Final Assault

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “I believe he said, “‘Sometimes a cigar’s just a cigar.’ Keep us safe, Major.”

  “We’ll do our best.” He turned at the door. “Hochmeister’s back. He’s head of Allied Security and Intelligence in Berlin.”

  “I thought he was retired and writing his memoirs?”

  “Not retired and writing his memoirs. He kept his word to you, you know.”

  “The Gray Admiral always keeps his word. 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 his memoirs, a neat pile of paper on his red leather-trimmed blotter. “Which word?” he asked the young Wehrmacht officer. The sun was streaming into the big office along the Wilhelmstrasse. It was Friday of a quiet week—the week Hochmeister had hoped to finish editing the final draft.

  “They’re assembling nuclear weapons at a facility in the Colorado mountains,” said Hauptmann Cohen, handing over the report. He waited as the admiral read.

  “How is peace kept, Captain?” Hochmeister finally asked.

  “By a policy of mutually assured destruction,” said Cohen as Hochmeister removed his wire-rimmed bifocals and polished them with a white linen handkerchief. As with many orphans of the Nazi camps, Levi Cohen had been raised with disdainful correctness by the German state. Like Hochmeister, most pretended not to see the faded tattoo on his hand. The tattoo—Auschwitz—and his good-looks—Ashkenazy—would’ve made changing his name absurd. He’d had many girlfriends. “We created the bomb, the Russians stole it. Decades later we’ve thousands of nuclear missiles pointed at each other. We enjoy peace amid democracy and plenty. They subsist in totalitarianism and poverty. It’s a balance of terror.”

  “Being destroyed by the Americans.” He tapped the report. “Who’s leading them?”

  “Heather MacKenzie, the ganger leader you negotiated with.”

  “More—I fought at her side. I’m so disappointed in her.” Cohen had heard the stories—it was best not to disappoint the Gray Admiral. “With Urban Command disbanded, I’d hope she’d return to being a physicist.”

  “She has, sir.”

  Hochmeister rose and walked to the window. He stood looking down on the broad avenue and the noonday traffic, a tall gaunt old man in a well-cut charcoal suit. “They wanted more autonomy—I got it for them. They wanted peace in their cities and an end to class warfare. I saw that Urban Command was disbanded and that we lent them money to begin restoring their cities. They wanted a diminished role for their military in the Africa. Granted.”

  “You couldn’t have taken out that alien beachhead—those biofabs—without the gangers,” said Cohen.

  Hochmeister turned from the window. “Nor without our visitors from a skewed reality—Harrison, Detrelna. And that incredible ship. And we’re repaid for this how? By bombs! The war’s over. America lost. They need to get over it. Where are they getting their fissionable material?”

  “Stealing it from us, donations from the Russians.”

  “Nuclear triggers?”

  “A shipment for the Luftwaffe went missing from Peenemunde. Those responsible have been dealt with.”

  “Everything else they need they can make. It’s a shame—I liked them. They’re intelligent, brave and resourceful—you’d almost think they were German. But now they’re acting like Russians—they lied to me and through me to the German people.” He returned to his chair. “Act like Russians, be treated as such. Get me General Mueller of the Schwarzekommando,” he said, putting away his memoirs.

  “What the hell happened?” demanded John.

  “Our miraculous little cube self-destructed,” said Ragal. He, John and Zahava stood watching as a mixed crew of human-adapted AIs and humans cleaned up the mess in engineering.

  “Why?” asked Kiroda.

  Ragal shrugged. “I can only speculate.”

  It was the first time John had ever seen the AI at a loss. “Please,” he said.

  “That reality linkage was made during the Revolt by beings fleeing battleglobes of this class.” Ragal paced the deck between the little group and the shattered console. “They designed them to self-destruct if used in any vessel but their own—their technology was far ahead our own.”

  “Why didn’t it blow up the ship?” asked Kiroda. “The cube’s energy potential was enormous.”

  “More gratifying to forever maroon your enemy than to merely kill him.”

  “I’d rather kill him.”

  “The genius behind that cube wasn’t always kind, Commander.”

  “You’re saying we’re trapped in this horrible reality?” asked Zahava. “Forever?”

  “Yes,” said Ragal.

  “Then let’s knock over the Fourth Reich,” suggested John.

  “I’m for that,” seconded Kiroda.

  “They’re not as bad as the Third Reich,” said the Israeli, uneasy at defending the Germans. “They killed Hitler, liberated the concentration camps and disbanded the SS.”

  “And a young Hans Hochmeister blew Himmler’s brains out the day of Wolfsschanze,” said John. “It doesn’t make him Mother Theresa. And that the Third Reich was Satan doesn’t mean the Fourth Reich isn’t a very bad boy. As for the SS, they just changed uniforms and are SKs—Schwarzekommando. Same pension plan.”

  “Absurd,” said Ragal. “We’ve neither the force to take the planet nor the will to slaughter the defenseless. Isn’t that what your Third Reich did? But we can’t leave this reality.”

  “Not true,” said Guan-Sharick, appearing between Ragal and Harrison. “There’s a way out.”

  And here comes the plutonium again, thought John.

  “If anyone knows, it would be you,” said Ragal. “How?”

  “Trigger a large enough nuclear explosion at the start of the jump sequence I’ll provide.”

  “Devastator doesn’t carry anything as primitive as nuclear weapons,” said Ragal. “Where are we getting our fissionable material?”

  Oh, we’ll just send John back to Terra Two, thought John, glaring at Guan-Sharick, who ignored him.

  “Terra Two,” said the blonde. “Run scans to identify stockpiles.”

  “They’re just going to give it to us?” asked Kiroda.

  “Perhaps,” said the transmute.

  “The Fate of the Universe,” said John, unbuckling his gun belt and dropping it onto his bunk. “Good versus Evil.” Wearily sinking into the room’s sole armchair, he propped his feet up on the corner of Zahava’s bunk. “Piss and Shit.” Toe to heel, he pushed off one and then the other boot, letting them fall to the gray plating with a one-two thud.

  Zahava poured him a drink from the last bottle of Chivas Regal in the universe. “Why so down?” she said gaily, pouring a neat dollop for herself. “Guan-Sharick’s going to save us.”

  “She often confuses herself with God. We’re stranded here, our only refuge Terra Two. America’s a German satrap of poverty and class warfare,” said John, sipping his scotch. “Its cities are a nightmare, its suburbs barracks and its government a kleptocracy. Most Americans are without hope. Japan’s a ruin, Russia a scheming, paranoid recluse. Western Europe’s doing well, though.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to Hans Christian Hochmeister and the Fourth Reich.”

  “No Kronarin Confederation in this reality,” said Zahava, sitting on the edge of the bunk. “They wiped themselves out back when. And left no welcoming lost colonies behind. So unless Guan-Sharick pulls another miracle, this is home.” She knocked back her scotch.

  “Guan-Sharick. Always Guan-Sharick.” John set his glass down and picked up a boot. “Let’s have a Guan-Sharick seminar.” He pounded the boot on the thin temporary bulkhead. “Yo! Tolei! Scotch is almost gone!”

  The corridor door hissed open and Kiroda came in, shoeless and shirtless.

  “Lushes. Vorg slime.” He padded across the room to the bottle. “Half gon
e,” he said, cradling it in his hands and sadly shaking his head. “Why such a small container?” He poured himself a generous dollop.

  “To charge more for less,” said John, dropping his boot. “An old Terran tradition.”

  “We have that tradition, too. You don’t mind your wife and I me sharing your bed?” asked the Kronarin, sitting next to Zahava. The joke was old a hundred light years and several bottles ago. “Why have you called us together, noble primitive?”

  “Guess,” said Zahava dourly.

  “Not the bug again,” sighed Kiroda.

  “Guan-Sharick calls all the shots here—Ragal doesn’t recharge his batteries without Guan’s permission.”

  “So?” said Zahava. “Guan-Sharick’s from the race that designed and built the AIs. Guan and Ragal fought together in the revolt against the AIs, a million years downtime. She was close to the Revolt’s human leader.”

  “All of which we have from either Ragal or Guan-Sharick.” Kiroda refilled his glass. “We’ve talked this to death before—we’re still ignorant of Guan-Sharick’s true nature or ultimate purpose. All we can do is wait and watch.”

  “You almost waited yourselves to death at the start of the Biofab War,” said John.

  “We might have but for the immortal Commodore Stanin.”

  “The Battle of Inkal?” asked Zahava.

  “One of the greatest feats of Kronarin arms, Empire or Republic. Still, we paid—the horror of a mindslaver’s nothing to the desolation of a Scotar-occupied planet served by its shuffling half-dead.”

  “Tell him,” she said.

  “Since we’ve been on Devastator, I’ve been researching a simple question about Guan-Sharick,” said John.

  “Which is?”

  “Which is, where does it sleep, eat, use the toilet? This battleglobe’s current living area’s small and well-populated. We’ve sealed off the unpopulated areas. Yet no one ever sees our blonde friend unless it wants to be seen. Where is Guan-Sharick?”

  “Our seals won’t stop a transmute,” said Kiroda. “It’ll just flit through.”

  “There’s no life trace. I used the internal security scan shipwide. No extra bodies.”

  “Scan blocker of some sort,” said Zahava.

  “Security scans can be defeated,” said Kiroda. “Given time and access.”

  “You’d know that, not me. But I also ran a back-check—full scan pattern. Had Devastator correlate all of Guan-Sharick’s appearances with any anomalies.”

  “And?” asked Kiroda, intrigued.

  “There’s a weird energy pulse on something called the Tau frequency every time Guan-Sharick’s been seen.”

  “Computer said that?” The Kronarin sat up. “The Tau frequency?”

  “What’s the Tau frequency?” asked Zahava.

  “A pre-Fall myth brought from the AI universe by our forebears. It supposedly sweeps aside time and space—no, more—it is time and space, it’s the lifeblood of all universes, all realities.”

  “Is there a religion of the Tau?” she asked half-seriously.

  “There’ve always been Tau mystics, they’ve students and disciples, but they’re not organized—no temples, no adepts, no crusaders.”

  “Historically, you’ve killed efficiently without religion,” said John.

  “We have always had emperor worship. Its current runs just below our bland republican surface. In times like these there’s strong sentiment to restore the monarchy.” He reached for the bottle. “If there’s a Tau force and Guan-Sharick’s tapped it, then Guan-Sharick can be anything, anywhere. And more powerful than we’ve seen. Can’t we get more scotch at Terra Two?” he asked, sadly eyeing the empty bottle.

  “Scotch on Terra Two’s rare and limited to high government officials and the very wealthy,” said John.

  “What a disgusting reality.” Tolei sighed.

  “Amazing they haven’t blown themselves up,” said Tolei, turning from the tacscan’s data trail. “Primitive guidance systems, crude triggers designed for different weapons. Their fail-safes are a cruel hoax.”

  “Enough plutonium for our needs?” Ragal asked Guan-Sharick.

  The transmute looked up from the scan. “Yes.”

  “So how do we get it?” asked John, knowing the answer. “Let them pick us up on radar, threaten them?”

  “Those are your friends down there, John,” said Ragal. “Did you want to fight them? Kill them, take what we need? From what you’ve told us, they will fight.”

  “No. We’re friends—I’ll go ask them for it.”

  “All units in position, Admiral,” said Colonel Ritter.

  Hochmeister turned the collar of his sheepskin coat against the glacial wind sweeping down the mountain valley, then lifted the big 12x50 Zeiss binoculars. Across the valley just below the ridgeline, silhouetted against the rising moon, two lines of dark figures moved through the soft snow toward the entrance of an old mine.

  “The American president’s at Aspen this weekend,” said Ritter, raising his own binoculars. Substitute a two-handed sword for the machine pistol slung over his shoulder and armor for his black uniform and Ritter would have looked the perfect Teutonic Knight.

  “He’ll have a memorable evening if they set off their stolen hoard,” said Hochmeister, looking back at the hill and the commandos. Two squads waited at the mine entrance.

  “And we’ll be just a memory.” Ritter lowered his binoculars. “Ready when you are, Admiral.”

  Hochmeister said nothing, remembering another cold night, not long ago—a night of arc flares, machine gun and blaster fire, screams of the dying, a world in the balance.

  “Admiral?” prompted said Ritter. A radio had replaced the binoculars in his hand.

  “Not yet.” He slipped his field glasses back into their case. “First a talk between old comrades.”

  “About two battalions,” said Hargrove, face a greenish tint from the perimeter scope. For an installation its size, the Hole had a very sophisticated combat information center, a circular little room under the main level, manned by casually dressed young men with uniformly short hair.

  “How long can you hold them?” asked MacKenzie, watching the score fill with slowly moving multicolored triangles, squares, circles, all advancing along the dark green outline of the Hill toward the Hole.

  “Ten minutes, maybe,” said Hargrove, his eyes meeting Heather’s as the physicist stepped away from the scope. “I’ve got fifty men against eight hundred of the Gray Admiral’s Praetorians.” He jerked his head toward the perimeter scope.

  “Schwarzekommando?” asked Heather. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Our little band is honored. The SK saved Patton’s ass at Second Warsaw, broke the Siege of Cape Town. If you’ll excuse me, Professor, we’ve got some dying to do.” Heather followed him up the access stairs and turned for her office.

  The admin level was deserted, the alert sending the staff scurrying to their defense posts. Going into her office, she saw her visitor—Hochmeister looked up from her desk.

  “Captain,” he nodded. “Or do they call you Professor here?”

  She drew her pistol.

  “I’m alone,” said Hochmeister. “For the moment—unless Colonel Ritter grows worried about me. He thinks me a doddering antique given to bouts of romanticism.”

  “I’ve never thought you a romantic, Admiral.”

  “Really? Perceptive as you are?” He took a bottle and two fairly clean glasses from her desk. “Care for some of your Canadian rye?”

  “No schnapps?”

  “Sorry,” he shrugged. “I left it at home.”

  His quick way to the whiskey told her he’d found the self-destruct pad in the drawer above it. “How did you get in?”

  “Through your very secret escape route.”

  MacKenzie spoke into her handset. “Hargrove, they know about the bolt hole.”

  “How …” came the static-filled reply.

  “Doesn’t matter—blow it!”


  A second later the cavern shook to the rumble of preset charges bringing down a tunnel.

  “Really, you should.” The admiral slid her a shot glass. “It may be our last drink—together or anywhere.”

  “I’d prefer better company.” Surprising herself, she picked up the glass.

  “Cheers,” said Hochmeister.

  “Prost,” she said. Two empty glasses clinked down on the table.

  “I hate liars,” said Hochmeister, pouring a second round.

  “I hate tyrants.”

  “Me, too. I was, you recall? the young Abwehr officer who killed Himmler. We’d had quite enough of that. Now I’m just the Reich’s last proconsul.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid Colonel Ritter and his men will be coming soon—the SK takes no prisoners—tradition.”

  “Europe is steeped in tradition. What do you want?”

  “You, Dr. MacKenzie. I want your keen brain, your unwavering courage and your indomitable spirit.”

  “Are you proposing marriage, Admiral?”

  “Heartbreak for us both, I fear. No, a full professorship—America, Germany, France. Occasional research sabbaticals we’ll sponsor, plus some lucrative and unique consulting to a semi-retired Abwehr officer.”

  “No.”

  He spread his hands. “You’ll never win against us—we’re everywhere. You’re fighting to resurrect a corpse—America’s dead, Dr. MacKenzie. With us you’d make a difference for this tired blood-soaked world. Here you’re inevitable grist for our mill. It’s a terrible waste. And it can’t be much fun. You’re a young woman—you should enjoy your life. We’ve art, culture, the finest universities in the world. Germans your age you could laugh and intellectualize with rather than shooting. If you want to do good deeds, you can go to England and work the soup kitchens for a while.”

  “You’ve turned Britain into Calcutta—starving children begging in the streets.”

  “A bit like the Weimar, isn’t it? I suppose it’s rather small of us, but we’ve never forgiven the Dresden Raid. Try to see beyond your hatred, Dr. MacKenzie—the world needs you as much as it needs us. We need each other.”

  The alert klaxon sounded as the lights winked out.