The engineer closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "I have a bridge to sell you," he said.
"A bridge?" she asked, even more confused.
"Terra. New York. Never there, were you?" He said no more, eyes ahead, ignoring her uneasy look.
The car flitted past a series of intersections, then up a broad circular ramp. Decelerating, it turned a corner and came to rest before a shimmering archway.
"You've been here before, I believe," said
N'Trol as the car settled to the deck.
A'Tir nodded. "Alpha Prime's bridge. Last place time I saw K'Tran, that forcefield"-her eyes traced the curtain of energy to the archway's distant top-"had just closed behind him. Bloody fool was going to take over the ship."
"You're no less a fool to think this ancient evil will go quietly, corsair."
Something in his tone turned her toward him, a question on her lips.
"Follow me, please," said the component, having seen to the ship car.
As the trio approached, the force field lifted, then lowered behind as they advanced down a wide corridor-a corridor lined by what had been Imperial Marines.
Every third component fell in behind, blastrifles at port arms, twelve soldiers of R'Actol forming a column of twos that marched in perfect step into the multitiered bridge, following the two humans and their officer up the ramp to the command tier. Halting just before the railing, the components took station and waited along the ramp, expressionless acolytes to That Which Waited.
Seven thick, black flight chairs fronted the curving console that filled Alpha Prime's topmost command tier-seven chairs with an unobstructed view of space through the armorglass bubble capping the great bridge. N'Trol found his eyes following the seemingly endless sweep of the slaver's hull to where it merged into a single point, miles and miles away.
"The Seven hope you're impressed," said a pleasant voice.
"And what are you, and where?" asked A'Tir, walking to the center chair, from which the voice had apparently come. With a quick motion, she spun the flight chair around. Empty.
"I'm the overmind of this ship," continued the voice.
"Are you a R'Actolian?" asked N'Trol, now trying to understand the purpose of the console. Lights winked on and off, but the language was as alien as the engineering.
"Please," said the overmind, "sit down." The center chair and the one to its immediate left swung silently out to face the two humans. They hesitated, exchanging glances.
"You can be killed as quickly there as in the chairs," said the voice.
They sat.
"What happened to the dead, whispering promises of doom?" asked N'Trol.
"We wanted very much to talk with you, in as unintimidating a way as possible, so the Seven have elected to have a mind with much of its original humanity intact serve as spokesman. Be assured, though," it said flatly, "I speak for R'Actol."
"And will R'Actol keep its pledge?" asked the engineer. "To stand against the AIs in return for my Commodore's bearing the specifics of your request to…"
"Pardon me," said the overmind, "but the time for alliance has passed. The Fleet of the One is even now penetrating the Rift. Your pitiful Confederation is in disarray, paralyzed by Combine T'Lan and the aftershocks of the Biofab War. It has no power to grant concessions, and nothing to give us we couldn't now take."
"Then why are you here, in harm's way?" said N'Trol. "The AIs aren't going to bother to distinguish between cyborgs and humans- any human-related life form will be wiped."
"Correct," said the overmind. "And here comes the instrument of our mutual destruction." The space view dimmed, replaced by a swirling ocher eye flecked with silver.
"The Rift," said overmind. "Now at its widest dilation-a perfect tunnel from the AIs'-and star faring man's-home universe."
"How near?" asked N'Trol, leaning forward.
"About eight light-years," said the overmind. "The scan is from the forward pickets set by the Imperial Cyborg Pocsym Six, millennia ago. The silver bits you see are AI battleglobes. Clearing the Rift, they'll regroup and jump-here. We stand between them and a number of juicy Confederation targets."
"We?" said A'Tir.
The pickup shifted to a tacscan-nineteen red blips fronting an oncoming tide of silver ones.
"You can't possibly stop them," said N'Trol. "What are they, a hundred thousand battleglobes?"
"Merely the vanguard of their main fleet," said the overmind.
"And your strategy?" asked N'Trol.
"Enough." A'Tir stood. "You will reassemble Captain K'Tran, mind and body restored to the condition he was in when you took him. You will let him and me leave this ship and withdraw from this sector aboard Implacable."
There was a brief silence, N'Trol watching A'Tir as he might watch an interesting bug.
"Why?" asked the overmind. "K'Tran's a tactical genius, corsair. It's unlikely we'd ever let him go. Certainly not at this time of need."
"You will do as I say," said A'Tir.
"Really," said the overmind. "Is this where you threaten us?"
"Or I will take command of this ship," she said.
"That's about where we left off with Captain K'Tran," said the overmind. "The genius that designed, built and crewed this ship would never have been so stupid as to place in it the tool of their own undoing."
"J'Yay k'antal a'ktay," said A'Tir defiantly, hand to her sidearm.
The overmind laughed-a faintly hysterical, high-pitched laugh. N'Trol buried his head in his hands.
"What?" said a confused A'Tir, looking at N'Trol as the laughter died.
The engineer raised his head. "You just ordered a vegetable, extinct, creamed-in a very old, very dead language. Where in all the hells did you get that?"
"I bribed an archivist on K'Ronar," she said, turning to look at the rampway and the components. Too many, her eyes said.
"I hope you all enjoyed that," said N'Trol.
"We did," chuckled the overmind. "We certainly did."
"Good. Now, how about answering my question?"
"Our strategy?"
"Yes."
"Quite simple," said the overmind. "Two ships will be left to engage the AIs. The rest will jump through the Rift and make ourselves at home in the AI universe."
"I see," said the engineer softly. "And how will you prevent the Fleet of the One from coming back and blowing you into noxious vapors?"
"The Rift can be sealed from the AI side
– we have the means. The AIs and humanity can battle here till the stars die, while we convert the AIs' home worlds to our needs."
A'Tir looked at N'Trol. "Can they do that?"
He nodded slowly, looking through the armorglass. "Alpha Prime's original cybernetics were salvaged from ships' computers left in the care of the Imperial governor on D'Lin -parts of the original fleet that brought humanity to this universe, fleeing the AIs, about a hundred thousand years ago." He looked at her. "You know about S'Hela R'Actol?"
"Everyone knows about R'Actol and her biofabs."
Twelve thousand years ago, geneticist S'Hela R'Actol used her family's influence to be appointed Imperial governor of Quadrant Blue Nine, out on the fringes of the Realm. Taking advantage of her rank, her all but absolute authority and the relative isolation of her post, R'Actol had conducted illegal experiments in the life sciences-experiments culminating in the creation of a race of psychotic geniuses, the R'Actolian biofabs-biological fabrications. Quickly disposing of R'Actol and her forces, the biofabs had gone on to build a fleet of mindslavers that took an all but unsuspecting Empire in the rear and almost toppled the Sceptered Throne. Only when the Empire had built its own mindslavers in overwhelming numbers were the R'Actolians defeated. Seeking the immortality of their own brainpods, the last seven R'Actolians had put their surviving ships in stasis and retreated to the depths of Blue Nine, biding their time.
"Know this, then, corsair," said N'Trol. "With the equipment on this ship, they can do it-the Seven can pul
l through the Rift and shut it as easily as closing a door. That won't be allowed." He stood, facing the deep-shadowed bridge and a hundred empty stations. "You will keep your word," he said. "You will fight."
The overmind spoke. "The Seven concur that you are both very foolish and will be brainstripped. The question arises, however, Engineer…"
"Yes?"
"How do you know the old Tongue? How do you know about this ship's cybernetics? Only the AIs remember those things, and bioscan shows you're not an AI."
"What does the bioscan show of my chromosomes, my heritage?"
There was a very long wait. "What are you doing, N'Trol?" demanded A'Tir. "What in all the hells are you doing?"
"Empire and Destiny, witch," he said, nodding more to himself than to her. "The pieces of a failed vision may save us yet."
N'Trol stood and walked to the tier's edge, looking down on the great empty cavern of the slaver's bridge. "Seven of R'Actol, show yourselves," he ordered, gripping the rail.
Only the faint hum of equipment answered him. Loud, clear and strong, N'Trol's voice rang from the battlesteel. "Undead monsters! Murderers! I call you to judgment! Appear!"
Something stirred behind him. N'Trol turned as A'Tir said softly, "Now you've done it." She stepped slowly back, stopping next to the engineer as nine brainpods rose from inside the command console and waited, hovering above the console's open access hatch. Seven brainpods were full, with each transparent globe filled by the furrowed gray mass of a human brain. It was the two empty ones that held A'Tir's attention.
"You've impressed ship's cybernetics, usurper-we are not impressed." It was the same desiccated whisper that had greeted them aboard Implacable. "No broken son of a failed line can call us to judgment."
"And yet," said N'Trol, eyes moving from sphere to sphere, "you came. And I think, I think you may be having a little trouble with computers." He nodded. "In fact, I'm sure of it."
"You'll be joining us now," said the whisper. As it spoke, the two empty brains separated into halves, the halves moving quickly toward the two humans-though not as quickly as A'Tir's blaster. Four bolts of red flicked out, touching off four sharp explosions. Crumpled and fused bits of duraplast rained down on console, chairs and deck, congealing as N'Trol cried, "Empire and Destiny!"
"Components!" It was a shriek-the voice of the overmind. "Kill them!"
N'Trol whirled, drawing his sidearm and diving behind a comm terminal as the components rushed the tier, firing from the hip. From behind him came the whine of A'Tir's blaster and more explosions.
The brainless body of an Imperial Marine sergeant was destroyed as it reached the command tier, a bolt from N'Trol's Ml 1A ripping through its heart. Blaster fire exploded into the comm terminal as more components reached the command tier. A second stream of blaster bolts joined N'Trol's, briefly clearing the top of the ramp. Dashing the length of the command tier, A'Tir joined N'Trol.
"Got all but one of the R'Actolians," said the corsair, slipping a fresh chargepak into her weapon. "What now?"
N'Trol risked a look over the top of the comm terminal. "Hit us with a damper field, finish us with bayonets." The sound of many booted feet came from the ramp, moving at a deliberate, measured pace toward the command tier.
A'Tir pointed her sidearm high and pulled the trigger. Only a faint click responded. "Damper field," she confirmed.
The two stood. Holstering their blasters, they moved to the top of the ramp.
The components were advancing, light glinting dully from a hundred bayonets, a long column of twos that snaked down to the main deck and out of sight across the bridge.
An arm's span between them, the two humans blocked the ramp. "What a miserable, futile ending," muttered N'Trol, drawing the broad-bladed commando knife from his boot sheath.
"No other way out?" said A'Tir, pulling her own blade as below, thirty meters distant, the nearest components dropped their rifles to the assault and broke into a charge.
"Luck, corsair," said N'Trol as the assault hit. Sidestepping the first bayonet, he seized the component's rifle by the comb, jerking his attacker off balance and stabbing up into the chest with his knife. N'Trol stepped back as the component fell, trying to wrest the rifle from it, even as three more components reached him. Too late, N'Trol freed the rifle. He saw the bayonets coming, but never felt them: the components crumpled to the deck, rifles clattering around them.
"Empire and Destiny," said a strong, new voice-the unmistakable asexual contralto of a computer. "Alpha Prime and her sister ships are restored to your service, Lord. AH components are deactivated."
"Identify," ordered N'Trol.
"Master computers of the Golden Fleet, linked in series, awaiting your command, Lord."
Stephen Ames Berry
Final Assault
"Took you long enough," he said, turning to A'Tir. She was struggling from beneath two large male components, cheek bleeding from a shallow cut.
"There was trouble with the overmind," said the machine.
"And the last R'Actolian?" asked N'Trol, pulling A'Tir to her feet.
"S'Hdag escaped, Lord. A pod-modified, jump-enabled scout craft."
"Are the master computers free of all R'Actolian influence?" asked N'Trol.
"Yes, Lord," said the computers. "They could use us for their filthy ends, they could subordinate our programming to theirs, but direct evidence of your presence, Lord, abrogated all their commands."
"What are you, N'Trol?" said A'Tir, watching N'Trol warily. "A demigod?"
N'Trol shrugged. "Just a man with one slightly different chromosome than anyone else-a man who needs your help, witch," he said, looking up at her with frank brown eyes. "We're going to lead these ships-crew them with men and women returned to life after centuries of darkness. And then we're going to throw a lot of those lives away, into the teeth of those silver specks coming our way through the Rift. And maybe, just maybe, save our people."
"Brave words," said A'Tir, leaning against a rail, arms folded. "But you know my price. Let's see some proof of your wondrous power."
N'Trol bowed slightly. "Master computers of the Golden Fleet." "Lord?"
"Reassemble all components, beginning with the corsair K'Tran."
"That will seriously erode the tactical and weapons advantages enjoyed by symbiotech-nic dreadnoughts, Lord."
"I won't employ evil in a good cause," said N'Trol. "Do it."
Terra Two-be careful. The similarities to Terra One suggest parallel social and cultural phenomena. True-but only to a point.
J'Quel D'Trelna
Personal diary
15
In Leadville, they'd found gold-a big strike that had brought hordes of Italian and Welsh miners to Colorado to dig for the yellow stuff. A few valleys away, silver had been king, with the old Syrian mine the richest and the biggest: two hundred men a shift, chipping away at the rock by the flickering light of candles pounded into the damp walls.
Floods, with the rich lower galleries hopelessly submerged, and the Crash of '94 had closed the mine for good. World War I and the Great Depression had come and gone. Only long after the ruinous peace of the Second War had men come to dig in the Syrian again. Using explosives and powerful earth-moving equipment, they'd opened the original shaft into a wide, round bowl a mile in diameter -a high-ceilinged cavern strung with power cables and hung with arc lights. Then the red-haired woman and her people arrived, roughed-in some partitions for offices, installed their own specialized equipment, and got to work.
"Major Hargrove," said the redhead, looking across her gray metal desk at the other person in the office, "our security sucks. What are you going to do about it?"
"Not a damn thing, Dr. MacKenzie," said the big man in an easy Southern drawl. He leaned forward on the too small pine chair, the kind they unfolded at an overflow funeral. "Put a couple of battalions up on that hilltop." He nodded toward the distant ceiling. "Russki or Kraut satellite'll pick up on this place, no matter how well we hid
e the troops. Won't matter which-Russkis will tell the Krauts, then your nice little homemade A-bomb project's gonna be swarming with Schw'drze kommando." His accent changed from bourbon and branch water to German and back without slipping a vowel. "The tunnel's mined, and we've got two companies of Rangers to buy you some destruct and bailout time. But if there is an attack, Uncle's not gonna help us-we'll just be an anonymous wipe-out. Terrible embarrassment and apologies to Berlin."
"You're government," she said, yet knowing he was right. "So are your men."
"Does this look like a U.S. Army uniform?" said Hargrove, tapping his blue-denim jacket. "Or that?" He pointed to the Schmeisser minimac on MacKenzie's desk. The arc lights glinted dully from the machine pistol's steel-blue barrel.
"First shipment still Tuesday?" asked Hargrove, changing the subject.
Heather nodded. "Fifteen ten-megatonners to the Air Corps."
"Know where they're going?" Hargrove asked, lighting one of his thick, green, Cuban cigars.
"No. And I don't want to know," said the physicist, glaring at the thick ring of blue smoke wafting across her desk. She stood. "I'll let you get on with your work, Major."
"Thank you, ma'am."
He turned at the door. "By the way, Doctor, G2 says Hochmeister's back."
Heather MacKenzie turned in her chair. "Define 'back,'" she said warily.
"Head of Allied Security and Intelligence in Berlin." He puffed thoughtfully. "He kept his word, you know."
MacKenzie nodded absently. "The gray admiral always keeps his word," she said. "Better hope to God he doesn't find out we broke ours."
Hargrove grunted and left, smoke trailing him.
"Sir, the Americans have broken their word."
Hans Christian Hochmeister looked up from the neat pile of papers on his red, leather-trimmed blotter. "Regarding what?" he asked the young captain in the feldgrau uniform. The sun was streaming into the big office along the Wilhelmstrasse. It was Friday of a quiet week-the day Hochmeister had hoped to finish the final draft of his memoirs.
"They are assembling nuclear weapons at a hidden plant in the Colorado Rockies," said Hauptmann Becker, handing over the report. He stood waiting as the admiral carefully read all eight pages.
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