Final Assault bw-4

by Stephen Ames Berry

  The explosion ripped down the corridor, sending a brief tongue of blue flame lancing into the shattered office.

  The blast was still ringing through the corridor as L'Guan and D'Trelna stepped into the doorway, pistols held two-handed.

  All that moved were the flames, licking away at the few pieces of furniture, the remains of the long swath of hand-loomed rug that had led from the lift, and a dozen or so black-clad bodies, lying dead where the grenade had tossed them.

  L'Guan and D'Trelna slowly lowered their Mil As. "Not bad for two out-of-shape chair jocks," said the admiral.

  "Could have used you on board a mindslaver we tangled with, Admiral," said D'Trelna.

  L'Guan holstered his sidearm and lifted the communicator. "If you can't pick us up now, don't bother," he said.

  There was no reply.

  "Shouldn't we get to the roof while we can?" said the commodore.

  "It's not that sort of pickup," said L'Guan. "We're…"

  D'Trelna didn't hear the rest, opening fire at

  Stephen Ames Berry the first black figure to appear around the distant corner of the corridor. He and the admiral ducked back into the room as the blaster fire resumed.

  "What sort of pickup is it?" asked the commodore, risking a quick one-two shot down the hallway.

  "This sort," said the admiral, standing beside D'Trelna in a pleasant indoor garden. Tropical flora was all around. To their left a miniature waterfall tumbled to an azure-blue pool. "Come on upstairs and I'll buy you a drink," said the admiral.

  "Imperial science," said D'Trelna, stomach churning. "Matter transporter. And just where the hell are we?" he demanded, looking up. Bright-plumaged birds flitted from treetop to treetop.

  "The heart of the Empire's deadliest war machine," said L'Guan. "This is Line."

  "Excuse me, Admiral," said the voice D'Trelna now recognized as that of Line-it seemed to come from a clump of ferns. "Would you please follow the guide sphere to command Center at once." A small orange sphere materialized between the two men and the waterfall, hovering at eye level.

  "Something wrong?" said L'Guan, looking at the fern clump.

  "FleetOps has just issued a condition two alert-persons or entities unknown are stealing the cruiser Implacable."

  6

  There was a surprise waiting for Implacable's engineer when they put him in detention.

  "Welcome aboard, Mr. N'Trol," said B'Tul. The big gunner stood beside one of the twenty bunks lining the long narrow detention bay. Others of Implacable's crew came to join the reception.

  "Shit," said N'Trol as the door hissed shut behind him. "Got us all, did they?"

  "This is our mustering-out room," said B'Tul. "They haven't gotten around to issuing discharges yet."

  "And we're not holding our breath, sir," said one of N'Trol's engineering techs, S'Kal.

  "Where'd they take the commodore and the captain?" asked B'Tul, handing N'Trol a cup of fata.

  "Thank you," said N'Trol, sipping the steaming brown beverage. "The commodore and I were separated upon arrival. The captain invoked the Covenant and was not arrested. He was on the ship when we left."

  "The captain bluffed his way free?" said B'Tul disbelievingly.

  "No," said N'Trol, sitting on the edge of one of the hard duraplast beds. "He enjoys the protection of the Covenant between the Confederation and the Imperial House."

  "That grants immunity only to the direct descendants of the Imperial House," said S'Kal.

  Hunching forward on the bed, N'Trol sipped the t'ata, holding the chipped cup in both hands. "Absent an Heir," he said, "H'Nar L'Wrona, Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard, Margrave of U'Tria, Defender of the Galactic Marches, Hereditary Viceroy of the Blue and Red, is Pretender to Throne and Crown." He made a face. "This t'ata's awful, Gunney."

  "Well, look who's here," said a sarcastic voice.

  N'Trol looked up, then stood. "A'Tir," he said carefully.

  The corsair stood at the foot of the bed, a red-bearded man beside her. "K'Lal," said

  N'Trol. "I see your ugly selves are still alive."

  The corsairs wore the same brown Fleet duty uniforms as Implacable's crew, but with all insignia gone-ripped off by Fleet Security.

  "I thought we agreed," said B'Tul, stepping forward, "that you and your lot would stay at your end." He nodded his head to the left, where a thin but clear line of white had been crudely drawn across the stone blocks.

  "Special occasion, Gunney," said A'Tir. She was a slight-figured brunette, neither unattractive nor stunningly beautiful-the sort who'd have blended easily with any crowd of tech officers anywhere in the Fleet. Indeed, she'd begun her career as a Fleet officer.

  "So you're going to rot here with the rest of us, N'Trol," said the corsair. "Reaping the rewards of loyalty."

  "Perhaps," said N'Trol. "But my lover hasn't been brainstripped by a mindslaver -that is what happened to K'Tran, isn't it, A'Tir? Brain sucked out and popped in a jar, body on ice and all forever. A better sentence than a tribunal could have…"

  She went for his eyes, but N'Trol was faster, dashing the hot t'ata into her eyes. As A'Tir fell back, screaming in pain, K'Lal stepped toward N'Trol, only to be intercepted by B'Tul and two burly gunner's mates. "Take your lovely little commander back to your area, friend," said the gunner, hand twisting the other's shirt, "before there are any more accidents."

  At A'Tir's scream, the rest of the corsairs had come on the run, only to be stopped by a line of Implacable's crew stretched out along the white line. There were only eight corsairs to eighteen Fleet regulars. The rush stopped at the line.

  "Come on, Commander," said K'Lal, helping A'Tir to her feet and taking her elbow. She said nothing, merely held her hands over her eyes. "You're dead, N'Trol," she said as they moved away.

  The engineer ignored her, watching until A'Tir and K'Lal had crossed to their side of the bay and the two groups had disassembled.

  "Just the ten of them?" he asked, picking up the cup.

  "In this bay, yes," said B'Tul, eyes still on the retreating corsairs. He turned to the engineer. "Another ten or so in another bay. I think they put us in here hoping we'd kill each other. Which we may do."

  "Now what, Mr. N'Trol?" he said.

  "Now," said N'Trol, settling back on the bunk, feet crossed, "now we wait, Gunney." He held out the cup. "Who'd like to get me more t'ata?"

  A rough hand shook N'Trol awake. "Commander," whispered a voice.

  N'Trol sat up, shaking his head. It was the middle of the night-the detention bay was in darkness. "B'Tul?" he whispered sleepily. "What…"

  "Listen," hissed the gunner.

  The officer listened, then heard it, very faintly: the sound of blaster fire.

  "Somewhere on the upper levels," said B'Tul. "And the guards are gone."

  The thick gray door slid open and the lights came on. As N'Trol and B'Tul turned toward the door, squinting, a tall man in a torn, blood-splotched uniform stepped into the room. "Commander?" he called.

  "Here, S'Lei," called A'Tir, leading her group toward the new corsair. A few of Implacable's crew started to block her.

  "Let her by," said S'Lei, raising the long-barreled Ml 1A he held and waving it casually.

  "Let them go," said N'Trol.

  "Report," said A'Tir, walking past N'Trol without a glance.

  "Tower's bedlam," said the tall corsair. "Commandos came in, Security pulled out, then Tugayee infiltrated and took on the commandos. Fighting's concentrated on the upper levels."

  "How'd you get out?" A'Tir asked.

  "There was a running firefight through our confinement level-commandos and Tugayee. An M32 blast took out the door- along with K'Ona and S'Al." S'Lei waved his hand over the bloodstains. "We came down here, found the guard posts deserted and set your security lock to open."

  "Where's the rest of your group?" said A'Tir.

  "Right behind me. I sent them to liberate an armory."

  As he spoke, more corsairs cam
e into the room, all with holstered pistols on their belts and spares slung over their shoulders.

  "Orders, Commander?" said K'Lal, taking one of the spare Ml 1 As and belting it on.

  "We're still in Prime Base perimeter-we'll grab a shuttle from the Tower depot, take over a ship and run for it."

  "Line will stop us," said S'Lei.

  "No," said A'Tir, arming herself. "Line will challenge us. It won't stop us if we're not a direct and immediate threat to the security of the planet. Which we aren't, as we're leaving it."

  A'Tir pointed to where Implacable's crewmen stood in a silent knot. "Kill them and let's go," she said. "The engineer's mine," she added, drawing her sidearm and thumbing the beam down to its cutting setting.

  "You're stupid, A'Tir," said N'Trol, stepping in front of his crew. "You haven't enough crew to man a ship that will get you past the Fleet pickets. Most you can run is a destroyer. You need at least a cruiser."

  "We'll take our chances," said A'Tir. "Hold him," she ordered. Two corsairs grabbed N'Trol's arms as A'Tir took careful aim at his eyes.

  "With us," said the engineer, "you can have Implacable."

  There was a murmur of protest from N'Trol's crew.

  "Let him go," said A'Tir, lowering the blaster. "What did you have in mind, Mr. N'Trol?" she said.

  "We're in the same situation," said N'Trol, adjusting his cuffs. "Prisoners for whatever reasons. Our mutual interests lie in escape

  …"

  "But, sir," protested B'Tul, "to join up with these scum…"

  "What do you want, B'Tul, to stay here and face court-martial for performing your duty? How many times have we saved the fat asses of the ground-hugging slobs? And this, this is our reward." His hand swept the room. "Freedom"-he pointed to the door-"or the Tower?"

  There was a brief, whispered consultation, then B'Tul turned back to N'Trol. "We're with you, sir. As long as they put us off at first planetfall," he added, looking at A'Tir.

  "Agreed," said the corsair commander. "Provided we take Implacable. Otherwise, you stay here, we'll take up where we just left off, you and me."

  "Fine," said N'Trol. He held out his hand.

  "Now, if we could have some weapons…"

  "Not just yet," said A'Tir with a tight little smile.

  The distant blaster fire was suddenly punctuated by the dull KRUMMP! of an exploding grenade, the echo rolling through the Tower.

  "Let's go," said A'Tir.

  Filing from the detention bay, the new allies moved in a quick double file down the empty corridors, past the deserted guard posts and out into the night.

  Implacable was a grand sight at night, the winking of her red and green running lights reflecting softly along her silver hull. She sat alone in bright-lit splendor, one of the last of the Imperial cruisers.

  "Two guards," whispered K'Lal, ducking back behind the white supply modules stacked next to the cruiser. "Corporal and a private."

  "That's it?" said A'Tir.

  "Yes."

  "Sloppy," she said. "Should have two squads for a capital ship, not two men." She turned to N'Trol. "Still want a weapon, Engineer?"

  N'Trol saw what was coming. "Not just yet," he said, mimicking her tight little smile. The light wasn't especially good, but she saw it.

  "Here." The corsair slipped the commando knife from her boot sheath and wrapped

  N'Trol's fingers around the haft. "Take it and go kill those guards. Or we'll do it ourselves and leave your bodies on the duraplast."

  "You've persuaded me," he said, slipping off to the left, where the module stacks ended. Snapping shut the weather flap on his holster and slipping the knife blade up his sleeve, N'Trol stepped from behind the stacks and into the light, walking purposefully toward the boarding ramp and the two gray-uniformed sentries.

  "Evening," he said as the guards brought their rifles up to order arms.

  "Halt," said the corporal. "Who goes?"

  N'Trol halted. "Commander N'Trol, Engineer, Implacable," he said, gambling that these two hadn't been told about the arrests. It wasn't likely, given Fleet's mania for security.

  "Advance and be recognized," said the corporal.

  N'Trol closed the distance between himself and the foot of the ramp, stopping an arm's length from the corporal. The sentry was young-a kid, really-almost old enough to shave. "Here to do some tinkering," said N'Trol easily.

  The corporal frowned. "Sorry, sir. We've no orders to admit…"

  N'Trol sucker-kicked him, knee to the groin, then hit him on the chin with the knife pommel as the kid doubled over. The soldier folded silently, crumpling to the landing field.

  The private tried to bring the big M32 around, but N'Trol grabbed the weapon's stock with one hand and pressed the knife blade against his throat with the other. "Drop it or die," he said. He'd no idea what he'd do if the other continued to struggle-fortunately, the trooper dropped the M32.

  "Turn around," said the engineer.

  As the private turned, N'Trol brought the pommel down behind the soldier's right ear. He collapsed as silently as the corporal.

  "Well and mercifully done, Mr. N'Trol," A'Tir said as her corsairs charged across the landing field and up into the ship, Implacable's crew following. "You may board."

  Last one in but for A'Tir, he'd stopped to look at the distant flames of the Tower and the circling firecraft, when two blaster shots sent him whirling, looking down to where A'Tir stood, holstering her blaster beside the dead sentries.

  Gripping the safety rail in white-knuckled fury, N'Trol waited for A'Tir to reach him. If he'd been beside her when she fired, he knew he'd have broken her slim neck. "Why?" he demanded coldly when she appeared, his emotions under control.

  "Why?" She smiled. "Why, because you wanted them to live, Engineer. So I wanted them dead. Now check your engines and prepare to lift ship, mister."

  7

  A hexagonal honeycomb of a building, facility 19 had once held over six hundred star-ships. But the war had reduced that number to less than two hundred: Ship after ship had been deeded to the Confederation to pay the death taxes of monied officers. Now green "Available" lights glowed softly over most of the berths on level 9.

  Oblivious to the green lights, L'Wrona moved quickly down the long empty duralloy corridor, pistol in hand, looking for berth 9-42-A. He found it after two turnings-one of only five red-lighted berths in that stretch of level 9. Standing before the entry, he pressed the access button.

  "Access code, please," said a resonant, masculine voice.

  "There is no code," said L'Wrona. "Wrong," said the voice. "Right," said L'Wrona. The door slid open. "Hello, H'Nar," said the voice.

  "Hello, Dad," said the captain. He stepped onto the catwalk, the door sliding shut behind him. Below, nestled in its berth, lay a trim little O'Lan-class scout ship, the subdued lighting of the berth glinting dully along its silver hull.

  To the casual observer, the ship would have seemed just another surplus scout, sold off after the A'Ran Police Action of a decade ago. And so it had been, until the previous Margrave of U'Tria, L'Wrona's late father, had gotten his hands on it.

  "Green-light the door, would you, Dad?" asked the captain, turning to clamber down the access ladder to the ship. "Got some unfriendlies looking for me."

  "You in trouble again, son?" said the ship.

  Out in the hallway the red light over 9-42-A changed to green.

  L'Wrona walked across the narrow apron of the berth, then scrambled up the ship's boarding ladder. Reaching the top, he grabbed the support bar above the airlock and pulled himself in, feet first. The outer door hissed shut behind him. He stood in the coffin-sized space between inner and outer door-an area equipped with an array of miniaturized scanners that could discreetly explore the contents of a guest's garments, analyze his or her physiology for anything from infectious diseases to narcotics, and, if necessary, dispatch unwanted visitors with a brief needier burst.

  There was no needier burst. The inner door ope
ned on to a short, well-lit corridor. "It seems you are H'Nar, H'Nar," said Dad.

  "You sound disappointed," said L'Wrona, walking down the corridor to the bridge. On his way he passed an alley-shaped galley on his left, and a bedsitting room on his right. Had he turned left at the hatchway instead of right, he'd have come to the engine room.

  "You try sitting on standby for ten years and see how you like it

  … son. I led a robust life-I crave action."

  "Action is why you're dead," said L'Wrona, sliding into the left seat. The bridge was small, just the two flight chairs, but crammed with instruments. Fleet compliance inspectors would have been astounded to see that the original gunnery controls not only were intact-a very serious illegality-but had been augmented by the best combat command and information system available. The CCI was a salvaged Imperial model, unmatched since the Fall. When L'Wrona had asked the old man where he'd gotten it, the margrave had merely touched his fingers to his lips and winked.

  "You're lucky to still have me, H'Nar," said the ship. "Not every parent would have been so thoughtful."

  Twelve years ago, smiling happily, accompanied by a pair of twenty-year-old female companions, the margrave had departed on his annual jaunt aboard one of the jump-equipped cruise liners that catered to the affluent. Done in by too much companionship somewhere off A'Gal IV, the old man had come back in a bodybag-still smiling. Family and Confederation had consigned his body to space with full honors, the guns of the Home Fleet saluting him as he was launched -still smiling-toward galactic north.

  Behind him, the margrave had left titles and estates stretching back to the T'Rlon Dynasty and this one heavily modified "pleasurecraf t."

  Calling up the preflight checklist prompt on the commscreen, L'Wrona was reviewing the jump drive status-green/on-call-when Dad said, "Cleared straight through, son, but with a suspicious delay. K'Ronarport was checking with someone."

  "Any idea who?"

  "They had me on hold. Not smart-there's a lot of electronic sieve on those circuits. Our controller punched out to a priority line at the Combine T'Lan liaison office. The rest was in code."