They stared at the valley, then at each other. “We’re being toyed with,” said Detrelna, holstering his sidearm. “Suggestions?”
“A time field?”
Detrelna glanced at his commlink. “No. Time’s advanced, not retreated.”
“Internal transporter?”
“Both our location and the images keep changing.” Detrelna ran a hand through his hair.
“Illusion?”
“Some form of mind-meddling, yes.”
The captain nodded. “We’re being toyed with. It might explain our mutual temper tantrum. How’s it done?”
Detrelna looked back down into the valley. “Something that alters our perceptions, our emotions, a gentle electronic whisper seducing the senses.”
“How to tear ourselves from it, not knowing how it works?”
“Perhaps a sharp dose of reality.” Drawing his pistol, he twisted the power selector to low, clamped a hand around over the muzzle and pulled the trigger.
“Jaquel!” cried Lawrona as the blaster shrilled.
Detrelna was gone.
“You’ve got to pass them,” said Admiral Laguan with more calm than he felt. “Kronar’s about to be decimated. The Palace, the Tower, the Amphitheater, Archives—the cultural and historical legacy of our people.”
“No,” said Line. “Those ships are only fourteen percent of the total recalled. Of those, eight percent are corsairs. Strangely, no Quadrant Red 6 ships responded to the Recall—neither Fleet nor corsairs.”
“A problem for another day, if we have one.”
“Agreed. As to those present, the Fleet units represent seventeen different commands. They need to be sorted out before they can fight as a unit, Admiral. I’ve spared you their comm chatter—for now, they’re a rabble and I’m not letting them pass—there’s enough chaos down there. All that’s keeping those corsairs in the Recall from running or shooting is my threat to destroy them. FleetOps needs to stop pleading with me and hold them in reserve until the rest of the Recall comes in and order is restored, may the Heir be with us by then.”
Laguan shook his head, staring helplessly at the screens with their images of the Combine ships wiping out the remainder of Kronar’s defenders: blasted and crumpled wreckage tumbling in erratic decaying orbits around the planet; lifepods torn open by precise hits from Mark 44 fusion cannon, hulls holed, choked with corpses.
As the admiral turned away, his eye was caught by another screen on which a silver lifepod fled toward a red glimmer on Kronar’s surface—the shielded sanctuary of Prime Base. As he watched, a missile streaked in and blew away the unshielded pod. “I want those Combine ships and their crews in very small pieces,” he said coldly.
“Soon, Admiral. Soon.”
“This I believe,” muttered Detrelna, looking at the heart of Syal’s citadel as his medkit tended his hand.
The same shield still generated the same twilight—all else was changed. Where the villa and its grounds had stood loomed a black ziggurat of a pyramid.
The medkit chirped, amber light turning green. The commodore slipped the little device from his hand and snapped it back onto his belt. Raising his hand to his face, he examined it carefully, flexing his fingers. Gone was the neatly cauterized hole of the beam hit that had pierced the palm, only a small white scab marking its place. There was no pain. Satisfied, Detrelna drew his blaster, twisted the muzzle back to combat mode and turned to where Lawrona stood. Seemingly unaware of Detrelna, he stared around and through the commodore, eyes scanning the citadel. “Jaquel!” he called, hands cupped.
“Here, Hanar.”
Lawrona seemed not to hear, instead taking out his communit and keying the transmit. “Detrelna. Lawrona. Acknowledge.”
Detrelna seized Lawrona by the shoulders and shook him, hard.
“Jaquel!” cried the captain, seeing Detrelna. “Where … ?” He stopped, his eyes caught by the dark spectacle of Syal’s citadel. “Gods! You beat their mind meddler.” He glanced at Detrelna’s hand. “Medkit?”
“Imperial, from Line.”
“Let’s visit that black monstrosity. Why does it look familiar?”
“I’m no archeologist, but it looks to be a replica of a Slaver Guild sacrificial temple. If it is a replica. Freeholder Tsar told the story of how a whole salver temple went missing during Syal’s reign. One day it was there among other loathsome antiquities, the next, only a square hole beside the R’Shen remained. It looked like that.”
“Syal strove for authenticity, it seems,” said Detrelna. “Perhaps if you offended him, your last sight was of your still-beating heart held before your dying eyes.”
“He’d then plunge into your cooling flesh—he was a necrophile.”
“What a childhood he must have had. You’re not descended from Syal, are you Hanar?”
“A distant cousin. He died young with no acknowledged heirs. And hopefully with the recall device.”
“We’ve seen so many horrors. But the most grotesque was here beneath our feet,” said Detrelna, drawing his pistol.”
“Let us then pay call upon the Emperor’s Grace,” said the captain in Court Kronarin. He drew his blaster. Side by side, they advanced on Syal’s dark tomb.
“Combine commander for you,” said the comm officer to Awal.
The commodore looked without surprise at the familiar image of Goodman Telan appeared on his commscreen.
“Good afternoon, Commodore Awal,” said Telan. “But perhaps not in FleetOps?”
“What do you want?” Awal’s eyes shifted to the big board and the destruction of the last of his picket ships. He wished he’d been up there rather than in the hole.
“I want to speak with Admiral Ital.”
“Unavailable,” said Awal. They’d carried the doughty old warrior out with a heart attack a moment after Akan’s shields failed. “Have your say.”
“Surrender. The city shields have fallen. Our mother fleet is in Blue 9 and will soon be here. End this now and we’ll spare the planet. Or we’ll sit up here and blast your cities to glowing rubble and your people to windblown ash. Prime Base and FleetOps can huddle behind their shield until our battleglobes arrive. You do know what a battleglobe is, Commodore?”
“Rust in hell,” said Awal, switching off. He touched an icon. “Commander Prime Base.”
A woman’s tired face appeared in the commscreen, commodore’s insignia on her collar. “Awal,” she said.
“Sjan. They just called for surrender.”
“You told them to jerk their circuits?”
“I did. They’ll probably try a selective shield damp and run an assault force in on us.”
“They’ll have a warm reception,” said Sjan. She looked up at something off scan. “Tugayee killed a score of councilors as the shooting started. They’d all be dead but for Fleet commandos sent by Admiral Laguan. The Tugayee are dead or on the run.”
“Councilor Dassan?” asked Awal.
“Alive, sadly. He slipped out of the city. Intelligence thinks he’s gone to Telan for his reward.” They joined in an unpleasant laugh.
“Luck, Sjan.”
“Luck, Awal. Luck to us all.”
“Can you take Prime Base?” asked Dassan, setting down his drink.
“With the data you’ve provided,” said the elder Telan, “certainly. We penetrate the shield over FleetOps, take them and the shield generators out and scrub the base. That will end all but scattered resistance. You can see the assault force assembling now.”
Dassan went to the wardroom’s armorglass wall, accompanied by the two Telans. In space, sheltered by the Combine’s heavy cruisers, thousands of wingless oblong assault craft were massing.
“What’s inside them?” asked Dassan. “Security blades?”
“Yes,” said Telan junior. “Piloted by humans familiar with Kronar’s defense grid—you’re a naturally corrupt species.”
“Not all of us,” said Dassan, turning to the AI. “Everything I’ve done’s been for the
betterment of humanity. We’re illogical, incapable of governing ourselves—you taught me that.”
“And we taught you well,” said Telan. “But everything you’ve done, my friend,” said the AI, putting an arm around Dassan’s shoulder, “has been for humanity’s demise. We’re going to kill you all.”
“But … but …” stammered Dassan, trying to step away. “The provisional government, the council of advisors … ?!”
“Thank you,” said the AI, breaking his neck with a single quick twist.
The two AIs watched silently as Dassan’s limbs twitched in death shock.
“Amazing,” said the older AI. “That something so frail and vulnerable could be so much bother. Anything from our fleet?”
Outside, the assault force began moving off toward Kronar.
“Only rendezvous instructions. Not so much as a ‘well done.’”
“Fealty is our reward. We’ll secure Kronar and await them.”
Chapter 21
A rough hand shook John’s shoulder. “Up, race-traitor!” said a coarse voice.
The Terran opened his eyes. He was face-down amid metal and duraplast debris, head pounding. White-fanged jaws yawned wide a few feet away. Looking up, he saw it was the hologram from the bow of the wrecked fighter jutting into Devastator’s bridge, its cockpit a crushed tangle of shattered armorglass, steel and dangling power cables. Blood oozed from minced bits of something once human.
“Over there with the rest.” A big red-haired hand jerked the Terran to his feet and dragged him stumbling across the bridge, shoving him into the group huddled against the far wall: Zahava, Kiroda, Ragal and Sarel.
“This is it?” asked John, wincing at a fresh wave of pain lancing his head. Gingerly, he touched the welt behind his left ear.
“Probably,” said Zahava. She nodded toward their captors. “They killed most of the Kronarins, froze the AIs.”
Guys like this sacked Rome, thought John. They were all big, all male, hard-muscled beneath their coarse green uniforms. Gleaming double-headed axes and pistols hung from their belts. The boarders were collecting the motionless AIs—they stood frozen, staring unblinkingly. Ragal’s hand was on Sarel’s arm, as if restraining him.
Grabbing an AI beneath the arms, two men would drag him to the middle of the bridge and then return for another. When they’d finished, all of Ragal’s nonhuman command stood in an interspaced column of twos, twenty-eight humanlike statues. Then it began: Red Beard unhooked his axe and lopped off Ragal’s head to a chorus of cheers. The headless torso toppled to the deck. Whooping, the rest of the boarders took their turn.
“Asshole,” said Zahava as more heads flew. Dodging between the nearest boarders, she attacked Red Beard, John right behind her.
Red Beard turned to meet her, axe descending in a skillful two-handed stroke that would have decapitated her, missing as she weaved away. Off balance, he lurched forward. Zahava’s kick sank home below his great leather belt. The giant crumpled to the deck, moaning.
Two of the boarders pinioned John, a second later two more had Zahava by the arms. Rising painfully to his feet, Red Beard drew a long-bladed knife and slowly approached her, face pale with pain and rage.
Three sharp explosions echoed through the bridge—Tolei Kiroda stood beside the arms rack, M32 blastrifle aimed at Red Beard, three dead boarders at his feet. An uneven standoff—four of them circling around Kiroda, his rifle on Red Beard. Red Beard smiled at the Kronarin—a joyously fierce, carnivorous smile. The smile turned to rage as Kiroda briefly freed a hand to scratch his crotch, grunting like an ape.
“Cuttin’ ‘em off and choking you with ‘em!” Red Beard smiled.
Kiroda fired casually to his left, neatly decapitating one of the closing circle. “You know it’s your mouth you want them in,” he smiled back. Two of his men grabbed the giant, stopping him from throwing himself at Kiroda. More boarders closed in. Despite the young commander’s panache, John figured he about ten seconds to live. “Idiots!” shouted John in Kronarin. “We’re on your side!”
“So you are,” said a new voice, also in Kronarin. “That is, if Devastator’s logs are true.”
Everyone looked at the man stepping on to the bridge: a young face with hair already gray—thin, with a neatly trimmed beard and dark, probing eyes that moved from captor to captor. “Let them go, Ulka.” This last was to Red Beard.
“They need to die. He’s mine,” said Ulka, pointing to Kiroda. Kronarin words were coming from a black wafer-thin piece of gear belted to the new arrival’s belt.
“I’ll decide that. Clean this mess up and kill no more droids. Clear?”
Red Beard glared at the man lowered his gaze. “Tugar, Yarin,” he said. “Clear, Yarin.”
“You three with me,” said Yarin, gesturing with the small pistol suddenly in his hand. “Leave the rifle here,” he added to Kiroda. “More to you than one first sees. You’re the charming but deadly sort, aren’t you?”
More than you’ll ever know, thought John.
As they left, Ulka spat, the brown-flecked phlegm smearing Kiroda’s boot.
“You’ve made a friend, Tolei,” said Zahava.
Yarin led them to Ragal’s quarters, off a side corridor halfway down the tower. The door was mostly gone, a scorched husk of battlesteel, breached and buckled by blaster fire. Furniture and personal gear lay tossed and broken around the modest room.
“Rough crew,” said John, looking at the wreckage as Yarin righted two battered metal chairs. “They could have opened the door.”
“As you saw, they like to break things. They have their reasons.” Yarin motioned the Terrans to the chairs. “They call themselves the Qale. Their parents were miners, their parents before them, so on forever.” There were no chairs left—he seated himself on the edge of Ragal’s desk. “All their short miserable lives they processed toxic ore for annual pickup on a hellish rock of planet. Miss a quota, then no fresh energy cells, no supplies, no water and air filters, no medicine. They wind never stopped howling and many babies were born deformed and recycled. They scratched out a living, if you can call it that, for a very long time, until one day a different sort of ship landed—small, fast, lightly armed—and a man, a real man, not a human-adapted AI, clambered out and told them about the revolt pounding at the ramparts of the AI empire. Would they be interested in joining?”
“What did they have to lose?” said John.
“That’s what they said. No revolt except that almost mythical one had ever gotten into space—dissent was always crushed at the first whisper. There was no direct communication between human populations, thousands of diverse languages, humanity was and is comprised of every size, shape and hue—as ignorant and polyglot a horde as this tired galaxy’s ever seen. As the AIs wanted. Yet there I was, with ships, proof of ongoing success and hope.”
“How did you do it, crushed under their boots like that?” asked Zahava.
“You’re janissaries, aren’t you?” said John. “Trained from birth to serve and fight for the AIs. And you finally had enough.”
“Some humans are adept at spotting human-form AIs,” said Yarin. “So the AIs raised and trained humans to infiltrate and spy on humans. And it worked well, until a needless and bloody scrubbing of an entire planet turned most of the AIs’ chosen humans quietly against them.”
“You?” asked John.
Yarin sketched a bow. “Yarin, late Senior Intelligence Coordinator, Fleet of the One, Central Sector.”
“You trained those thugs?” said Tolei.
“Too quickly and not well. But they’ll do. And despite this,” he gestured at the wreckage, “they’re not bad, just unsophisticated. They’re fighting for their families, for their homes, a future.”
“And working through some issues while doing it,” said Tolei.
“We don’t like them,” said Zahava, seeing Sarel’s head flying across the bridge. “What about us? And our comrades?”
Yarin shrugged. “The Qale came late to t
he fight. If I deny them the joy of lopping more heads, I’ll lose them. Crude as they are, we need them patrolling this sector until our main units return from pursuit.”
“Pursuit?” said John.
Yarin stopped pacing. “We struck just after the Fleet of the One entered the Rift. We broke their remaining ships and scattered them … As soon as their destroyed …”
“You’re going after their main fleet?” said Tolei. “Together we may have a chance.”
“No,” said Yarin, shaking his head. “They’d crush us. We waited until they finally went off on their quest. We think we can close the Rift. Your reality will have to fend for itself—as you left us to do so long ago. The immortal, invincible Fleet of the One—gone forever.”
A sudden churning disorientation swept over them as without warning Devastator jumped.
“Where are we?” asked Zahava, recovering.
“This wasn’t planned,” said Kiroda, seeing Yarin’s surprise.
A runner from the bridge burst in. “The autonav’s gone mad, Yarin!”
“Where are we?” he repeated Zahava’s question
“We don’t know.”
Yarin cursed and followed the Qalian at a run.
“Well, this sucks,” said John. “Trapped with an angry eight-century war band on a lost alien ship in a hostile universe. And probably nothing to eat.”
“So sardonic, Harrison,” said a familiar voice. “In a moment Yarin will know where we are, then it gets interesting.” Guan-Sharick sat where Yarin had, on the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, hands on the desktop.
“You fled!” said John, advancing on her.
“What did you want?” asked the transmute. “If Ragal had remained in charge he’d never have approached the place we’re going now—and he could have thwarted my reprogramming of the autonav system—a skill Yarin lacks.”
“You led us into a trap,” said Zahava. “You brought those axe-swinging butchers down on us!”
“No, but it worked out.”
“Why?” asked John.
“Later,” said Guan-Sharick. “But did you really believe the Fleet of the One, the ‘immortal, invincible’ Fleet of the One, ran from a handful of reformed spies and some axe-swinging primates?”
Final Assault Page 15
