Final Assault (6 page)

They'll turn on us at the first opportunity."

"Yes, sir. They hate us, they fear us, but they hate and fear the AIs more. The mindslavers will try to hold the Rift for us until reinforcements arrive."

"Reinforcements?" said L'Guan. "I thought I explained—our tactical situation is hopeless."

"The Twelfth Fleet of the House of S'Yal," said the commodore.

There was long silence in the room, broken by a sigh from L'Guan. "Others have done what you're doing, D'Trelna," he said, "and under similar pressures—the Confederation's dissolving around us like a sand fort and you're seeking refuge in Imperial mysticism." He hurried on before the commodore could protest.

"Every kid knows that wildtale—a mythical fleet from the height of the Empire, trapped in some sort of jump stasis."

D'Trelna shook his head. "Not mythical, sir. The Twelfth Fleet and its loss are duly recorded in Archives. Supposedly a means of recalling the fleet was devised but never implemented—it lies buried with S'Yal, somewhere on this planet."

"And you propose to find it after—what? —ten thousand years?"

"Closer to fifteen thousand, Admiral. And not me—H'Nar L'Wrona. It's in S'Yal's last citadel."

"Last citadel. Lost fleet." L'Guan shook his head. "Lost, D'Trelna—lost is the operative word." He looked past the commodore, out on the lights of man's first city in the galaxy. "Quadrants revolting, bioengineers loosing monsters upon us, the Empire falling, planets torched like diseased fruit, but through it all—a hundred thousand years. Commodore —civilization survived. A civilization that's dying on our watch, D'Trelna," he said softly. The admiral looked up, as if expecting to see AI assault ships descending through night.

"We're not finished yet," said D'Trelna. "If anyone can ..."

Both men turned, startled by the muted sound of blaster fire echoing through ancient stone.

The thick wooden doors slammed open and a commando major hurried in, big M32 blastrifle on his hip. Behind him, a squad of commandos reinforced the two troopers guarding the door, taking up firing positions along the corridor.

"Report," ordered L'Guan as the commando officer saluted, left hand to the weapon's comb.

"Tugayee have infiltrated the Tower and are fighting their way to this level."

The admiral showed no surprise at the news. "And our gray-uniformed friends?"

"The Tower garrison withdrew shortly before the attack on direct orders of FleetOps."

The blaster fire was drawing nearer, the shrilling of the weapons now audible above the explosions. "Can you hold?" asked L'Guan.

The major shook his head. "Not without reinforcements—every assassin in the quadrant must be in on this. And they've slapped a commdamper on the building—static on all frequencies."

"Take your men and fight your way clear, Major I'Tan," said L'Guan, ignoring the commando's startled look. "Return to base. You shouldn't have much trouble—it's me they want."

"But, Admiral ..." protested the major.

"I'll be all right. Get going."

"Sir," saluted the major.

"By the way, sir," added the commando as the admiral returned his salute, "last word before the attack was that you've been assigned Line duty officer."

"Joy," murmured L'Guan as the major stepped into the corridor.

"D'Trelna," continued the admiral, turning to the commodore. "I'm sorry you're ..." A movement in the hallway caught his eye. "Hostiles!" he shouted, diving behind the desk.

Feet to the side of the desk, D'Trelna pushed himself backward onto the rug as blaster bolts flashed into the office, snapping over the desk and blowing away half of a glass wall.

The hallway exploded with blaster fire as the commandos exchanged fire with four black-clad figures appearing at the far end. The firefight was over in seconds, with each badly outgunned Tugayee torn by half a dozen well-aimed bolts.

Hand to a chairarm, D'Trelna was still pulling himself to his feet as L'Guan rounded the desk and moved into the hallway.

"More coming up the south stair, sir," said Major I'Tan, communicator in hand. A blaster bolt had grazed his cheek, leaving a neatly cauterized scar. "The lift is out."

"Please withdraw, Major," said the admiral, looking at the corridor. Before the firefight a series of tapestries had hung along the walls —a triptych of a prespace battle scene: v'arx-mounted riders, clad in armor, battling in some rocky mountain pass. Brilliantly executed—the animals' nostrils flaring in fear, the shouting, the screaming and the clash of metal all but audible—the tapestries now hung in flaming ribbons from the blaster-scorched wall. "This old place's taken enough abuse."

"As the admiral orders," said I'Tan. He spoke quickly into his communicator, then caught the squad leader's eye and nodded. Moving quickly down the hallway, the squad passed the dead assassins and turned left, disappearing toward the north stairway.

"Luck, Admiral," said the major, and was gone.

"If the admiral is sacrificing us to save the antiques," said D'Trelna as they reentered the commandant's office.

"I am not sacrificing anyone," said L'Guan, swinging the doors shut, locking them.

"... then please count me out," continued D'Trelna as L'Guan faced him.

"How long have you known me, D'Trelna?" said the admiral.

"On and off? Almost twenty years. You were sector commodore in blue four, keeping the jump lanes safe for merchanters, pulling smuggler intercepts."

A traditional S'Htarian merchant, D'Trelna had never troubled himself with legal niceties. Smuggler or merchant—it depended on what you were selling, when, where and to whom.

"And in that length of time, have you ever . . . ever . . . known me to choose the grand gesture over the practical maneuver?"

The commodore thought about it for a moment. "No," he said finally.

"Thank you." L'Guan undipped a communicator from his belt. "Remember that during the next few moments." He spoke a frequency setting D'Trelna had never heard, waited for the acknowledging beep, then spoke again. "I urgently need transport for two to your location," he said into the communicator.

"Yes, I know," said a voice over the communicator—a maddeningly familiar voice D'Trelna couldn't quite place.

"How soon?" asked the Admiral.

Stephen Ames Berry "A few moments."

There was a soft
snick
on the other side of the door. L'Guan looked quizzically at D'Trelna. "Mark 17 blastpak," said the commodore. "Detonator's a forty-count."

"We don't have a few moments," said L'Guan into the communicator.

"I am doing the best I can," said the voice. "Some of these systems haven't been used since forests covered K'Ronar."

L'Guan rummaged the commandant's desk. Finding what he sought, he tossed it to D'Trelna. Deftly, the commodore caught the M11A, checked the chargepak, then pressed himself against the wall to the left of the doorway. Moving quickly, L'Guan followed, positioning himself on the other side of the doors.

A sudden
whoomp!
and the fragments of stout timbers older than Rome were knifing through the office, followed at once by the assault—three silent black forms that swept into the room.

D'Trelna whistled as they passed, killing the first Tugayee as he turned and the second as she fired. Aimed by a dead hand, the woman's bolt exploded into the wall to the right of the commodore's head, sending a shower of needle-sharp fragments into his cheek.

Hand to his face, eyes tearing at the sudden pain, D'Trelna was dimly aware of L'Guan over the body of the third assassin, tugging at the man's equipment belt. As the commodore wiped his eyes and faced the doorway, L'Guan rose and stepped into the doorway, a perfect target, tossed what he held in his hand, then ducked back as the blaster fire came.

The explosion ripped down the corridor, sending a brief tongue of blue flame lancing into the shattered office.

The blast was still ringing through the corridor as L'Guan and D'Trelna stepped into the doorway, pistols held two-handed.

All that moved were the flames, licking away at the few pieces of furniture, the remains of the long swath of hand-loomed rug that had led from the lift, and a dozen or so black-clad bodies, lying dead where the grenade had tossed them.

L'Guan and D'Trelna slowly lowered their Mil As. "Not bad for two out-of-shape chair jocks," said the admiral.

"Could have used you on board a mindslaver we tangled with, Admiral," said D'Trelna.

L'Guan holstered his sidearm and lifted the communicator. "If you can't pick us up now, don't bother," he said.

There was no reply.

"Shouldn't we get to the roof while we can?" said the commodore.

"It's not that sort of pickup," said L'Guan. "We're . . ."

D'Trelna didn't hear the rest, opening fire at

Stephen Ames Berry

the first black figure to appear around the distant corner of the corridor. He and the admiral ducked back into the room as the blaster fire resumed.

"What sort of pickup is it?" asked the commodore, risking a quick one-two shot down the hallway.

"This sort," said the admiral, standing beside D'Trelna in a pleasant indoor garden. Tropical flora was all around. To their left a miniature waterfall tumbled to an azure-blue pool. "Come on upstairs and I'll buy you a drink," said the admiral.

"Imperial science," said D'Trelna, stomach churning. "Matter transporter. And just where the hell are we?" he demanded, looking up. Bright-plumaged birds flitted from treetop to treetop.

"The heart of the Empire's deadliest war machine," said L'Guan. "This is Line."

"Excuse me, Admiral," said the voice D'Trelna now recognized as that of Line—it seemed to come from a clump of ferns. "Would you please follow the guide sphere to command Center at once." A small orange sphere materialized between the two men and the waterfall, hovering at eye level.

"Something wrong?" said L'Guan, looking at the fern clump.

"FleetOps has just issued a condition two alert—persons or entities unknown are stealing the cruiser
Implacable."

6

There was a
surprise waiting for
Implacable's
engineer when they put him in detention.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. N'Trol," said B'Tul. The big gunner stood beside one of the twenty bunks lining the long narrow detention bay. Others of
Implacable's
crew came to join the reception.

"Shit," said N'Trol as the door hissed shut behind him. "Got us all, did they?"

"This is our mustering-out room," said B'Tul. "They haven't gotten around to issuing discharges yet."

"And we're not holding our breath, sir," said one of N'Trol's engineering techs, S'Kal.

"Where'd they take the commodore and the captain?" asked B'Tul, handing N'Trol a cup of fata.

"Thank you," said N'Trol, sipping the steaming brown beverage. "The commodore and I were separated upon arrival. The captain invoked the Covenant and was not arrested. He was on the ship when we left."

"The captain bluffed his way free?" said B'Tul disbelievingly.

"No," said N'Trol, sitting on the edge of one of the hard duraplast beds. "He enjoys the protection of the Covenant between the Confederation and the Imperial House."

"That grants immunity only to the direct descendants of the Imperial House," said S'Kal.

Hunching forward on the bed, N'Trol sipped the t'ata, holding the chipped cup in both hands. "Absent an Heir," he said, "H'Nar L'Wrona, Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard, Margrave of U'Tria, Defender of the Galactic Marches, Hereditary Viceroy of the Blue and Red, is Pretender to Throne and Crown." He made a face. "This t'ata's awful, Gunney."

"Well, look who's here," said a sarcastic voice.

N'Trol looked up, then stood. "A'Tir," he said carefully.

The corsair stood at the foot of the bed, a red-bearded man beside her. "K'Lal," said

N'Trol. "I see your ugly selves are still alive."

The corsairs wore the same brown Fleet duty uniforms as
Implacable's
crew, but with all insignia gone—ripped off by Fleet Security.

"I thought we agreed," said B'Tul, stepping forward, "that you and your lot would stay at your end." He nodded his head to the left, where a thin but clear line of white had been crudely drawn across the stone blocks.

"Special occasion, Gunney," said A'Tir. She was a slight-figured brunette, neither unattractive nor stunningly beautiful—the sort who'd have blended easily with any crowd of tech officers anywhere in the Fleet. Indeed, she'd begun her career as a Fleet officer.

"So you're going to rot here with the rest of us, N'Trol," said the corsair. "Reaping the rewards of loyalty."

"Perhaps," said N'Trol. "But my lover hasn't been brainstripped by a mindslaver —that is what happened to K'Tran, isn't it, A'Tir? Brain sucked out and popped in a jar, body on ice and all forever. A better sentence than a tribunal could have ..."