“A slave revolt?’ said Lakor. “You’re telling us we came from a slave revolt?”
The Scotar nodded.
“And Telan?” said Zahava.
“Infiltrators,” said Guan-Sharick. “A fifth column.”
“Humanity in this galaxy isn’t more than a hundred thousand years old,” said John.
“True,” said Guan-Sharick. “Those escaped slaves had the sense to move uptime nine hundred thousand years. It took the AIs a long while to engineer the technology to find them. Slipping their infiltrators through was one thing, but to bring in their main force, they’ve had to wait until the Rift sealed by the Trel opened.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” said John.
“You won’t believe me. Yet. Believe this though, Harrison. I could have killed you both a thousand times—from when we first met on Earth—you remember, at the Institute?—to the last moment I walked the decks of Implacable. I’m telepathic, telekinetic—nothing human can stand against me. I didn’t kill you, though—I need you. You’ve a rare gift—you’re both sensitives—far more so than any of the Kronarins.”
“Not taking any risks, are they?” said Detrelna, watching the screen. The Combine ships were approaching in a textbook englobing formation, deploying around Implacable even as they prepared to bombard her.
Lawrona turned to the commodore. “Tactics would dictate we feint, probing for weakness, presenting a difficult target.”
“Until they close their circle and there’s nowhere to run.” He looked at the captain, eyebrows raised. “You want to do that, Hanar?”
“No,” said Lawrona, looking back at the board. “There’s a slight possibility, though; if we can take out four of the center ships, we can escape.”
“We don’t want to escape,” said the commodore.
“Incoming missiles,” said Kiroda.
They were streaking in from the larger target blips, coming for Implacable.
“They don’t know that,” said Lawrona. “Break their formation, turn, take them in the rear. We might get as many as six of them before we go down.”
Detrelna ran a hand through his thinning hair, eyes on the board. “Fine. Do it.”
Outside the shield flared red as the first wave exploded against it. Detrelna seized the chair arms as Implacable lurched and damage alerts sounded.
“Gunnery fully engaged,” called Kiroda.
Counterfire flashed from every battery on the ship, missiles and beams concentrating on the Combine’s two lead ships.
More incoming missiles slammed them, followed by a smaller, carefully programmed second wave. A single nuclear-tipped missile broke through. A blue bolt flashed from a Mark-44 intercept battery, detonating the warhead just inside the shield.
Implacable bucked like a bull.
Detrelna had a brief impression of the lights going out, then he was spinning across a wildly tilting bridge, tumbling into a pile of flailing, cursing bodies piling into the engineering panels.
The battle lights came on, small bright orbs set along the bulkheads. Slowly, Implacable righted itself, the old Imperial programming correcting the gravity field.
A hand helped the commodore to his feet. “You all right, Jaquel?” said Lawrona.
“How bad is it?” said Detrelna, eyes searching the engineering boards as the rest of the deck crew returned to their posts. Red alarm lights rippled along the damage control panel.
“Bad,” said Natrol. The engineer was working his way along the board, ignoring the blood that flowed from a scalp wound. He tapped an indicator. “Number three engine took the worst of it—she’ll need port overhaul and…” He stopped and swore softly, then turned to the captain and commodore, eyes large. “Jump transponders are gone—primary, secondary, tertiary. Twenty-four of them. We don’t have enough spares.”
“Make more,” said the commodore, turning at the faint whine of the big board coming back to life.
“We got them,” reported Lawrona, pointing to where two red X’s blinked on the board. The lead Combine ships were destroyed.
“Full ahead, Mr. Kiroda,” ordered Lawrona. “Plow right through their center.”
“You’ve only got two-thirds speed,” protested Natrol.
Lawrona touched a commlink as Implacable swept forward. “Gunner, we’re going through the center of the enemy formation. Full flanking fire as we pass—scatter ‘em.”
As Implacable charged past, spewing missiles and beams, the surviving Combine commander made a bad decision, ordering his remaining ships to break formation, regroup and pursue. As they broke formation, Implacable turned and came back in, picking off the smaller ships.
Frantically the Combine commander ordered all ships to rally on his vessel. But by then it was too late—his remaining nine ships were scattering for space and he was staring at an incoming missile barrage that in seconds would overwhelm his shields and destroy his ship.
“We did it,” said Detrelna, not believing the board. “They’re running!” He turned to Lawrona. “They’re running, Hanar!”
“Look again, Jaquel,” said the captain.
Detrelna turned back to the board, smile fading. A fresh blip was rising above Dalin’s north pole. Detrelna paled as he read the tacscan. “Mindslaver,” he said.
The bridge was as still as death, everyone watching the board.
“Alpha Prime,” said Kiroda. “And headed right for the Combine harvest ship.”
“Plot to intercept and engage,” ordered Lawrona, doing a quick calculation. The battle had taken them far outsystem—by the time they reached Dalin, Alpha Prime would be at the harvest ship.
Detrelna thumbed open the commlink. “Ship to ship,” he said, eyes on the board. “Kotran, I know it’s you—I recognize your flashy style.”
“Hello Detrelna.” It was Kotran’s voice, but subtly changed, softer, the old arrogance gone. “The Ractolians have placed me in tactical command of our ship—a gesture of trust for a new comrade.”
“You’ve… joined them?” said Detrelna, exchanging glances with Lawrona.
“Yes.”
“Physically?”
“If you mean, was I brainstripped, yes. A fair trade—I now command the most powerful fighting ship in this universe.”
Seen on the board, the mindslaver had reached the harvest ship and was bring it into one of its hangar bays, even as it widened the gap between itself and Implacable.
“Where are you going with that ship?” demanded the commodore. “If the AIs get ahold of the cargo—”
“They won’t,” said the soft, self-assured voice. “We have a better use for it.”
“Kotran,” said Detrelna, leaning forward intently, “I plead with you—don’t betray us.”
“Silly thing to ask one who made a career of betrayal. Luck to you, Detrelna. You’ll need it—check your scan in red two seven.”
The slaver was gone.
“She’s jumped,” said Kiroda.
Detrelna sank back in the chair, feeling the sweat beneath his arms.
“Long-range scan shows three AI battleglobes entering this system, sector red two seven,” reported Toral.
“Put specs on board,” said Lawrona.
They were the same type of vessel they’d faced off Terra Two—a ship the size of a moon, a planetoid of destruction, swathed in shimmering blue energy webs.
The three battleglobes were coming in just under light speed, slowly decelerating.
“Challenge,” ordered the commodore.
“Ships do not answer challenge,” said Lakan a moment later.
Detrelna closed his eyes, nodded to himself, and opened them. “Captain Lawrona,” he said turning to where the captain sat, “I believe the situation requires implementation of Special Order Fourteen. I ask your concurrence.”
It was flat, formal and straight from the manual.
“I concur,” said the captain. “The middle one, I think.” He pointed toward the lead ship.
“Mr. Kiroda.” Detrelna turned to the second officer. “We ask your concurrence under the Rule of Three.”
“You want to blow us up in their teeth,” said Kiroda, eyes shifting between the two senior officers.
Both nodded.
“I concur,” he said. “But from the weapons projections I’m scanning, they’ll blow us up long before we reach them.”
“Computer,” said Detrelna, touching the complink, “stand by to execute Special Order Fourteen upon my voice command.”
“Concurrence required—Rule of Three,” said the machine, opening Lawrona and Kiroda’s complinks. The two men added their authorization to Detrelna’s.
“Concurrence verified,” said the computer to Detrelna. “Ship will self-destruct upon your voice command.”
Detrelna switched to the commlink. “Gunnery, lock onto center ship, ignore other two vessels. Lakan, transmit the Fleet Rally on all channels.”
“But, sir,” she said, “there’s no one to hear it.”
“The AIs don’t know that,” he said, watching the tacscan. “Confusion to our enemies. What’s our intercept point, Tolei?” he asked, turning to Kiroda.
“Epsilon red four seven, that asteroid belt.”
“Forward best speed. Engage,” ordered Detrelna.
Implacable turned, headed outsystem again, on a one-way trip toward the enemy.
“And now where are we?” asked John, looking about the small round chamber. “Another Imperial relic?”
“No,” said Guan-Sharick as the other Scotar began activating the equipment. “We’re in space—a small, scan-shielded satellite we built to find the Trel Cache. It requires four sensitives, though.”
“Why didn’t you use other transmutes?” said John.
“Lan-Asal’s the only other one I could trust,” said Guan-Sharick, watching his companion sit at one of the four consoles rimming the white-walled satellite. “There are millions of asteroids between Dalin and its nearest neighbor—remnants of a Trel planet destroyed in the first AI War. One of those asteroids contains the Trel Cache. It emits a psychic signal that the four of us, using this satellite’s instruments, should be able to home on.”
“You built this satellite?” asked Zahava.
“Imperial Survey built it,” said Guan-Sharick, “but never had time to screen personnel and staff it—the Fall. We’ve known about it, but for many reasons did nothing about it—until now.”
So the Empire had telepaths, thought John, filing that tidbit away.
“If you’d each please sit at one of the consoles and don a helmet,” said Guan-Sharick.
The two Terrans looked again and saw the helmets—small bits of translucent material sitting atop each of the consoles, thin optics tendrils linking them to the machines.
Lan-Asal already had his on, inspiring some small confidence.
Guan-Sharick sat and donned a helmet, pulling it down tightly over her cranium.
John glanced at Zahava. She shrugged. They sat and put on the helmets.
“Now what?” said the Terran.
“Close your eyes,” said Guan-Sharick. “Empty your minds and watch through that emptiness for a pinpoint of light—it will find you, not you it. When you see it, join with us and follow it.”
John sat there for a time, eyes closed, alone with his skepticism.
You’re not concentrating, Harrison, said a cold mental whisper.
Teeth gritting, he tried again, concentration for what seemed forever, eyes beginning to hurt, shut but straining into nothingness. He was about to give up when something pricked at his mind—a small brief burst of yellow light that tantalized, then was gone. John settled down and waited.
When it came again, he willed it to stay. It blinked twice, then was gone again.
I see it, Harrison. It was Guan-Sharick. We’ll seize it together this time and follow it home.
When it came the third time, John felt the strength flow into him—strength that seized the light in wispy tendrils of blue and let it tug them toward an even larger light—a cold white light that grew closer and brighter, filling his mind, searing it.
Something snapped the connection. John was back in the satellite, rubbing his eyes, head hurting.
“Epsilon sector, red four nine,” said Lan-Asal.
John and Zahava looked at each other. “Was that you helping me?” he asked.
“It was all of us, Harrison,” said Guan-Sharick, looking at the coordinates. “All of us.” The pale white face was flush with success. “We’ve found the Trel Cache.”
An alarm beeped. Both Scotar turned to the consoles. “Too late,” said Lan-Asal, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Their vanguard is here.”
“No!” said Guan-Sharick, with a defiant toss of long blonde hair. “We have the coordinates—we go.”
Briefly filled with life, the satellite was empty again.
“Never make it,” said Ragal. “Your shield’s breaking up.” The AI stood beside Detrelna, looking at the outside scan. The shield was pockmarked with red blotches as beams and missiles from the battleglobes tore at it.
Implacable continued to advance, pouring a steady fire at the center battleglobe. The AI ship took it, thousands of miles of intricately layered shields absorbing the energy and adding it to its reserves.
“They’ll punch through before we can finish our farewell run,” said Lawrona. The captain stood to the other side of Detrelna’s chair, eyes on the screen.
Detrelna looked down at the tactical plot, then back at the shield. “I see no alternatives,” he said, fingers drumming the chairarm. “Do either of you?”
Neither said anything.
The commlink beeped. “You gentlemen want to kiss the shield good-bye?” said Natrol’s voice. “I give it a fifty count.”
“Thank you, Engineer,” said the commodore, eyes still on the screen. The shield was a sullen red, the beam hit points glowing a fierce white.
“Commodore,” said Lakan, “the rally signal…”
“Humor me. Keep transmitting it.”
“It’s being acknowledged!”
The Fleet battle cruisers swept out of the asteroid belt, soaring up to attack the battleglobes, missiles fanning out ahead of them.
Detrelna was out of his chair. “Who the—”
“I came looking for Kotran, but this’ll do,” said a familiar voice. Sagan’s face swept the bridge, peering from a dozen comm screens.
“Admiral!” said Detrelna, sinking back into his chair.
“Commodore,” she nodded. “Looks like your invasion prophecy’s fulfilled. An advance force?”
“Yes, Admiral,” said Detrelna. Outside, the shield was cooling into white as the battleglobes engaged Sagan’s squadron.
“I think we’re close enough to hurt them,” she said. “I’ve alerted Fleet, much good it’ll do us.”
The second ship in her squadron exploded, a billowing cloud of evanescent orange-red gas, quickly gone. The ship ahead of it plowed into the center battleglobe, a tiny black mote blossoming into a fireball a thousand times its original size.
Kiroda increased screen magnification. The battleglobe seemed to leap into the screen, its energy web merely a thin haze now. It was a world of battlesteel: turrets, pods and generators, interspaced with the occasional towers and domes.
“A ship forged by hate when man was young,” said Ragal.
A deep black crater had appeared in the battleglobe’s center. As her two companions moved forward, she pulled back in slow retreat.
The incoming missiles caught her, sixty-two multimegaton shipbusters wrapping the wounded her in all-consuming flame. The screen went dark, the blast burning out Implacable’s scanners.
“One,” said Admiral Sagan, her face now only on Detrelna’s personal comm screen.
The two remaining battleglobes continued to advance, directing a withering fire against Sagan’s remaining ships. The distance separating the two forces was down to a paltry half million miles, with neither side show
ing any inclination to break off. Implacable now lagged far behind the action, limping on two-thirds power.
“Incoming signal, Fleet covert operations channel,” said Lakan.
“I’ll take it,” said Detrelna, punching open his commlink. “Identify.”
“We’ve accounted for the surviving Combine ships that cut and ran,” said Kotran. “You need to divert those battleglobes into epsilon red four eight. Very thick space junk’s there—we have a surprise for them.
“You speaking for the mindslaver, Kotran?” asked Detrelna, watching the board as two more of Sagan’s ships dissolved. There was only one left now: Deliverance, Sagan’s flagship. As the commodore watched, the flagship broke off, pulling away from the battleglobe.
“Detrelna, in tactical matters, I am the mindslaver. It’s the only time my mind is free.”
The undercurrent of despair in Kotran’s voice tugged at Detrelna’s sympathy. The memory of Implacable’s hangar deck heaped with bodies quickly banished it.
“Epsilon red four eight, Detrelna—it’s your only chance.” The commlink ended with a faint hiss.
“We can’t trust him,” said Lawrona after Detrelna quickly repeated the conversation.
The commodore shrugged. “No other options.” He turned to Lakan. “Battleburst code to Sagan: ‘Follow me, epsilon red four eight.’ Mr. Kiroda, make for epsilon red four eight. May something be there besides rock.”
Chapter 17
They stood inside a hollow diamond amid infinitely regressive reflections of themselves, two in Kronarin uniforms, two in white jumpsuits.
John shut his eyes for a second, restoring the perspective stolen by the endless multifaceted images that danced at the least movement.
“Where are we?” said Zahava, squinting in the wan blue light.
“Is this it?” asked John, turning to Guan-Sharick.
The AI War Page 17
