Final Assault

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “They’re busy invading our home universe. You do remember why we came here?”

  “I suggest,” said the blonde, holding up a reproving finger, “that AIs aren’t so much invading you as running from something far more terrifying than the revolting peasants they’ve been putting down since dinosaurs roamed Terra. By now they’re not so much an armada as a refugee fleet.”

  “Running from what?”

  “Justice!” she snapped, showing emotion for the first time since they’d know her. She was gone.

  “That was genuine,” said Zahava.

  “Hate always is,” said Tolei.

  Chapter 22

  “I feel small,” said Kotran, watching the Fleet of the One enter Quadrant Blue 9. It was an impressive sight, projected on Alpha Prime’s bridge screens by scan-shielded satellites: the great battleglobes winking into existence at jump point, shields flaring bright with primary colors, scout craft darting between and ahead, silver and gold needles that probed for danger. On and on they came, wave after massive wave, auxiliary ships flanking them, arriving in noiseless grandeur, backdropped by stars and moving toward their long-anticipated vengeance, now only a few short jumps away.

  “How many so far, Atir?” asked Kotran, eyes reading over the data trail at scan’s edge.

  “9,042 battleglobes,” she said, reading a bridge monitor. “Secondary craft …” She hesitated, then continued stoically, “193,407 and more every second.”

  “About a thousandth of their fleet. Should keep us busy for now, Number One,” he said with a soft smile.

  Atir turned from that unfamiliar smile and the stranger’s face. You never came back from the slaver, Yidan, she thought, automatically checking their little fleet’s status. Gone was the Kotran of the daring raid, the Kotran of the pitiless assault, the easy treachery, the cruel laugh. It’s sickening how they gentled you, she thought.

  Atir felt nothing for the approaching AIs—so let them turn humanity into fertilizer, most people just took up room anyway, fodder for the butcher’s beam. No, it was the mindslavers she hated—the slavers that had taken her corsair captain and the father of the life growing within her.

  “My Lord Engineer,” called Kotran to the figure standing on the next lowest tier. “The work party’s finished with Implacable. Go now or you won’t get clear.”

  Instead, Natrol strode up the ramp, joining Atir and Kotran on the command tier. “It’ll be said I’m crazy, Kotran, entrusting you with a flotilla of mindslavers.”

  “Or audacious,” suggested Kotran.

  “What will be said, Admiral, depends upon you.”

  “The dead aren’t touched by opinion,” said Atir, turning from her station. “We’ll probably all be dead and dissipated by watchend.”

  “Don’t throw your lives away,” said Natrol sharply. “No glory runs—just take whatever advantages surprise and tactics grants, hurt them and run.” His gaze shifted between them. “When this is over, we’re going to rebuild this battered galaxy—all of us.” He glanced at the heavily filtered ball of flame filling the armorglass. “Want to tell me why you’re tight-orbiting that sun? With its asteroid belts, this system has thousands of ambush points. Yet you’ve chosen to stand in one of its few clear spots, backdropped by its star, sticking your thumb up at the enemy. Why?”

  “As I said before, My Lord, proximity to the sun augments our scan cloak,” said Kotran.

  “Crap,” said Natrol. “Your scan cloak either works or it doesn’t, and it’s useless once they’re within visual pickup range.” He held up a hand as Kotran started to protest. “Forget I asked—it’s your battle, Admiral.”

  “Enemy coming within mangler range,” reported Atir.

  “Upship, Engineer. Now,” said Kotran, pointing to the ramp.

  “Very well,” said Natrol. His gaze shifted between Atir and Kotran. “Luck to you.” He looked over the railing of Alpha Prime’s bridge, now manned by living men and women, preparing for a hopeless battle. “Luck to you all,” he called, and turned for the ramp.

  “My Lord!”

  Natrol turned back. All the Restored stood, facing him. “My Lord,” repeated the tall man wearing an Imperial Marine colonel’s uniform. “Thank you. From all of us.” As one, they saluted, fists to their newly returned hearts.

  Natrol bit his lip, nodded. “It was the least I could do. When this is over, amends will be made. My word on it,” he said, returning their salute.

  “One last thing,” said Kotran. “If you would.” He drew his blaster, holding it out by the barrel.

  The Heir touched the grips. “Fortune grace your arms, Admiral.”

  “As they defend your House, My Lord,” said Kotran, reholstering his weapon and bowing, completing a ritual not heard since the Fall.

  “Master computers,” called Natrol.

  “My Lord?”

  “Obey Admiral Kotran’s orders as my own.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  Without a backward glance, Natrol descended the ramp and was gone.

  “He’d have a hard time saying you’re not an admiral after that,” said Atir. “You should have had him bless our ragged asses, too.”

  “I trust him. If he’s killed though, without that vidscan this new uniform of mine is just a costume. As to blessing our ragged asses, knowing you, he’s already blessed yours. They’ve reached the manglers,” he said, checking a tacscan. He touched the commlink. “First group, stand by.”

  The mangler was one of the Kronarin Empire’s more diabolical weapons. It looked and scanned as spaceborne rock unless touched by a shield matrix—the unique catalyst that released its potential. The Ractolian mindslavers had perfected the manglers during their long centuries of solitude in Blue 9. No two scanned alike—iron and nickel, igneous rock, innocuous-seeming asteroids of differing shape and size.

  The lead battleglobe was almost clear of the mangler belt when Kotran said, “Computers.”

  “Admiral?”

  “Five hundred battleglobes advance. Why do the rest hold position?”

  “Assuming AI tactics haven’t changed since the Revolt …”

  “Why would they? They worked.”

  “Then this is a reconnaissance group. If they transit this system without incident to their next jump point, their main fleet will follow.”

  “And if not?”

  “Then unless you demonstrate invincibility, Admiral Kotran, you’ll have a brief but memorable battle.”

  “That’s my intent.”

  The lead battleglobe reached the last line of manglers.

  Kotran looked at Atir. “Activate manglers, Number One.”

  A slim finger touched a control. Forty million miles away a new sun flared as the minefield detonated, a vortex sweeping aside impregnable shields, igniting a chain reaction of exploding battleglobes and secondary craft that tripled the size of the initial firestorm.

  “Gods!” said an awestruck Kotran as the light from the explosion swept over Alpha Prime’s dark side, flooding the bridge as the armorglass darkened. “What were they carrying?”

  “Planetbusters,” said the computers as the tacscans died.

  There was nothing for a moment but the whisper of the air scrubbers. The bridge monitors were dull lifeless eyes. Then the frustrated voices began. “Anyone getting any scans?” called Atir above the angry frustrated voices.

  “Quiet!” called Kotran. “Posts.”

  The scan screens winked to life, displaying the Empire’s starship-and-sun.

  “Data,” said Kotran testily. “Give me data.”

  “Satellite net’s gone,” reported Tactics. “Transferring to onboard sensors.”

  The screens came fully alive, data trails threading them.

  “Enemy recon force’s destroyed,” said Atir. “And all of our manglers.”

  “Total enemy force remaining?” asked Kotran again taking the centermost of the seven command chairs.

  “Bit of an increase,” she said wryly. “About 99,90
0,000 battleglobes, with an average thousand secondary craft per battleglobe

  “The Fleet of the One,” said Kotran. “Who’s back home, keeping things safe for slavery?”

  “Here they come.” Atir nodded at the screen.

  “It’s how they come that’s matters,” said Kotran, leaning forward intently.

  The mindslavers were blue dots on the tactical projection—blue dots strung across the apex of a triangular opening through the star system’s multiple asteroid belts—an opening pockmarked by swarms of red dots as the AI reaction force advanced.

  “I’d trade this ship for a thousand manglers right now,” said Atir.

  “No, Number One. The manglers are even deadlier now that they’re gone. ‘In Weakness Lies My Strength,’ to quote the motto of a failed House.”

  Something in the way he spoke made her ask, “Yours?” without expecting an answer. Years together and she knew nothing about him before the Academy. Any questions he’d rebuffed with “My childhood. Ha!” Atir understood—she wished she could forget hers.

  “The infamous Syal’s,” he said surprisingly. “Despite his bizarre sexual tastes he managed several Unproclaimed.”

  “I’m not going to ask,” she said absently, mind on an as-yet unborn Unproclaimed.

  “Look at this.” Kotran pointed to the command tier’s main screen with its tactical projection of their rock-strewn solar system. “What do you see?”

  “What I’ve been seeing for three watches. A tired old Laraq-class star, ringed by hundreds of millions of asteroids. No planets. And a new feature—ten thousand AI battle phalanxes closing on the system’s periphery.”

  “And a score of fearsome mindslavers waiting to pounce.”

  Atir laughed. “The slaver didn’t chop away your unique perception, Yidan. How are we lying in wait and not awaiting slaughter?”

  “The rocks, Atir,” he said, stabbing a finger at the board. “The bloody damned rocks. This is how the Founding Fleet came to Kronar—it’s the logical route from the AI universe to ours. It’s been a battleground before—someone, maybe the Trel, blew up every world in this system, possibly battling the AIs. You can hide a million ships among those asteroids and pounce at will.”

  “I still don’t see …”

  “See it as the AI commander would. You lost your vanguard to what tacscan showed to be big rocks. Before you are more big rocks. Going to plunge into them? Or will you take the only open route into our welcoming arms?”

  “They’re not crazy enough to think we’ve got millions more manglers?”

  “Of course they are! They’re paranoid. They’re a slave empire—everyone hates them, everyone wants them dead. To paranoiacs, everything’s a threat. The AI commander isn’t seeing asteroids, he’s seeing manglers. That will bring him to us.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we’re going to hand him whatever he uses for a head.”

  “Welcome back, sir,” said Botul as Kyan stepped onto Implacable’s otherwise deserted hangar deck.

  “Thank you, Gunny,” he said as the two walked toward the lift. “Good to be home.”

  “Some … persons … from the slaver worked on the drive,” continued Botul as the lift whisked them toward the bridge. “Supposedly it’ll cut our run to Kronar down to three tight jumps.”

  “Where are the persons from the slaver?”

  “They just had chow with first watch—sat with us, mostly just talked among themselves, then went to their quarters. Somber bunch, but polite. Can’t imagine what that must be like.”

  “Me neither. Long-term therapy for them when we get home may help,” said Natrol with more confidence than he felt. “Something else?” he asked, sensing the other’s diffidence as they boarded the lift.

  Botul was silent for a moment. “You didn’t encrypt your talk with Line and Admiral Laguan.” He watched the level indicators flash past.

  “I’ve no secrets from my crewmates, Gunny. How is everyone with it?”

  “How would you be with it—My Lord? My Lord, my social parasite remark back in detention—”

  “Was accurate. Lawrona and I are about the only working aristocrats. The rest aren’t worth a blaster volley. Here we go,” he said as the lift stopped and the doors hissed open. The bridge snapped to attention, a courtesy before only rendered the Grand Admiral.

  “Sit down, shipmates,” said Natrol, waving his hand. “Please.” The crew looked uncertainly at their master gunner. Botul nodded and they sat.

  “The command chair, sir,” said Botul, motioning to the raised captain’s chair.

  “Great beverager,” said Natrol, “but I prefer the engineering station. Jatarin, are we ready to go home?” he asked, pressing the commtab as he took the engineer’s seat.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the Second Engineer. “Tight-jump plotted to Kronar. If the modifications our guests made don’t blow us up.”

  “Have faith. Initiate jump on my command. Shipwide commnet,” he said. “Chief Engineer here. Whatever you’ve heard, I’m assuming command of Implacable as senior officer present, nothing more. Titles won’t matter if we lose—the dead are beyond titles.” He looked out on the dark slavers set against the fierce glow of the dying star. “Have a last look at Kotran and the mindslavers—something to tell your grandchildren. Sound battle stations and jump for home!”

  “Coming up on us now,” said Atir. Tightly packed, an almost solid field of red on the scan, the battleglobes opened fire on the mindslavers. On tacscan, the space between red and blue grew flecked with silver as hundreds of thousands of missiles streaked toward the defenders.

  “Plasma tap—now,” ordered Kotran.

  A green tendril flashed down from Alpha Prime into the star—a tendril morphing into a blinding white from the plasma surging up it. It joined the network of other tendrils feeding the flotilla’s overlapping shields as the AI missile swarm struck.

  Wrapped in a shared cylindrical-shaped shield, the mindslavers stood before the sun as a lesser sun blossomed around them—the white nimbus of the missiles’ firestorm tearing at the pulsing blue fusion screen. Wave after wave of missiles tore at their shield, slowly turning it a rippling red-flecked cobalt.

  “Now come the cannon,” said Kotran, watching the distance close between the battleglobes and the slavers. He read the data trail: two hundred AI battle phalanxes were inside the triangle—two million battleglobes.

  “They’ll try to enclose us,” said Atir as the battleglobes soared above and below the plane of ellipse, skirting the threatening asteroids. “Only our rear’s safe.”

  As she spoke every battleglobe and secondary craft that could range on the mindslavers fired, millions of beams fusing into one just before the shield wall, striking it center point, a single massive beam.

  “Nicely done,” said Kotran. “Someone knows his job.”

  “Shield’s critical,” reported Tactics. “That sun’s about to go nova.”

  Outside the missile attack stopped as the beam continued boring at the shield, the area surrounding its hit-point now an angry red.

  “Another phalanx coming in,” said Atir.

  “Two million, ten thousand,” said Kotran. “Good enough.” He leaned forward, touching the commlink. “All ships, fire on my ten-count and jump. Ten, nine, eight …”

  At zero, the first of several hundred waves of missiles streaked from the mindslavers. Disdaining secondary targets, they homed on the battleglobes. Easily evading the AIs’ weapons, each released a bevy of smaller missiles, each finding a battleglobe. The beam attack on the mindslavers died as the Fleet of the One looked to its defense.

  Whenever a mindslaver’s missile touched a battleglobe, that battleglobe died in a pillar of blue-red flame. As the last missiles left the slavers, the slavers vanished. Only Alpha Prime remained, last as she was first, safe behind her shield, watching the carnage.

  The slavers’ missiles plowed on, sowing havoc among the battleglobes.

  “Let’s be th
ankful,” said Kotran, “that this universe and not theirs found how to hold matter-antimatter in stasis and release it at will.”

  “One hundred and ten thousand battleglobes destroyed, not counting collateral damage to secondary craft,” said Atir. “Gods.”

  The slavers’ missiles reached the close-packed squadrons of battleglobes halfway down the triangle, setting off secondary explosions that coalesced into a cascading sea of flame, only dying when it reached the base of the pyramid and the last ship in the AI attack group.

  “Two million ten thousand battleglobes destroyed,” reported Tactics as cheers swept the bridge. “Congratulations, Admiral.”

  “Master computers, confirm,” said Kotran.

  “Confirmed, Admiral. The AIs’ greatest defeat since the Trel. Our compliments.”

  “Well done, all,” said the Kotran. “Whatever comes next, you’ve been part of one of finest victories of Kronarin arms.”

  “Not a single casualty,” marveled Atir.

  “It was either that or all of us dead,” said Tactics. His name was Mintal, and he’d been an Imperial scout.

  “Perhaps they’ll name schools after us,” suggested Atir.

  “What, after corsairs and brainstrips, Commander?” said Mintal.

  “Perhaps not.

  “It’s time,” said Kotran. “We only destroyed two percent of their force. The rest are now incandescent with rage. We’re one ship with no more magical missiles and a few thousand fusion batteries against a universe of that. Time to leave.” Something on the main scan caught his eye. “Finally—intelligence. Look.”

  A storm of reds dots was moving into the system, above the plane of ellipse and the asteroids. “Not taking the direct route anymore,” said Atir, calling up a tactical projection. “They’ll curve in on us, avoiding our supposed mines.”

  Kotran pressed the commtab. “Engineering. Is it done?”

  “Just finished,” replied a woman’s voice. “The green Initiate icon, fourth on the left, will trigger a jump drive pulse into the star. Careful with the fingers.”

  “Thank you.”

  The battleglobes had spread into an arc sweeping down on Alpha Prime.