Final Assault

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Hanar took a steaming bowl of varx stew from the cart, setting it at Ksar’s place then took one for himself as the old man cut the fresh black bread. Before he sat, he placed one of the brandy goblets on the freeholder’s tray, taking the other for himself.

  “All kinds of rumors reach here about you, Hanar,” said Ksar, carefully sipping the stew.

  “Oh?”

  “Hero on the run. Fleet’s afraid to arrest you, Combine Telan wants you dead.” The freeholder dunked his bread in the stew, nibbled the crust. “If anyone’s after you and they know you’re on Utria, they’ll be here soon. Our families—some members of them—were always close. And how is my nephew?”

  “Admiral Laguan’s fine. In the thick of it.”

  “Of course. Erlin always had a gift for war and a flair for intrigue.” The freeholder launched into reminiscence about one of Hanar’s mother and Laguan’s teenage adventures.

  Lawrona nodded, half listening, his eyes roaming the room. He remembered a brightly lit house, always a party for this or that occasion—music, laughter, children at play, visitors coming and going. As Utria’s honorary minister of culture, the freeholder was a gracious and gregarious host, quick with an easy smile and a kind word.

  Now the house was as cold and as bleak as a tomb, while the man … Lawrona looked at him. Like the house—dark and the warmth gone. “Your family?” asked the margrave, dreading the answer. “Did they survive the occupation?”

  Ksar’s gaze dropped to the burn marks on the floor. “My family are either dead or worse.”

  “Your grandchildren?”

  “Dead. Why’ve you come, Hanar?”

  “I need your help.”

  “My family has always stood by your mother’s family. How may I help?”

  “Once,” said Lawrona, picking up his brandy and leaning back in the chair, “there was an emperor who sent a fleet to stop a revolt—a revolt of our own home-grown AIs. The fleet jumped and was never heard of or seen again.”

  Ksar laughed—an empty brittle sound that echoed through the rooms. “Hanar, Hanar! You always loved those scary old tales. You want the recall device and the legendary Twelfth Fleet of the House of Syal.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “Much is possible that isn’t wise. Why come to me?”

  “You’re a brilliant archeologist and archivist. You make intuitive leaps with the scantiest evidence and they’re almost always right. And the House of Syal’s your area.”

  “Heartening to know someone reads my obscure articles,” said Ksar with a faint smile. “The House of Syal’s a difficult area for a scholar.” Pushing his tray aside, the freeholder stepped to the fireplace. “So many records were destroyed during the fighting. What’s left is fragmentary and amazingly much of it still classified,” he said, looking into the flames.

  “Not to a former senior officer of Fleet Intelligence. Perhaps you haven’t published all you know?”

  Ksar turned back from the fire. “Consider—as no one has—the full consequences of recalling the Twelfth. Over eight thousand mindslavers led by death-oath officers fanatically loyal to Syal and commanded by a genocidal horror called The Bloody Hammer. Imagine them suddenly freed from stasis and released upon us. Think they’ll be happy, Hanar? Think they’ll even be sane—thrown fifty centuries downtime, everyone and everything they knew gone? When Syal promised them immortality in exchange for unquestioning loyalty, stasis wasn’t what they had in mind.”

  Lawrona shook his head. “They’re Imperial Fleet—the finest force humanity ever fielded. They’d recover, adapt, help their own.”

  Ksar sighed. “You’ve still that naiveté that so appealed to my daughter. The Imperial Fleet.” The freeholder picked up his glass, holding it to the firelight. He sipped and then turned to the margrave. “There were Imperial fleets and there were Imperial fleets. Syal followed T’Nil to the Throne and undid much of the good T’Nil had done. He reactivated the mindslavers. He reneged on concessions T’Nil had granted the Talag, the Empire’s evolving machine race. He created a fascistic command structure within Fleet and headed a loathsome cult that promised its chosen ones eternal life.”

  “Could it?”

  The freeholder snorted. “Perhaps the Trel could, not the Imperials. Syal may have been mad, but he was also a consummate showman.” Ksar set the glass on the mantelpiece. “When the Talag and their few human allies revolted—as well they should have—it took Syal by surprise. Such hubris! He sent his personal fleet under the Hammer to counterattack the Talags as he rallied his forces. Syal’s personal fleet, Hanar, under his most loyal admiral.” Ksar pointed a finger at Lawrona. “That, My Lord, is the Imperial Fleet we’re discussing.”

  “We need the Twelfth. So they turn on us. So what? If the AIs come, we’re all dead anyway. You know the legend—just before he died, Syal’s people created a device to recall the Twelfth—it lies buried with him in his last citadel.”

  “What makes you think I’ve the location of the citadel?” said Ksar, tossing a stout log on the fire.

  “Sir, if you know, you owe it to the Confederation and your oath of loyalty …” He stopped as Ksar turned, pale-faced.

  “Don’t you question my loyalty,” he snapped. “When the Scotar came, they demanded the location of the Planetary Guard fallback points. I had an L-pill under my tongue should they try to rip the information from my dying mind. They were diabolical. They brought in my two grandchildren and when I wouldn’t tell, slowly beamed them down in front of me. They died screaming for me to save them, to make the pain stop. It finally did.” Ksar pointed with both hands to the two burn marks flanking him on the floor. “Don’t question my loyalty, Hanar,” he repeated softly.

  “I’m so sorry, Ksar,” said the captain gently, unable to take his eyes from scorched stone. The kids were too young for him to remember—born during the war, their birth notice a vague memory. Their mother Kal had been his friend, though. Kal of the laughing green eyes. Dead, too? Hanar looked at the stern old man. “I apologize if …”

  Sighing, Ksar waved his hand. “It didn’t happen,” he said. “That citadel’s on Kronar, at a place dear to Syal and the Imperial treasury—I’ll give you the coordinates. Be careful—Syal was evil, and he had the old knowledge. His last resting place may not be entirely at rest.”

  “You have data on it that I could have?”

  The freeholder nodded. “In my safe. I’ll get it.” He was back in a moment with a gray commwand. As Lawrona took it, Ksar placed his hand atop the younger man’s. “Your word,” he said, looking into his eyes. “You’ll make no copies and destroy it when you’re through.”

  “My word on it.”

  The blaster bolt took the freeholder in the back, crumpling him to the floor between the scorches, eyes staring into forever.

  Whirling, Hanar drew and fired through the shattered window, killing the black-clad Tugayee with a hit to his chest.

  The firing had masked the sound of soft-soled boots slipping in from the kitchen. The captain turned at a dull grunt from behind. A Tugayee lay face-down across the threshold, another woman straddling her, knee to her back. Before Hanar could move, she pulled the assassin’s head back by the hair and deftly slit her throat, rising nimbly as her victim died in a growing pool of blood.

  “Drop it,” said Lawrona with a flick of his weapon.

  The big kitchen knife fell to the floor.

  “Step forward,” he ordered. “Kal?” he said uncertainly as the light fell across her face.

  “Do I know you, sir?” she said. She was the margrave’s age, hair close-cropped like a boy’s, wearing the shapeless brown jumpsuit given survivors. She had a pretty oval face and light green eyes reflecting her confusion.

  “It’s me, Kal,” said Lawrona, touching her shoulder. “Hanar.”

  He watched Kal’s face as she struggled to remember, saw her almost catch hold of her memories, lose them, then win in a rush of comprehension that restored life to her face and an
imation to her body. “Hanar!” she sobbed, throwing her arms around him. She clung to him like a lost child, sobs racking her body, tears flowing.

  He held her until the sobbing and the tears eased, stroking her head. Kal stepped back, wiping her face with the back of a gritty sleeve. “Better?” he asked, still holding her shoulders.

  She nodded. “Better. It comes and goes. I hope I can hold it for a time.”

  “It?”

  “My mind. The Scotar mindwiped me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, stricken as she slipped from him.

  “It’s not contagious,” she said with a thin smile. “Just permanent. I’m a drooling imbecile with occasional bursts of lucidity.”

  “Can’t it be … ?”

  “No.” She said flatly. “I’ve a moron’s intellect till I die—soon, I hope. The war killed my children, now my father.” She glanced at the still figure by the fireplace. “And it took my humanity.”

  “How … how do you live?” he stammered.

  “Badly. Fleet handouts are spotty. The garrison troopers sometimes share their food if you share yourself, but they’re on tight rations and competition’s keen. There’s nothing you can do, Hanar,” she said, seeing his anguish.

  “I’ll get you out of here. Kronar has facilities. I know we’re working on reversing mindwipes.”

  “There’s no known way to reverse a neurological brain damp, my friend,” she said, hand on his arm. “You’re talking to a neurologist … at least for the next few moments.”

  “I’ll take you …”

  “You sound like a chipped commwand. There is something you can do for me.”

  “Anything.”

  She took his wrist, raising it until his pistol pointed at her heart. “Kill me.”

  “No.” Hanar took her hand from his wrist and holstered his weapon.

  “Please, Hanar,” begged Kal, strong hands gripping his arms. “To be like this and to remember what I was, what I’ve lost and what I do to live …” She leaned close, imploring. “I’d do it for you.”

  “No,” he repeated, shaking his head violently. “You can’t give up hope, Kal, it’s all any of us have left!” As he spoke, her face reverted to an empty mask.

  “Do I know you, sir?” she said uncertainly, seeing his uniform. “Trade for a ration chit, soldier?”

  Hanar tore himself free and fled into the night.

  Chapter 13

  “That’s it?” said John, staring at the small black cube in Ragal’s hand.

  “That’s it,” said the AI. “One alternate reality linkage.” He passed it to Kiroda. “Install and activate, please, Commander.”

  Filled by gray hulking shapes of multi-storied machinery that swept on and on, Devastator’s engineering section dwarfed the small cluster of humans: Kiroda standing next to the control console, John, Zahava and Ragal watching intently as the young officer slid open a small panel on top of the console.

  With a faint whirring, a cube-shaped piece of duraplast extended from the console, supported by a thin duralloy rod. Thumb and forefinger carefully aligned with the transparent holder, Kiroda dropped in the cube. Accepting the offering, the arm retracted and the hatch slid shut.

  “Now what?” Kiroda asked Ragal.

  “Press that, that and that,” he said, indicating two red icons and a yellow one nestled among three rows of like-colored controls, all labeled in a series of dots.

  Kiroda pressed. A green light winked in the center of the console.

  “Done,” said Ragal. Reaching past the human, he touched the commlink. “The portal should be appearing and dilating, Sarel. Take us through as soon as it’s within acceptable limits.”

  “Acknowledged,” came the reply from the bridge.

  “And give us forward scan uptake down here, please,” added Ragal.

  What had been a rectangular stretch of bulkhead was suddenly transformed into a view of the space between Earth and Mars where Devastator hung at dead stop.

  “Now what?” said Zahava.

  “See it?” pointed Kiroda. “Center front.”

  As John watched, an obsidian circle darker than surrounding space grew to blot out all but its unnatural self. A sudden sharp ringing in his ears made him turn away as Zahava flinched and covered her ears. Ragal seemed unaffected.

  “Is it a black hole?” asked John, trying to ignore the pain that grew as the battleglobe moved slowly forward, closing the gap.

  “Sort of,” said Ragal, eyes on the scan. “It’s a natural phenomenon adapted to our needs.” He smiled sympathetically. “Your discomfort’s from the portal’s emitters—they can affect your latent neural receivers. It’ll pass.”

  “We’re in,” reported Sarel as a swirling vortex of color replaced the blackness—a vortex that shook Devastator like a toy, throwing John and Zahava to the deck and tossing Kiroda from his chair—saving him as his console exploded in orange-blue flames. Fire snuffers responded from on high, a thin-focused stream of mist absorbing the oxygen and snap-freezing the superheated console.

  Ragal touched a commpanel while the humans helped each other up. “Status,” he asked.

  “We’re at Terra Two,” reported the bridge—a voice other than Sarel’s. Then after a slight pause, “We show fire and explosion in your section. Do you need help?”

  “No,” said Ragal, eyes on the console. “What’s status on the reality linkage?”

  There was a long pause. “Field’s down,” said Sarel’s finally. “Possibly destroyed. But we’re out of the transition flux and into our bridge universe. That’s Terra Two down there.”

  “So it is,” said John, as everyone looked at the vidscan: vortex and black hole were gone. A familiar world filled the scan, all soft pastels. “Terra Two,” said John, “is not a happy place.”

  Chapter 14

  “Well?” said Natrol. Arms folded, he leaned against the armorglass, watching Atir dress.

  “Not bad, for a loyal Fleet officer,” said the corsair, fastening her pants. “You and your crew can keep their miserable lives—for now.” As she sat to pull on her boots, Natrol breathed a silent sigh of relief. It had been a contest, no doubt—one which he’d barely won. And didn’t care to repeat, but would.

  “Every third watch,” said Atir, rising and walking to Detrelna’s wall safe. Opening it, she removed her holstered pistol and belted it on.

  “Every third watch what?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “You and your men live at my pleasure—literally,” said Atir, facing him. “Back to your normal duties, Engineer. And keep your strength up.”

  Seeing the corsair’s eyes widen at something behind him, Natrol spun in time to view the mindslaver sweep alongside, ten black-hulled miles of weapons batteries, sensor arrays, instrument pods and not a single light. “We all live at something else’s pleasure now, witch,” said Natrol as Atir’s face paled.

  “Captain!” It was Kazim, voice tight with fear, calling from the bridge. “Mindslaver. Permission to sound battle stations?”

  Atir laughed—a high, musical sound that banished her frightened look and almost made Natrol like the woman. Stepping to the commlink, she flipped the transmit tab. “Sound anything you like. We can’t crew both gunnery and the bridge. And nothing we have would even annoy that monster. Mr. Natrol and I are on our way.”

  They were in the lift when the slaver spoke—a dry whisper coming from every comm speaker on Implacable.

  “You barely got away last time, Implacable. This is your delayed reckoning. You’ll be processed for salvage, your organic and mechanical components used to serve Ractol.”

  As Atir and Natrol stepped onto the bridge, Implacable lurched as the mindslaver’s tractor beams took her.

  There were five corsairs manning the bridge, eyes more on the screen than on their consoles. The cruiser was being drawn toward a gaping maw in the mindslaver’s belly. Kazim punched to higher magnification, zooming the scan in on the single bright-lit berth in that vast hol
d—a rectangular dry dock overhung by wrecking cranes and rimmed by the squat massive form of industrial-grade welders, all shimmering faintly behind the blue haze of their shields.

  Atir and Natrol paused for an instant, held by the sight of the spaceborne abattoir drawing them in.

  “Status?” said Atir, taking the captain’s chair as Natrol moved to the engineer’s station.

  Kazim turned from the screen, shaking his head. “I’ve seen you pull miracles before, Commander.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “How about one now?”

  Atir pushed the commtab. “Are you Alpha Prime?” she said.

  “Yes, Commander Atir,” came the whisper. Dead leaves rustling in an autumn twilight, thought Natrol. “You and Captain Kotran will have adjoining brainpods.”

  Atir’s fingers gripped the chairarm, white-knuckled.

  “You let it rattle you, it wins,” said a soft voice beside her. She looked up at Natrol, standing beside her. “Surprise—I hate it more than I do you, corsair.”

  “You’ve scanned the ship’s logs,” said Atir, turning back to the screen and the yawning salvage hold that now, even on lowest magnification, filled the screen.

  “Indeed,” said the nightmare. “You have about a hundred-count to kill yourselves—knives only—we’ve put a damper field on your ship. It won’t prevent us from brainstripping you, of course, but experience has shown that with suicides, even with the most prompt attention, we lose about seven percent. So some of you may escape us.”

  “We’re not here to die, thing,” said Atir, leaning back in the chair, “or to be brainstripped. I have information vital to the survival of the Seven.”

  “Tell us,” whispered the mindslaver. “We are the Seven of Ractol, and we can show mercy.”

  “I require a personal audience,” said the corsair.

  There was a long pause. “Granted,” said the dead voice as Implacable slipped into the salvage hold.

  “What’s your game, Atir?” asked Natrol as they walked down the access ramp from Implacable and onto the mindslaver’s deck.