The Battle for Terra Two by Stephen Ames Berry Read Free Book Online

at Berkeley?"
    "My brother's dead," she said. John shook his head. "How?"
    "We were scouting Maximus, as requested. We landed in a small valley about a mile from its outer perimeter ..."
    They'd left their machines—salvaged UC choppers—and moved out on foot: Ian, Heather and a few Vipers. The gangers were in their late teens, early twenties, a mixed group of blacks, Hispanics, Orientals and white ethnics. All were platoon leaders, picked and trained by Ian over the past two years, bloodied in skirmishes with Aldridge's troopers. They were the nucleus of the guerrilla army Ian had molded from a thousand turf-seasoned gangers, part of the "dusky horde" troubling zur Linde's sleep.
    Seen through binoculars from the brush, Maximus conveyed a seedy air of neglect: a weathered chain-link fence and a gate, the fence sagging away into the forest, rusty chain and padlock securing the gate. There was no guard, just a peeling sign: "U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY-KEEP OUT." Rising from behind the gate, a narrow dirt road snaked up the mountain, twisting from sight around a bend. Weeds flourished between the road's shallow ruts.
    Ian passed the big Zweiss 12x50s to his sister. She looked, shook her head and handed them back. "You're thinking of attacking that? Why not just wait for a storm to blow it over?"
    Ian laughed, looking back at Maximus. He was a big, lantern-jawed man, with his sister's red hair and their mother's green eyes. "Watch," he said, pointing to a sparrow alighting on the fence. Zap! Heather gasped as the bird vanished in a blue flash. Gray smoke rose from a misshapen lump beneath the wire.
    "Can't that be shorted?" she asked uncertainly.
    "Sure," he nodded. "Once you get through the mines. Then there's the minefield on the other side. And the road's mined too, probably rigged for command detonation. Surviving all that—and we could, 'cause the Outfit's provided maps—at the top there's a battalion of rent-a-Brits: Scots Guards under a brigadier. They're in a heavily fortified position with light artillery. Only after getting past them would we reach the research facility, a brutish agglomeration of concrete and glass—all sharp edges— with staff quarters, labs, power plant, barracks, admin building."
    "I see," she said. "But you still haven't told me the reason for all this. Or why you dragged me all the way across the country to be here."
    "Two reasons. The people I work for asked for my evaluation of Maximus's defenses. As these same people also provide the Vipers with weapons, materials and training," he pointed to himself, "I agreed." Leaning closer, he dropped his voice. "I've never heard Angel, my controller, sound scared. But he's scared about Maximus. Something up there's frightened the bejesus out of him."
    "As for the other reason . . . Julio!"
    The young platoon leader scampered over. "Tell my sister what you told me, please."
    During the War, the government had brought levies of cane workers from Puerto Rico to man the vital mainland factories. With thousands of Americans dying every week on the Russian steppes, the draft had stripped the cities of all but the youngest, the oldest and the sickest. It was hoped that the Hispanics would prove docile, tolerating the substandard wages and deteriorating living conditions, the 108-hour work weeks. Many had. But their children, those who survived '68, hadn't.
    "Until last year," said Julio in careful, faintly accented English, "Maximus used laborers and cooks from fringe burbs near turf, rotating them every three months. My cousin Raoul was part of a construction crew. At least, that's what they told him when he was hired." The dead UC trooper's field jacket was too large for Julio's small frame. Rocking slightly on his heels, he hugged himself for warmth. "He came home a month overdue. He was old. Old." He shook his head, awed by the memory. "My age, but he looked eighty. Shaking, gnarled hands, wrinkled face. And his mind ..."
    "Senile?" prompted