"Mothership" was a term used in a literal sense. This terrible black egg would hatch a swarm of deadly offspring. Corasians are not creative. Creativity implies one mind thinking differently from another. The Corasians are a collective mind. Each entity thinks the same as every other. They are completely equal; there is no authority because there is no need for authority. All have the same goal, determined collectively in response to the collective need. If the goal is to build computers, the collective body builds computers. If the goal is to take over a planet, the collective body takes over a planet. If the goal is to kill, the collective body kills.
The Corasians, therefore, have never developed a battle strategy. Hordes rarely have need for one. They conquer by sheer force of numbers, by overrunning and beating down any opposition, by sending wave after wave of the collective body in to the attack until the enemy gives way out of sheer exhaustion. Sagan had planned his own strategy to react to this type of mindless assault. It should work. As far as Sagan could see, the overall design of the enemy ship itself hadn't changed in seventeen years and the flood of reports he received from his analysts aboard Phoenix indicated few modifications made to the vessel. Yet the Warlord had the feeling—call it the instinct of the warrior—that something was about to go wrong.
The enemy had waited seventeen years before attacking . . . for what?
For that.
Sagan's visual sighting and the instrument sightings aboard Phoenix occurred almost simultaneously. He understood what was happening in an instant; the reports of his analysts merely confirmed his fears.
The Corasians weren't streaming out of the mothership in erratic mobs. They were flying out in disciplined order in groups, and in the center of each group of small black dots, which were the fighters, was a large black blob, which was, according to the computers on board Phoenix, a gigantic computer—a brain. The collective body had split and become innumerable collective bodies, and apparently each body had its own brain. Each body would be able to think for itself and act accordingly. Instead of commanding "Kill," the brain could command "Kill this way," or "Kill that way," which is, in warfare, the definition of strategy.
This is what they had been working on for years. It had taken a creative mind to design it—a mind the Corasians didn't possess, a mind like the one that belonged to a former university professor, Peter Robes.
The Warlord placed his palm on a control pad from which protruded five needles in a circular pattern. The needles inserted into the flesh in exactly the same manner as those of the bloodsword and with almost the same effect. Sagan could operate this plane by his brain's impulses. He drove the needles into his palm.
"By God, I'll live through this," Derek Sagan vowed, watching the Corasians spread out in organized groups, taking up formations, "just to have the satisfaction, Peter Robes, of making you wish I hadn't!"
Sagan felt the plane become another part of his physical body, another appendage like his hand or his foot. Unlike the bloodsword, the spaceplane had its own energy source and didn't completely sap the body's. Of course, it took a toll, just as performing any strenuous exertion takes a mental and a physical toll. Thus the need for discipline.
Having sworn his oath, the Warlord prayed to God to grant him the strength and the wisdom to live to fulfill it.
Sagan wasn't disappointed. The faith of the priest's son was rewarded. He had an idea.
"Computer," the Warlord said, his gaze fixed on the brains of the enemy. "Analyze and report on the following ..."
Chapter Ten
Meanwhile war arose, and fields were fought in Heaven . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost
One of the galaxy's most skilled pilots, a pilot whose exploits even then were legend, had just received a sharp reprimand from her squadron leader. Maigrey bit her lip and mumbled something into her commlink about a computer malfunction.
"Oh, shut up," she said crossly to the computer, which was indignantly denying such an accusation.
Who would have guessed the controls on the Scimitar would be so blasted sensitive? She had meant to go up, but not quite that far up—a move that had nearly caused her to crash into the belly of Phoenix. Her skill had saved her, but only barely. Maigrey's face beneath her helmet flushed hotly and she thanked God that Sagan hadn't been around to witness that little maneuver. At least now she knew better.
Once she was accustomed to flying it, she discovered that the short-range Scimitar handled quite well and she paid the Warlord a mental compliment that was not without a certain amount of pain. They had spent many pleasant hours, years ago, designing their own ideal spaceplanes. She recognized many of Sagan's old ideas and one or two of her own in this model.
That brought a sigh, and she quickly shifted her mind back from a shattered past to a dismal present. Maigrey glanced over at Dion's plane—Blue Four. He was flying perfectly, yet she had the distinct impression something was wrong with him. This impression didn't come from any power of the Blood Royal, it was simply there, a part of her. She wondered if she was beginning to experience maternal feelings.
"Blue Six." The squadron leader. "You're out of formation! Is something wrong?"
"No, sir, Squadron Leader. Sorry, sir. Just keyed up for action, sir."
"Stuck back in the rear, I doubt if we'll see much of that! Stay alert, Six."
Squadron Leader did not sound at all happy. Maigrey couldn't blame him. She was receiving reports that the enemy was in visual range, but you couldn't prove it by her. Babysitting. Glancing back at Dion's ship, Maigrey sighed again. She was a Guardian, after all. She had pledged her life to her king. She wished she could see what was going on!
Maigrey was about to instruct her computer to provide a visual of the enemy formation, realized she didn't need to. She saw the enemy, suddenly and clearly, through Sagan's eyes. She saw and she understood, just as did the Warlord, the change in Corasian tactics. His idea came to her clearly—their gravest danger could be their only hope. But it had to be proven, it had to be risked. Of course, he was going to attempt it alone. She recalled lines of the poet, John Milton.
Wherefore do I assume
These royalties, . . .
Refusing to accept as great a share
Of hazard as of honour. . . .
Proud as Lucifer, so the saying went. Maigrey looked again at Dion's plane, her soul writhing in an agony of indecision. There was something wrong, she knew it. The boy was too quiet, his computer—so far—had done all the talking. Maigrey was tempted to ask him to connect with the bloodsword. They could communicate that way, their thoughts revealed to each other. But she swallowed the words before they reached her lips. She didn't dare. That would reveal herself to everyone, and Sagan was quite capable of locking a tractor beam on her and having her dragged back to the ship.
I'm a Guardian. I should stay here and keep an eye on him, she thought. But then again, defending your king didn't necessarily mean tripping along at his heels, being prepared to fling your body in front of his. Sometimes it means being in the vanguard of his army. . . .
As Squadron Leader said, Dion certainly wasn't going to be in any danger back here. And he had the rest of the squadron to watch out for him, to babysit.
"Six! Where the devil do you think you're going? Get back in formation. That's an order. Six! Blue Six! I'm bringing you up on charges, Six! This is cowardice! Desertion in the face of the enemy!"
"You want your pound of flesh, Squadron Leader," Maigrey murmured, "you'll have to stand in line!"
Dion, sitting in his shining toy, had just realized what it meant to be a king—or perhaps "puppet king" would be a better choice of words. He was to be shut up in a prison—a prison that was wonderful and filled with marvels—and he was to be given everything he could ever want. He was to be given it. And he would take it and be happy or his prison would become a tomb, his jailer his executioner.
"Maigrey tried to tell me. I wouldn't listen, I wouldn't believe. I didn't want to believe! I wante
d to think that he was truly doing for me what he claimed. I wanted to think he respected me. And this-—this is what I get!"
"I do not understand your disparaging tone, sir," the computer said. "This spaceplane is equipped with the very latest in technology, much of it added within the last few days, as I was myself, and all designed to keep you safe and sound, sir. I might venture to state, sir, that you are far better protected here than you were in your mother's womb."
Dion began to laugh. "Having been born in a palace in the midst of a revolution, I'll grant you that one, computer. Hey, what's happening? Where's that guy going? Squadron Leader, Six is—"
"I will handle all communications between yourself and Squadron Leader, sir," the computer said, cutting Dion off in mid-report. "As for Six, pay no attention to it. The pilot appears to have gone berserk."
Dion tried turning the plane—a small experiment.
"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to make that maneuver, sir. That would be leaving formation, and we do not want to leave formation, do we, sir?"
Platus had been an acknowledged genius with computers. He'd passed much of his ability on to Dion. The young man sat back in the pilot's chair and pondered, staring grimly at the computer.
So then. Dion made up his mind. It was to be murder.
Sagan flew through "dark destruction." He did not travel, as Maigrey had assumed he would, alone, but took two of his men with him, sending another back to Phoenix with an urgent message for Admiral Aks—a message the Warlord wanted delivered in person, a message he didn't want intercepted by the enemy. The Warlord's target was one of the brains of the Corasian fleet. Analysis had confirmed what Sagan had surmised—knock out the brain and there was every possibility that the body would flop about aimlessly. Of course, they would still be faced with a horde, but the Warlord would far rather fight a mindless horde than an organized and disciplined army.
Unfortunately, reaching the brain would be like trying to reach the queen of a colony of fire ants. Sagan could count on getting stung, perhaps to death.
But the Warlord was not suicidal. Nor did he make the decision to attempt this himself out of misplaced heroics. Because of his unique mind-controlled spaceplane, he had the best chance to succeed. If this mission proved successful, he could then afford to change his strategy, perhaps send in the forces he was holding in reserve, their only goal to knock out the brains. But Sagan first had to determine if, as he had said once to Maigrey, "the sport was worth the candle."
Corasian fighters are small and compact. They do not need to accommodate the body of a pilot, because the plane is—literally—the pilot's body. Corasians have no survival instinct. When told to kill, they latch on to an enemy and hang on with mindless ferocity, attacking mercilessly until either the enemy dies or they do. Even when guided by the brains, the Corasians were slow to react and slow to maneuver. Sudden, unlooked-for moves rattled them completely. A pilot fighting the Corasians has the advantage of superior reaction time and creative mind but, over the long duration of a battle, these grow weak when fatigue and despair set in, when you seem to be battling the leaves of the trees of a never-ending forest.
Sagan rarely allowed himself to give way to fatigue and never to despair. His plane could react in the instant of a thought. Flying with him were two of the finest pilots in the galaxy. Yes, they had a chance. As a gambler, he wouldn't have laid any money on it, but they had a chance.
The Warlord waited until he saw one of the heavily armored, lumbering brains take up a fixed position in the center of the battle zone.
"There's the target," he instructed his wingmen. "We'll go down on top of it."
The Warlord's spearheaded plane dropped from the blackness. The wingmen were slower, having been caught off guard by his sudden descent.
"Close formation," Sagan snapped, and the wingmen pulled in tighter, their planes rocketing toward what continued to look like a small black patch cut out of starry space.
They swooped into the front lines, into the swirling melee of wheeling planes and crisscrossing tracer fire and exploding rockets. Three Corasian fighters, attracted by the technology of the Warlord's unusual spaceplane, attempted to entangle Sagan in what was known as a "web"—three interlocking tractor beams capable of paralyzing a small fighter, allowing the Corasians to drag it and its helpless pilot back to the mothership. Knowing what fate awaited him there, a pilot caught in a web would invariably either self-destruct or request his comrades to shoot him.
The Corasian spiders trying to catch this particular fly discovered too late they had made a mistake. Sagan vaporized them. The two wingmen soared behind their leader through three puffs of smoke and flame. The wingmen had not even fired.
Ignoring the battle, the Warlord held steadfastly to his goal and soon left the main assault behind. He was well past the front line of the fighting, deep among the enemy ranks. And as he suspected, the brain was capable of analyzing his attack. It had determined him to be a threat. A ring of fighters protectively encircling the brain leapt to the attack.
Sagan spared a glance at his computer. It was transmitting vast quantities of data on the enemy brains including three-dimensional renderings of the structure and the interior. The brain was shaped like a huge and ugly bell and contained banks of computers operated by Corasians in their robot bodies. Its central power source was located right in the center. There was little chance of hitting it, therefore, from the round top or the curved sides of the energy-shielded bell.
"The brain's weakness is at the bottom," the computer reported, confirming for Sagan what he saw on the screen. "A large hatch located there"—visually enhanced on the screen— "provides the only means of entrance and egress. That particular portion of the brain is not shielded." The computer rotated the diagram. "An attack coming from directly beneath the brain and centered on the hatch itself, which is the only portion not shielded, has a chance of succeeding. The hatch is approximately one meter in diameter."
"Defense systems?"
"Yes, sir. Gun emplacements around the hatch—"
"I seel" snapped the Warlord. "What kind of firepower would it take to penetrate the shields?"
"Working." The computer hummed to itself for several tense seconds, then returned, "The shields are extremely strong, sir. Perhaps concentrated lascannon fire, sir, from Phoenix—"
"—would take out everything, including our own forces." He could pull back his planes, turn to the big guns. But Sagan had run those calculations both through the computer and his own mind. If he pulled back the fighters, the Corasian mothership would enter the game, moving up to pound the Warlord's fleet. He would counterattack, of course, but . . . massive and ugly, the Corasian mothership could absorb unbelievable punishment. Sagan had calculated he must lose two ships of the line immediately, without being able to inflict anywhere close to corresponding damage on the enemy. After that, it would be a matter of constant bombardment until Phoenix either fell victim to a lucky shot or ran so low on energy that life-support would fail. Those who had survived the battle would die horribly of asphyxiation.
So all the Warlord had to do was blow up a hatch one meter in diameter surrounded by guns.
"Computer, transmit all of that information by my private code back to Phoenix. And add this: Fighters forming outer defensive perimeter around the brain are converging on us, leaving the brain unguarded. I judge there to be about twenty. I suggest, therefore, that a feint made by one squadron would draw off the defenders and allow another squadron to penetrate the unguarded perimeter and attack. This strategy may work only the first few times it is attempted, for I submit that the Corasian computers have undoubtedly developed the ability to 'learn' from their mistakes."
The Warlord paused. There were still some few seconds until he would join with the enemy.
"Computer, my personal log, uncoded and send a copy by 'accident,' to the main files. 'In the event of my death, this message is to be transmitted to the marshals, to the members of the Congress of th
e Commonwealth, and to the news media. I, Derek Sagan, accuse Peter Robes, President of the Republic, of being a traitor to the people. I submit that he 'leaked' technological secrets to the Corasians, that he knew of their preparations for war and did nothing to stop them, that he deliberately invited this attack on the galaxy.
""What his motives might be, I can only venture to guess, but I further submit that a war causes people to rally around their leader and, in their fear, assign him whatever powers he wants. I have little doubt but that President Robes will demand virtual dictatorial power in order to deal with the threat. I further submit that the galaxy's greatest danger is not from without, but from within.''
Within twenty-four hours, everyone on board Phoenix would have read that message. Sagan had little time for elation, however. Within twenty-four hours, unless he found some way to stop the enemy, everyone on board Phoenix would likely be dead.
The Corasians struck with fury, their intent now not to capture but to kill. The Scimitars rolled and twisted and dodged, always swinging back in to maintain battle formation, forming a wedge—the Warlord on the point—that pushed steadily toward the target. Then one wingman was gone, exploding in a ball of fire that took out two Corasians with him.
Sagan's screen showed him the enemy—small blips that dove down on him with all the finesse of a pack of wild dogs. Zigzagging in and out of the swarm, he kept up almost constant fire; they were jammed so closely together it was impossible not to hit something.
But it was like removing water from a bucket drop by drop. A sudden silence on his commlink let him know he'd lost his other wingman. He was closer to the target and getting closer all the time, and the number of the blips surrounding him had decreased markedly. There were only four left, two in front of him and two circling around behind him. But these four had him and there wasn't—Sagan realized with cold anger—a damn thing he could do about it.
The Lost King Page 44
