Final Assault (2 page)

"Humanity would be compost in less than a year if we hadn't heard of the AIs, H'Nar. It still may be." He tried to punch up a drink from his chairarm beverager—nothing. "Engineering's begun shutting her down."

"They'll try to kill us both, you know," said L'Wrona.

"Perhaps," said the commodore, standing. "Shall we go?" He indicated the door.

In a moment, for the first time in ten years, the bridge was empty.

"B'Tul," said DTrelna, holding out his hand, "keep out of trouble."

"Commodore," the big master gunner, smiling and shaking the officer's hand, "me?" B'Tul stood at the head of the disembarking crew, there in the narrow access corridor at the bottom of the ship, gray kit bag slung over his shoulder, brown utility cap perched rak-ishly on his head.

T remember that bar brawl on I'Tak Two, Master Gunner," said DTrelna.

"And I remember you throwing that miner into the bar," said B'Tul. "The one who wanted to gut me with a broken bottle."

DTrelna nodded. "It was STanian brandy, B'Tul. A bad end for a noble poison—I lost my head."

B'Tul handed DTrelna a slip of paper.

"What's this?" said the commodore, unfolding it.

"My address. I have everyone else's contact point. You need us, call. We've got a lot of friends on
Devastator
who aren't out of this yet. And rumor has it you and the captain are in deep trouble here. Anyway"—he adjusted his hat—"you need us, call.

"Luck, sir," said B'Tul, shaking L'Wrona's hand.

"Luck, B'Tul," smiled the captain.

B'Tul stepped through the door and onto the long ramp that spiraled down to the waiting carrier.

The others filed past, said their good-byes and followed the master gunner into the hot desert sun. The two officers stood on the top of the ramp, watching them go.

"Seven years through blood and fire with some of them," said L'Wrona, shaking his head. "Think we'll ever see them again?"

"Yes," said DTrelna. They watched the carrier rise on its n-gravs, turn and accelerate toward the distant smudge of Base Central, a blur of speed quickly lost in the heat haze shimmering above the landing field.

The two men reentered the ship.

"Let's secure the bridge," said DTrelna. "Then if N'Trol's finished, wait here like good children for . . ."

"Alert! Alert!" It was computer. "Ground assault units are approaching this vessel. Ground assault units are approaching this vessel."

"Didn't waste any time, did they?" said DTrelna, reaching the wall commlink first. "Computer. Specify composition of ground units."

The voice shifted from wall speakers to the commlink. "Fifteen Class One battle tanks, twenty-seven weaponed personnel carriers of mixed nomenclature."

As DTrelna turned for the corridor and the lift, the commlink beeped. He punched it on. "What's happening?" asked N'Trol.

"Company comes, bearing blasters," said the commodore. "Meet us on the bridge."

Black, squat monsters, the battle tanks hung back from
Implacable,
fusion cannons cranked high, as the personnel carriers swept in, disgorging gray-uniformed troopers who charged up the landing ramp of airlock 59, M32 assault rifles in hand.

"Gray uniforms?" said DTrelna. The three officers stood on the silent bridge, watching the investiture of their ship on the main screen. "Since when in the last five thousand years has any Fleet unit worn gray?"

"Fleet Security changed to gray last year, J'Quel," said the captain. "They call it imperial gray. You should keep up on FleetOps Orders of the Day."

"I always use the first two paragraphs to get to sleep, H'Nar," said DTrelna. On the screen the last of the troopers had entered the ship.

"Ready yet, Mr. N'Trol?" said the commodore, turning to where the engineer sat, busy at the first officer's station.

"Can't do it manually," said N'Trol, shaking his head. "Computer won't let me."

Captain and commodore stepped to the first officer's station. Reaching past N'Trol, DTrelna opened the complink. "Computer. DTrelna. Destroy all record of commtorps last launched from this vessel."

"Illegal command," said computer. "Fleet Directive 60.35.B states that. . ." It broke off, then spoke again, its voice coming from the bulkhead speakers. "Personnel properly identifying themselves as Fleet Security officers are demanding admittance to this bridge."

"Command priority," said DTrelna. "Do not—repeat, do not—admit them." He glanced at the armored double doors guarding the bridge.

"Computer," said L'Wrona quickly, "authenticator Imperiad seven one, eight one. Destroy all record of commtorps last launched from this vessel."

"Implemented, My Lord," said a deep, sonorous voice from the complink.

L'Wrona smiled grimly at the other two officers. "Now let them try to find those commtorps."

N'Trol stood, shaking his head. "You tap that old Imperial programming too much, Captain, you'll have a computer with dysfunctional schizophrenia."

"I've only used it once before," said L'Wrona.

"It's unlikely we'll ever be on this ship again, gentlemen," said DTrelna.

The commlink chirped. Leaning across the vacant console, DTrelna touched the call tab. "Yes?"

"Colonel A'Nal," said a flat, hard voice, "Fleet Security. Under the authority of Fleet Articles of War, I order you to open these doors."

DTrelna tapped the Hold button. "Well?" he asked the other two.

"If he's talking Articles, he's got arrest warrants," said L'Wrona.

"We could let them drag a Mark 44 up here," suggested N'Trol. "It would take them a while. It's a hot day, they'd work up a sweat, pull some muscles . . ."

"And eventually burn the door down and come thundering in here, pissed as hell," said L'Wrona. "Fun, but not a good idea."

"Better let them in, J'Quel."

"Computer," said DTrelna, thumbing the complink, "please admit the properly identified members of our Fleet Security arm."

The thick doors hissed open. A rush of gray uniforms surged onto the bridge, led by a tall man with colonel's insignia and the crossed daggers of Fleet Security on his collar.

"You're all under arrest," he said as troopers took D'Trelna's and N'Trol's blasters.

"This one won't give it up, sir," said a corporal.

L'Wrona stood imperturbably, hand firmly on his weapon's grips.

"You will please surrender your weapon, Captain My Lord L'Wrona," said Colonel A'Nal.

"Not until I see the arrest order," said L'Wrona, extending his free hand.

"Certainly." Taking a paper from his tunic pocket, A'Nal handed it stiffly to the captain. L'Wrona scanned the order, eyes stopping at the signature block. He handed it back. "This is signed by a councilman. You may be able to hold Commodore DTrelna and Commander N'Trol on it—you certainly can't hold me."

"Even the aristocracy is subject to Fleet orders," said the colonel. "Even you, My Lord."

"It's just a civil order," said L'Wrona, "and I am not just any aristocrat."

A'Nal glared at L'Wrona and started to speak. As he did so, a voice called wonder-ingly from the first officer's station, "Seven hells! They've wiped the commtorps records!"

The colonel turned to the technician as the three ship's officers exchanged satisfied looks. "I thought that couldn't be done?"

The woman shrugged. "Nevertheless, they've done it—accessed the Imperial programming, somehow. It's all gone except basic commtorps inventory."

Face flushing angrily, A'Nal turned back to his prisoners. "You must be feeling very smug. We'll see how you feel after interrogation.

"Escort the commodore and the commander to the Tower," he ordered, "and remand them to the custody of the commandant."

D'Trelna shook off the hands that reached for his arms. "What did you do in the war, Colonel?" he asked.

"In the war?" repeated A'Nal, staring uneasily at D'Trelna's battle ribbons.

"He means the ten-year war with the S'Cotar," said N'Trol helpfully. "The one that ended this year."

"My record's none of your concern," said the colonel. "But it's one I'm proud of—I was assigned to ground headquarters of the Home Fleet."

"In what capacity?" asked L'Wrona. "Budget officer."

"Interesting," said DTrelna. "How'd you go from budget officer to colonel in a combat arm?"

"Get them out of here," A'Nal ordered a sergeant. The NCO took the commodore's arm, steering him toward the doors. N'Trol and his escort followed.

"Luck, H'Nar," called DTrelna as they took him away.

"Luck, J'Quel, N'Trol," said the captain. Alone on the bridge, he and A'Nal faced each other.

"You're correct—I can't arrest you," said the gray-uniformed officer. "I'd be very careful, though, if I were you, My Lord. Stay out of this. Go back to UTria—they need you there, now that the war's over." With a curt nod, he turned and left the bridge.

"The real war's only just begun, Colonel," said L'Wrona softly. Alone on the big old ship, he watched the convoy disappear into the heat of midday, then turned and left the ship.

Terra. A speck of nothingness on the spiral arm of our galaxy. Which is, of course, why the Empire—or certain members of the Empire—chose to build on Terra's moon a cybernetic guardian that would, when the moment was right, create and unleash into our somnolent Confederation an aggressor race, to "prepare" us for the "real" enemy, those long-forgotten AIs who lived just a universe away. That this cybernetic guardian, some five thousand years after the fall of the Empire, chose to create such a formidable lifeform as the S'Cotar biofabs, made the contest all too real. That we won was a miracle; that we will ever be entirely rid of the S'Cotar plague unlikely. It can only be done planet by planet, nest by nest. And it can only be done by the Watchers.

Colonel S'Rel

Report to the Confederation Council
Archives Reference 518.392.671 AI

c

2

"What are you
trying to tell me, S'Rel?" said Sutherland, interrupting the Watcher in mid-evasion.

The K'Ronarin stopped speaking, then leaned forward, fists on the CIA director's desk. "Very well, Sutherland. I'll be blunt. My men and I have been ordered back to K'Ronar —we leave Terra tomorrow."

"Leave? Tomorrow?" Sutherland heard himself stammer.

S'Rel nodded.
"Repulse
is going home. We're to go with her."

"Repulse
is pulling out?"

S'Rel nodded.

"Is she being replaced?"

"No."

Sutherland slumped back in his chair. "My God, S'Rel—you're leaving this planet defenseless against ..."

"Against nothing," said S'Rel, walking to the big picture window with its view of the Potomac Palisades. A wiry, pale-complexioned man in his thirties, dressed for the weather in a short sleeve plaid shirt and denim pants, he stared across the sullen brown river at Washington.

"Against nothing," he repeated, turning back to Sutherland, hands clasped behind his back. "That nest in the Mato Grosso was the last of them. There are no more traces on Terra. We've wiped all the S'Cotar on your world."

It had been a swift, flawlessly executed operation. Without warning,
Repulse
had moved out of stationary orbit, heading outsystem at speed, protests from a hundred nations rippling in its wake as the radar reports came in. Ambassador Z'Sha had only just issued an uninformative statement when the destroyer suddenly reappeared over Brazil, missile and fusion batteries sending a thin-stream of death into the atmosphere—a fierce rain of ordnance and energy that impacted on a small village deep in the Amazon basin.

Flashing silver in the tropical sun, five K'Ronarin shuttles had swept in low off the river, Mark 44 turrets strafing the burning, blasted ruins. With a faint whine of n-gravs, the craft had settled into the clearing between the village and a swamp. Before the landing struts had even touched the ground, the raiders were leaping out, running for the village, M32 rifles in hand, S'Rel and Sutherland in the lead.

The survivors huddled at the other end of the clearing, a pathetic group of ragged, terrified children clutching their frightened mothers; a few old men, watching the American Rangers and the K'Ronarin commandos impassively, through eyes that had seen too much, and one very fat man, shirtless but wearing a big straw hat. Behind them, smoke drifted lazily from the ruins of their homes out over the broad brown stretch of the Amazon.

S'Rel had halted his force about forty meters from the survivors, waiting as the fat man walked over to them.

"Why?" said the fat man, halting in front of him and Sutherland, hands spread dramatically, eyes shifting between the two of them.

Blaster leveled, S'Rel had said nothing, merely pulled the trigger. The weapon shrilled, sending a fierce red beam punching through that great gut—a gut that resolved into a slender green thorax as the S'Cotar died.

The tall insectoid was still falling when the firefight broke out—the illusion of huddled refugees rippling, dissolving into a tight formation of blaster-armed, bulbous-eyed bugs that opened fire with trained precision, indigo-blue bolts slamming into the human line, a withering fire that would have wiped out the human force had the thin silver miracle of their warsuits not absorbed the fusion bolts, converting them to brief bursts of multicolored lightning that crackled up and down the warsuits for an instant, then were gone.