Final Assault

by Stephen Ames Berry

  The Heir turned to his Guardsmen, the great swirling tunnel of the wormhole back dropping him. “You’re magnificent. Beyond brilliant and gifted, you personify the old verities of honor and fidelity. No matter how this ends, there’s a whole galaxy of humans out there you’ve saved—all of you have saved—humans, biofabs, our own AIs, those newly restored to us from the slavers. It’s an honor to serve with you.”

  Satur broke the silence. “Life over death!” he cried. Everyone, even Sutak, took up the cry. “Life over death!”

  “Life over death!” still rang across the battleglobe’s bridge when the wormhole disappeared.

  They landed at what remained of Prime Base: Implacable, the Imperial fighters, a mindslaver and an AI scout ship, met by Admirals Awal and Laguan. The smoke was gone, the air clean again, dry, smelling of the desert.

  The mindslaver landed last, silently and gently beside Implacable, dwarfing her. A light bridge sprang from the slaver. Kotran stepped out of the sally port and onto bridge, insignia glinting in the morning sun. The admirals, Sutak and his command staff, Implacable’s officers and the Terrans, the Heir and his Guard stood waiting below. The light bridge took Kotran smoothly to the landing pad’s pockmarked surface—he saluted the Heir.

  “Well done, Admiral Kotran,” said Kyan, returning the salute.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” he bowed. “Why are the AIs here, My Lord?”

  “We’re allies. First Leader Sutak and his personal staff,” he said, indicating them where they stood and floated.

  Kotran bowed. “First Leader.”

  “Admiral,” nodded the AI. “Thank you for saving my ship and me from treachery.”

  “My pleasure, First Leader. May I say that you belie much we believed of your species? I’m sure we’re all eager to learn more.”

  “Unctuous puke,” whispered Kiroda to Lawrona.

  “He’s so dangerous,” said the captain.

  “Quiet,” hissed Detrelna.

  “Is my shipmate Atir well?” asked Kyan.

  “She is, My Lord. Commanding the bridge and our sister dreadnoughts. With the Ractolians dead and the mindslaves restored, those ships suddenly are labor intensive.”

  “They’ll be automated, Yidan. Eventually.”

  “My Lord’s noted that they’re the largest intact fighting force in the Fleet?”

  “We’ve all remarked on it. So, do you want to be emperor? You’re of the House of Syal. You have the heritage. You have the ships.”

  “Would I have come into your arms if I wanted the Throne?”

  “You might not have come if your crewmen didn’t feel a debt of gratitude to me, Yidan. Or believed you could offer the Proof and live.”

  Kotran laughed. “Indeed, My Lord. Why would anyone want the mess that is our poor republic? The Confederation’s in survival mode, its people in shock, whole planets slipping back into darkness amid death and starvation. I’m skilled at making wounds, not in binding them. And there’s my unsavory reputation.”

  “Well merited,” said Lawrona.

  “True, cousin,” said Kotran. “My Lord, may my other ships land and their crews disembark? They’re free men and women, thanks to you. And as you say, very grateful. They’re homecoming’s a painful rebirth and they’ve been gone so terribly long. The dark reaches of those slavers are a constant reminder of their torments. We’ve traumas, psychoses, suicides. I’ve had to limit hand weapons to a core of reliables. The Restored will need to be restored in mind as well as body—they’ll need help readjusting, surviving, being accepted as human and not shunned as freaks. They can be vastly helpful restoring our worlds and healing our people. Many have Imperial science and engineering backgrounds. We’ve also regiments of former Imperial Marines in need of a good cause.”

  “How many altogether?” asked Admiral Laguan.

  “About seventy thousand, sir.”

  Laguan and Kyan exchanged glances. “You two work out the details and report to me,” said Kyan. “Some of your people will have to go to other planets, Yidan. Kronar in her present state hasn’t the resources to absorb them and those planets have need of their skills. We’ll have to work on integrating those monstrous ships into our fleet.”

  “Starting with exorcisms,” John said softly to Zahava.

  “Let’s adjourn to the Tower and discuss what’s next,” said the Heir. “First Leader, with your permission, Colonel Satur and his men will flit us there.”

  Chapter 29

  “I was expecting a cathedral, a palace. Something awe-inspiring,” said John to Zahava as the procession made its way down into the thronged open-air Amphitheater, its route lined with an honor guard of soldiers, commandos and Fleet veterans. Kyan walked alone at the head, behind him a mixed guard of Imperial Biofabs and commandos, Colonels Satur and Satil leading, the Valor Medal around their necks. The biofabs wore ceremonial Guard uniforms of blue and gold, combat knives and blasters hanging from black leather belts, black boots gleaming, the commandos armed the same, in silver-trimmed black uniforms. Then came the senior officers, led by the Grand Admiral, followed by a bevy of notables that included Awal and Kotran, Assemblymen, Councilors, First Leader Sutak, Implacable’s surviving crew and the Terrans. High overhead Imperial fighters, one of them Galy, flew lazy combat circles in the perfect blue sky.

  “Why’s the crowd so somber, Tolei?” Zahava asked Kiroda, walking at her side. “Why aren’t they cheering?”

  “Proof must be offered and accepted,” said the commander. “When we have an emperor, we’ll cheer him.”

  “Even for a Kronarin you’re cryptic, Tolei,” said John.

  “We’re so alike and yet so different,” said Detrelna. “Watch. I’ll explain.”

  The procession reached the grassy Amphitheater’s heart and surrounded the raised stone altar set there. Kyan stepped forward. He wore a Fleet officer’s dress uniform devoid of insignia or decorations. Mounting the stairs, he stood before the altar, head bowed.

  “The altar’s from our Founding Fleet, taken with us when we fled the AIs,” whispered Detrelna. “It predates the Revolt and is the final test of the Heir. The imprint of a hand’s set in the top. Kyan places his hand there. Removing it, he’s Emperor.”

  “That’s it?” asked Zahava.

  “If he’s still alive, yes. Anyone not the true Heir dies horribly. The vids of that are cautionary tales for school children. No awards, no speeches—those come later. Here we go,” said the commodore tensely as Kyan raised his right hand above his head and slowly lowered it to the altar and kept it there.

  The only thing stirring in the Amphitheater was a sudden breeze.

  The Emperor turned from the altar, hand high, palm held out in peace.

  The cheers began, mixed with cries of “Long live the Emperor!”

  Kyan retraced his steps from the altar, all but his Guard bowing low. He stopped before Satil. She bowed, only to have Kyan take her hand, tucking it into his arm. “Time for that long talk. After the banquet.” Smiling, her face flush, she walked beside him. The cheers turned to a roar and everywhere “Long live the Emperor!” rang out, Admiral Yidan Kotran’s voice loud among them.

  Chapter 30

  Lawrona and Detrelna stood looking out from the Implacable’s otherwise deserted bridge toward the construction, AIs and humans toiling in the hot first light of day, rebuilding Prime Base. “I suppose they’ll remake it as ugly as it always was,” sighed Detrelna.

  “Impossible,” said Lawrona from beside the commodore. “Old Prime’s was so uniquely ugly and dehumanizing it was a work of art—it could never be faithfully replicated. Yet there are those who loved it, as much as they can anything. Despite them, a splash of color here and there has been approved, Jaquel. Nothing heady—a scattering of flowers between the cannon batteries, that sort of thing. Even that caused a ruckus—Kyan had to intervene. Pity so many of the older admirals survived the fighting, but they always do. You’ll never get any sweeping innovations past the cold dead hand of our
military hierarchy, emperor or no. My father would twirl in his tomb at such defilement of tradition.”

  “From what I’ve heard of your father, Hanar, he didn’t care much for the unconventional.”

  “My father believed creativity a pathology.”

  “So what did you want to be when you grew up, Hanar? I doubt it was Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard.”

  “What we all want,” said Lawrona, eyes going back to the construction. “Happiness—and not as just a few cherished memories, flowers between the blaster batteries of my life. Growing up, music was my happiness—my hidden sanctuary. An Academy friend and I had plans to discover and promote the best of the primordial, anti-mechanistic sounds coming out of small groups on a hundred worlds. And we could have—I had my own money from my mother. You remember the Shatina Beat, Jaquel?”

  “‘Shatina, shatina, shatina aku! aku!’” Detrelna chanted, hands clapping, body swaying. He bowed at Lawrona’s delighted applause.

  “You’re a man of hidden depths, Jaquel.”

  “Oh, and you’re not, Hanar? I’m better accompanied, though.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “My sons used to shake the old house with it. Couldn’t stand it at first, then when you got into the lyrics—and past the obscenities—it touched you. It cries from the depths of human need and longing, scorns injustice and alienation. Haven’t heard it since the war started, but I’ve been busy.”

  “Like much else, the war killed it. The Shatina Beat was quietly suppressed as seditious, making traitors of all who enjoyed it, including our Emperor to-be.”

  “Art can be dangerous,” agreed Detrelna. “Which is why the Empire had a Ministry of Culture with armed Enculturators. Of course, Shatina stopped appealing to my kids when they saw I liked it. Bet your father’s old house never shook to the Shatina Beat.”

  “He’d have beaten the crap out of me then shipped me to one of those reprogramming camps where bad parents send their wayward ones. Or maybe had me mindwiped. No, I was introduced to the Shatina and much else at the Academy—a kinder place than home.”

  “Really?” Fleet Academy had a bleak reputation for stolidity and grayness and discipline. Detrelna tried not to speculate on Lawrona’s childhood.

  “So your father killed your dream?”

  “In a way. My music died with my friend from the Academy, Dorik Stanin.”

  “The late Commodore Stanin’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine officer, Stanin—we served together in the Aram conflict. He’s son’s death left him a broken man. May I ask what happened?”

  “Dorik came home with me for the holidays. One morning Father declared we were going hunting, but after breakfast I was suddenly and violently ill—I stayed back. Dorik went but didn’t return—Father mistook him for a rogue bosal cat. As honor required, he apologized to Commodore Stanin—in writing. Many tears and small money to Dorik’s family—they weren’t rich. Dorik’s mother and I stay in touch—I visit her when I can. Commodore Stanin you know about.”

  “He was good friends with our Grand Admiral. Stanin came home from the Battle of Inkal the greatest hero of our age and a few weeks later his son was dead and so was he. Tragic.”

  “Father passed away a year later,” said Hanar, eyes distant. “Another hunting accident, with a slug to his own heart. I was home on leave. Father and I spoke just before he died. We understood each other, there at the end. Illfated place, that ravine. I swear you can still smell the blood. You get so used to blasters you forget how much blood’s in a man. There’s no more hunting on our lands.”

  Detrelna saw his friend with new eyes. Stepping to the flag officer’s station, he opened the arms panel and lifted out a bottle of Satanian brandy.

  Hanar held up a hand. “Too early me for me, Jaquel.”

  “Not for me,” said Detrelna, downing a shot. “So, when are you leaving for Utria, Hanar?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m taking a relief force in to begin restoring services and infrastructure and a team of physicians and neuroscientists. We’re bringing along an AI liaison party to help assess our long-term needs. That they’ve agreed to cannibalize their empty battleglobes saves us decades of rebuilding and costs. And you, Jaquel?”

  “I’ll be on Kronar for a bit. Loose ends. Oh, our mutual friend from Fleet Security, Colonel Aynal, who greeted so warmly when we first arrived?”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s Combine Telan and on the run. Commandos tried to arrest him when they seized Fleet Security, but he got away. Probably an AI combat droid. He fooled us all.”

  “Perhaps the only way to know if someone’s an AI is if they tell you—Forensics reports Combine Telan droids are virtually indistinguishable from humans.”

  “Until they start streaming blaster bolts,” said Detrelna. “Are you returning to Utria alone?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I would guess—would hope—that Tolei’s going with you.”

  “The Commodore’s correct,” said Commander Tolei Kiroda, entering the bridge. “New beginnings. FleetOps is unable to reach you, sir.”

  “That’s because I’ve been ignoring my commlink.”

  “You’re to contact the Grand Admiral at once. He’s in FleetOps.”

  “Detrelna,” said Laguan as soon as his face appeared on the comm screen. “You’re a hard man to find. Congratulations! Per His Grace, you’re now an admiral first and assigned to my personal staff. There are also more awards for you and your people.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I’m resigning my commission and returning home to Shatar. No more old hatreds and dead friends. Though it is comforting to know I’ll retire at a higher rank than Admiral Second Kotran.”

  Laguan’s face reflected his dismay. “I could decline your resignation, Jaquel. Needs of the service.”

  “You could, sir.”

  “And you’d appeal to your old shipmate.”

  “Reluctantly, sir.

  “Leaving when?”

  “A few days.”

  “Very well. Admiral Awal will temporarily assume your duties. Implacable’s due for a major refit. You and Lawrona will discuss that with him—he’ll be calling.”

  “Awal’s a fine officer, sir. I’ve known him since he was Admiral Sagan’s number two.”

  “I’m coming aboard Implacable shortly on another matter,” said the Grand Admiral. “I may see you then.”

  “Mysterious,” said Detrelna said after Laguan disconnected.

  “You’re really resigning?” asked Kiroda as Detrelna turned from the comm screen. “I never thought of you being anywhere but on Implacable and in that command chair.”

  “A lot of people have sat in that chair, Tolei,” he said, pointing. “They’re gone, too. What? You think I’m immortal? That I like this life? You’re both Academy and you’re leaving. Such a fine example for us day-a-week-warriors! Me, I’m just called-up reserve officer. Life is short, death is long, gentlemen, as someone once reminded us. I have loved ones, too. And the pieces of my old life to pick up.”

  “Your home planet was spared the Scotars’ gentle touch,” reminded Lawrona.

  “Yes, Hanar, but of my eight cargo ships, four were lost with all crew and one vanished on a special mission for Fleet—for which I’ve yet to be compensated. Things are a bit tight. One of my sons is being discharged from the Fleet Commandos. The other was invalided out after the Aran Action.”

  “I’m sorry, Jaquel,” said Lawrona, surprised and concerned. “We never knew.”

  “You’re not the only who can keep his mouth shut, Hanar—everyone has enough worries without being burdened by mine. But surprisingly it’s rumored my wife misses me—hard to believe after all these years. And I’ve a grandchild I’ve never met. Yes, I’m resigning. I trust you’ve both had your resignations accepted? With acceptance receipts in hand? As you heard, they’re getting fussy about resignations.”

  Both officers tapped their breast pockets. />
  “Good. A last order, gentlemen—dinner, my quarters, tonight. We’ll say good-bye to the Terrans. All our other shipmates are either dead or mustered out. One’s frolicking with our former commando lieutenant. It’s over and we get to walk away. Worth a toast or two, isn’t it? Hanar, you bring the wine—something fitting. Don’t let Tolei select it—I’ve tasted the piss he drinks.” Detrelna turned to go and then added, “Commander Kiroda, would I be correct in assuming you much enjoy the Shatina Beat?”

  Puzzled, Tolei exchanged glances with an amused Lawrona. “How did you know, sir?”

  “Wild guess,” chuckled Detrelna as he left.

  Captain and commander looked at each other. “How long has he known?” asked Kiroda.

  “Most of it? Probably before we did. All of it … He checked his beeping communit. “Odd.”

  “What?”

  “That shuttle they’re letting us take home? There shouldn’t be anyone on board. Or on hangar deck—Implacable’s secured. But my security telltale says otherwise. Which means they’ve bypassed the standard intruder alerts. Where’s you sidearm?” he said, glancing at his friend’s waist.

  “In my quarters. You’ll protect me, Hanar?”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  “You sent for me, My Liege?” said Admiral Kotran, saluting.

  “Yes, Admiral,” saluted the Emperor, turning from the other officers in FleetOps. “I’ve a mission for you, Yidan, and I apologize that it’s so soon after your return. How many of your ships can you crew?” Kyan looked tired.

  “Eight within a week, Your Grace. Not all my people mustered out—the rest are on leave.” And what some of them may be doing I don’t want to know, he thought. More than went should have gone into psych rehab.”

  “Let them have two weeks, Admiral. But then I want you to clean up what we’re delicately calling Red 7’s corsair problem. If eight mindslavers can’t do it, a hundred can’t. They just mauled another task force, this one under Admiral Wotal.”

  “Why was Wotal sent into a hot spot, Your Grace, and not out to graze?”

  “A Council decision,” said Kyan disdainfully. “Made before I was Emperor. Afterwards we were all so busy that he sailed on all but forgotten until he lost half his command.”