Final Assault (17 page)

"I don't suppose there's a deactivation code?" said Hochmeister to MacKenzie. Behind them, Colonel Ritter was shouting into his transceiver to find and cut the auxiliary power.

"You might try 'Sic Transit Gloria Mundi,'" said Heather.

Hochmeister smiled ruefully, shook his head and took off his biofocals, polishing them carefully as the recording said, "Fifteen . . ."

"Final matters," said the admiral. "You've always had my respect, MacKenzie. It's unfortunate we have to end this way."

Before Heather could more than open her mouth, three figures appeared in the room's center. Two SKs on the stairway raised their weapons, only to drop them as red lightning flashed from S'Rel's eyes, touching the machine pistols.

"Three, two . . ." said the PA system as Guan-Sharick stared at the console. Console and cable vanished.

"One," said the tape, and clicked off.

"Hold your fire, Colonel," called Hochmeister.

Ritter raised his hand as more SKs rushed into the bomb room. "Hold your fire," he repeated.

"Not that you'd get a shot off," said S'Rel, eyes scanning the troopers' faces. "I'm very good at this."

"Got yourself into a mess, Heather?" said John, walking over to the physicist-guerilla.

"John, I don't know where you came from . . ."

"A shuttle, parked outside, my dear."

". . . but I'm delighted and relieved to see you." She turned her back to him, manacled hands outthrust. "The big thug in the corner has the key."

"I don't believe it's been established whose side they're on," said Hochmeister, pulling on his glasses. "Whose side are you, Mr. Harrison?"

"Our own, I'm afraid," said John, turning from Heather to face the admiral. He nodded toward the blonde. "You've met Guan-Sharick before."

Hochmeister bowed slightly. "Not in such a comely guise.

"Your associate's come to a bad end," he said to the transmute, indicating the dead S'Cotar by the stairs.

The blonde shrugged. "We've come to make you an offer you can't refuse, Admiral."

"Himmler once said the same thing to me," said Hochmeister. "And I said no."

"We're taking all your atomic weapons, including reserved fissionable materials," said the transmute.

"What for?" said the admiral.

"Fuel."

"What are you fueling—the moon?"

"About the same size," said John. "Only made of battlesteel and loaded with armaments. It's parked in orbit, needing a refill."

"Why tell us at all?" said the admiral. "Why not just take it?"

"We would have," said S'Rel. "Except that you people were about to dispose of this material—and yourselves—very dramatically and very uselessly. Instead, we'll dispose of it for you."

The bombs and Guan-Sharick were gone.

"Do you know how much work," began Heather, her face very pale, "how many people died . . ."

"We're off to fight the AIs on their own turf, Heather," interrupted John. "If we don't win, you'll all die. They know you're here, they'll come for you when they've finished with us."

"Harrison," sighed Hochmeister, polishing his biofocals, "take it all—all the filthy stuff. Just make sure, if you're cleaning us out, to do the same for the Russians."

"That's very generous of you, Admiral," John smiled. "Especially since you don't have any choice."

Guan-Sharick reappeared. "Ready to go?"

"One thing," said John, turning to Heather. "Tell my blond friend where you want to go—softly."

"I'm not a taxi," said the transmute as Heather crossed the room. She whispered something in Guan-Sharick's ear. The blonde nodded.

"Long life and happiness," said John as the two disappeared.

"It's unlikely she'll have either," said Hochmeister as the transmute reappeared.

"And the same to you, Admiral," said John.

Only Germans were left in the bombless room.

17

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

"Yes, Line?" L'Guan looked up from the I'Wor board—it was DTrelna's move.

"The Margrave of U'Tria's scout craft has just cleared jump point—Combine T'Lan cruisers are in pursuit."

"I believe FleetOps was calling them 'armed merchantmen' during my tenure," said L'Guan, watching DTrelna's hand hover uncertainly between two pieces.

"Those the same slime who've been sitting around jump point the past week?" asked D'Trelna, moving his flanking captain two squares to the left.

"The same," said Line. "The margrave

double-jumped them—came insystem already jump-plotted for further in."

"He had a thirty percent chance of not blowing his drive," said L'Guan, moving his man.

"What's FleetOps doing about him?" asked L'Guan.

"Busily flashing seize-or-destroy orders to Home System Command," said Line. "The Margrave's destination is K'Ronar—there's no way he can avoid the picket ships."

"See if you can tightbeam him," said L'Guan, taking DTrelna's consort.

It took a moment, then L'Wrona's face appeared to the right of the game table, just above a colorful clump of tropical flora long extinct on K'Ronar itself. Staring at the margrave, D'Trelna could see through him to the waterfall beyond.

"Got it," said L'Wrona, staring at the small image in the pickup. He tapped his breast pocket.

"His tactical situation's utterly hopeless," said Line, projecting a second window beside the first: three distinct groups of red blips were closing from two sides on a single green one; a second group of eight hostiles followed behind. As the two officers watched, a group of five yellow blips detached themselves from the region fronting Line and moved toward the green target blip.

.-rural,'' said Line, "I am granting the -.irgrave's ship extended sanctuary under the terms of General Order Seven. Do you concur?"

"What is General Order Seven?" asked DTrelna. I'Wor forgotten, he was intent on the other, deadlier game unfolding on the tacscan.

" 'Any vessel or crew whose presence is a necessary constituent to the defense of the planet may, at the discretion of both Line and the Line Duty Officer, be granted extended sanctuary,'" said L'Guan, eyes shifting between L'Wrona and the tacscan.

"Now would not be too soon," said L'Wrona, punching in a countersalvo as the first wave of missiles came in. He threw an arm over his eyes as fierce red fusion beams flashed from
Toy,
touching the six silver shipbusters streaking in on the scout craft. Orange-red explosions mushroomed around the craft, enveloping it in a fiery globe that was gone as quickly as it had come.

Inside the ship, L'Wrona lowered his arm. "Status?" he asked, watching the tacscan. Another wave of missiles, three times the number of the last, was just launching. Ahead and around him, the opposing ships were coming into beam range.

"Shield's gone," said Dad.

"Any suggestions?" he asked the ship.

"Unless Line does something for you right now, son, bend over and kiss it good-bye." "Concur," said L'Guan.

"What the seven hells?" said Admiral I'Tal, coming to his feet as every screen in FleetOps went dark. "Commodore A'Wal," he called, "check status on . . ."

The screens came back on, all showing the starship-and-sun of the old Empire, set in a single black circle—Line's emblem. "This is K'Ronarin Defense Sphere," said the unmistakable contralto from every speaker in the Operations Center. "The ship
Rich Man's Toy
is under the protection of this unit. You are directed to break off attack and withdraw all forces to their original positions. I will give you a twenty-count. Any units attacking the vessel
Rich Man's Toy
at the end of the twenty-count will be destroyed." The screens returned to normal, but the voice remained, counting slowly, "Twenty . . . nineteen ..."

Admiral I'Tal didn't waste time with intermediaries. Lunging across Commodore A'Wal's console, he pushed the General address tab. "All ships, Home System—break off attack on scout craft. Destroy all in-flight ordnance. Return to stations."

Breathing hard, he sank back into his chair, watching the tacscan on the big board. Acknowledgments were coming in by the time Line was intoning "Zero." One by one, the
r
. ; misers turned away, a trail of self-destructing missiles in their wake.

The slumbering giant awakes," murmured
1
Vial,
watching the screen as the admiral reached for a glass of water. The Commodore frowned. "Combine T'Lan has not broken off the attack," he said as the trailing red blips closed on the single green one.

Admiral FTal glanced up at the board. "Be a pity if those power-hungry v'org slime got wiped." He grinned a vicious little grin. "Have Commander Prime Base put the installation on a stage two alert." He and A'Wal watched as the Combine T'Lan ships loosed another missile salvo, followed by a fusion barrage. "Line's about to wipe a flotilla of the Imperial Party's biggest supporter—I don't want any edict-issuing Councilors bursting in here."

An alarm sounded—three high, warbling notes. "Line has opened fire," said computer.

"Incoming all over the scan," said Dad.

"Shield . . ."

"Gone."

L'Wrona found himself clutching the freeholder's commwand with one hand as he futilely stabbed the jump drive engage with his other.

"Forget it, son," said the ship. "Hull transponder nodules got fried."

L'Wrona was reaching out to take the ship off manual, to bring it around for a death run on his attackers, when the incoming warheads atomized
Toy.

The little grotto—jungle, trees, bluff, waterfall—D'Trelna saw none of it, standing in front of the tacscan, watching the missiles from the Combine ships close on his friend's ship. "Fire—full intercept pattern!" he bellowed. Behind and above him, frightened birds took flight.

"Too late," said L'Guan. "Even at light speed." He stood beside D'Trelna, watching quietly, drink in hand.

Missile specks and target blip met and vanished. "Target destroyed," read the data trail's final item.

"Now, I think," said Line, and fired. Thousands of miles away, weapons on two artificial planetoids flashed briefly, azure beams piercing the shield wall. As D'Trelna and L'Guan watched, all remaining blips vanished from the screens, followed by the screens themselves. Overhead, the circling birds returned to their trees.

"You useless, antiquated automaton," said D'Trelna slowly, eyes searching the grotto, as though hoping to find some tangible part of Line that he could rip with the hands clenching and unclenching at his side. "You delayed . . . you purposefully delayed firing!"

"Commodore," said Line pleasantly,

.ire no judge of my capabilities. I suggest..."

"I could have picked those slime off with three ships at the same range you failed at—failed with the entire firepower of an Imperial fleet!" His voice rose to a shout. "L'Wrona's dead, the commwand lost—and with it any hope of defeating the AIs." He sank into his chair. "Give me a ship, please," he said to L'Guan. "Anything's better than . . ." He broke off, turning in his chair to follow L'Guan's gaze, then stood, his chair tipping unnoticed to the ground.

"That bellow of yours carries the length of the corridor," said L'Wrona, stepping from the rock entrance to the grotto into the light.

"H'Nar!" shouted D'Trelna, embracing the captain in a bear hug that made L'Wrona protest, "J'Quel. . ."

"Sorry," said the commodore, gripping him by the shoulders and stepping back. "Matter transporter," he said, letting go.

"Matter transporter," confirmed L'Guan, joining them. '

"The same 'lost' matter transporter technology we were sent to find during the Biofab War, H'Nar," said D'Trelna, turning to L'Guan. "Something the admiral's declined to explain."

"Interesting," said L'Wrona. "Admiral, you do owe us an . . ."

"An explanation?" L'Guan smiled. "No, I don't. But"—he held up a hand, stopping their protests—"I'll give you one, now that
Implacable's
gone. Your ship was sent as far from the war to protect its precious cargo from harm."

"Precious cargo?" said D'Trelna. "I thought Scepter and Crown were enshrined in the Palace?"

"Human cargo, D'Trelna," said L'Guan. "The last hope of this dying republic, and, oddly, an aristocrat—though he hides it well—a bit too well."

"The Heir," said L'Wrona wonderingly. "You put the Heir Apparent on board!"

"I didn't know there was an Heir," said D'Trelna.

"A well-kept secret," said L'Wrona. "I've always known there was an Heir, but never who he was."

"Why on
Implacable?"
demanded D'Trelna. "To protect him? We were in the thick of it—he could have died a hundred times!"

"You weren't supposed to be in the thick of it," said the admiral. "And he may die yet."

"Who?" asked both men at once.

L'Guan laughed and refilled his empty glass. "A toast, gentlemen, to the last of a great house: K'Yan, sixth of that name, Heir Apparent to the Sceptered Throne, Commander of the Founding Fleet, Guardian of