follow our orders explicitly. When it comes to fighting this plague, we’re experts—and have the scars to prove it. Agreed?”
“We’re with you,” said Sutherland. “What choice do we have?” he added, shaking Detrelna’s hand. “What are your orders, Captain?”
“Select your men from the military force topside. Take them to the supply shuttle for weapons—it’s the third one on the beach. 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, as though expecting waves of enemy infantry. A lie couched in truth, probably, he thought—it usually worked.
“I’ll command the ground action,” Detrelna said as the door closed. “Commander Kiroda will continue trying to activate the defenses. If I’m killed, he’ll assume command of the defense, followed by Sergeant Danir. Gather around, please.” He spread Kiroda’s sketch 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 Sutherland 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.” The calmness of his voice surprised him.
Sixtyish, Mexican-American, one of his country’s finest career ambassadors before becoming National Security Advisor, José Montanoya felt powerless. It wasn’t the aliens or the Kronarins or the pending battle; it was the lack of data. The future of his planet and 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. Despite his Southern California good looks, MacDonald looked haggard. 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 Kronarins’ request. Seems we’re not equipped for a thirtieth-century war.”
“I can’t take this, José. Human history—maybe human survival—is 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. That place’s going to be hell on earth soon. Given the types of weapons used—”
MacDonald cut him short. “The entire character of our civilization’s already being altered, José. Contact by an alien culture will change it. And under these traumatic circumstances, it may not survive the experience. No.” He turned from the window. “I’m of little use here—I might as well be in the thick of it. You should stay here, José. I need you at the Pentagon.”
Montanoya’s complexion grew even darker. “I was with you when we boarded that Huey for Chu Lak and those minefields in the LZ, Doug. And I’ll be with you now, come what may.”
“Enemy contact, sir,” reported the crewman to Lawrona’s right.
“Put in on board.”
The battlescreen flared into life. Five darting needles in V formation were coming over the Earth’s curve, rapidly closing on the much larger arrow of Implacable.
“Incoming hostiles. Stand by Gunnery.” Lawrona keyed into Tactics. Glancing at the readout, he said, “Jaquel—enemy fighters closing fast.”
“Give them one for me,” came the reply.
“Coming into weapons range,” Natrol reported from the Tactics console. Three of the needles peeled off, dropping away. The other two continued straight at Implacable.
“Ground force,” said Lawrona. “Be advised three enemy interceptors on heading for Terra. Gunnery, stand by to engage. Independent fire—fire at will.”
An instant later the serenity of space was torn by streaking missile and probing beam.
“Here they come!” cried Danir, looking up from his compact tacscanner.
Detrelna bounded from Kiroda’s side to the detector. A quick look was all he needed. “Everyone get below. We’re about to be blasted by Scotar fighters.”
“I could be in Cambridge reading a good book,” wheezed McShane as he and John ran from the hilltop down the rocky path to the tunnel’s blasted entrance. The passageway was filled with tense men adjusting warsu
its and checking weapons.
From his position at the detector screen Detrelna watched as the sleek black fighters dived on Goose Hill, dropped small glowing orbs of destruction, then wheeled, clawing for altitude as the greatest explosions yet rocked the hill.
“That’s to cut off our retreat!” shouted the captain above the roar. John and Bob burst into the room.
Kiroda was still coolly entering series after series of Imperial computer codes into the terminal as fast as they flashed over the screen from Implacable’s archives.
Detrelna alerted the men waiting in the passageway. “Any second now they’ll start materializing. Luck to you.” Drawing his sidearm, he checked it and laid it carefully on the console.
“And to you,” said John, leaving to join Zahava and Greg in the tunnel.
“Keep your head down,” McShane called after him. “How close do they have to be to teleport, Captain?” he asked, turning to the officer as the door slid shut.
“Technically, from anywhere on the planet or in orbit. But I’ll wager their staging area is nearby. They have to rally transmutes and warriors from across the planet, brief them and launch a coordinated attack. Nearby,” he nodded. “And they’ll know their business.”
John and Zahava stood diagonally opposite each other in the passageway, a pattern repeated a hundred yards to either side of the transport room. (Kiroda, briefly leaving to position the men, had cheerfully told Zahava the formation’s name: The Forlorn Hope: “Delays but rarely halts them.”)
Each end of the formation was anchored by two small floating spheres on constant patrol. Six more of the machines guarded the length and breadth of the vaulted ceiling above the men’s heads. On their usefulness the captain had said, “Good only for the first wave or two, but they will take the edge from the enemy’s advantage of surprise. After thirty seconds, the guard spheres will self-destruct—the Scotar can reprogram small robots. We’d be cut down by our own guns—and have been.”
The Scotar were in the corridor, firing as they appeared.
John snapped a shot into the nearest warrior. The bolt burned through a mandible, boring into the alien’s brain. Dying, its twitching tentacles sent a deadly blue beam glancing harmlessly off John’s warsuit. John turned as the insectoid fell, parrying a Scotar rifle.
The pattern of one-on-one combat was being repeated the length of the passageway as hellish energies again gouged flesh and stone with ease.
Their time at an end, the guard spheres died, sinking to the floor with a soft whoosh of n-gravs. One landed next to where Greg and a warrior fought, the man trying to keep the insectoid’s pincers from his throat, the alien straining to keep the other’s knife from its gut.
The battle disintegrated as more Scotar arrived, the humans disappearing beneath struggling piles of Scotar. The corridor nearly secured, a party of warriors directed by a transmute began working on the transport room door, burning into it with a nuclear lance.
“Not long now,” said Detrelna, watching the battle on his monitor. Picking up his blaster, he turned to face the now-glowing door.
McShane lifted a rifle from beside Kiroda and quietly joined Implacable’s Captain. “Our society usually requires its old to die quietly, antiseptically. Thank you for letting me join in an epic stand for humanity, Commander.” He clicked the safety off.
“We’re honored to have you, sir,” he said, as his analyzer chirped. “Sir!” he called to Detrelna, looking up. “I think . . .”
“Might as well join us, Subcommander,” said Detrelna. His eyes were riveted on the door, now-glowing a fierce red. Waves of heat washed into the room. “Keep to one side. They’ve got a lance.”
“But Captain, there’s a response from . . .”
The Scotar were gone.
After a stunned moment, those of the defenders who could rise did so, looking around uncertainly.
“Where’d they go?” called Sutherland, helping Bakunin out from under a dead warrior. The Russian officer retrieved his blade from the Scotar’s thorax, wiping it on the corpse and returning it to his boot sheath. “To Hell, I hope,” he said wearily.
“You can thank Commander Kiroda for our deliverance,” said Detrelna, exiting through the still-smoldering but operable transport room doorway. “He seems to have aroused the computer.”
“Indeed he has, Captain,” said a deep, resonant voice. It was the same rich contralto Zahava, Bob, Greg and John had last heard ordering them into the transport web. “I’ve sent the Scotar where they’ll do no further harm.”
“Identify yourself,” said Detrelna, looking about.
“I am Planetary Operations Control System, Mode Six, programmed by the Imperial Colonial Service on Kronar, Imperium 12028,” came the unruffled reply.
Kiroda’s looked startled. “Captain, that was—”
“Five thousand years ago. Where did you send the Scotar, computer?”
“My operational acronym is POCSYM Six, Captain. As for the enemy, they’re warming themselves in the center of the sun.”
“Why did you take so long to respond?” demanded Kiroda.
“Can you defend this planet against further attack?” asked Detrelna.
“Please, gentlemen,” demurred POCSYM. “First let me assure you that there’s no further danger of direct assault. With your permission, I’ll send your dead and wounded to Implacable and yourselves to comfortable quarters, where you can relax and we can talk.”
Detrelna cast a glance at where two medics, Terran and Kronarin, were doing what they could for the wounded—a fifth of the ground human force. He tried to ignore the still, shrouded forms lying along the wall, but couldn’t. “All right.” The captain sighed. “But I must speak with my ship.”
“You’re already in touch with them, Captain,” said POCSYM. “Every word of this conversation and a vidscan are being transmitted to your bridge.”
“Detrelna to Implacable. What is your status?”
Lawrona’s voice filled not just the commnet but the air as well. “All secure, Captain. All enemy craft disappeared—they didn’t go into hyperspace. They just vanished.”
“I transported all attack craft to the same place as their ground force, Commander Lawrona.”
“Pouff!” exclaimed Bakunin, with a gesture.
“Pouff to many familiar things soon, Colonel,” said Sutherland tiredly.
“Very well,” Detrelna said. “Transport when ready.”
The Goose Hill site stood empty.
“‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,’” quoted McShane, opening his eyes. His first impression was of a big room awash with sunlight, the air redolent of roses. Baroque music was playing.
Looking around, he filled in the gaps: the room was large, comfortably furnished in flawlessly sculpted teak, a long luxuriant table its centerpiece; there were roses, four bouquets of American beauties gracing the side tables beneath bay windows; and it was music of the Baroque period, possibly Vivaldi. No devotee of the period, McShane reserved judgment.
“Vivaldi, I think,” said John. “One of the Seasons.”
The others, equally tattered, tired and begrimed, stood silently drinking in the room’s subdued elegance. John glanced out a window and started. “What’s all that?”
They all turned to look. In a hollow, perhaps a mile away, thousands of tiny figures labored atop three huge stone terraces, busily constructing a fourth.
“Nabopolassar throws a tower to heaven in honor of his god, Marduk,” said POCSYM. “When it’s done it will be eight stories, 288 feet, high with a statue of Marduk cast in twenty-six tons of pure gold. It will be thrown down by Xerxes, pondered over by Alexander and partially restored by Koldewy.”
“The Tower of Babel,” breathed McShane.
“Yes, Professor,” POCSYM confirmed. “Etemenanki—the Tower of Babel. Classical hubris at its height. I thought it might entertain you. I’ve captured all major human works and disasters of the past fifty centur
ies. The destruction of the loathsome Sodom and Gomorrah is particularly affecting, but not before dinner, which now awaits.”
Turning back to the room, they saw the table laden with a vast selection of steaming entrees, some Terran, some Kronarin. “I’ve tried to select food from each culture which would be palatable to the other,” said POCSYM.
“POCSYM,” John said wearily, “not to be rude, but we are a bit travel-stained.” Their warsuits were caked with green slime and dirt. “Might we wash up?”
“Of course, Mr. Harrison. I’ve been remiss. Through the door”—an exit appeared where a wall had been—“are the old staff quarters. Each room has excellent bathing facilities. Two people to a room.”
As they filed out, POCSYM added, “No need to hurry—I’ll put dinner in stasis.” The steam stopped in midrise over the food. “Actually, this works out rather well,” said the computer, its voice accompanying them down the broad, mosaic-tiled corridor. “The wines will have time to breathe.”
“This can’t be five thousand years old!” protested Greg, waving his long-stemmed crystal wineglass. “It looks new.” Something light, airy and Viennese played merrily in the background: “Roses from the South.”
“All but my basic monitoring and defense clusters were in stasis until just before dinner, Mr. Farnesworth,” said POCSYM. “Although on a very passive, almost subconscious level, I was observing your group’s activities.”
“You avoided a question earlier, POCSYM,” said Detrelna, enjoying what Zahava thought was either sautéed eel or snake. (It was stuffed varx entrails, a Shtarian delicacy.) Like the rest, Detrelna now wore clothes bearing the insignia of the Imperial Colonial Service: clasped hands surmounting a silver-wreathed planet. “Why did you wait so long to intervene? You saw our casualties.”
“I regret the delay, Captain, but it took a while to determine that you were the legitimate heirs to the Imperium and then to activate my defenses. Recall that I’ve been on standby for fifty centuries.”
“Can you defend Earth?” asked Sutherland.
“Can and have, sir, within certain limitations, but only if so ordered by the senior Kronarin officer.”
“So ordered,” said Detrelna between mouthfuls.
“Acknowledged.”
“Where are we now?” John asked, pushing away the chicken Kiev and pouring himself another glass of 1947 Château Lafite-Rothschild.
“Colonial Service’s first Operations center on the planet, one of the better port facilities on Terra and a natural trading center. You’re miles below the Isle of Manhattan.”
Despite the wonder of it all, excited talk soon gave way to nodding heads and slurred syllables: food, drink and exhaustion combining to send the humans, singly and in groups, filtering from the dining area to their rooms.
Leaving hand in hand, John and Zahava were almost to their door when POCSYM asked, “Care for a history lesson?”
“Not tonight,” said Zahava as the door slid open. “We’re tired.”
“I can instruct as you sleep. Subliminal teaching is effective and painless.”
“Fine,” said John, following Zahava into the room. “See you in the morning—or whatever.” The door closed.
“Pardon my paranoia,” Zahava whispered a few minutes later, slipping her dark nakedness into John’s bunk, “but is POCSYM our only way out of here?”
“Unless Implacable suddenly sprouts a matter transporter, yeah,” he said, sliding a hand down her slim back until it rested atop a soft round cheek. He gave a fond squeeze. “I didn’t see an exit sign. We’d best be nice to him . . . it.”
“You’re supposed to be exhausted,” Zahava said as John’s other hand came into play.
“Most of me is,” he confided, pulling her on top of him.
“Satyr,” she whispered huskily as his hands caressed her.
The lights dimmed discreetly out.