They sent someone to get them: K'Raoda. He arrived in a transit tube that extended its serpentine self from the sheer wall of the tower to the cruiser's emergency bridge access. "Sorry about this," he said, leading P'Qal and S'Yatan through the luminescent green tube. "There're selective atmospheric controls, but they took hits in the fighting -we've been busy repairing the fusion batteries and power leads."
P'Qal shook his head, not sure which had impressed him more about K'Raoda-the boyish features and easy grin or the crimson-hung silver Valor Medal around the Commander's neck. The captain shook his head. "Amazing."
A few moments later they entered the tower and began trudging up a broad circular ramp, passing men and women in K'Ronarin uniform who nodded hastily and hurried by, distracted, or ignored the newcomers, intent on battle repairs.
Every level bore signs of recent combat: walls and floors gouged by the black gashes of blaster hits, shattered instrument alcoves, and here and there, missed in the hurried cleanup, the shattered remains of what must have been complex mobile machinery-AIs? wondered P'Qal. He was about to ask when they topped the ramp and reached the heart of the battleglobe, the bridge of the operations tower.
The armored double doors that had once guarded the bridge were all but gone-a perfectly symmetrical hole having devoured most of the battlesteel. "Glad we missed this fight, Number One," said P'Qal as they followed K'Raoda through the blast hole and onto a walkway that circled the bridge.
They stood looking out over a great round room, consoles everywhere, rimmed by armor glass with a view of the bleak surface of the battleglobe and Repulse, nestled between those massive fusion batteries. About fifty crew manned the consoles, P'Qal guessed. He leaned over the railing for a better look.
"Wouldn't do that if I were you, Captain," said a new voice. "It's pretty weak in places."
P'Qal stepped back and turned toward the speaker. Wiry-framed, about forty-five, with a receding hairline and dark, intelligent eyes, a man wearing the insignia of a colonel of Fleet Counterintelligence stepped down from the access ladder to the left of the doorway. "Welcome to Devastator, Captain, Commander. My name's R'Gal."
P'Qal's communicator beeped. "Yes?" he said, rising from his chair and moving back a few meters.
"There's a Fleet omega-class shuttle coming toward you from Terra," reported Captain S'Yatan. "IDs as Embassy craft."
"We're expecting it," said P'Qal. "Perhaps we can have a real conversation when it gets here-we've been sipping t'ata and listening to Colonel R'Gal's anecdotes since we arrived." He glanced at R'Gal, chatting quietly with S'Tat. High and musical, the laugh rang faintly from the steel walls of R'Gal's quarters.
"Everything all right?" said S'Yatan.
"Knives at our throats and tinglers on our gonads," said P'Qal.
"Very well. Will check back as arranged."
P'Qal pocketed his communicator and returned to his chair. "Shuttle coming in from Terra," he said as R'Gal and S'Tat looked at him. "Maybe then you'll tell us what you're doing here. If not…"
R'Gal held up a hand. "I know. You'll have to arrest us all and take our vessel in tow." He said it straight-faced. "Be assured, Captain, we're not here to see Ginza at night.
"More t'ata, Commander?"
Designed and built by AIs, the only facilities for humans on board Devastator were as prisoners, eighteen levels beneath the operations tower. The sleeping quarters were small and the bathrooms smaller. The lavatory sinks had no plugs and gave only reluctantly of a small flow of tepid water, something John cursed each time he tried to shave, as he was doing now.
"Pssst. Harrison."
But for the invention of the safety razor, John would probably have slit his own throat. The appearance of a six-foot, four legged green insectoid behind one in the bathroom tends to evoke a violent response. As it was, the Terran shrieked and whirled, razor en garde.
"You look absurd," said Guan-Sharick. "A hairy, towel-clad primate threatening a teleki-netic lifeform with a foam-tipped shaver." The insectoid's form shimmered and vanished, replaced by that of a jumpsuit-clad blonde, seated on the toilet. "That better?" said Guan-Sharick.
John glared at the transmute. "I thought you went with Implacable when we parted, back in the Ghost Quadrant."
"Guess again," said the blonde.
"And why the green bug display? I thought it was finally resolved that you were human?"
"I don't think it was ever said that I was human," said Guan-Sharick. "What was was that I'm not a biofab."
The Terran gestured imperiously with the razor. "Out."
They stepped into the living quarters. Cutting torches and some clever use of available materials had converted five small cells into a reasonably commodious, sparsely furnished two-room suite.
"The lovely Zahava not at home?" said the transmute, peering through the doorway into the living room.
"No," said John, reaching for his pants. "Do you mind?"
"Idiocy," said the blonde, turning away from him.
"Okay," said Harrison after a moment, tucking in his shirt. "What do you want?"
The blonde turned. "You know we've entered the Terran system?"
"So? We're not landing."
"R'Gal needs the cooperation of the insystem commander to access the portal to the AI universe."
John nodded.
"I'm confident he'll get it, one way or the other," said the transmute, sitting down on the double bed. "Then this ship has to go through an intervening universe to reach the AI empire."
"So what?" said the Terran. "It's just a matter of recalibrating the portal device and proceeding on to our objective-isn't it?" he added, as the blonde shook her head.
"At that point, the portal device will have exhausted its potential," said Guan-Sharick.
"It will require recharging from the available resources of that intervening universe. Specifically, at least one ton of plutonium
239."
"That's a weapons-grade isotope," said John, sinking into the room's sole armchair. "The alternate Terra, Terra Two, is a technological backwater-they're still suffering the effects of World War II. There's only a limited nuclear arsenal, most of it in German hands."
"Not anymore," said Guan-Sharick. "Since you were last there, the American urban guerrillas-the gangers-have begun creating an arsenal of nuclear weapons in the Colorado Rockies. At the moment, they have more plutonium than they have bombs, thanks to years of pilfering from German nuclear plants. They have, in fact, about half a ton. The Fourth Reich has about another half a ton, exclusive of deployed weapons." The blue-green eyes looked toward the ceiling. "This mission requires someone who can obtain both stockpiles for its use."
John was on his feet. "No one is sending me back to that hellhole again!"
"Nothing like the last time," said the transmute, holding up a slender hand. "Just obtain a consensus…"
"Between the gangers and the Reich?!"
"… and we can get on with the mission."
"Why are you telling me this and not R'Gal?"
"R'Gal has other problems at the moment.
And you leave as soon as we enter the universe of Terra Two-courtesy of me."
Guan-Sharick was gone, only to reappear an instant later. "You and Zahava might want to go to the bridge. An old friend of yours just arrived.
"See you."
"Sit," ordered the admiral. D'Trelna sat.
They were in the commandant's office, high atop the Tower, with a view of the cityscape at night through the armorglass. Admiral L'Guan took the commandant's chair, behind the big traq-wood desk. "Why the hell did you come back?" he demanded. "Didn't you know Implacable had been declared a corsair vessel?"
"Sir," said D'Trelna, "I came back hoping to expose…"
L'Guan held up a hand. "I think I know most of what you want to say. Admiral S'Gan's report of your expedition into Quadrant Blue Nine was received, along with reports detailing the treachery of Combine T'Lan, the demise of the corsair K'Tran
and your and the mindslavers' defeat of the AI vanguard." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Once received, these reports were suppressed by treasonous officers within FleetOps-human officers in the pay of Combine T'Lan. Said officers will soon be fighting for their lives beside the former occupant of this office."
Smart money says they'll lose, thought D'Trelna.
"A duplicate copy of S'Gan's report found its way to my office, but too late to prevent Implacable from being corsair-listed by those same officers.
"The Council is in disarray, the only strong member being the chair, D'Assan. I believe him to be in the pay of the AIs of Combine T'Lan."
"Worse," said the commodore. "He loves, worships and reveres them."
L'Guan snorted. "Fool. He'll be the first to go if they win.
"Fleet," he continued, "is scattered throughout the Confederation on urgent missions of relief and rescue. The S'Cotar occupation left us with half a hundred crippled planets, populated by the brainwiped survivors of slave-labor factories. Crops disrupted, transport scattered or destroyed. I have a handful of effective ships in home system and am sure of the loyalty of only one FleetOps officer." L'Guan touched his breast. "Of course, all these cares may be taken from me-D'Assan's moving to have me replaced or sent up to Line as duty officer."
"An honorable position," said D'Trelna.
"More an honorary one, designed for fractious senior officers nearing retirement. One may not tell Line what to do, only advise it-not the most fulfilling duty for someone who's been commanding starships much of his life.
"Anyway," continued the admiral, "the Council's meeting all night on my fate. It should be resolved by dawn." He looked out the window. The first hint of dawn could be seen, outlining the rough hills of the western desert.
He turned back to D'Trelna. "S'Gan's final report said you were going to try to take an AI battleglobe. Did you?"
D'Trelna nodded. "Yes, sir. It's on its way to the AI Empire, on an urgent mission of confusion and destruction. R'Gal thinks he can foment a revolt."
"Luck to him-if he even gets there. As for us, your report said we're about to be attacked by some ten thousand battleglobes. What's between them and here?"
"In Quadrant Blue Nine we were able to enlist the cooperation of a flotilla of mindslavers…"
The admiral shook his head. "I know-it was in the report-horrors out of the Empire's darkest past. Part human, part machine, totally mad. They hate us, D'Trelna.
They'll turn on us at the first opportunity."
"Yes, sir. They hate us, they fear us, but they hate and fear the AIs more. The mindslavers will try to hold the Rift for us until reinforcements arrive."
"Reinforcements?" said L'Guan. "I thought I explained-our tactical situation is hopeless."
"The Twelfth Fleet of the House of S'Yal," said the commodore.
There was long silence in the room, broken by a sigh from L'Guan. "Others have done what you're doing, D'Trelna," he said, "and under similar pressures-the Confederation's dissolving around us like a sand fort and you're seeking refuge in Imperial mysticism." He hurried on before the commodore could protest.
"Every kid knows that wildtale-a mythical fleet from the height of the Empire, trapped in some sort of jump stasis."
D'Trelna shook his head. "Not mythical, sir. The Twelfth Fleet and its loss are duly recorded in Archives. Supposedly a means of recalling the fleet was devised but never implemented-it lies buried with S'Yal, somewhere on this planet."
"And you propose to find it after-what? -ten thousand years?"
"Closer to fifteen thousand, Admiral. And not me-H'Nar L'Wrona. It's in S'Yal's last citadel."
"Last citadel. Lost fleet." L'Guan shook his head. "Lost, D'Trelna-lost is the operative word." He looked past the commodore, out on the lights of man's first city in the galaxy. "Quadrants revolting, bioengineers loosing monsters upon us, the Empire falling, planets torched like diseased fruit, but through it all-a hundred thousand years. Commodore -civilization survived. A civilization that's dying on our watch, D'Trelna," he said softly. The admiral looked up, as if expecting to see AI assault ships descending through night.
"We're not finished yet," said D'Trelna. "If anyone can…"
Both men turned, startled by the muted sound of blaster fire echoing through ancient stone.
The thick wooden doors slammed open and a commando major hurried in, big M32 blastrifle on his hip. Behind him, a squad of commandos reinforced the two troopers guarding the door, taking up firing positions along the corridor.
"Report," ordered L'Guan as the commando officer saluted, left hand to the weapon's comb.
"Tugayee have infiltrated the Tower and are fighting their way to this level."
The admiral showed no surprise at the news. "And our gray-uniformed friends?"
"The Tower garrison withdrew shortly before the attack on direct orders of FleetOps."
The blaster fire was drawing nearer, the shrilling of the weapons now audible above the explosions. "Can you hold?" asked L'Guan.
The major shook his head. "Not without reinforcements-every assassin in the quadrant must be in on this. And they've slapped a commdamper on the building-static on all frequencies."
"Take your men and fight your way clear, Major I'Tan," said L'Guan, ignoring the commando's startled look. "Return to base. You shouldn't have much trouble-it's me they want."
"But, Admiral…" protested the major.
"I'll be all right. Get going."
"Sir," saluted the major.
"By the way, sir," added the commando as the admiral returned his salute, "last word before the attack was that you've been assigned Line duty officer."
"Joy," murmured L'Guan as the major stepped into the corridor.
"D'Trelna," continued the admiral, turning to the commodore. "I'm sorry you're…" A movement in the hallway caught his eye. "Hostiles!" he shouted, diving behind the desk.
Feet to the side of the desk, D'Trelna pushed himself backward onto the rug as blaster bolts flashed into the office, snapping over the desk and blowing away half of a glass wall.
The hallway exploded with blaster fire as the commandos exchanged fire with four black-clad figures appearing at the far end. The firefight was over in seconds, with each badly outgunned Tugayee torn by half a dozen well-aimed bolts.
Hand to a chairarm, D'Trelna was still pulling himself to his feet as L'Guan rounded the desk and moved into the hallway.
"More coming up the south stair, sir," said Major I'Tan, communicator in hand. A blaster bolt had grazed his cheek, leaving a neatly cauterized scar. "The lift is out."
"Please withdraw, Major," said the admiral, looking at the corridor. Before the firefight a series of tapestries had hung along the walls -a triptych of a prespace battle scene: v'arx-mounted riders, clad in armor, battling in some rocky mountain pass. Brilliantly executed-the animals' nostrils flaring in fear, the shouting, the screaming and the clash of metal all but audible-the tapestries now hung in flaming ribbons from the blaster-scorched wall. "This old place's taken enough abuse."
"As the admiral orders," said I'Tan. He spoke quickly into his communicator, then caught the squad leader's eye and nodded. Moving quickly down the hallway, the squad passed the dead assassins and turned left, disappearing toward the north stairway.
"Luck, Admiral," said the major, and was gone.
"If the admiral is sacrificing us to save the antiques," said D'Trelna as they reentered the commandant's office.
"I am not sacrificing anyone," said L'Guan, swinging the doors shut, locking them.
"… then please count me out," continued D'Trelna as L'Guan faced him.
"How long have you known me, D'Trelna?" said the admiral.
"On and off? Almost twenty years. You were sector commodore in blue four, keeping the jump lanes safe for merchanters, pulling smuggler intercepts."
A traditional S'Htarian merchant, D'Trelna had never troubled himself with legal niceties. Smuggler or merchant-it depended on
what you were selling, when, where and to whom.
"And in that length of time, have you ever… ever… known me to choose the grand gesture over the practical maneuver?"
The commodore thought about it for a moment. "No," he said finally.
"Thank you." L'Guan undipped a communicator from his belt. "Remember that during the next few moments." He spoke a frequency setting D'Trelna had never heard, waited for the acknowledging beep, then spoke again. "I urgently need transport for two to your location," he said into the communicator.
"Yes, I know," said a voice over the communicator-a maddeningly familiar voice D'Trelna couldn't quite place.
"How soon?" asked the Admiral.
Stephen Ames Berry "A few moments."
There was a soft snick on the other side of the door. L'Guan looked quizzically at D'Trelna. "Mark 17 blastpak," said the commodore. "Detonator's a forty-count."
"We don't have a few moments," said L'Guan into the communicator.
"I am doing the best I can," said the voice. "Some of these systems haven't been used since forests covered K'Ronar."
L'Guan rummaged the commandant's desk. Finding what he sought, he tossed it to D'Trelna. Deftly, the commodore caught the M11A, checked the chargepak, then pressed himself against the wall to the left of the doorway. Moving quickly, L'Guan followed, positioning himself on the other side of the doors.
A sudden whoomp! and the fragments of stout timbers older than Rome were knifing through the office, followed at once by the assault-three silent black forms that swept into the room.
D'Trelna whistled as they passed, killing the first Tugayee as he turned and the second as she fired. Aimed by a dead hand, the woman's bolt exploded into the wall to the right of the commodore's head, sending a shower of needle-sharp fragments into his cheek.
Hand to his face, eyes tearing at the sudden pain, D'Trelna was dimly aware of L'Guan over the body of the third assassin, tugging at the man's equipment belt. As the commodore wiped his eyes and faced the doorway, L'Guan rose and stepped into the doorway, a perfect target, tossed what he held in his hand, then ducked back as the blaster fire came.
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