Final Assault

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Chapter 4

  Two small specks of brightness against a great black sphere, Repulse and Dawn matched speed with the battleglobe, maintaining position between it and Terra.

  “Big,” said Captain Poqal, looking at the image of the battleglobe filling his main screen.

  “Big?” said Satat, looking at the captain. “It’s a monster! Give me ten of those things and I’ll break through Line and take Kronar.”

  “Why hasn’t it fired yet?” asked Captain Syatan, face small but distinct in Poqal’s commscreen.

  “They haven’t anything small enough to stop us,” said Poqal. “Let’s play this out. By the book, Number One,” he ordered. “Challenge and stand by weapons.”

  Satat nodded and touched her commlink. “Kronarin Confederation war cruiser Repulse to unknown vessel. Identify, halt and prepare to be boarded.”

  Silence, then a burst of static as the main screen flickered. The image of the battleglobe vanished, replaced by that of a smiling young man in a brown Kronarin duty uniform, commander’s pips on his collar. “You did say ‘boarded,’ Commander?”

  “Identify,” said Stat tightly.

  “Commander Tolei Kiroda, attached to AI battleglobe Devastator under the command of Colonel Ragal, Kronarin Fleet Counterintelligence Corps, with other indigenous personnel as prize crew.”

  Poqal was out of the command chair, staring incredulously at the screen. “You’re telling us you took that mother, Commander? You captured it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your previous ship?” said the captain.

  “Laal-class cruiser Implacable under Captain Hanar Lawrona.”

  “What the seven hells is going on here, Kiroda? Implacable’s corsair-listed—shoot-without-challenge. And where’s your commodore, Detrelna, who owes me a year’s pay from a bokana game on Shtar?”

  “You know the commodore, sir?”

  Poqal nodded. “Fellow merchanters—a few joint business ventures. And in the same reserve unit on Shtar before the war. Our kids are about the same age—they used to get into trouble together.”

  “The commodore’s with Implacable, sir. They should be at Kronar by now.”

  “What about our skipcomm relay?” asked Satat. “Having a little target practice with your new toy?”

  “We wanted to talk with you before you sounded Invasion Alert. Both the AIs and Fleet are after us.”

  “We are Fleet,” grumbled Poqal.

  “Yes, sir. Please come aboard.” Kiroda glanced offscan. “Vector in on standard homing frequency. You can land Repulse next to our operations tower.”

  “We’ll be logging that as a boarding, of course.”

  “Of course, sir. And just in time for dinner. Has Repulse any brandy she might send along? We’re low on critical supplies.”

  Sarel spoke into his communicator. “Ragal is on board?”

  “In command,” said the voice. “According to our source on Repulse. It’s a battleglobe, all right—Devastator—Binor’s flagship.”

  “His no longer, it seems,” said Sarel. “Send a shuttle for us. I’m at CIA headquarters. Have New York clear it through Washington. And bring everyone in our unit. We may be going home. And I don’t mean Kronar.”

  Pocketing his communicator, Sarel turned to find Sutherland staring at him across the desk. “Just what are you, Sarel?” said the CIA Director, fingertips templed before his chin. “AI battleglobes have been seen only once in this galactic epoch—a mercifully brief appearance. Almost nothing’s known about them, yet one shows up after lunch on a warm August day and you’re familiar with its command history.”

  “Fleet doesn’t tell all its secrets, Bill,” said Sarel with a shrug. “No government does, as you well know.”

  “Bull,” said Sutherland. “While you were supervising the cleanup of our Amazon village, I took two squads on a last sweep of the area. Just for the hell of it, I decided to have another look at that anaconda. And guess what? It must have been killed before I shot it—crushed. What I saw and reacted to were its death throes. What are you, Sarel? Not human. Not a Scotar or alarms would be ringing. That leaves only one known possibility.”

  Sarel leaped across the desk—an effortless standing broad jump, done with only a slight flexing of the knees, the landing soft and silent next to Sutherland. “An AI, right, Bill?”

  “God deliver us from monsters,” whispered the CIA Director, face white as the ceiling tiles.

  Laughing, Sarel stepped back a pace. “You’re a paunchy, middle-aged bureaucrat, Sutherland, but you’ve got style and you guts. And you keep a fine bar.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to the Revolt.”

  “Well, we’ve boarded her,” said Satat as Repulse settled onto the battleglobe. Over a mile long, the Kronarin ship was just another machine on the bleak airless surface of the machine-fortress: enormous fusion batteries, their ugly black snouts pointing toward the shimmering blue of the shield; instrument pods and the domes of missile turrets, the largest of them Repulse’s height, interspacing the fusion batteries in row after serried row off to the horizon.

  “Cozy,” said Captain Poqal, surveying it all on the bridge’s main screen. “That, I gather, is the operations tower,” he said, as the scan stopped panning, holding on the great black structure dwarfing all around it. Square and almost windowless, it rose high above the deck. “Looks like a temple to some dark god.”

  “What’s that ugly thing on the top?” said Satat, frowning as she zoomed the scan. A stiff duraplast flag leaped into focus—silver and black, two golden draggers set horizontally in its middle

  “Our battle flag,” said Poqal. “Find out if they’re sending someone for us, or if we have to suit up and walk. Advise Syatan all’s well so far and to maintain position.”

  They sent Kiroda for them. He arrived in a transit tube that extended its serpentine self from the sheer wall of the tower to the cruiser’s emergency bridge access. “Sorry about this,” he said, leading Poqal and Syatan through the luminescent green tube. “There’re selective atmospheric controls, but they took hits in the fighting—we’ve been busy repairing the fusion batteries and power leads.”

  Poqal was struck by the contrast between Kiroda’s boyish features, infectious easy grin and the blue-and-white Valor Medal ribbon on his tunic. “Amazing,” he said.

  They entered the tower and began trudging up a broad circular ramp, passing men and women in Kronarin uniform who nodded hastily and hurried by, distracted and intent on battle repairs.

  Every level bore signs of recent combat: walls and floors gouged by the black gashes of blaster hits, shattered instrument alcoves, and here and there, missed in the hurried cleanup, the shattered remains of what must have been complex mobile machinery—AIs? wondered Poqal. He was about to ask when they topped the ramp and reached Devastator’s bridge.

  The armored doors once guarding it were all but gone, their remains marked by a great round hole through the battlesteel. A fight to have missed, thought Poqal as Kiroda led them through it and onto the walkway circling the bridge.

  They stood looking out over a great round room, consoles everywhere, rimmed by armorglass with a view of the battleglobe’s bleak surface and Repulse, nestled between massive fusion batteries. About fifty crewmen manned the bridge, Poqal guessed. He leaned over the railing for a better look.

  “Wouldn’t do that if I were you, Captain,” said a cheery voice. “It’s still weak in places.”

  Poqal stepped back and turned toward the speaker. A man in the uniform of a Fleet Intelligence colonel stepped off the access ladder to the left of the doorway. “Welcome to Devastator, Captain, Commander. My name’s Ragal.”

  Poqal’s communicator beeped. “Yes?” he said, rising from his chair and moving away a few meters.

  “There’s a Fleet Omega-class shuttle coming toward you from Terra,” reported Captain Syatan. “IDs as Embassy craft.”

  “We’re expecting it,” said Poqal. “Perhaps we can have a real conver
sation when it gets here—we’ve been sipping t’ata and listening to Colonel Ragal’s charming anecdotes since we arrived.” He glanced at Ragal, chatting with Satat. High and musical, her laugh rang faintly from the steel walls of Ragal’s ready-room.

  “Everything all right?” asked Syatan.

  “Knives at our throats and tinglers on our gonads,” said Poqal.

  “Very well. Will check back as arranged.”

  Poqal pocketed his communicator and returned to his chair. “Incoming shuttle from Terra,” he said as Ragal and Satat looked at him. “Maybe then you’ll tell us what you’re doing here. If not …”

  Ragal held up a hand. “I know. You’ll have to arrest us and take our vessel in tow. Be assured, Captain, we’re not at Terra to sightsee. More t’ata, Commander Satat?”

  Designed and built by AIs, the only facilities for humans on board Devastator were for prisoners, eighteen levels beneath the operations tower. The brig’s sleeping quarters were small and its bathrooms smaller. The lavatory sinks had no plugs and gave only reluctantly of a small flow of tepid water, something John cursed each time he tried to shave, as now.

  “Pssst! Harrison.”

  But for the invention of the safety razor, John would probably have slit his own throat. The Terran whirled, razor en garde.

  “You look absurd,” said Guan-Sharick. “A hairy, towel-clad primate threatening a telekinetic life form with a foam-tipped shaver.” The insectoid’s form shimmered and vanished, replaced by that of a jumpsuit-clad blonde, seated on the toilet lid. “Better?”

  John glared at the transmute. “I thought it was resolved that you were human?”

  “I was never said I was human,” said Guan-Sharick. “Only that I wasn’t a biofab.”

  “Out,” he gestured.

  They stepped into the living quarters. Cutting torches and creativity had converted five small cells into a marginally acceptable, sparsely furnished two-room suite.

  “Zahava not home?” said the transmute, peering through the doorway into the living room.

  “No,” said John, reaching for his pants. “Do you mind?”

  “Ridiculous,” said the blonde, turning away from him.

  “Okay,” said Harrison after a moment, tucking in his shirt. “What do you want?”

  The blonde turned. “You know we’ve entered the Terran system?”

  “So? We’re not getting off.”

  “Why not? It’s your home.”

  “Which we’d soon have to leave.”

  “Ragal needs the cooperation of the insystem commander to access the portal to the AI universe. He’ll get it, one way or the other,” said the transmute, sitting on the double bed. “This ship then has to traverse an intervening universe to reach the AI universe. You know which universe that is.”

  “Terra Two again? I hate that place. Surely it’s just a matter of recalibrating the portal device and proceeding on to our objective—isn’t it?” he added, as the blonde shook her head.

  “At that point, the portal device will have exhausted its potential. It will require reenergizing from the resources in that intervening universe. The battleglobe’s energy source is incompatible with that of the portal. In short, we need about a ton of Plutonium 239.”

  “That’s a weapons-grade isotope,” said John, sinking into the room’s sole armchair. “The alternate Terra, Terra Two, is a technological backwater—they’re still suffering the effects of World War II. There’s only a limited nuclear arsenal, most of it in German hands.”

  “Not anymore. Since you were last there, the American urban guerrillas—your friends the gangers—have been gathering an arsenal of nuclear weapons in the Colorado Rockies. At the moment they’ve more plutonium than weapons, thanks to years of pilfering from German nuclear plants. They have about half a ton. The Fourth Reich has about another half a ton, exclusive of deployed weapons.” The blue-green eyes looked toward the ceiling. “This mission requires someone who can obtain both stockpiles.”

  “I’m not returning to that hellhole and its perverted history.”

  “Nothing like the last time,” said the transmute, holding up a slender hand. “Just obtain a consensus …”

  “Between the gangers and the Fourth Reich?!”

  “ … so we can get on with our mission and again leave them to annihilate each other.”

  “Why are you telling me this and not Ragal?”

  “He has other issues at the moment. You leave as soon as we enter the universe of Terra Two. I’ll transport you to the surface.”

  Guan-Sharick was gone, only to reappear an instant later. “You and Zahava might want to go to the bridge. An old friend of yours has arrived.”

  Chapter 5

  “Sit,” ordered the Grand Admiral.

  Detrelna sat.

  They were in the commandant’s office, high atop the Tower, with a view of the cityscape at night. Admiral Laguan took the commandant’s chair behind the big traq-wood desk. “Why the hell did you come back?” he demanded. “Didn’t you know Implacable had been declared corsair?”

  “Sir,” said Detrelna, “I came back to expose …”

  Laguan held up a hand. “Save your breath. Admiral Sagan’s report of your expedition into Blue 9 was received, along with reports detailing the treachery of Combine Telan, the demise of the corsair Kotran and your defeat of the AI vanguard.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Once received, these reports were suppressed by treasonous officers within FleetOps—officers who’ll soon be fighting for their lives beside the former occupant of this office.”

  Smart money says they’ll lose, thought Detrelna.

  “A duplicate copy of Sagan’s report found its way to my office, but too late to prevent Implacable from being corsair-listed by those same officers. The Council is in disarray, the only strong member being the Chair, Dassan. I think he’s Combine Telan’s creature.”

  “He’s in bed with them. He loves, worships and reveres AIs.”

  “An easy mark for them, given his history,” said Laguan. “And of course the first to go if they win. What’s left of Fleet is scattered throughout the Confederation on missions of relief and rescue. The Scotar occupation left us with hundreds of desperate, crippled planets populated by the mindwiped survivors of slave labor factories. Crops disrupted, transports scattered or destroyed. I’ve a handful of effective ships in home system and am sure of the loyalty of only one FleetOps officer.” Laguan touched his chest. “Of course, all these cares may be taken from me—Dassan’s moving to have me replaced or sent up to Line as duty officer.”

  “An honorable position.”

  “More an honorary one, designed for fractious or doddering senior officers nearing retirement, even grand admirals. One may not tell Line what to do, only advise it—not the most gratifying job for someone used to command. Be that as it may, the Council’s meeting all night. My fate will soon be decided. I have allies on the Council, but they’re scared and reasonably so.” He looked out the window. The first hint of dawn could be seen, outlining the rough hills of the Kazan.

  He turned back to Detrelna. “Sagan’s final report said you were going to take an AI battleglobe. Did you?”

  Detrelna nodded. “Yes. It’s on its way to the AI empire, on an urgent mission of confusion and destruction. Ragal thinks he can foment a revolt.”

  “Luck to him, if he even gets there. As for us, your report said we’re about to be attacked by a sea of battleglobes. What’s between them and here?”

  “A flotilla of mindslavers in Blue 9. We gained their cooperation.”

  The admiral shook his head. “Horrors out of the Empire’s darkest past. Part human, part machine, totally mad. They hate us, Detrelna. They’ll turn on us at the first opportunity. What did you promise them? Fresh brains?”

  “They had a few reasonable requests, sir. They hate and fear us, but they hate and fear the AIs more. The mindslavers will try to hold the Rift for us until reinforcements arrive.”

  �
�Reinforcements? Our tactical situation is hopeless.”

  “The Twelfth Fleet of the House of Syal,” said the commodore.

  Laguan’s sigh broke the long silence that followed. “Others have done what you’re doing, Detrelna,” he said, “and under similar pressures—the Confederation’s dissolving around us like a sand fort before an incoming tide. You’re seeking refuge in Imperial mysticism.” He hurried on before the commodore could protest. “Every kid knows that wild tale—it’s a pre-Fall myth—a fleet from the height of the Empire, forever trapped in jump stasis.”

  Detrelna shook his head. “Not a myth, sir. The Twelfth Fleet and its loss are noted in Archives. Supposedly a device to recall the Twelfth was created but never used. It lies buried with Syal, somewhere here on Kronar.”

  “And you propose to find it after—what?—ten thousand years?”

  “Closer to fifteen thousand, Admiral. And not me—Hanar Lawrona. It’s in Syal’s lost citadel.”

  “Lost citadel. Lost fleet.” Laguan shook his head. “Lost is the operative word.” He looked past the commodore to the lights of Akan, man’s first city in the galaxy. “Quadrants revolting, bioengineers loosing monsters upon us, the Empire falling, planets torched like diseased fruit, but through it all—a hundred thousand years—civilization’s survived. A civilization dying on our watch, Detrelna.” The admiral looked toward the stars, as if expecting to see AI assault ships in descent.

  “We’re not finished yet,” said Detrelna. “If anyone can—”

  Both men turned, startled by the echoing sound of blaster fire.

  The thick wooden doors slammed open and a commando major burst in, big M32 blastrifle on his hip. Behind him, a squad of commandos reinforced the two troopers guarding the door, taking up firing positions along the corridor.

  “Report,” ordered Laguan as the commando saluted, left hand to the weapon’s comb.

  “Tugayee have infiltrated the Tower and are fighting their way to this level.”