The Battle for Terra Two (3 page)

Harrison laughed bitterly. "Kill her if you want. We're getting divorced. Zahava's gone home to stay."

"Fine," shrugged the blonde.

"No!" John grabbed the S'Cotar by the shoulders, ashen-cheeked.

The transmute smiled quizzically. "Bluffing?"

"Yes." He dropped his hands.

"I wasn't."

"She's not . . ."

"No. Your tough little hellcat's safe, Harrison. For now."

They resumed their slow walk, the lunchtime crowd flowing around them.

"I'm glad that's resolved," said the transmute. "I'll be taking you through the portal to Terra Two, tomorrow at noon."

"Why then?" asked John, wanting very much to kill Guan-Sharick.

"It's the only time for the next seven months that my loyalists will have charge of both sides of the portal. I could get you through now, but not without some commotion."

"Then what?"

"Then we slip you into Major Harrison's new posting— Boston. There you'll contact the resistance, and lead them against Shalan-Actal's outpost in Vermont, escaping just before they blow up the portal device."

"Either you're crazy," said John, "or you've set this all up very carefully."

They stopped at the corner of Fourteenth and H streets, waiting for the light.

"Major Harrison was a resistance sympathizer," said the transmute. "His assignment to Boston was arranged by certain elements of the CIA for the very purpose we want—disposal of Shalan's covert outpost on Terra Two."

"You had nothing to do with that, I suppose?"

"Me?" said the blonde, wide-eyed.

"Why aren't those killer machines trundling down the street, slaughtering away?" asked John as the traffic rolled past. "The portal works, the machines are on Terra Two."

"Not in great strength. And there's a problem with the linkage between Terra Two and the machines' universe. You have to close the portal from Terra Two to here before machine reinforcements reach Terra Two."

They didn't notice the light flashing. Pedestrians streamed around them. "Take an army through, seize the portal," said John.

"Shalan would disengage the portal device before even a platoon got through. My loyalists hold only a few key points on both sides—not enough to mask the hosts of humanity."

"We're going to miss the light." They hurried across as the warning blinked.

"Read the briefing book," said Guan-Sharick as they continued down H Street. "Know it. I'll be at your town house tomorrow morning, at eleven. Then we'll flick through the portal to Terra Two." The S'Cotar stopped in front of a junk electronics store, back to a doorway full of kids and the blare of punk rock. "Make sure you
..."

Movement caught John's eye. From across the entrance's "Odds & Ends" table, a tall black kid with a Mohawk was aiming a shotgun mike at Guan-Sharick.

"Down!" shouted John. He tumbled the blonde to the pavement as an azure-blue blaster bolt snapped over their heads, exploding a flower delivery van in a great
Whurnp!
of pillaring flame.

Screaming. People scattering. Burning bits of roses, mums and driver rained down. Across the street, a car alarm hooted.

The gunman stepped around the table. John tried to untangle himself from Guan-Sharick, tugging at the pistol inside his parka. The transmute held him, pinioned, as the blank-faced killer aimed from five feet away.

The street was gone. John saw a room flash by: S'Cotar warriors, raising their rifles, more blue blaster bolts. A dark pool closed over him, cotton-soft and cold.

Another, bigger area: harsh, blinding light, blaster fire. Gone.

Guan-Sharick let him go. They were in a hotel room, all burnt umber and teak—twin beds, a desk, two chairs, double dresser, TV, curtained window. The transmute held Sutherland's attache case.

Dropping the attache case, Guan-Sharick sank onto a bed, hand to shoulder, crimson blood oozing through the fingers. John's parka was splotched the same red. "Shalan's killers?" asked Harrison.

"Shalan's killers," said the S'Cotar. "Seen with me, Harrison, you wouldn't have lived till morning. You're the only John Harrison I have left. So we went through the portal, hard and fast."

"Where are we?"

"The Toronto Hilton."

"And why are you bleeding red?"

"One projects either a whole illusion or none," said the transmute. A S'Cotar sat on the bed, a tentacle clamped over a torn thorax, green oozing through the exoskel-eton.

John looked at his parka. It was daubed with green blood.

The blonde and the red blood reappeared. "This isn't clotting fast enough," said Guan-Sharick. "Cold compress, please."

Going into the small bathroom, John ran a white hand towel under the sink faucet. Returning to the bedroom, he tossed it to the S'Cotar.

"You're too kind," said the blonde, catching it.

"For you, anything. Now what?"

"Now you take off your jacket and do your homework," said the S'Cotar, applying the compress. "Terra Two, modern history. U.S., Western Europe and the Soviet Union, current history and relationship. Boston, demographics and current history. CIA, order of battle. CIA combat brigade, mission, current deployment and order of battle. Urban Command, Boston, table of organization. Biographies—Major Harrison, Colonel Aldridge, Captain MacKenzie, his sister, Dr. Heather MacKenzie, and Wehrmacht
Hauptmann
Erich zur Linde." The blonde lay back on the bed, eyes on the white-stippled ceiling. "There's also a precis of Major Harrison's doctoral dissertation in there. You might skim it—it's rather good.

"Wake me when you're ready for interrogation." Guan-Sharick's eyes closed.

"Hold it," said John. The blonde's eyes opened. "How long do I have?"

"Major Harrison's booked on tomorrow's eight p.m. flight to Boston—he's being met. There's a four-hour uptime difference between Terra One and Two. You have about twenty-two hours.

"The coffee shop's open all night, mezzanine level. Bill it to your room number. They make a nice Spanish omelet. Do take that bloody parka off first." Guan-Sharick's eyes closed again.

Dropping his coat on the desk chair, John went to the window and drew back the curtain. Their room was at least fifteen stories up. Cars moved along the boulevard below; lights shone from the buildings opposite. It could have been any downtown nightscape in any of a hundred cities.

Turning back to the room, he put the attache case on the desk and opened it. Taking out the familiar blue-vinyl CIA briefing book, he settled into the armchair, opening with a sigh to the first of some two hundred pages.

"I feel like a centurion being sent across the Rhine," said John. He and the S'Cotar were walking down the Air Canada concourse. Harrison wore the black uniform of an Urban Command major, leather flight bag slung over his shoulder.

"More like Hadrian's Wall," said Guan-Sharick. "A positon of limited retreat." The S'Cotar seemed recovered from its wound, striding briskly beside John, cheeks ruddy with health, golden hair cascading over white cable-knit sweater. Faded jeans, docksiders and powder-blue down jacket completed the image.

"What if I can't take the portal?" asked John as they reached the boarding gate.

"Then you'll be staying on Terra Two—you won't like it. And don't look for help from above. There are no K'Ronarins in this reality—we checked. Where K'Ronar should be is an asteroid belt."

"Must have made you feel good."

"Luck, John." The blonde kissed him quickly on the lips, two lovers parting, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Choking back the bile that rose to his throat, John wiped his lips with his jacket cuff, glaring after the S'Cotar.

"Final call for Air Canada, Flight One-Seven to Boston," warned the public address system. "Now boarding, gate fourteen."

John's uniform didn't exempt him from the security check. Luggage and person electronically probed, he hurried across the lounge and down the carpeted ramp, making the plane just as the stewardess reached out to pull the door shut.

The aircraft's interior looked like any wide-bodied Lockheed or Boeing, but the blurb in the seat pocket described it as a Fokker-Hughes 803. About half the passengers were American military, most of them wearing the brown-wool class A's of the U.S. Army. Taking the aisle seat, John fastened the seat belt and closed his eyes, falling asleep as the big jet roared down the runway.

"...
pee." John opened his eyes. The obese young man in the next seat was shaking his arm. "I'm sorry, but could you get up? I've got to pee."

"Sure." Stepping into the aisle, he let the man out; a round, top-heavy form draped in gray Harris tweed that seemed almost to float, balloonlike, toward the lavatory.

A moment later, the uniformed stewardess appeared, pushing a coffee-and-pastry cart. Giving up on sleep, John took coffee and sweet rolls for himself and his absent neighbor.

Returning from the lavatory, the man introduced himself as he ate. "Walt Wenschel," he said, putting down the pastry and extending his hand.

"Harrison. John Harrison." Shaking the hand, John felt the honey frosting transfer from Wenschel's plump fingers to his. "You live in Boston, Walt?" he asked. Freeing his hand, he slid it under the tray table, rubbing his fingers on his napkin.

"Moving there." He smiled. "One-year, tax-free Urban Zone assignment. I'm a research chemist with Patch-Grumbacher. PG's got a small facility inside the Green Line. Pretty safe, great tax break for PG and me.

"You part of the UC garrison, John?" asked Wenschel.

"G2. Intelligence officer."

The chemist nodded absently. "Want your sugar?" He nodded to the two white packets. "Please, take them."

John closed his eyes as Wenschel stirred four packets of sugar into his cup.

The chemist turned back to him a moment later, set to discourse on Urban Zone tax credits. John was asleep, breathing deeply, chair reclined.

Boston's Saltonstall Airport was a stark, white utilitarian box, all sharp right angles, high ceilings and fluores-cents. Much smaller than the Montreal facility, it held few passengers, mostly male, all well-dressed, and soldiers— lots of soldiers—patrolling in pairs or flanking doorways, deadly little machinepistols slung over their shoulders. Walking from the Air Canada gate toward the waiting area, John counted eighteen of the black-uniformed troopers. None were over thirty, and all were white, with the shifting eyes and expressionless faces of professionals. He felt those eyes follow curiously as he crossed the room, black patent-leather boots clip-clopping on alabaster-white tile.

Have a good look, you bastards, he thought. I've come to save you from slimy green bugs and worse. "Major Harrison."

A short, bald UC officer in black fatigues and combat boots was coming through the waiting area, a .45 holstered to the webbed belt around his waist, two troopers behind him. "Captain Grady, sir," said the older man, saluting. "Garrison adjutant. Welcome to Boston, Major."

"Thank you, Captain," said John, returning the salute. One of the troopers took his bag.

"We have transport waiting," said Grady. "The Hospital's ten minutes by chopper."

"The Hospital?" said John as Grady led the way toward a "Restricted Access" door.

The captain smiled—the thin smile John came to associate with Terra Two. "They built headquarters on a big hill, over in Roxbury. There was a hospital there once."

The chopper looked like a Vietnam-vintage Huey to John, a black-painted troop carrier complete with helmeted door gunner. Engines roaring, it swept them up and out over the harbor, skirting the brightly lit shore for a few minutes, then turning inland as the city lights vanished.

Holding a safety strap, John stood behind the gunner, ignoring the damp, chill wind knifing through the door cracks. Stars above, dark ground below—he saw little else through the closed plexiglass gunport. Once, far off, there was a glimmer of light, quickly gone.

He gripped the safety strap as the helicopter banked suddenly, dropping toward the brilliantly lit helipad that had flared to life below. The helipad topped an unlit, sprawling structure of uncertain shape, its outline twisting into surreal shadow beyond the landing lights. As they touched down, John saw other Huey-like choppers to one side, and smaller, deadly looking gunships to the other.

"The Hospital," said Grady as they touched down.

Outside, the lights went off, dying to a sullen glow for a few seconds, then vanishing. "Don't want to draw fire," explained the UC officer. The gunner swung the door wide as the rotors died.

"Here." Grady handed John a black helmet with an equally dark visor. "You use starhelms in CIB, Major?" he asked, pulling one on.

"Never used one," said John. Imitating Grady, he fastened the helmet and dropped the visor.

The Huey's dark interior resolved into the phosphorescent hues of infrared—Captain Grady and his squad were now a S'Cotarish green.

"Jungle maintenance would be a bitch," said Grady, making the small jump onto the concrete. "We have elevators. Follow me, please."

Troopers patrolled the roof, green-and-red from a distance, green closer up. The walls were sandbagged, topped with razor wire and interspaced by tarpaulined machine guns and mortars. At the far end of the roof, four sleek surface-to-air missiles pointed skyward.

Walking behind Grady, John saw a tier of circling radar dishes, set atop a square concrete mast above the elevators.

An elevator was waiting, dark inside except for the control panel. As the door shut, the light came on. The two men removed their starhelms.

"UC doesn't have any friends in the neighborhood, does it?" said John.

"About as many as CIB has in Mexico," said Grady as the elevator descended. "We're in a war here, too, whatever Frederick wants to call it." The elevator stopped, doors opening silently. "BOQ level," said the captain. "You'll be quartered here."

John squinted as they stepped into the long white hallway. The light was harsh—more fluorescents and latex-painted walls, he saw.

Grady led him along the deserted hallway to a tan door marked "Petersen" by a stenciled placard. "Here you are," said Grady, slipping the placard out of its holder.