"My actions were necessary to ensure the survival-"
"Your actions were a five-thousand-year-old megalomania, inspired by men who believed themselves omniscient. Through you, they strove for omnipotence and immortality.
"You don't know if the human race, left to its own devices, wouldn't have stood off this alleged intergalactic menace. You merely assumed it wouldn't. And based on that assumption, you unleashed a horror upon your own people-a horror that almost destroyed them.
"Spare me your hollow piety, POCSYM. You're just an ancient malignancy left to fester in the body of galactic humanity."
L'Wrona led the column out, the wounded tucked into the formation's center. "Now we run the gauntlet," Bakunin commented, trotting behind John and Zahava.
It was one long, running battle. The biofab reinforcements had come up, filling every side corridor with warriors. Racing past each intersection, the humans were raked with blaster fire from hand weapons, shoulder arms and semis. Grenades rained down on them.
There was no time to clean out the S'Cotar ambushcades, not enough troopers left had there been time. Warsuit failures soared, casualties rose, suicide charges slowed the withdrawal.
The shrill of blasters self-destructing became a continuous, unnerving whine.
Gaun-Sharick stood before the Council of the Magnificent, the only five S'Cotar who equaled him in age and rank. Evacuation klaxons sounded from outside the chamber.
Can interplanet teleportation be restored? asked Tuan-Lagark, the Senior.
Not before POCSYM blows us up. There was a tinge of anxiety to Gaun-Sharick's thought.
Tuan-Lagark's antennae wove an acceptance-resolution pattern. You are the last hope of our race, Gaun-Sharick. Allow the humans to escape. Go with them, biding your time till you can call forth our deep-hoarded strength.
You can deceive their instruments? asked another Councilor.
Easily, Luan-Ortar. I march with their men, sleep with their women and they know me not. He touched the medallion about his throat. Wearing this, I am safe.
Go then. Revenge us and restore the Race.
He bowed low and was gone.
L'Wrona moved up and down the column, ordering, pleading, cajoling.
"Close up.
"Watch your flank, there.
"Section Leader U'Trna, send two squads to reinforce the rear guard.
"Sergeant, help that trooper, he's hit.
"That man's dead. Cycle his blaster.
"Come on! Come on! Pick up the pace!
"You're not tired. Commandos never tire."
It was the voice of POCSYM, though, that really kept them going, methodically counting the waning moments.
"Sixty minutes to destruct.
"Forty-five minutes to destruct."
At destruct minus twenty, singing mixed with the blasters' shrill.
"What's that?" L'Wrona demanded, not breaking stride. The gauntlet run, they were nearing the lift. The rear guard now bore the brunt of the counterattack.
"It's the Soldiers Chorus from the Terran opera Ai'da, Commander, the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers who die entombed together. You'll never know how singularly apt it is for my funeral."
The point squad reached the lift. "I'm in contact with G Section, Subcommander V'Arta," the squad leader-D'Nir- reported. "They're under heavy attack."
Jogging into sight of the lift, L'Wrona was finally able to raise V'Arta. "What's your status, N'Trol? Topside secure?"
The whine of massed energy weapons filled L'Wrona's ears as V'Arta reported.
"For now, H'Nar. But you'd better get up here fast. Most of us are dead."
"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