Final Assault bw-4

by Stephen Ames Berry

  "Anyone home?" called D'Trelna, his voice through the twilight world of S'Yal's last citadel.

  "J'Quel," admonished L'Wrona.

  Both men's communits beeped. Lifting his from his belt, the commodore said, "Line?"

  "Yes," said Line. "You're hard to reach, gentlemen-I finally found an open frequency-a battle frequency of a certain Imperial House."

  "No need to ask which House," said L'Wrona, looking at the obstacle in front of them.

  "K'Ronar's in a desperate situation," continued Line. "Prime Base is falling beneath a sea of security blades. The enemy will then turn its attention to our cities."

  "Then blow the enemy away," snapped D'Trelna. "It would take you about twenty-count."

  "We've had this discussion before, Commodore. What is your situation?"

  "We're about to enter the front of a three-story, curvilinear building-black, window-less, no visible sensors or weapons." He stared at the double doors barring the entrance-double doors made of the same black metallic polymer as the rest of the building and surrounded by the same almost imperceptible red glow. "The building appears to have some sort of shield overlay."

  "Give me a vidscan, please," said Line, voice suddenly concerned.

  D'Trelna clicked on his communit's vidscan and clipped the unit to his breast pocket. There was a faint hum as of power as the unit began transmitting the pickup.

  "Not a shield," said Line after a moment. "Stasis field. Of a type not known to me."

  Captain and commodore exchanged worried glances. "Are you saying that whatever's in there is the same as it was six thousand years ago?" asked D'Trelna.

  "If the field was turned on then, and if it worked," said Line, "then things will be the same. The reality obtained inside that building when the field was activated will continue for a few moments after the field is turned off. Proceed carefully."

  There was a rasp of metal on leather as both men drew their sidearms. Reaching out through that faint red haze, L'Wrona touched the door. As he touched it, the red haze vanished. Perfectly balanced, the door swung wide.

  D'Trelna pushed open the other door and the two officers looked down a set of stairs at the end of the House of S'Yal.

  Clad in Imperial blue, the Guardsmen's bodies lay strewn about S'Yal's command post: crumpled on the walkways rimming the three levels, sprawled on the floor and across the consoles. The air was thick with the sickening-sweet smell of roasted human flesh.

  Two men stood facing each other in the center of the floor, unaware of the two officers watching from the entrance.

  "Give it to me," said the younger man, holding out his left hand. He was thin, with pinched, almost ascetic features, his hairline thinning and his eyes sharp and gray. The single blood stone on the collar of his gray Fleet uniform proclaimed his rank: Supreme Commander. "Give it to me," he repeated, gesturing impatiently with the compact little blaster in his right hand. "Now."

  "You've lost S'Yal," said the other man. He wore the uniform of the Guard, Assault Captain's lances on his collar. His hand clenched his right shoulder and the gaping blaster hit.

  "The Fleet's revolted, this citadel's besieged…"

  "And all but one of my traitorous guards are dead," said the Emperor.

  "And all your loyal ones."

  "S'Kur," said the Emperor, "give me the recall device and you'll live-my word on it."

  "And let you recall the Twelfth, oath-breaker?" The young officer smiled through his pain. "And turn a coup into a civil war?" He shook his head. "Carve me up with that if you want-you'll never find it. Your House is broken, your filthy cult destroyed. But only after you cost us millions of dead, breaking the Compact with the droids, attacking them without warning." His voice rose angrily. "We made them, and yes, they're peaceful, you said, but they're growing too strong-they'll challenge us eventually. Strike now-they don't know how to fight-we can win easily. Well, they learned, didn't they?"

  "We won," said S'Yal.

  "Twenty-five million casualties, eight worlds, five sector Fleets. My father, my brothers, my friends, dead. And to win, you had to rebuild the mindslavers the Emperor T'Nil decommissioned." Captain S'Kur's eyes blazed. "No people deserve such a victory."

  His face very pale, the Emperor raised his pistol, aimed carefully at S'Kur's head-and fell, death erasing the surprise from his face.

  The whine and crash of the blaster shot was still echoing as L'Wrona reholstered his weapon and advanced with D'Trelna into the command center.

  "Who in all the hells are you?" demanded S'Kur, looking at the strange uniforms and unfamiliar weapons.

  "Assault Captain…" began L'Wrona.

  "Commodore," said Line, its voice audible to the other two men. "Assault Captain S'Kur has a very brief time left to live. Please obtain the location of the recall device."

  The young officer's face was a study in confusion. "I don't understand," he said.

  "Everything, everyone you know is dead," said D'Trelna gently, hand to the Guardsman's good shoulder. "It's been fifteen thousand years since the Fall of S'Yal, five thousand since the Empire itself fell. You left us a great legacy-one we're fighting to save."

  S'Kur slumped into a chair. "The stasis field," he said numbly. "During the fighting, someone must have triggered the stasis field."

  L'Wrona nodded. "You were too busy to notice."

  "Commodore," said Line urgently. "Observe the bodies."

  The corpses were growing transparent, fading like wraiths in the morning light. Even as the three men watched they were gone. "I'm sorry, Assault Captain," said Line. "But you're on short time-no one's ever perfected a longhaul stasis field that can restore organic life for more than a few moments. Please help us."

  S'Kur nodded, face pale but composed. "What do you need?"

  "The recall device," said D'Trelna.

  S'Kur's eyes searched their faces. "Very well," he said after a moment. Unfastening a utility pouch on his belt, he took out a communit, flatter and smaller than the ones D'Trelna and L'Wrona carried. "Our beloved Emperor missed this," he said. "Press the red tab on the left side anywhere within the confines of home system and the Twelfth will come back where it left from, just over Prime Base. Or so Fleet Research says." He handed it to L'Wrona.

  "You intercepted this and S'Yal found out?" guessed D'Trelna.

  S'Kur nodded. "A lot of good people died for that."

  "More are dying as you speak," said Line. "Please press the tab."

  L'Wrona looked at the recall device, then handed it back to S'Kur. "If you would, sir."

  S'Kur pressed the switch.

  "A few pockets of resistance," said T'Lan senior to the translucent red ball in his skipcomm screen. "When may we expect the Fleet?"

  "The First Leader's compliments," said the red ball in its melodic voice. "We'll be there in two days. There was very fierce resistance at our initial jump point. We still aren't sure by what sort of ships-but all were destroyed."

  "There was some rumor of the last of the mindslavers making a stand against Your Omnipotence," said T'Lan. "Possibly under the command of the legendary outlaw, Captain K'Tran. Defeating them, you defeated the last of the mindslavers. Nothing else of this time can succeed against the Fleet."

  "Excuse me, T'Lan," said the red ball. "But if we destroyed the last of the mindslavers, what is that behind you?"

  T'Lan spun around, looking out the armorglass wall. Mindslavers filled space as far as he could see, all the way to the distant shimmer of K'Ronar's atmosphere. His conversation forgotten, he ran for the bridge as the battle klaxon sounded. He was almost there when his long life ended in the fireball that consumed his ship.

  Admiral Lord R'Tak was confused. He'd taken the Twelfth outsystem in one massed jump, heading for Red Seven to crush the heart of the Machine Revolt. But instead of some miserable agro planet, K'Ronar filled his screens.

  "S'Lak," he said, turning to his senior captain. "What the seven hells happened?"

  "Checking," she said
, sifting through a wealth of conflicting data. "The new drive seems unsuitable for mass ship jumps," she reported after a moment.

  "I could have reached that conclusion without the computers," said the admiral.

  "There are several thousand machine-crewed ships turning Prime Base into rubble," continued S'Lak.

  Admiral Lord R'Tak came out of his chair. "Seven hells! How did they pass Line?"

  "No data," said S'Lak. "But they are silicon-life crewed, though of unknown configuration. Also," she hesitated. "Also, celestial readings show us to be about fifteen thousand years downtime."

  "Absurd," said the admiral, resuming his chair. "All ships to run wide-pattern instrument diagnostics-after we clean up. Direct all captains to trust only what they can see." As he spoke, a holovid of the Combine attack on Prime Base came to life in the center of the bridge. "And what I see, S'Lak," said the admiral, pointing at the holovid, "is a lot of hostiles pounding the shit out of us. Blow them away. And get me Operations -someone's going to pay for this."

  "Commodore! Everyone! Come quick!"

  The call brought A'Wal and his pickup infantry platoon charging into the operations area, expecting a rush of security blades.

  "Look!" said an excited young subcom-mander, pointing at the main screen. What they saw was a computer enchancement, taken from several hundred satellites and instantly processed into the exploding panorama of space war: the great black bulk of a mindslaver plowing through a long line of Combine cruisers stacked neatly in bombardment orbit, the slaver's massive fusion beams exploding AI ships in its wake like so many target drones; another mindslaver holding orbit over Prime Base, ignoring the beams and missiles thrown at it by half a hundred Combine ships as it sent a host of fine, blue beams knifing into the stratosphere-blue beams that flashed again and again through the pall of smoke over Prime Base, each salvo raking a cubic kilometer of blades. Wherever a beam touched, a blade died, its molten remains cascading to the ground in flaming scarlet droplets. Seen on the FleetOps vidscan, it looked as if whole sections of sky were raining blood on the burning ruins of Prime Base.

  "Posts, everyone," called A'Wal, sliding the blastrifle on top of a console and taking his station.

  "Tentative identification of unknown ships," reported computer. "The Twelfth Fleet of the House of S'Yal, reported lost through a jump anomaly fifteen thousand years ago."

  "Sir," said a voice in A'Wal's earpiece. "Someone identifying himself as Admiral Lord R'Tak is hailing us on one of the old

  Imperial Fleet frequencies. He says unless we acknowledge immediately he will assume Operations to be under hostile control and will open fire on us."

  "Computer," said A'Wal, his elation of a moment ago replaced by a cold dread, "identify Admiral Lord R'Tak."

  "R'Tak, J'Kor, First Baron of N'Kar, born…"

  "Salient summation," hissed the commodore.

  "A ruthless, powerful man, first cousin to the Emperor S'Yal, third in line of succession. S'Yal's chief executioner, commander of S'Yal's personal fleet, chief architect of the slaughter of a machine culture that had been evolving for over three thousand years. Nickname: the Butcher."

  "Commodore, this is Line," said a new voice. "Delay the lord admiral as long as possible."

  "What good…" began A'Wal.

  "Commodore," said a nervous voice. "The slaver fleet's interfaced our commlink with their battleops-I'm listening to the firing commands go out now."

  "Put the lord admiral on-no video. Understood?"

  "Affirmative, Commodore. No video."

  "S'Gala-is that you?" came the Butcher's voice.

  "S'Gala, Admiral First, Imperial Battle

  Command," said computer, its voice replacing the Admiral's for an instant.

  "Affirmative, My Lord Admiral," said A'Wal, trying to sound like an Academy plebe.

  "What the hell happened?"

  "The enemy somehow by: passed Line, My Lord. You see the results on your tacscan."

  On the flagship, R'Tak frowned as a security flag appeared on his commscreen, blinking furiously: not s'gala. voiceprint not on file.

  "S'Lak," he said to his captain. "Operations is in hostile hands-open fire. Commofficer, get me the Emperor."

  "Line, please," pleaded Admiral L'Guan.

  D'Trelna picked up the suddenly beeping headset and listened. "An Admiral Lord R'Tak demands to speak with the Emperor," he said.

  "The Twelfth Fleet has returned," said Assault Captain S'Kur.

  D'Trelna pressed the commkey. "Sorry. He's not here. May I take a message?" He grimaced in pain at the squeal of a disconnect. "Rude," he said, replacing the headset. "Whatever happens, it's out of our hands now.

  "Why aren't you dead?" he said to S'Kur as L'Wrona finished dressing the Guard officer's wound.

  "Sorry to disappoint you, Commodore," said S'Kur, slipping his good arm back into his tunic.

  "The radiation from the blaster hit," said Line through D'Trelna's communit. "It's the only variable.

  "Advise if ready to return," it added.

  "Bring us up," said D'Trelna.

  An instant later only corpses held the last citadel.

  "S'Lak, open fire. Now."

  Not receiving any answer, Admiral R'Tak turned from his console to see Captain S'Lak and her entire bridge crew fading into transparency, disappearing even as he stood, reaching out-only to see through his own hand as he, too, faded away, his last despairing cry unheard.

  24

  The warning sounded from every annunciator on Devastator's bridge:

  "By Order of the Fleet of the One, this system is under interdict. Withdraw or be destroyed. Repeat: This system is under interdict…"

  "Get us out of here, please," pleaded Yarin. He turned to Guan-Sharick. "You seem to be in charge-do something."

  A planet appeared on the main screen, a world of blue seas and brown continents, wreathed in clouds. It wasn't the planet, though, that held everyone's attention, but the energy web surrounding it, a yellow latticework of fusion beams stretching between the orbital forts that surrounded the planet.

  "What would you have me do, Yarin?" said the blonde. "Argue with million-year-old automatic defenses? If we pass between those energy lines, the ship will be vaporized. If we stay here, those forts will open fire." A close scan of a fort replaced the planet on the screen. Black, unlit, it sat behind the faint blue shimmer of its shield, bristling with weapons batteries, an ancient killer that had destroyed everything ever sent against it. "Yarin!"

  The group on the command tier turned in time to see Ulka crumple to the deck, hand clutching his throat.

  "Don't touch him!" Guan-Sharick disappeared from the command tier and was kneeling beside the prone Qalian. The red-bearded miner was thrashing, tongue protruding, eyes bulging as he tried to get air to his lungs. A final convulsion tore a death rattle from the giant's throat-he twitched once and lay still.

  "Stay away!" ordered the transmute as Yarin's friends stepped forward. She pointed to the dead man's tongue, black and covered with sores. "Plague. Yarin," she said, taking a syringe from her belt pouch. "Tell them to go to their quarters and stay there, each one away from the other." Inserting the syringe into Ulka's jugular, she carefully extracted a blood sample.

  Grim-faced, Yarin started to translate. He got as far as "Plague" when the Qalians turned and bolted from the bridge.

  "Where the hell are they going?" said John, pointing after the running Qalians.

  "To their ships," said Yarin.

  "They'll spread that virus everywhere," said K'Raoda, turning for the main gunnery console. "They have to be stopped."

  "Don't bother, Commander." Guan-Sharick stood. Taking a med analyzer from her pouch, she placed it on top of a console and injected the blood sample into the specimen aperture. After a moment, the results came up on the unit's screen. "It's too late."

  "What do you mean?" asked Yarin. With the others, he stood well away from the dead man.

  The transmute held up the me
danalyzer. "This is generic plague bacillus-the same one the Fleet of the One used on the Trel, a million years ago. It's mutated now and is attacking humans-with, I think, one intermediate step." She looked at Yarin. "You didn't drive the AIs from their home, did you, Yarin? They're fleeing-fleeing this microscopic killer. Your men contracted it when they stormed the AI rearguard, didn't they?''

  His face very pale, Yarin sank into a chair, nodding. "They were dying-dying by the millions-no problem at all, wiping out their remnants. Then our people started dying -none of mine, though. We captured some of their medics-they said what you did, that it was a generic bacillus, lab-bred to adapt to and destroy any lifeform- silicon, carbon, whatever."

  "You didn't believe them, of course?" said the transmute, setting the analyzer back down.

  Yarin shook his head. "No," he said quietly.

  Outside, unnoticed, a score of trim little fighters flashed up over the bridge and through the shield.

  "It took a million years to attack the AIs," said Zahava.

  "No," said Guan-Sharick. "It probably lay dormant somewhere, until someone, AI or human, came into contact with it."

  'Then the Fleet of the One is a plague fleet," said K'Raoda.

  The blonde nodded. "And whether they win or not, that plague fleet will spread this invisible killer throughout your galaxy. It was bred for survival-it can survive anything from hard vacuum up to fusion fire. The entire Fleet of the One can be destroyed, but if only a single piece of wreckage with this virus on it lands on some planet, anywhere, it'll spawn and await its newest victims."

  "Surely there's an antidote," said John.

  "Yes." The blonde turned and pointed toward the main screen. "Down there's the antidote. All we have to do is live long enough to reach there-we have about eight hours, one watch-until the bacillus kills us."

  As she finished speaking, the orbital forts opened fire.

  2 5

  "Welcome home, my Lord," said Admiral L' Guan.

  D'Trelna and L'Wrona stood uncertainly to one side as N'Trol entered Line's command center.