For political expediency, he was an Imperial-"Restore the Empire, restore our strength!" Secretly he loathed the movement and its leaders: jowly councilors, fascistic brother officers, unctuous politicos.
The Admiral had become a soldier because he was poor, and the only way up for a poor boy with smarts had been the Fleet. He'd worked hard, done well and risen slowly; they all had risen slowly till the S'Cotar came. When the war started, he'd been a commander with five ships that should have been scrap centuries before. Carefully hoarding his resources, L'Guan had distinguished himself in those first days by fighting sparingly, retreating slowly and buying time. Others-classmates, many-had died gallantly, throwing their lives away in suicide runs on the vastly superior S'Cotar fleets. Some few had broken and run.
One thing had led to another and now here he was, sending a lot of hard-nosed kids off to die because it really was the only way to win, to finally end it and take his men home. Most of his men.
L'Wrona received the attack order aboard one of the fifty assault boats orbiting between the fleet and lunar surface. "Take her in," he ordered the pilot. The stubby little craft banked, dropping toward the moon's dark side. Forty-nine other boats followed in W formation. After five thousand years the Imperial Guard, led by its hereditary Lord-Captain, was going into battle again. As the engines whined higher, L'Wrona recalled his briefing by the Admiral.
"So that's it, Commander. I'm risking the entire Commando to end this war. You're clear on your orders?" L'Guan's image filled Implacable''s bridge screen.
"Yes, sir. Leading the Fleet Commando, I'm to assault a Class One Imperial Citadel, fight my way down two miles to POCSYM's Central Control area and secure it. I'm then to quickly repair any damage done to vital systems by S'Cotar sabotage and activate the biofab destruct sequence, thus killing the S'Cotar and winning the war.
"Also," he continued in the same sardonic tone, "should anything go wrong-how could it, though?-there are no reserves to save us.
"Lastly, no one has mentioned our returning."
"At least you have no illusions, Commander My-Lord-Cap-tain," said the Admiral with a humorless grin. "POCSYM will get you through the shield, keeping it open for us to give you some surface cover. After that you're on your own. I'm sending over a briefing scan, furnished by POCSYM. It shows the way to his area, defenses, probable ambush points. It's very thorough."
"Thank you, Admiral."
"I knew your father, the late Margrave," continued L'Guan after a moment's hesitation. ' 'We served together as ensigns- God!-thirty years ago, during the A'Rem 'police action.'"
L'Wrona nodded, a melancholy smile tugging at his lips. "He spoke of you often, sir. And of his days on the old Steadfast under Captain B'Tul."
"What a tub she was, L'Wrona!" He smiled broadly, old memories briefly wiping away his worries. "Worst destroyer in a fleet of derelicts. And B'Tul, that old martinet! Your father and I once let a F'Norian stinkbird loose in his cabin. What an uproar! Had us at battlestations for two days." His smile faded.
"I was grieved when I heard of his death, Commander," he added simply, the old hurt in his eyes not visible in the screen.
"He died well, sir," said L'Wrona with quiet pride. "Leading the counterattack on a S'Cotar bridgehead. He was cut down from behind by transmutes appearing as Planetary Guardsmen."
"That was a black day for all of us. You held the U'Tria port, I recall, long enough for survivors to escape."
"They didn't clear the atmosphere, Admiral. Enemy interceptors were everywhere." The younger man's face was expressionless.
"May we all do better today. The command is yours, Commander My Lord Captain L'Wrona," L'Guan said formally, saluting. "Bring them hell."
A sharp jolt broke the Commander's reverie. "Ground defenses have opened up." The pilot's voice sounded thinly over the commnet.
"It would have been better if you'd stayed behind," said L'Wrona, turning to the three figures strapped next to him in the boat's crash webbing. The rest of the boat's contingent were similarly suspended, a nest of warsuited spiders. The assault boats had no room for such frills as gravity generators or g-chairs.
"John's down there," said Zahava, tightening a strap. "But I do agree that Bill and Andre shouldn't be here-they're too old."
"I'm not too old," Sutherland said, his glare filtered out by the helmet's tint. "I jog two miles every morning. Besides, if I live through this, I can go on the lecture circuit, write my own ticket.'' Another sharp jolt interrupted him, swinging the passengers in their webs. "If I live through this," he repeated less certainly.
"I admit I'm too old," said Bakunin, hanging next to Sutherland. "I should be in my modest office at Three Dhzershinsky Square-it has a view of the Lubyanka-reading reports and ogling my secretary's legs."
"Then why the hell are you here?" Sutherland asked peevishly, the boat's evasive maneuvers beginning to affect his stomach. "The Order of Lenin?"
"The order of Comrade General Branovsky, Bill. Recall that we're the only Terrans allowed aboard the Fleet, pending a formal exchange of ambassadors…"
Sutherland gave a derisive snort. "The secret selection squabble at the UN could go on forever. Maybe we should ask POCSYM to build us a Terran ambassador acceptable to all Terrans!
"I'm sorry. You were saying?"
"That I'm here both to show the hammer-and-sickle and to keep an eye on you. The head of my Directorate told me, explicitly, what would become of me if you, capitalist lackey, went without me anywhere in the Fleet. The General's a Stalinist with a gift for vivid imagery. Thus we've toured a score of ships together and are now embarked on this pleasant excursion."
Another near hit shook the boat.
"Missile," noted L'Wrona, calmly checking his blaster.
"Two minutes to target, Commander," the pilot called. "We're through the shield. I have the landing zone in sight."
"Attention, all boats," said L'Wrona. "Two minutes to target. Subcommanders, get your sections in position on the double. We've got to follow through on Fleet's salvo, overcome any outside resistance and enter the citadel before the enemy rallies.
"Good luck.
"And you three," he added to the Terrans, "stay close to me."
****
Deep within the citadel lay Defense Control, nestled behind ten-foot walls of battlesteel, accessible only by teleport or transport. Tier upon tier of consoles filled the bowl-shaped room, screens flickering above them.
Gaun-Sharick arrived, answering an urgent summons.
They appear to be enemy scout craft, Glorious, reported the Watch Leader, antennae wavering uncertainly. But that formation is unknown to us.
Commando attack craft, replied Gaun-Sharick, watching a telltale. The ion emission patterns are the same. And that's an Imperial assault formation. Note the double prongs. Idiots.
Sound the alert. Reinforce our warriors in POCSYM's area. Signal all batteries to open fire.
The alarm went out, orders and responses flashing back and forth. Unwelcomed responses.
Impedance on all command-control circuits, Glorious. We cannot fire.
POCSYM. It was a dry curse. Shield status?
Maximum.
Start recircuiting missile batteries nearest Sector Red Twelve. They'll be trying for POCSYM's area.
New orders were issued. Nearer the surface, in hardened defense clusters, technicians began the laborious task of recalibrating scores of shipbuster batteries.
Have no concern, Glorious. The shield will stop them. If they tarry too long before retreating, we will have enough firepower to destroy them.
Perhaps. Carry on, Watch Leader. I'm going to Barracks Cluster Blue Thirty to oversee the reinforcing of Red Twelve.
Nothing happened. Gaun-Sharick remained where he was, unmoving. Then his thoughts came to every S'Cotar in the citadel.
Do not be alarmed. Some of our special ability is temporarily blocked. We of Command will soon remove the impediment.
Swarm Leaders, Blue
Thirty, move your forces into Red Twelve. Use the old tube system. A human assault force is trying to reach POCSYM's Central Control. Kill them.
Surface Guard, Red Twelve, deploy.
Missiles firing in Red Twelve, Glorious. The Watch Leader's tentacles flew over his console. Counter jamming now. Telekinesis will be restored soon.
On thousands o? channels, in ever-changing codes, creator and created fought.
****
The boats landed close to each other, churning up the dust in the small lunar valley. The webbing automatically retracted, the bulkheads dropping away. All but engines and pilot modules lay open to the vacuum.
"Deploy," barked L'Wrona, leading the rush to the nearest cover. In three minutes the one thousand men of his command were in position, a long, thin line of silver-suited figures extending along the base of a ridge.
L'Wrona signaled the advance. Reaching the ridge's crest in a series of practiced, graceful leaps, the troopers threw themselves prone in the ancient dust. Awkward, bounding at first in every direction, the three Terrans eventually reached the top, their bodies still uncertain in the light lunar gravity.
Below the humans lay a large box canyon. Suited figures with too many limbs moved from the far end, emerging from an entrance in the farthest wall. As the humans watched, more warriors poured into the canyon, leaping to take up positions on the flanking ridges-one of which now had human tenants.
"Hot time in the ol' town tonight," a voice murmured.
"Mr. Sutherland, your communicator's open," said L'Wrona. "Admiral, we're in position."
"Acknowledged," came L'Guan's voice. "Commencing fire."
Those who looked up saw a brilliant beam of red flash down from space. Stayed by an invisible hand, it halted a mile above the canyon. Hesitating briefly, the S'Cotar continued their advance, still unaware of the commandos.
More beams joined the first, forming a great cone of energy whose focal point began to glow-red, crimson, finally cherry. Too late the biofabs turned, scurrying back toward the
In a soundless blast of showering rock, the fusion beams won through, becoming a hundred dancing spears that touched the S'Cotar surface guard, then vanished.
Nothing moved in the canyon.
L'Wrona stood, a lone silver man shining in silhouette against the rising Earth's soft pastels. Lying in the dust, Sutherland watched as the Commander raised the long-barreled blaster above his head. Despite his helmet's darkened glass, Bill had to squint against the fierce golden reflection from the inlay just below the weapon's safety: crossed swords beneath a five-pointed star, a device soft-burnished by the hands of the Margraves of U'Tria.
A young Daniel come to judgment, thought Sutherland even as L'Wrona cried, "Assault!" his voice long, wavering. It sounded to Bill more like an invocation than an order.
Gaining the canyon floor in a few long leaps, the humans passed the S'Cotar's ashes, heading for the gate. At a hundred yards, L'Wrona halted his command with raised pistol. "Admiral, the gate, please."
A quick red lancet bored through the thick battlesteel, leaving behind a smoldering hole. Beyond stretched an empty corridor, most of its lighting still functioning.
A scream whirled the troopers about. Not all the biofabs had died in the bombardment. A hidden squad had sprung up, surprising the rear guard. Three men died before the massive return fire swept the warriors away.
L'Wrona turned back to the entrance. Blaster leveled, he warily entered the citadel.
There were no side corridors, the commandos found as they advanced; just the main one, leading to a very large elevator. "Ship lift," observed L'Wrona. "Too small for anything the S'Cotar have. Imperial Survey probably used it last. Let's see if it works." He pushed the call button.
The elevator arrived quickly, mammoth doors sliding noiselessly open. It was empty. The blasters raised to greet it slowly lowered.
"V'Arta," said the Commander, "remain here with your section to cover our withdrawal." His friend nodded, then began organizing the hundred men of C Section into a defense ring around the lift.
"H'Nar," said Zahava, laying a restraining hand on L'Wrona's shoulder, "how do you know the elevator isn't booby-trapped?''
"I don't," he said, stepping into the elevator. The first section trooped in past him. "I count on the S'Cotar's arrogance. They'd never have thought we could penetrate their home base. Time is short, Zahava. Coming?" The Terrans boarded.
The descent was rapid, uneventful, the levels flashing by on the big overhead indicator-levels marked not in S'Cotar, but in a large, unical script Zahava found she understood. "High K'Ronarin," L'Wrona explained. "The mother tongue of us all. K'Raoda thinks your own Indo-European root language one of its descendants."
"There are over two hundred levels so far!" exclaimed Bakunin.
"It was an Imperial Citadel, Colonel, not a granary," said the Commander.
"Positions," he ordered as the lift began to slow. "This should be POCSYM's level."
The commandos fell into three ranks-prone, kneeling, standing-and took careful aim as the elevator stopped. The shooting started even before the doors opened. Blue and red bolts sizzled past each other, tearing into the opposing ranks. Blasters whining, men screaming, biofabs hissing, the cloying stench of burnt flesh and everywhere the light: the beautiful killing light from the weapons, the rippling, rainbow aura of warsuits failing.
Bill had believed nothing could be as bad as that last battle under Goose Hill. He was wrong. This was an interminable moment of hell, a battle tableau from the art of Bosch or Floris.
L'Wrona brought them out of it, leading a charge into the biofabs, firing and clubbing with his pistol, stabbing with his knife. Short and vicious, the fight ended with the few surviving S'Cotar breaking for the safety of a cross-corridor. None made it.
"Without these warsuits, they'd be feasting on our corpses now," L'Wrona commented to Zahava as the humans regrouped and evacuated their wounded. The remainder of their force had now joined them.
"Do they really eat… us?" she asked, skeptical.
The K'Ronarin gazed for a moment at the heaped biofab remains, then led Zahava by the hand to one particular body. A well-aimed shot had ended the warrior's life, shattering its abdominal sack and deepening the viscous green slime covering the floor. Rolling the corpse over with his foot, L'Wrona pointed at a string of withered objects strung about the shorf neck. Zahava leaned closer, peering.
"Baby's feet!" she gasped, recoiling.
"Human infants are especially prized as a delicacy by the S'Cotar," said the officer, turning and walking away. "The necklace is a symbol of wealth and status. Maybe that was the commander of our reception party.
"Let's get moving before they counterattack.
"Section leaders, move your sections out on the double."
****
The golden, hovering sphere wavered twice before blinking out for good. D'Trelna spoke hopefully into his communicator. "POCSYM?"
"… jam… cations… right… next…"
"Great. We've lost our guide," said John, looking down the long empty corridor. He counted fifteen cross-corridors in just the next half mile.
"D'Trelna to L'Wrona. Do you receive?"
Static filled the commnet.
"Jamming all right," grunted the Captain. "Sounded like POCSYM said 'next right.'"
The next right led down a narrow, curving corridor that ended at a door marked in the cursive S'Cotar script.
"Can you read that?" asked the Terran.
"'Spare Parts'… No." D'Trelna's brow wrinkled in concentration. "'Food Storage.' Maybe." He shook his head.
"Sorry I asked. Shall we take a look?"
John leading, they burst through the door. It was pitch-black inside. And cold. Very, very cold.
"Must be food storage," whispered the K'Ronarin. "Something wrong with the light activator? Ah!" he exclaimed as brilliant light flooded the room.
As long as he lived, John never forgot the shock of Greg
Farnesworth's dead blue eyes staring into his own, inches away. His friend's naked corpse hung head down from the ceiling, wires through its feet running up to a simple block-and-tackle system. Dazedly, John stepped back, looking about the "storage" room.
Cindy's body-the Cindy Greg had never known-hung to the geologist's right. Behind them were Fred Langston's and over a hundred other corpses, all hanging like cattle in a slaughterhouse. Only Greg's cause of death was apparent: the hideous stomach wound from the Nasqa raid.
"Why?" John managed, finding his voice. His breath hung steaming in the frigid air. "Why take his body-anyone's body-and bring it here?"
Less shaken, D'Trelna noticed it first. "They've all been brainstripped," he said with quiet horror. Now John saw it: the craniums had been neatly removed and the brains scooped out.
Harrison had survived much of war's meanness: Indochina with its napalmed children; nameless, massacred villages; pungi-staked GIs. He'd been with the South Africans when they'd raided across their border, an observer powerless in the face of infanticide, gang rape and throat slitting. John thought himself inured to man's bestiality. But this was a higher order of evil, an alien horror of unknown purpose. Choking back a throatful of bile, he turned to D'Trelna. "Why brainstrip them? Why save the bodies?"
"First, how," said the Captain. "POCSYM just transports the entire Institute staff here one quiet afternoon, instantly replacing them with S'Cotar transmutes. Like that." He snapped a blunt finger.
"How'd you know they were from the Institute, J'Quel?" John asked softly. The K'Ronarin smiled to find himself staring down the wide bore of the Terran's blaster.
"You may just survive this war, my friend." He nodded approvingly.
"On the way here, you explained that the guise Gaun-Sharick took on the catwalk was that of the Leurre Institute's Director. When I saw the same face hanging from that meat hook over there, I drew the logical conclusion.
"Now"-he smiled-"would you mind pointing that blaster elsewhere? The M-Eleven-A has a notoriously delicate trigger, and your S'Cotar alarm is not signaling."
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