The Battle for Terra Two (18 page)

"You dishonor my brother's memory," said T'Ral stiffly. "P'Rin would never turn corsair."

"Y'Tan," said K'Raoda gently, laying a hand on the other's arm. "He's probably dead. Others may have.
..."

"Incoming task force commander calling," said K'Lana.

"I'll take it," said K'Raoda. "What's his name?"

"Captain T'Ral," he said, glancing at the Tactics Officer.

"Don't raise your hopes," said K'Raoda as T'Ral's face lit with joy. "Stay out of the pickup, monitor from your console and say nothing. Do you understand?"

"But. . . ."

"Do you understand, Commander?"

"Yes, sir," said T'Ral, expressionless. Turning, he went to his console.

Save a ship, lose a friend, thought K'Raoda. If this is command, they can keep it. Pressing a key, he took the feed from communications. "Commander K'Raoda here."

The man on the console screen bore no resemblance to T'Ral. He was older, square-jawed, with high cheekbones and receding hairline. K'Raoda noted the silver starship of a captain on his collar and the double hash marks of the Second Border Fleet above the right pocket of his tunic.

"Captain T'Ral, Task Force Eight-Three," said the officer. "Commodore D'Trelna, please."

"The commodore is indisposed, sir."

The captain frowned. "Captain L'Wrona, then."

"He's offship, sir. I command here."

"Very well, Commander K'Raoda. What is your command's status?"

"I will not tell you that, sir," said K'Raoda evenly, "until you authenticate."

The pickup was small but perfectly detailed. K'Raoda could see Captain T'Ral's face cloud with anger. "I am senior here, Commander. Report status."

"Sir, your, codes are pathetically obsolete and your ships listed as missing in action."

"Check with FleetOps, Commander. You'll find we were sent here directly from U'Tria quadrant. We've been operating behind enemy lines since the S'Cotar wiped Second Fleet."

"Our skipcomm buoy is not operational, sir. You are closer to null point than we. Have you one you could deploy?"

"No. Sorry. Cannibalized ours years ago."

"Then, sir, I must ask you to remain outside the orbit of the fourth planet until I can deploy a new buoy at null point. We'll have that done in no more than two watches."

The captain shook his head. "No. My orders say I'm to assume orbit around the third planet 'with dispatch.' And I will do so. With dispatch."

"Sir, if you proceed insystem without my permission, I will consider you hostile and will open fire under the authority of Fleet Regulation seven-five-one, 'Authentication of Incoming Vessels.' "

The captain jabbed a finger at the pickup. "You fire a bolt at one of my ships, Commander, and your ass is mine. We're coming in." The scan swirled into a kaleidoscope of color, then went blank.

"Tell me that wasn't your brother," said K'Raoda, turning to T'Ral as the latter walked over from the tactics station.

"That wasn't my brother," said T'Ral with a ghost of a smile. "Sorry, T'Lei."

"For what?"

"For being such a child." K'Raoda waved a hand. "It's not important. "Who the hell was that, using your brother's name and rank?"

"His first officer, Commander K'Tran. P'Rin was about to bring K'Tran and the third officer up on charges of commercial misconduct when the war broke out."

"What were they doing, smuggling?"

T'Ral nodded. "Running heavy drugs through their patrol quadrant—orgjags, sensedeps."

"Nice." Orgjags put the user on an orgasmic high, the brain's pleasure center—creating sensations just as powerful as direct current, but with greater variety. Sensedeps deprived the user of all sensory input: sound, sight, touch, smell. About eighty percent of the drugs' users became addicts. Orgjag addicts invariably died of exhaustion and starvation. Sensedep addicts just as invariably became hopelessly catatonic.

"With the usual prewar scum crewing those ships, it was no problem for K'Tran to kill your brother and go corsair.''

"What are we going to do, T'Lei?" asked K'Raoda. "First, we're going to make absolutely sure those ships are corsair. Somehow." He stared at the main screen. The Moon was just rising above Earth.

"Pocsym," said K'Raoda.

"Pocsym? He's dead."

"But his observation satellites aren't," said K'Raoda, turning to his friend. "This system's littered with Pocsym's scan-shielded observation satellites!"

He keyed the complink. "Computer. Have we the grid interlock protocols for the satellite observation system deployed by Pocsym Six?"

"We have," said computer.

"Is there such a satellite near this system's null point?"

"There is."

"Interlock with that satellite and give us visual scan of the last known position of our skipcomm buoy."

"Implementing."

It came up on the mainscreen in a moment, the image growing larger as the satellite moved closer.

"Interesting," said K'Raoda, stepping down from the command tier to walk with T'Ral to the base of the screen. Together they stared up at finely detailed image. Twisted, scorched chunks of metal were drifting slowly apart, moving out to all points of the galactic compass.

"Consistent with a Mark 88 hit, wouldn't you say, Y'Tan?" The Mark 88 was Fleet's principal ship-to-ship energy weapon.

"Yes."

"Computer, from drift pattern of onscreen fragments, calculate approximate time of skipcomm buoy destruction. Postulate instrument of destruction to have been a Mark 88 fusion beam at standard setting."

"Time of destruction approximately two-point-four-one t'lars ago," said the machine.

"Computer," said K'Raoda. "How long ago did incoming task force arrive at null point?"

"Two-point-four t'lars ago."

They returned in silence to the command tier, K'Raoda carefully avoiding T'Ral's face.

"K'Lana," said K'Raoda, resuming the captain's chair, "quarantine is abolished. Send recall, priority one. Get as many crew back up from Terra as you can by watchend. Then get me the ambassador.''

"The ambassador is calling in now, sir."

"Ambassador," said K'Raoda as comm screen came to life. "I was just about to call you, sir."

"Subcommander K'Raoda," said the ambassador. "Why did you not return my call?" Born of the old aristocracy, over forty years a diplomat, Z'Sha was a grandmaster of implied slight and cutting innuendo. K'Raoda had tolerated the old patrician's disdain in the past—he had no time for it now.

"Sir, I am a commander, not a subcommander."

Z'Sha waved a negligent hand. "Whatever. I always confuse military ranks.

"I wish to be part of the reception for the incoming reinforcements, Commander. With the commodore indisposed, I suppose I should address you on the subject. How many people can you comfortably entertain, if helped with food and refreshments?"

"Ambassador," said K'Raoda, "three corsairs have just passed null point. I doubt you want to be part of the reception we're planning."

Z'Sha's eyes narrowed at the word "corsairs."

"How . . . ?"

"They'll be here in eight Terran hours. As you can imagine, I'm very busy." He touched the commkey.

"Wait!" The ambassador's voice rang with steel. Startled, K'Raoda stopped.

"Yes?"

"Can you stop them? Honestly."

"Not with fusion fire, sir. No."

"D'Trelna would stop them, Commander."

"I am not D'Trelna, Ambassador."

"Terra has no defenses against our weapons, K'Raoda. Those murderers will butcher millions, loot the planet. Our expedition to Terra Two will be lost. The S'Cotar and their allies will come through that portal, take what's left of this world and push on into the galaxy."

"I know."

"You've advised Fleet?"

"They blasted the skipcomm buoy the instant they came in."

"I must alert the Terrans. Keep me advised." Z'Sha disconnected.

K'Raoda stroked the soft leather of the chair arm with his right palm, staring at the view screen, eyes distant. The bridge was quiet, a few officers speaking softly, the occasional chirp of instruments. Hard to believe it would soon be part of a blasted, corpse-filled hulk.

"Y'Tan," said K'Raoda after a time. "There's a way to take them. But we'll need Z'Sha's help. And luck. Lots of it."

"Smells like a jungle. Looks like a jungle. Sounds like a jungle," said McShane, arm sweeping the surrounding greenery.

"Not a jungle," said D'Trelna, holding up the small, flat surveyor, amber readout toward McShane.

The Terran squinted at it. " 'Flora—none. Fauna—none.' So?" he shrugged. "If we'd believed all your nice little toys over the past year, we'd be dead.

"Good God, man! Use your senses! Feel that hot, fetid air, smell the rotting vegetation, and listen—listen to the nonexistent fauna!"

Sweat-drenched, the two stood on the trail they'd followed from the armorglass gate—a trail leading straight toward the point set in D'Trelna's locator. A thick mist hung low over the trail, obscuring all but the closest brush. Strange, fierce cries sounded in the distance. Once, thinking they heard something large moving through the undergrowth, they'd stopped, rifles ready, waiting. The sound hadn't resumed, so they'd moved on, D'Trelna finally calling a halt to recheck his readings.

"Fake," said D'Trelna, clipping the surveyor back onto his belt. "All machine-generated vegetation. And we haven't seen a single animal, swatted any bugs. We've just heard noises."

Carefully setting the blastrifle down on the trail, McShane pulled the commando knife from his bootsheath. Slicing off the end of a thick-vined creeper, he handed the dripping specimen to D'Trelna. The commodore held it gingerly between two thick fingers, avoiding the white sap oozing from the cut.

"Plant life," said McShane.

"Inorganic," said D'Trelna, dropping the cutting. "Rigid green polymer exterior, resinous white polymer interior. Probably generated from troughs under this brown plastic." He scuffed the jungle matting. "We have supper clubs like this back home."

"How pleasant."

"The scale is less sweeping, the air is conditioned, and a man can get a drink." He wiped a damp sleeve across his sweaty brow.

"Let's go."

"But why not a real jungle?" said Bob as they walked, D'Trelna leading along the narrow trail. "If this was the Agro section, why not real plants?"

"I'd guess—just a guess—that the demented computer has taken over from the secondary systems that maintained Agro."

"This whole grotesque ship was demented from her launch day. How much further?"

D'Trelna checked the locator. "Not far. We're over halfway."

Something made McShane look back. The trail was quietly vanishing as a twelve-foot wall of jungle rolled down it, great thorn-studded vines waving along its front.

"Behind us, J'Quel!"

Turning, the commodore stared at the advancing green mass. "Run!"

McShane had never seen D'Trelna run, couldn't have visualized it. But there he was, a small tank plowing down the trail, even putting some space between him and the Terran. I'll be damned, thought McShane, wheezing. There's muscle under there.

The trail turned hard right after a few moments, ending before a wall of massive, unmortared stone. Great, mist-wreathed boulders vanished above and to sides, swallowed by the fog. A wall made by giants when the world was young, thought McShane.

"Blasters?" he asked, panting. From behind, drawing closer, came a serpentine slithering as hundreds of meters of green death slid down the trail.

"Blasters," said D'Trelna, unslinging his rifle and clicking off the safety. The two men faced about, back to the wall, waiting.

"How long will the chargepaks last?" asked McShane. "As garden trimmers? Not long. "This is classic," added the commodore, eyes on the turn in the trail. "Classical, really."

"How so?"

"Prespace mythology. Seeking Sanctuary, Prince A'Gan slips through Death's Forest. The Forest pursues. A'Gan reaches the Sanctuary wall, but can't enter without speaking the Word-of-One. A word he doesn't know. He faces about, back to the wall, sword in hand."

"Do you know the word?"

"Of course." D'Trelna frowned, half turning his head toward McShane. "Every child on S'Htar . . ."

"Use it, man!" snapped McShane. "Just like your Prince A'Gan! Hurry."

D'Trelna could take orders as well as give them. Turning, rifle held two-handed over his head, he cried, "L'Asorg!" High and lilting, the word rang from the wall.

Blaster to his shoulder, McShane fired at the first creepers as they rounded the trail, aiming where they grew close and thick.

Splashing against an invisible barrier, the stream of red blaster bolts dissipated.

"Shielded! D'Trelna, it's
..."

A hand to his shoulder turned him. "Come on," snapped the commodore, pointing to the tunnel that now pierced the wall.

They ran the few meters, the creepers snapping so close McShane could feel the air stir.

A brief impression of darkness, a passageway, then they were through, grass beneath their feet, the mist thinner, the air pleasant and cool. Turning, they saw that the wall had closed behind them.

"How did you know?" asked the commodore.

"Key words," said McShane, leaning on his blastrifle. "Demented. Club. Classical. We're performers in a psy-chodrama, J'Quel. Only it's the producer who's mad—a producer with some knowledge of the classics."

"Main computer, of course," sighed D'Trelna.
"
I
should have seen it."

"We both should
..."

"Thee hath found uncertain sanctuary, A'Gan," boomed a voice.

The big golden egg floated toward them out of the mist, a purple cape fastened just below its top by twin metallic strands.

Stopping a few meters from the two men, it hovered noiselessly.

"What the hell is that?" said McShane. "A Nibelung?"

"It would appear to be a large talking egg," said the commodore, watching the egg. "One wearing a cape with some knowledge of prespace mythology."

"D'Trelna!"

"It's main computer, Professor."