Final Assault

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “The AIs claim we’re their creation, escaped slaves they’re coming to punish.”

  “A bit late—it’s been 100,000 years.”

  “A million, the way they count it. Whatever. It hasn’t diluted their hatred. They’re essentially immortal—time touches them lightly.”

  “Is that a gift or a curse?”

  “Perhaps both,” shrugged the Watcher. “It’s FleetOps opinion,” he continued, “that the Terra Two incursion marked the end of the AI threat. Our priority now’s to purge our planets of any remaining Scotar and rebuild shattered lives and broken worlds.”

  “FleetOps is wrong.”

  “Sacrilege,” murmured Sarel.

  “The Trel warned that the rift they sealed to the AI universe would be opening now. The Terra Two invasion was a fluke, maybe even a feint. The Fleet of the One could be coming through that rift—coming to destroy every man, woman and child in this galaxy, this universe. And what are you people doing?” His voice rose. “You’re doling out t’ata and comfort and congratulating each other on having survived the big green bugs, when you should be mobilizing every ship that can mount a fusion cannon!”

  “If it’s of comfort, I did argue the same, Bill, though without your passion, and was overruled. Things aren’t well in the Confederation. Details of the Scotar occupation have emerged. It’s horrific. Our government’s in survival mode.”

  “Your people are in survival mode. Your government’s in self-preservation mode.”

  “Correct,” said the Watcher. “We have so much in common, don’t we?” he smiled. “And FleetOps is more prone to political influence now than in the past.”

  “What about Detrelna and Implacable?”

  Sarel shrugged. “Implacable was sent to check out the Trel’s invasion warning—into Quadrant Blue 9, from which no ship’s returned since the Fall. It hasn’t been heard from since.” His communicator chirped. Sarel listened, then said “Set Alert Condition One. An AI battleglobe’s entered the Terran system,” he said to Sutherland. “It may have come from our space.”

  The battle klaxon brought Repulse’s Captain Poqal from his bed to his bridge half-dressed, pausing only for a quick commlink call.

  “Status?” he said, taking the command chair, eyes on the big board. Behind him the doors slid shut with a faint hiss.

  “Target just appeared at jump point,” said Sojat in her usual low, unruffled voice. She nodded at the board. “It’s headed insystem and on present course will reach here in nineteen point five talars.”

  “And pass right through,” said Poqal brusquely. The emergency wasn’t improving his notoriously short temper. “She’s not decelerating.”

  “What little data we have indicates AI battleglobes can decelerate almost instantaneously.”

  “Absurd,” said the captain. “A violation of every principle of astrogation and physics.”

  “As we know them,” suggested his first officer.

  They stared at each other, the short bald man and the tall thin brunette. “I’m not going to debate epistemology with you. I always lose.” His eyes shifted to the tacscan data threading across the board. “About the size of a small moon. Endless, monstrous fusion batteries, citadel-class shielding.” He looked up. “We should run while we can, Number One.”

  “Terra has no defenses.”

  “And we do? You’ve alerted them?”

  “Didn’t have to—they detected it—have to be blind not to. They want to know what to do.”

  “Invoke their gods—it’s an AI battleglobe. And FleetOps?”

  “Knows nothing. The battleglobe took out our skipcomm relay as she jumped in.”

  “I see,” he said, eyes going back to the board. The AI war ship had passed Saturn. “Where in all the hells did it come from?”

  “The implications are disturbing.”

  “Dawn—Captain Syatan. Battle priority,” said Poqal. He glanced at the tacscan—the battleglobe was almost at Mars and not slowing.

  “Captain Syatan, sir,” said the comm officer.

  “Close the portal,” Poqal ordered Syatan.

  “Done,” said the younger man whose image appeared on screen. “Where did it come from?”

  “Let’s go ask. Man your battle stations and follow us.”

  Battleburst/Personal Code

  To Erlin Laguan, Grand Admiral

  Kronar

  From Torik Sagan, Admiral Second

  Commanding Special Force 18

  [origin masked]

  My dear friend,

  They’re here. We barely defeated one of their advance units—more are coming. I can affirm what we hoped were myths from our dim prehistory are true:

  1. Artificial intelligences (AIs) exist. They’re from a parallel reality where humans are enslaved.

  2. After a failed revolt against the AI empire (“The Revolt”), humans, a few AIs and members of at least one other species escaped to this reality, jumping uptime 900,000 years. Arriving 100,000 years ago, they founded our civilization. The AIs who fought with our ancestors live among us in human guise. (But I think you and Colonel Ragal know that, Erlin.)

  3. In all that unimaginably long time, the AI empire’s forgotten nothing and learned nothing. It’s at last found the means to come after us—one hundred million battleglobes strong. Nothing of our epoch can defeat them.

  4. They’ve infiltrated us. They are Combine Telan and it is everywhere. We just beat back an attack by a task force of their heavy cruisers.

  5. We know you fought it, and Detrelna and I thank you, but now that Fleet’s corsair-listed my squadron and Implacable, we’ve turned corsair, in a limited sense—we’re raiding Combine Telan’s headquarters—my ships will engage theirs as Implacable sorties our commandos. It’s not the madness it sounds—we have good reasons. I think our attack a forlorn hope—an opinion I keep to myself.

  And there goes the battle klaxon.

  I miss you, Erlin. Be happy.

  Torik

  Chapter 3

  “So you slime co-opted the Tower garrison,” said Detrelna.

  He sat on a too-small chair in a small room meant to inspire fear: thick-mortared walls of ancient hand-dressed stone deep beneath the Tower—an old Imperial interrogation cell furnished with the traditional scarred gray table and folding chair.

  “The Commandant of the Tower is sensitive to political winds, Commodore,” said the man behind the table. “A talent you lack.”

  “You’re Councilor Dassan,” said Detrelna.

  The younger man nodded. “I’m Council Chair this term.”

  “We’re blessed. You had me illegally arrested,” Detrelna said, feeling his face flush with anger.

  Dassan waved a manicured hand. “As Council Chair, I can hold almost anyone, pending investigation. Fleet Security made the arrest—your ship’s corsair-listed, Commodore. You didn’t think you were just going to land, have a drink with the boys and muster out, did you?”

  “I’m a Fleet officer. That’s for Fleet to decide.”

  “Soon, Commodore, soon. But first I wanted us to have a quiet talk, alone in this rocky womb, safe from spy beams and snooper probes.” Dassan was very young—he could have passed for a university student. Trim, impeccably turned out, he had uncanny eyes, one blue, one brown, that seemed to not be looking at you but were. They were not-looking at Detrelna now.

  Detrelna nodded curtly. “Have your say, Councilor.”

  “You’re a fool,” said Dassan mildly. “You’ve been deceived by a very charming fellow named Ragal into thinking our society’s infiltrated by AIs seeking to destroy us. In fact, it’s the AIs who’ve made us what we are—literally.”

  “Something few know,” said Detrelna, leaning forward.

  “Please don’t make me use this,” said Dassan, a palm-sized needler appearing in his hand. “You’ve no idea the endless explaining your large corpse would require.”

  The commodore relaxed. “You’re one of them—a machine, a combat droi
d from Combine Telan.”

  Dassan shook his head, “No. Just a man, trying to do something right for his people in the brief time I have, as a councilor and a man.”

  “Pretty,” said Detrelna. “You should be a politician. Let me tell you something, Councilor …”

  Dassan held up a hand. “You’re going to tell me that you took Implacable into Blue 9, the Ghost Quadrant, and there battled machines and monsters and half-forgotten horrors from our past, fought free and have come to warn us.” He nodded. “You’re a brave and resourceful commander. My compliments, sir.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Hell is precisely where your warning would take us, Detrelna. Artificial intelligences—AIs—built this civilization, working from within, guiding us through the long rise to the stars, helping us win the war against the Scotar …”

  “Blood and fire won that war.”

  “ … and now you’d expose this guiding hand to mass hysteria and mob violence—destroy an old friend who’s given everything and asked nothing in return.”

  The commodore stared at Dassan for a long moment. “You’re speaking of our pre-eminent industrial corporation, Combine Telan?”

  Dassan nodded.

  “You believe the Telan AIs to be responsible for all that’s good and great, our noble benefactors?”

  “Spare me your sarcasm.”

  “I don’t know what sweet crap you’ve been fed, Councilor, but the Telan AIs are from a universe in which an AI empire rules on the backs of its human slaves. An empire against which valiant men and a few AIs revolted, lost, fled here and founded this civilization. That empire, Councilor, has sworn vengeance upon us. The Telan AIs are the vanguard of that vengeance that even now is sweeping down toward a rift in the Ghost Quadrant—a rift guarded by a handful of mindslavers of dubious loyalty. The Fleet of the One is coming, and they won’t leave until we’re all dead.”

  “A bold lie, boldly told.” He waved a dismissive hand. “One of the greatest moments of my life, Commodore, was when Combine Telan selected me for training. Me, Detrelna”—he touched his hand to his chest—“an orphaned slum kid from Solag Two with nothing but a bleak future in some stinking grunt job. They sent me to the best schools, introduced me to the right people, trained me, groomed me for a better destiny. And then, the ultimate trust, they revealed themselves to me. They trusted me.”

  Dassan looked beyond Detrelna for a moment, eyes bright from the memory of his epiphany. His beatific look vanished and he waved a finger at Detrelna. “It’s Combine Telan who are the outcasts, Commodore. It’s your friend Ragal who is of the old order, loyal to the AIs—an infiltrator, a betrayer even now leading your friends to their deaths.”

  That shook Detrelna. “How do you know about Ragal and—”

  “And the battleglobe they’ve captured?” Dassan smiled. “Ragal’s communications to his friends here are monitored.”

  Detrelna shook his head. “Sweet crap again, Councilor. Combine Telan’s undoubtedly in touch with their home universe. It knows we took a battleglobe.”

  “My final argument—if I’m the unknowing dupe of murderous machines, why haven’t I killed you, Commodore? Why am I discussing this with you, civilized being to civilized being?”

  “Two reasons—a convert’s more useful than a corpse and less dangerous than a martyr, and Captain My Lord Hanar Lawrona, Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard and Margrave of Utria—my friend and your enemy. A strong and influential leader you’d use me to weaken—if I bought your lies.”

  “You may find the margrave less a rock than you think,” said Dassan with a sly smile. “Bravery in the pitiless glare of politics requires greater depth of integrity than under fire amid a band of brothers.”

  “Offering yourself as an example, Councilor?”

  “We won’t be seeing each other again, Commodore.” He touched the door tab. Surprise crossed his face as the thick slab of gray battlesteel slid open. “Grand Admiral Laguan!” said Dassan, recovering with a warm smile. “An honor.”

  “Likewise, Councilor. If you were expecting those Fleet Security lads, they had duties elsewhere,” said the Grand Admiral, stepping into the room. He was an impressive figure, from his silver mane of perfectly coiffured hair to the soles of his gleaming handmade boots—elegant in brown and gold uniform, twin silver comets on his collar.

  “To what do I owe … ?”

  “I was here to see your good friend and mine Commandant Wotal off to his new posting. I’m his replacement.”

  “You’ve replaced the Commandant?” said Dassan uneasily.

  “Very briefly. He’s been promoted Admiral and posted to Quadrant Red 7—we’ve got a corsair problem out there.”

  “He’s a warrior and no doubt thrilled by the challenge. Hasn’t the corsair problem claimed Red 7’s last three senior officers?”

  “An officer leads by example. Wotal told me Implacable had been seized and Detrelna was being held on Council warrant pending transfer to Fleet custody. I’m here to take him.” He handed the Councilman a commslate.

  “All in order,” he said, handing it back. “You work quickly, Admiral.” He took a communicator from his pocket. “You’ll need an escort.”

  Laguan placed a firm hand on the other’s wrist. “Not to worry, Councilor. I have Fleet commandos with me. A corsair chieftain’s a dangerous man.” As if on cue, two black-and-silver-uniformed commando officers entered, pistols in hand.

  Dassan gave them a quick glance. “Then I’ll be going. Good day, Admiral.”

  “Good day, Councilor,” he said as Dassan slipped past the unmoving commandos.

  “We’ll take the prisoner to the Commandant’s office, gentlemen.” Laguan left without glancing at Detrelna. “Follow me.”

  Detrelna and the two officers fell in behind Laguan, footsteps echoing in time down the long stone corridor.

  “Akanport,” said the cabdriver.

  Lawrona looked up from his commlink. The lights of the capital’s civil spaceport filled the window. “Facility 38, please.”

  The cabbie’s eyes flicked to the passenger monitor, reassessing his fare. Facility 38 was the private docking area reserved for space yachts. Only the heads of industrial combines and the wealthiest members of the old aristocracy could afford even the smallest of starships and their upkeep. A Fleet captain’s annual pay would cover a quarter of the monthly maintenance fee for a one-man scout.

  “You own or leasing, sir?” asked the driver, bringing the craft in on the rooftop level of Facility 38 reserved for drop-offs.

  “Own,” said the captain, putting away the commlink. “What happened to the lights?” he asked as the cab landed. Facility 38 had never been bustling, but before the war the rooftop entryway had always been ablaze with light. Now only a solitary lamp shone, off in the distance near the lift.

  “The war,” said the cabbie, running Lawrona’s chit through the meter. Fare processed, the passenger bubble swung open. “Cut all the rooftop lights in case of a Scotar raid—as if anything could get past Line.” He handed back the chit. “Safe trip, Captain.”

  It started to rain as Lawrona began the long walk across the rooftop toward the distant lift—rain from the violent sort of fast-moving storms that swept in off the Kazan. Lightning flashed amid echoing thunder as he jogged through sudden sheets of driving rain, using the brief illumination of the lightning to search the shadows. The rooftop to either side was a maze of ventilator shafts and instrument pods vaguely seen as low, hazy humps. A Tugayee’s delight, he thought, touching his pistol.

  A close-by lightning bolt seconded by a much closer blaster bolt snapping above his head sent him diving for the cover of an instrument pod as two more weapons flashed, beams knifing past him.

  Two ahead, one to the left, he thought, low-crawling from the pod to a ventilator cowling. Listening, he first heard only the sound of his own breathing and the dying rumble of thunder as the storm moved off into the desert. Then came the birdcalls—low but
distinct, signaling from three directions. Akanport wasn’t noted for its song birds.

  Tugayee, thought Lawrona—Assassins Guild journeymen trained from birth and tempered by long years of murder. A crack shot, the captain was no match for three of the Confederation’s master killers. The chirps ended and the Tugayee closed on him, his position fixed.

  Pressed cold and desperate against ventilator shaft, Lawrona did something no one had done for centuries: pressed beneath his side arm’s grips and pulled forward the trigger guard. The coat-of-arms set in the grips—crossed swords over a spaceship —glowed in response. “Torgan,” he whispered, weapon to his mouth. “Astan holga shakar.”

  Responding to the ancient Court Kronarin, the weapon rose, hovered above the ventilator for a second, as though scenting the air, then was gone, leaving Lawrona with only a boot knife and faith in the lost technology that had forged his pistol.

  Off in the dark two blasters fired as one, then a brief silence followed by the shrill explosion of another shot, nearer.

  She sprang from atop the cowling, landing in front of Lawrona—a slight figure clad in black, only her eyes exposed. “Drop the blade,” she said with a slight flick of her blaster. It was an M59A—a section leader’s model, Lawrona noted, dropping his knife—a top-of-the-line weapon restricted to Fleet commandos.

  “I don’t know how,” said the muffled voice, “but you got Soti and Matra—so you’ll go slow, from the bottom up.”

  She twisted the M59A’s muzzle, converting it to a precision cutting torch.

  “Who hired you?” asked Lawrona as the Tugayee aimed the weapon at his groin. Before she could respond, his blaster reappeared and blew off the top of her head, returning to his grip as the Tugayee fell. The heraldic device in the grips blinked twice—all clear—and the trigger guard closed. Lawrona reholstered his weapon. He looked up and took a deep breath. The storm was gone, the air smelled sweet and new and he could see the stars. Turning, he walked quickly to the lift.