"How is peace maintained, Captain?" Hochmeister asked, setting the report down.
"By a policy of mutual assured destruction between the great powers," said the young officer as Hochmeister removed his wire-rimmed biofocals and polished them with a white linen handkerchief. "We invented the bomb, the Russians stole it, we each built thousands of missiles, all pointed at each other. And here we sit, decades later, we in prosperity, they in… socialism."
"And now die Americans have gone and started making nuclear weapons." He tapped the report. "Did you see who's leading them, Becker?"
"Heather MacKenzie, the ganger leader you negotiated with," said the aide.
Hochmeister rose and walked to the window. He stood looking down on the broad avenue and the noonday traffic, a tall, thin, almost gaunt old man in a well-cut brown suit. "They wanted autonomy-I got it for them. We no longer meddle much in their internal affairs. They wanted peace in their cities, an end to class warfare. I saw that Urban Command was disbanded and money lent for restoration of the cities. They wanted a diminished role in the Southwest African problem. Granted."
"You couldn't have repulsed that alien enclave-those biofabs-without the gangers' help," said Becker.
Hochmeister turned from the window. "And those strange people from an alternate reality-Harrison, DTrelna. And now we're repaid by the Americans, under MacKenzie, setting up a bomb factory-a breaking of their promise to me." He returned to his chair. "Get me General Gueller of the Schwarzekommando," he said, neatly stacking his memoirs in the top drawer of his desk.
"What the hell happened?" demanded John.
"Our miraculous little cube selfobstructed," said R'Gal. He, John and Zahava stood watching as a mixed crew of human-adapted AIs and humans cleaned up the mess in engineering.
"Why?" asked K'Raoda.
R'Gal shrugged. "Gods, I don't know-I'll speculate if you want."
It was the first time John had ever seen the AI at a loss. "Please," he said.
"That reality linkage was made during the Revolt by beings fleeing battleglobes of this class." R'Gal paced the deck between the little group and the shattered console. "Is it any wonder they would have sequenced them for self-destruct in the event of capture? Remember, that technology was far ahead of anything the Fleet of the One had."
"Why didn't it blow up the ship?" said K'Raoda. "That thing's energy potential was enormous."
R'Gal stopped pacing and looked at K'Raoda with a sad old smile. "A cruder fate, don't you think, Commander, to maroon your enemy forever than to merely kill him?"
"You're telling us we're marooned in this reality?" said Zahava, a catch to her voice. "Forever?"
"Yes," said R'Gal.
"No," said Guan-Sharick, appearing between R'Gal and Harrison. "There's a way out."
"If anyone knows, it would be you," said
R'Gal to the transmute. "How?"
"Trigger a large enough nuclear explosion simultaneous with a jump sequence I'll provide."
"Devastator doesn't carry anything as primitive as nuclear weapons," said R'Gal. "Where are we to get fissionable material?"
"Terra Two has them," said the blonde. "Start running a surface tacscan."
"They're just going to give it to us?" said K'Raoda.
"After I talk with them, yes." The transmute nodded.
"The Fate of the Universe," said John, unbuckling his gunbelt and dropping it onto his bunk. "Good versus Evil." Wearily sinking into the room's sole armchair, he propped his feet up on the corner of Zahava's bunk. "Piss and Shit." Toe to heel, he pushed off one and then the other boot, letting them fall to the gray plating with a one-two thud.
Not asking, Zahava poured him a drink from the last bottle of Chivas in the universe. "Why so down?" she said gaily, pouring a neat dollop for herself. "We're stranded in this fine place, probably forever-our only refuge is Terra Two…"
"Refuse, you mean. America an impoverished haven of cryptofascism and class warfare," said John, and took a sip of his scotch. "The cities are rubble, the middle class an endangered species. Japan's a ruin, Russia a Stalinist paranoia ward. Western Europe's doing well." He raised his glass. "Here's to you, Hans Christian Hochmeister and the whole bloody Abwehr."
"No K'Ronarin Confederation here," said Zahava, sitting on the edge of the bunk. "They wiped themselves out way back when. So unless Guan-Sharick pulls another miracle, this is home." She neatly knocked back half her scotch.
"Guan-Sharick." John set his glass down on the deck and picked up a boot. "Let's have a Guan-Sharick seminar." He gave the temporary bulkhead behind him four hard pounds with the boot. "Hey, T'Lei! Seminar!" There was a long silence.
"Scotch is almost gone!" he added.
The corridor door hissed open and Commander K'Raoda came in, shoeless, his shirt unbuttoned.
"Lushes. V'org slime." He padded across the room to the bottle as the door closed. "Half gone," he said, picking it up and sadly shaking his head. "Why do they put it in such a small container?" He poured himself a generous ration.
"To charge more for less," said John, dropping his boot. "An old Terran tradition."
"You don't mind my sharing your bed with your wife?" said the K'Ronarin, sitting next to Zahava. John said nothing-the joke had grown old several hundred light-years and at least three bottles ago. "Why have you called us together, noble Terran?" asked K'Raoda, taking a small sip of whiskey.
"Guess," said Zahava dourly.
"Not the bug again," sighed K'Raoda.
"Now, just listen, both of you." John held up a hand. "Guan-Sharick calls all the shots here-R'Gal doesn't recharge his batteries without Guan's permission."
"So?" said Zahava. "Guan-Sharick's from the race that designed and built the AIs, millions of years ago. The two fought together in the revolt against the AIs, a million years downtime. Guan-Sharick was almost certainly number one boy to the Revolt's human leader."
"All of which we have from either R'Gal or Guan-Sharick," said K'Raoda. He refilled his glass. "We've been over this before, Noble Terrans. Questions of Guan-Sharick's nature or ultimate purpose are beyond available evidence. We have to wait."
"You K'Ronarins almost waited yourselves out of existence, back in the Biofab War," said John. "Hell, as far as we know, the Confederation's not going to worry about the AIs till they've stripped the Sceptered Throne for spare parts."
"We paid," said K'Raoda, looking at the liquor. "And my previous statement stands."
"Tell him," said Zahava.
"I decided to address a simple issue regarding Guan-Sharick," said John. "Which is?"
"Which is, Commander K'Raoda, where does the silly bastard sleep, eat, go to the head? This ship is not near any convenient rest stops, its actual living area's small and well peopled. Yet no one ever sees our blonde whatever unless it wants to be seen. Where, Noble K'Ronarin, is Guan-Sharick?"
"Have you looked under your bunk?" said K'Raoda.
"I've looked everywhere." John sank lower in the chair, the duraplast glass on his belly. "I've used internal security scan-we're all present and accounted for save one."
"Scan blocker of some sort," said Zahava.
"I don't think so," said John.
"He doesn't think so," said Zahava, setting her glass on the bunk.
"I ran a back check-full scan pattern. Got ship's computers to correlate all of Guan-Sharick's appearances with any anomalies of any sort."
"And?" asked K'Raoda, intrigued.
"There's a weird energy pulse on something called the Tau frequency every time Guan-Sharick is seen."
"Computer said that?" K'Raoda sat up. "It said Tau frequency?"
"That's why I've called you in, my dear commander K'Raoda. What the hell's a Tau frequency?"
K'Raoda examined his empty glass. "The Tau frequency, my dear Mr. Harrison, is a pre-Fall myth, evidently brought here from the AI universe by our forebears. It supposedly sweeps aside time and space-no, more -it is time and space, it's the lifeblood of all universes, al
l realities."
"You're babbling," said Zahava. "Can't you be more precise?"
K'Raoda nodded. "If there is a Tau frequency," he said after a moment, "and Guan-Sharick's tapped it, then he or she can be anything, anywhere. And powerful-very powerful." He shook his head as he reached for the bottle. "Gods. The Tau frequency."
"Amazing they haven't blown themselves up," said K'Raoda, turning from the tacscan. "Primitive guidance systems, crude triggering devices-the failsafes are a bad joke."
"Is there enough?" said R'Gal, turning to Guan-Sharick.
The transmute stared at the small screen for a moment, then turned from K'Raoda's console. "Yes."
"Just how do we get them?" asked John. "Drop our scan shield, let them pick us up on radar, threaten them?"
"Absurd," said R'Gal. "They'd expend those needed missiles against us piecemeal."
"I suggest we have John ask for them," said Guan-Sharick.
"And who do I ask?" said the Terran. "The tooth fairy?"
"All units are in position, Admiral," said Colonel Ritter.
Hochmeister turned the collar of his sheepskin coat against the glacial wind sweeping down the mountain valley, then lifted the big 12x50 binoculars. Across the valley, just below the top of the opposite ridgeline, he could see where a rough shaft had been sunk perpendicular to the slope. Silhouetted against the rising moon, two lines of dark figures moved through the soft snow toward the entrance.
"The American president's at Aspen this weekend," said Colonel Ritter, raising his own binoculars.
Substitute a two-handed sword for the machine pistol slung over his shoulder and armor for the black uniform, and Ritter'd be the perfect Teutonic Knight, thought Hochmeister, glancing at the colonel.
"He'll have a memorable evening if they set off any of their little treasures," said Hochmeister, looking back at the hill and the commandos. The two files were now at the mine entrance, weapons raised, waiting.
"And we'll be just a memory," said Ritter, lowering his binoculars.
"Ready when you are, Admiral," he added.
Hochmeister said nothing, remembering another cold night, not so long ago-a night filled with arc flares, machine gun and blaster fire, the screams of the dying, a world hanging in the balance.
"The point squads are waiting, Admiral," said Ritter. A handset had replaced the binoculars in his hand.
Hochmeister was aware of the colonel's stare. "Not yet, Ritter." He slipped his field glasses back into their case. "First, a talk between old comrades."
"Two battalions," said Hargrove, face a greenish tint from the perimeter scope. For an installation its size, the hole had a very sophisticated combat information center, a circular little room under the main level, its five consoles now manned by casually dressed young men with suspiciously short hair.
"Can you hold them?" asked MacKenzie, bending forward to look at the perimeter scope filled with slowly moving multicolored triangles, squares, circles with little numbers, all advancing along the dark green outline of the Hill, toward the Hole.
"Go do whatever you can in ten minutes, lady," said Hargrove, his eyes meeting Heather's as the physicist stepped away from the scope. "I've got fifty-two men against eight hundred of the gray admiral's Praetorians." He jerked his head toward the perimeter scope.
"Schwarzekommando?" said Heather. "You're sure?"
Hargrove nodded. "We should be honored, ma'am-best they've got: saved Patton's ass from the MDV at Second Warsaw, stood off the Siege of Cape Town." Taking a surprised Heather by the arm, the officer steered her through the door and out into the access stairs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Professor, we've got some dying to do."
The upper level was deserted, the alarm having sent the staff scurrying down to the level 7 shelter. Not that it would do them much good, thought Heather, walking quickly back to her cubicle and the drawer with its terminal, awaiting the destruct sequence she'd long ago memorized.
As Heather stepped into the cubicle, Hochmeister looked up at her, hands folded in front of him. "Captain," he said with an almost imperceptible nod. "Or do they call you Professor here?"
She whirled, hand drawing the big. 357 Magnum from the holster belted at her waist.
"I'm alone," said Hochmeister. "For the moment-unless my impatient colonel has too much of your night air." Opening the bottom right drawer, he took out the bottle of rye and two fairly clean glasses. "Care for some of your whiskey?"
She shook her head, watching him, transfixed. "How did you get in here?"
"Through your top-secret bolt hole."
MacKenzie took out her handset. "Hargrove, they know about the bolt hole," she said.
"How…" came the static-filled reply. "Don't argue-blow it!" "Yes, ma'am."
A second later the cavern shook to the rumble of preset charges bringing down a tunnel.
"Really, you should." The admiral had filled both shot glasses and slid one across the desk. "It may be the last drink for both of us, MacKenzie."
Surprising herself, she picked up the glass, keeping the revolver in her right hand.
"Cheers," said Hochmeister.
The two empty glasses clinked down on the table. "I hate liars, MacKenzie," said Hochmeister, pouring a second round.
"I hate tyrants," she said, not touching the glass.
He smiled sadly. "Nothing so grand-just the last proconsul." He glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid Colonel Ritter and his men will be coming soon-the SK take no prisoners, you know."
"Very humane," she said. "What do you want?"
"You, Dr. MacKenzie." Hochmeister stood. "I want that keen brain, that unwavering courage, that indomitable spirit.
"Are you proposing, Admiral Hochmeister?" she said wryly.
"Full professorship-America, Germany, France or Britain. Occasional sabbaticals for research at Peenemunde and detached duty to the Abwehr."
Her grip tightened on the Magnum. "Go to hell."
He spread his hands. "MacKenzie, you can never succeed against us. We're too entrenched, our agents are everywhere, your government's a perverted joke. You're one of the last virulent guardians of a failed dream, an empty culture, a cancer-ridden state. America's dead, MacKenzie. With us, you'd make a difference-a difference for this tired, blood-soaked world. Here you're just grist for the mill."
Hochmeister watched dispassionately as, pale-faced, lips compressed, MacKenzie slowly raised the Magnum, took careful aim at his chest and squeezed the trigger.
The alert klaxon and the pistol report sounded together, just as the lights failed.
16
R'gal turned from the screen. "Those bombs go up, we're here for a long time." Behind him, Devastator's main bridge screen showed an aerial view of the Hill. Hargrove had sent a suicide squad up through a hidey-hole-they were busily raining hand grenades and machine-pistol fire down on the SK sapper unit at the main entrance. Orange tracer rounds snapped back, raking the hilltop, followed by a dual stream of rockets exploding among the defenders as a Fokker-Cobra chopper came in low and fast.
Seen without audio from the battleglobe's bridge, it was silent, colorful and deadly, the bodies tumbling from hilltop to snow, or crumbling where they stood in perfect pantomime of death.
"Get down there and clean it up," said R'Gal, pointing at John, K'Raoda, S'Rel and Guan-Sharick.
"Who's down there?" said K'Raoda, pulling the white survival suit on over his boots. The personnel equipment lockers were in what had been a security ready-room, off the battleglobe's smallest flight hangar. The rectangular niches where AI security blades had lain at rest were now stuffed with survival suits, silver warsuits and gray field packs, their black duraplast straps dangling over the edge of the storage shelves. A double rack of loaded M32 blaster rifles sat to the right of the double doors leading to the hangar area.
"Down there's our old friend Admiral Hochmeister, Heather MacKenzie, about a thousand soldiers and four hundred megatons of booby-trapped nuclear weapons." John stopped by the arms ra
ck, slid back the retaining bar and picked up a rifle. Checking the charge indicator, he tossed it to K'Raoda, then took one for himself. "We go to bring them sweet reason. Better take an extra chargepack, T'Lei." They stepped together through the doors.
"Rhode Island," John had dubbed this, the smallest of Devastator's hangar areas. Over five thousand AI assault craft lined the twenty miles of deck. Round and black, about forty meters in diameter, each with three gun blisters, the small ships could carry several hundred AI security blades into the heart of battle-three wedge-shaped meters of intelligent, pitiless steel, slicing and blasting their way through the enemy ranks.
The two men turned right, walking quickly past the silent assault craft, boots echoing in time down the immense battlesteel canyon. "Fifty hangars much like this on every battleglobe," said K'Raoda, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "That's two hundred and fifty thousand infantry assault craft per battle-globe, times two hundred security blades per craft, times one million battle-globes." K'Raoda raised a clenched fist over his head. "Forward, men!" he cried, then laughed-a slightly hysterical laugh.
"I'm afraid the Fleet of the One's going to be disappointed when it gets here," said John. Ahead of them, center deck, sat a K'Ronarin Fleet shuttle, silver against the black of its surroundings, an oblong craft resting its landing struts, passenger ramp extended. S'Rel and Guan-Sharick stood waiting, watching as the two men approached.
"Disappointed?" said K'Raoda.
"Sure. They've been preparing for a million years to come after the God-Emperor or whatever he was and those all but magical ships that nearly broke them in the Revolt. Well, no one even remembers the God-Emperor's name, the magic's gone and all that's left is us, stumbling into each other. Hello, S'Rel, Guan."
"Don't give up on us yet, John," said S'Rel with a grin. "Not until we've stumbled into the enemy."
"Let's get down there before they blow each other up," said S'Rel, turning and stepping up the ramp and into the shuttle.
After a moment, the ramp retracted, the shuttle rose and accelerated with a faint whine of n-gravs. Piercing the blue shimmer of the hangar's forcefield, it soared up into the simulated sunshine of Devastator's atmosphere, breached the shield layers and was gone.
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