Final Assault (8 page)

"Any idea who?"

"They had me on hold. Not smart—there's a lot of electronic sieve on those circuits. Our controller punched out to a priority line at the Combine T'Lan liaison office. The rest was in code."

There was a barely audible whirring from outside. L'Wrona threw a switch, and what had been a dark band of armorglass was suddenly clear. Outside, the berth doors were cycling open, revealing the stars of a cloudless desert night.

"And away," said L'Wrona, moving the control stalk forward. With a faint whine of n-gravs,
Rich Man's Toy
moved out into the night.

"Control Central orders you to return to berth and await clearance," said Dad as they banked sharply away from the lights of the spaceport.

"Do not acknowledge," said L'Wrona, tying in the CCI, just in case. Outside, the hull suddenly sprouted weapons blisters.

"Tower's on fire," said Dad as they climbed toward Line.

"What?!" L'Wrona checked the rear scan. Flames were leaping from the topmost level of the ancient fortress, a beacon that burned like a sentinel fire over the low skyline of the city. Below and from the west a V-shaped formation flew toward the Tower. Firecraft, advised the tacscan.

"Prime Base has turned out the fireguard," said Dad.

"Looks like the commandant's level," said L'Wrona. "D'Trelna's somewhere in that pile of stone."

L'Wrona hadn't been to the Tower since he was a kid, going with his father to visit an old friend who'd just been appointed Commandant—then a mostly symbolic post for aging aristocrats. There'd been no gray uniforms then, no Imperial Party, no war. He remembered it as a pleasant, musty old place of antique weapons and crenellated battlements built for small boys to leap along, far above oblivion. The future margrave had had a wonderful time jumping and running before his father intercepted him, bade his friend a gracious good-bye, then taken him back to their townhome and administered a fierce paddling.

Toy
was too high now for visual, forcing the captain to contend with a relayed pickup from one of the commercial vid stations. The sharp image showed the firecraft form into a single line and come in low, green tinted snuffer gas spewing from the big tanks, then turn for home. Below them, deprived of oxygen, the fire died.

"D'Trelna's the fat one you work for, isn't he?" said Dad.

How did he know that? wondered L'Wrona. Must have been tapping into the vidchannels. "As competent as he is fat," said the captain, automatically laying in the jump coordinates for U'Tria, his mind on other things. The commodore's arrest and removal to the Tower at the same time as a fire in the commandant's suite was too big a coincidence. Dark deeds adoing, he thought as they cleared the atmosphere, and no time to stop. Luck, J'Quel, wherever you are.

"Line challenges," said Dad.

L'Wrona flipped open the commlink.

"Pleasurecraft
Rich Man's Toy
outbound for U'Tria," said L'Wrona.

"Acknowledged,
Rich Man's Toy,"
came Line's voice. "You are cleared for jump point." Then, after L'Wrona switched off, it added softly, into the void, "And may fortune grace your sword, My Lord Captain."

"Armaments check," said L'Wrona as they swept through the shield wall, making for jump point at max. "Run the diagnostics now, then once we clear jump point, we'll do a little target practicing out by the J'An Belt."

"Think there'll be trouble?" said Dad.

"Count on it," said the captain.

The FleetOps duty officer was Admiral I'Tal. His hopes for a quiet evening shift had dissolved with the first action report: yet another task force in grave trouble, going up against the corsairs in Quadrant Red Seven. Dispatching what help he could, the admiral shunted all subsequent reports of the growing debacle to a lesser level. Then all hell had broken loose at the Tower, stirred up by L'Guan himself—the commandant relieved, a battalion of commandos sent in, sudden Council orders to withdraw the Tower guard, then fragmented reports of a firefight. FleetOps handled it all with its usual quiet efficiency—except for the Council liaison team, five excitable members of the Imperial Party who ran from monitor to monitor, making a nuisance of themselves.

It was as the firecraft reached the Tower that Admiral I'Tal—indeed, all of FleetOps —had his biggest surprise since the war: computer spoke—something it only did if no other source had detected an emergency. Admiral I'Tal had heard computer speak once, when he was a cadet.

"Alert. Alert." The asexual contralto echoed through the command tiers. "Unauthorized departure. Unauthorized departure. L'Aal-class cruiser
Implacable
is lifting.
Implacable
is lifting."

FleetOps Command center was a big enclosed pit, deep beneath Prime Base. As the warning died, every eye in the room turned to the admiral, way up on the top tier. "Orders, sir?" said Commodore A'Wal to his right. A'Wal had served under Admiral S'Gan—he knew what she'd have done.

"Alert condition two," said I'Tel. "Base defenses to engage
Implacable,
picket squadrons to intercept if she escapes." A chime sounded—three repeating notes—the nearest FleetOps ever came to an alert klaxon. "And request Line's assistance," said the admiral. Not that he expected to get it—Line had its own very narrow priorities.

"She's heading for space," said A'Wal. "Batteries opening fire now."

"Excuse me, Admiral," said a soft voice.

I'Tal turned. Councilor D'Assan stood behind him, flanked by the council observers.

"Please do not engage that vessel," he said softly. "I speak for the Council."

"Why in the seven hells not?" whispered the admiral. "She's ours. She's stolen. She can wipe a planet, conquer a system."

"We've shaken public confidence enough this evening, Admiral," said D'Assan serenely. "To add to the Tower fire a massive shoot-out between Prime Base and that ship, debris raining down, civilian casualties, the vidchannels feeding ..." He shook his head. "No. Please—have your gunners stand down. You can take her in space."

A'Wal watched as I'Tal thought about it. Up on the screen, the target image was directly over the Base's main defenses.

"Very well," said the admiral, turning to A'Wal. "Batteries to stand down, please, Commodore. Advise Commodore G'Tur that it's all his now."

"They're not firing," said A'Tir, leaning over K'Lal's shoulder.

"Not everyone's a butcher, A'Tir," said N'Trol, coming onto the bridge, a corsair trailing him.

She turned. "Engines and jump drive?" she said.

"Satisfactory." The two faced each other in front of the empty captain's chair. "You can jump—if you make it to jump point."

"I think we can handle the pickets," said

A'Tir, turning to the big board and its tacscan of the inner system. "We'll be well away before they can intercept."

"I wasn't thinking so much of the picket ships," said the engineer as the corsair commander faced him again.

"What, then?"

"Line challenges," called K'Lal. "That," said N'Trol.

"Shall we consult, Admiral?" said Line.

"As prescribed," said L'Guan as he and D'Trelna entered the combat center.

Combat center was in the heart of Line's command asteroid. Seeing it for the first time, D'Trelna thought it looked more like the office of a top Combine executive than part of a military installation: a spacious, high-ceilinged room, with a desk made in the image of a classically simple-yet-elegant t'ata table; two long, off-white sofas along the wall, a pair of low beverage tables in front of them; a small scattering of armchairs around the desk. The wall behind the desk was a diorama of snowcapped peaks ringing a crystal-blue lake. Imperial Survey tapes, noted D'Trelna. Contemporary techniques weren't as sharp.

"Situation?" said L'Guan, sitting on a sofa, facing the diorama. D'Trelna sank into the other sofa.

"A combined crew of corsairs, under former Commander A'Tir, and Implacablites, under Commander N'Trol, have seized
Implacable
and are approaching my inner sector. FleetOps request that we stop them. They do not specify the method."

"Who's this N'Trol, Commodore?" asked L'Guan, turning to D'Trelna.

Gods, thought D'Trelna. N'Trol? A corsair? Absurd.

"He's
Implacable's
engineer, Admiral," said D'Trelna. "Highly competent, irreverent, irascible, no lover of authority . . ."

"Would he have turned corsair?"

"No, sir," said D'Trelna firmly. "He hates military structure, he's impatient with anyone slower than himself—mostly everyone—but a corsair? Never. N'Trol fought K'Tran with us off Terra Two—even briefly commanded K'Tran's captured ship, with K'Tran and A'Tir in attendance. He's had far better opportunities than this to betray us. I suspect he's made concessions, hoping to keep his crew alive until they can retake the ship."

"What about Prime Base defenses?" said L'Guan.

"They did not fire, out of political and humanitarian concerns," said Line.

"Mostly the former, I suppose."

"Councilor D'Assan was visiting FleetOps when the decision was made."

"And the pickets?" said L'Guan.

"Fleet units are attempting to intercept, but they have nothing substantial enough between here and jump point to stop a heavy cruiser."

"Will you stop them?" said L'Guan.

"No, Admiral," said Line. "Not unless you convince me that
Implacable
constitutes a direct threat to the security of the planet."

"She's an armed heavy cruiser in the wrong hands," said L'Guan.

"Similar arguments have been made by FleetOps as recently as today and as long ago as the First Dynasty. They are not evocative."

"May I speak with N'Trol?" said D'Trelna.

"Certainly," said Line. The diorama on the wall vanished, replaced by K'Lal's startled face.

"This is Defense Sphere Command," said Line. "Put Commander N'Trol on."

"Speak freely," said A'Tir, drawing her side-arm as N'Trol walked to the engineering station's commscreen. Ignoring her, he stepped into the pickup. "Commander N'Trol," he said, sinking into the padded flight chair. A familiar face appeared in the pickup.

"Quite a mess, N'Trol," said D'Trelna. "What are you and the crew doing with the throat-slitters?"

"A mutually uneasy alliance," said N'Trol. He was aware of someone behind him. An Ml 1A barrel tapped softly against the back of the chairarm.

"And if you do get away, where are you going?" asked the commodore.

N'Trol shrugged. "I don't know what the jump coordinates are—a passionate secret of

A'Tir's. This whole thing's her empty-headed gesture."

The corsair commander stepped into the pickup, standing to the left of the engineer. "Line has made no attempt to stop us, D'Trelna—we're almost in clear space."

Stricken, D'Trelna turned to L'Guan. "Do something, please. My men will be dead the instant those butchers are through with them."

"Don't you think I know that, D'Trelna?" The admiral looked weary and far older than he was. "There's nothing I can do—nothing anyone but Line can do."

"Commander A'Tir." It was Line.

A'Tir's eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

"If we meet again, it will be to your disadvantage," said Line.

"I'm not coming back here alive," said A'Tir, reaching past N'Trol to flick off the commlink. The last thing the two men in the command center saw was N'Trol's wink.

There was a glum silence in the room, broken a few minutes later by Line's announcement:
"Implacable
has jumped."

D'Trelna sat up. "Of course," he muttered.

"Of course what?" asked the admiral.

"N'Trol told us. 'Haven't seen the jump coordinates'—meaning he had. 'Passionate.' 'Empty-headed.'" D'Trelna looked at L'Guan, face set and certain. "A'Tir's gone to rescue K'Tran."

"From a fleet of mindslavers? And rescue what?" said L'Guan. "The R'Actolians cut K'Tran up—his brain's doing their tactics for them, his body's on ice somewhere in one of those monstrosities—your own report said so.

"True," said D'Trelna. "But the same process that took K'Tran apart can put him together again."

"Still . . ."

The commodore held up a hand. "The power of love, Admiral."

"Love? Those two?" said L'Guan. "K'Tran and A'Tir?"

D'Trelna nodded. "Her, certainly. Him, I don't know."

L'Guan shook his head. "Even the most feral of creatures mate, I suppose." He rose.

"Stand you to a drink, D'Trelna?" he said. "There's a pleasant little bar the other side of that waterfall."

"FleetOps and Councilor D'Assan each desire urgently to confer with you, Admiral," said Line as the two officers left the room.

L'Guan laughed. "One or both of them tried to kill us last night and now they want to confer.

"Tell them the commodore and I are plotting their mutual destruction over brandy. I'll call them when we're through."