“I’d give you mine, Jaquel, but she’s gone,” smiled Lawrona, stepping into the grotto, commwand held high.
“Hanar!” cried Detrelna, embracing the captain in a bear hug that made Lawrona protest, “Jaquel … !”
“Sorry,” said the commodore, gripping him by the shoulders and stepping back. “Matter transporter again,” he said, letting go.
“Matter transporter,” confirmed Laguan, joining them.
“The same ‘lost’ transporter technology we were sent to find during the Biofab War, Hanar,” said Detrelna, turning to Laguan. “Something the admiral’s declined to explain.”
“Admiral, you owe us an explanation,” said Lawrona.
“No I don’t. Be grateful Line saved your ass. But”—he held up a hand—“I’ll give you one. We sent you far from the war to protect precious cargo from harm. That you stumbled into a vipers’ nest—many of them—had us all biting our nails.”
“‘Precious cargo?’” asked Detrelna.
“Human cargo. The last hope of this dying republic, and, oddly, an aristocrat—though he hides it a bit too well.”
“The Heir,” said Lawrona wonderingly. “You put the Heir Apparent on Implacable.”
“He pulls his own weight.”
“I thought the Heir was the Margrave of Simtak?” said Detrelna.
“That kindly old gentleman and his family are a fraud,” said the admiral. “A false family tree planted long ago to disguise the real descent from the Throne. That the AIs haven’t taken him out either means they’re ignorant of our laws—unlikely—or have correctly gauged Lord Simtak’s princely abilities.”
“My father often said Simtak was an idiot.”
“Your father was a man of firm opinions, Lawrona,” said Laguan.
“My mother agreed. Who’s the Heir?”
“Wait!” said Detrelna. “Why did you assign him to Implacable? Our missions were always dangerous.”
“You weren’t supposed to be in the thick of it. We thought he’d be safe on your absurd mission to hunt down pre-Fall technology, far from the action.”
“Such a vote of confidence,” said the commodore.
“No offense, Detrelna, but you were an unorthodox reserve officer with a lackadaisical regard for chain-of-command and Fleet tradition. You were also one of our finest star ship skippers. All of which put you at the top of the list to take the Heir and go elsewhere. And he may die yet.”
“Who?” they both asked.
Laguan laughed and refilled his empty glass. “A toast, gentlemen, to the last of a great house: Kyan, sixth of that name, Heir Apparent to the Sceptered Throne, Hereditary Commander of the Founding Fleet, Guardian of the Imperial Marches …”
“Who?!”
The admiral spoke a name.
“No!” said Lawrona. “He’s insufferably arrogant.”
“Some might say that of you, Captain,” grinned Laguan.
“We’re doomed,” said Detrelna. “He’s an irresponsible misanthrope. Oh, technically competent, brilliant even, but …”
“They say that of you, too, Detrelna,” noted the admiral.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Line. “The Fleet of the One has entered Quadrant Blue 9. The mindslavers are engaging them.”
Chapter 18
“How are you feeling, Yidan?” asked a familiar voice.
Feeling? thought Kotran drowsily. Stupid woman. I don’t feel anymore.
A rough hand shook his shoulder. “Stand to, sir!” called a man’s voice. “For your Emperor, your gods and your Fleet!”
“Pompous asshole,” said Kotran, opening his eyes.
“I thought that’d bring you around,” said Natrol, looking down on the medcot.
“How are you, Yidan?” asked Atir, stepping into Kotran’s field of vision.
“I don’t know, Number One,” he managed, surprised by the hoarse croak of his voice.” His feet weren’t his, he saw—chunky, pale and hairless, with blunt square toes and high arches. He sat up slowly and looked over the rest of his naked body, feeling his face. “This is not me,” he said carefully.
“Before escaping, the last Ractolian destroyed your body.”
“And who the hell are you?” asked Kotran.
“You know us. We’re the master computers, the cybernetic heart of the Founding Fleet.”
“I want my body back,” said Kotran, looking from Atir to Natrol.
“It’s carbonized dust,” said the machines. “We’ve given you the body of an Imperial Marine lieutenant whose brain was destroyed in stasis flux. We would point out, Captain Kotran, that this body is twenty years younger than your original, perhaps more aesthetically pleasing, and in excellent condition. And to help you overcome your loss, we’ve enhanced the genitals.”
The shock fading, Kotran looked down again. “Oh.”
“We can live with it, Yidan,” said Atir, following his gaze.
Natrol cleared his throat. “Kotran, we’ve got about a half watch to prepare this fleet for battle. Please cover your splendid new self.” He tossed a bundle of clothes at the corsair captain. “You’re needed on the bridge.”
“You’re Implacable’s engineer,” said Kotran, pulling on a pair of pants. “Natrol. You death-tripped my ship off Terra.” He slipped on the matching shirt, frowning at the single gleaming comet on the collar. “This is an admiral’s uniform.” His new voice disconcerted him—it was too deep, and somehow made his polished, old-line Academy intonation sound affected.
Natrol nodded. “Win this battle, all your crimes are pardoned and that rank is permanent.”
“Who are you to go around handing out a dead empire’s rewards, Engineer?” asked Kotran, sitting to pull on the boots.
“You once held a commission. Remember how it began?”
“Of course: ‘The Commissioners of the Fleet, acting for His Grace the Emperor, do hereby appoint you … ’ What, you’re the Emperor?”
“Maybe. If we win. If not Kotran, well, you died an admiral.”
Kotran stood, looking around the mindslaver’s sickbay. It was immense, seemingly going on forever: row upon row of medcots, all occupied. Kotran looked back at Natrol “You’re restoring them all.”
“On this and all the mindslavers. To avoid bedlam each brain in its brainpod is being briefed and given an option—fight or remain offline until after the battle. Every dynasty since the Fifth is represented here, plus people taken from ships and lost colonies in Blue 9.” He turned back to Kotran. “Now, sir, will you stand with us or await the outcome?”
“If you win, and I haven’t fought?”
Natrol shrugged. “You’ll be tried by the Fleet you betrayed and given Loser’s Options—hanging, firing squad, poison, spacing. If you groveled, you might only be mindwiped.”
Kotran clenched a large new hand to his breast and bowed. “An honor to serve you, My Lord.”
“You see what they’re doing?” said Admiral Laguan, pointing. He, Detrelna and Lawrona stood looking at a projection of a slice of space inside Line’s perimeter. Combine Telan cruisers were taking up station over Prime Base.
“They wouldn’t dare,” said Lawrona.
“Why not? Fleet’s scattered throughout the Confederation. Those silicon slime know Line can’t fire on Kronar. And with FleetOps in Dassan’s pocket, no one’s going to recall so much as a minesweeper.”
“Sir, I think you underestimate the integrity of most FleetOps’ personnel.”
“Perhaps,” said Laguan. “But with no Fleet, FleetOps is just a hole in the sand.”
“What if the Fleet were recalled?” asked Detrelna, gaze shifting between Lawrona and the admiral.
“Line?” asked the admiral.
“Eighty percent return rate in one week,” said Line. “The balance scattered over a month. But Fleet may only issue a recall if the Council proclaims a state of siege.”
“Councilor Dassan will get behind that,” said Laguan.
“With your permission, Admiral?”
asked Lawrona, indicating a complink.
“Certainly. Work your arcane wizardry, Lawrona. Line will assist?”
“I will.”
“You can recall the Fleet?” asked Detrelna, astounded.
“Probably,” said Lawrona, touching a series of icons.
“You’ve so multi-faceted, Hanar.”
“I am.”
“If you’ll stop shouting, I’ll try to explain,” said the tech officer.
Commodore Awal stopped shouting. “Explain.” Beyond his office’s armorglass wall FleetOps was chaos—officers running like frenzied insects from station to station, frantically issuing and reissuing unheeded instructions to units scattered across the galaxy, the worried faces of flotilla and sector commanders in the skipcomm screens.
“All of our machines are Imperial,” said the tech officer, running a hand through his hair. He pointed to the operations area. “Everything out there down to the luminesce panels is as it’s been for thousands of years, except some of it no longer works as well.”
“I know this.” Awal sat on the edge of his desk, arms folded. “So?”
“No one’s rewritten the machine instructions since the Fall. We know their programming code, but we don’t have their security protocols. One misstep …”
“And we might wipe all our command-and-control systems,” said Awal, eyeing the operations area. The tech officer turned, following his gaze—Admiral Ital was having a shout-out over the skipcomm with an admiral second. Ital ended it, stabbing an angry finger at the younger officer and hitting End. He sank into his chair, shaking his head.
The tech officer and Awal returned to their discussion. “You remember Implacable’s encounter with Imperial machine code and that stasis algorithm out in Blue 9?”
The commlink on Awal’s desk began to chirp. He ignored it. “Tell me quickly, Commander. Why are over eight thousand ships racing here—corsairs as well as Fleet? Why can’t their crews stop them?”
“Someone’s bypassed our programming overlay—someone with Imperial master overrides. They’ve activated a module not used since the Fall.”
“The Recall.”
“Yes, sir. They had access to Fleet communications and knowledge sacred to an Imperial dynasty. If our crews tamper with the recall programming, their jump drives may self-destruct.”
“Crazy paranoid Imperials.” There was a loud knock on Awal’s door. He ignored it. “Who and why?”
“Who? The Heir having no access …”
Awal held up a forefinger. “Assume nothing.”
The tech officer raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
Awal shrugged. “Vague rumors that the sweet old Margrave of Simtak isn’t the Heir.” The knocking had stopped, but not the commlink’s chirping.
“The Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard? Except that he’s dead.” He saw something in Awal’s eyes. “Don’t assume that either?”
With a hiss and a pop of shorted electronics, the office door slid open. Stepping past a tech and her tools, Admiral Ital came in. “I need you out there, Awal. There’s an invasion warning on an old Imperial watch frequency.”
“Is it authenticated?” asked the commodore, hurrying with the admiral onto the operations floor. An air of tension and quiet purpose pervaded FleetOps, brown-uniformed staff intent on their work.
“Archival match,” said the admiral. “Imperial battlecode of the House of Kyan, coming from a mindslaver fleet off the Rift—a fleet allegedly commanded by one Admiral Yidan Kotran.”
“If he’s an admiral, I’m The Heir. A mindslave-corsair commanding a fleet of the dead and the damned—the Final Days are upon us. What’s ‘Admiral’ Kotran’s evidence, if any?”
“If his data’s to be believed—and if it’s faked, it’s very good,” said Ital, “about ten thousand AI battleglobes have just entered Blue 9. More follow, possibly their entire fleet. If we survive the next few hours, I’ll worry about them.”
“Sir?”
Ital nodded at the status board. Red blips were swarming between Line and Kronar. “Combine Telan’s about to attack us. Coincidence? We’re gathering our pathetic handful of ships backside of the planet from them.”
“Now’s when I’d start recalling our ships,” said the admiral. “But someone’s already done that for us and so much faster.”
“Sir,” said Ital’s aide. “Commander Prime Base advises Councilor Dassan has Council sanction to relieve you of command.”
“What a compliment—I must be doing something right. Who’s to relieve me?”
“Admiral Gyar. He’s holding for you.”
“Let’s surrender before he does,” said Awal. “He’s a former senior official of Combine Telan.”
“Erlin, are you and Line following this?” asked Ital of the Grand Admiral.
“Avidly,” said Laguan, face appearing in the Ital’s commscreen. “Get me a signal lock on Gyar—I’ll see what we can do.”
Admiral Gyar’s long petulant face replaced Laguan’s in the commscreen. “Ital, you stand relieved. Fleet’s to take no actions insystem until I’m there.” He was wearing a brocaded house robe.
“Gyar, you step in here, I’ll shoot you dead,” said Ital mildly.
“Commodore Awal!” snapped Gyar, face choleric. “Relieve Admiral Ital and place him under arrest!”
“The admiral was shooting corsairs and biofabs while you were kissing AI ass, Gyar,” said Awal. “He will kill you. And then we’ll dissect you looking for silicon.”
“Mutinous scum! FleetOps will be taken by storm if necessary. Any of your people who want leniency …” The admiral disappeared in mid-threat, leaving only his capacious living room in the scan.
“With his money, you’d think he’d have better furnishings,” said Ital disapprovingly. “Did you do that, Erlin?”
The Grand Admiral’s face reappeared in the commscreen. “No. Line did. Gyar’s with friends.”
“Jettison that,” said Goodman Telan, dropping Gyar’s twisted body onto the deck of his bridge. “And commence the attack.”
“Enemy locking on weapons and launching assault craft,” reported Awal. “Commander Prime Base requests permission to fire.”
“Permission granted,” said Ital. “Independent fire, fire at will. Alert all commands air and ground assault imminent. Deploy commandos and Planetary Guard. Fleet regulars and reservists to Rally Points, civilians to bombardment shelters. Commodore, on my authority—Invasion Alert. Advise readiness by planetary and quadrant command. All Confederation forces will seize or destroy Combine Telan ships and installations wherever present.”
“May I suggest the true nature of Combine Telan be revealed?”
“Very well. Summarize Admiral Sagan and Detrelna’s reports from Blue 9 and put them out on Fleetcomm, Priority 1. And feed them to the civilian media with full video.”
“Those armed merchantmen,” said Laguan, turning from the war center’s battle board, “are going to be lunching in the Palace.”
“They don’t eat,” said Lawrona, reading the data trail.
“Hanar, where is Syal’s last citadel?” asked Detrelna.
“Under and around the dead riverbed of the R’Shen. The freeholder determined that even though the citadel sustained a full flotilla bombardment, its shielding held. It’s there now, shields still on, a perfect sphere walled by the molten rock congealed around it. And somewhere in it the means to recall the Twelfth Fleet.”
“Given time,” said Laguan, “an impressive budget and great care, we could probably chip it out.”
“We’ve got about one watch,” said Detrelna. “Line.”
“Commodore?”
“Could you transport Captain Lawrona and me to a point beneath Kronar’s surface?”
“With the understanding that the deeper it is the greater probability of replication error.”
“I’ll give you the coordinates,” said Lawrona. “We’d appreciate not arriving as leafy vegetables.”
“Mor
e an oozy red mush, Captain. I have the coordinates. You used one of my data ports to read the freeholder’s commwand.”
“You leech data everywhere, don’t you?” asked Detrelna.
“I’m a data omnivore, Commodore. Knowledge is my blood and data its heart.”
“It’s also power,” noted Detrelna.
“And the citadel’s depth?” asked Lawrona.
“Deep but doable. You should arrive intact. Your concurrence, Admiral?”
The two officers looked at Laguan. The admiral spread his hands. “What’s to lose?”
“Us?” suggested Lawrona
“I’d go with you if I could, Hanar,” sighed Laguan. “Your mother and I were friends, you know.”
“I know.”
“Do you? I so regret we’ve never served together. Draw what you want from Weapons and Stores, gentlemen, and luck to you.”
A moment after Line flitted them away, Invasion Alert sounded. “Quite a day,” said Laguan.
“I’ve independent corroboration from POCSYM Six’s satellite network, Admiral,” said Line. “The Fleet of the One is advancing through the Rift. The mindslavers are deploying to meet them.”
“They’ll be slaughtered.”
“May I remind the admiral that Yidan Kotran may now command the mindslavers?”
“Only if Implacable reached them and Atir got them to pull him back together.”
“She couldn’t, but the Heir could.”
“Why would he?” asked Laguan.
“Kotran’s a brilliant tactician. Lord Kyan knows this and could bend those mindslavers to his will.”
“Improbable, Line,” said Laguan, shaking his head. “Even if Kotran commanded those ships, they might take out some battleglobes and then they’d be slaughtered. And our ancient masters will arrive—probably to find Kronar a radioactive ruin and you and me still bickering. Will you end your haughty isolation?”
“No. My mission is mostly to say ‘No.’ The Heir was supposed to be here, giving direction.” Laguan looked up at the petulant tone. “He’d be here if he hadn’t been kidnapped. I have no other option than to wait, Admiral. You know how I’m built.”
“No one living knows how you’re built.” Laguan sank into his chair. “We’ll wait for your possible Emperor, Line—if those Combine ships leave us a future.”
Final Assault Page 13