Final Assault Page 12

  Chapter 16

  Ragal turned from the screen. “I don’t like this universe. If those nukes go off, we’ll be here for a very long time.” Behind him Devastator’s main bridge screen showed the ground action. Hargrove had sent a suicide squad up through a hidey-hole—they were raining hand grenades and machine pistol fire down on the SK sapper unit at the main entrance. Red 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, Gatling gun spewing death.

  Seen from the battleglobe’s bridge it was silent, colorful and deadly, bodies tumbling down the snowy slope or crumbling where they stood as though pantomiming death.

  “Get down there and clean that up,” ordered Ragal.

  “Who’s down there?” said Kiroda, 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 the ready now held survival suits, silver warsuits and gray field packs, black duraplast straps dangling over the edges. A rack of M32 rifles sat beside the double doors to the hangar.

  “Our old friends Admiral Hochmeister and Heather MacKenzie, about a thousand combatants and four hundred megatons of booby-trapped nuclear weapons.” Stopping by the arms rack, John slid back the retaining bar and picked up a rifle. Checking the charge indicator, he tossed it to Kiroda and took one for himself. “We’re going to reason with them.” He threw a bandolier of chargpaks over his shoulder.”

  “Negotiating tools.” Kiroda slammed home a chargpak and slung the rifle over his shoulder. Together they entered Rhode Island, as John had dubbed the smallest of Devastator’s hangar bays. Over five thousand AI assault craft lined the deck, triple-tiered, receding into the distance. Round and black, about forty meters in diameter and sprouting gun blisters, they carried AI blades into battle—three wedge-shaped meters of sapient, pitiless steel designed to slice and blast their way through enemies.

  The two walked quickly past the silent assault craft, steps echoing in time down the immense metal canyon. “Fifty hangars much like this on every battleglobe,” said Kiroda, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “That’s about two hundred and fifty thousand surface assault craft per battleglobe, times two hundred security blades per craft, time one hundred million battleglobes.” Kiroda raised a clenched fist over his head. “Stand fast, lads! Nothing can stop men who want to be free!”

  “Was that a parody of Lawrona?”

  “Probably. We’ve been together a long time.”

  “You know, I almost feel sorry for the AIs,” said John.

  Ahead of them a Kronarin Fleet shuttle sat center deck, silver among its black neighbors, an oblong craft on stubby struts, its passenger ramp extended. Sarel and Guan-Sharick stood talking as they approached.

  “Sorry for them? Why?” asked Kiroda.

  “For their disappointment, Tolei. Since forever they’ve been slavering at the bit to come after the Empire and all its darkly magical ships. The Empire and its magic are all but gone. It’s just us. Surely we’re not worth all the fuss.”

  “They’ll kill what they find—humanity. They fervently believe purging the universe of us will purge them of their hate. I know hate—it comes from within. Deprived of us, they’ll turn on each other. Too bad we won’t see that. Sarel, Guan-Sharick,” he nodded.

  “Let’s get down there before they blow themselves and our fuel up,” said Sarel, stepping up the ramp and into the shuttle as the others followed.

  “You haven’t shucked that old AI avarice, have you?” asked Guan-Sharick. “It’s not our fuel yet.”

  “Thanks for sharing your keen sense of morality,” said Sarel as Kiroda activated the flight controls.

  The ramp retracted, the shuttle rose and accelerated. Piercing the blue shimmer of the hangar’s forcefield, it soared through Devastator’s shield and was gone.

  Heather rose from the office floor, peering through the pale glow of the emergency lighting—no sign of Hochmeister. Automatic weapons fire rattled from the entrance tunnel, resonating in off the rock walls.

  Heather jerked open middle desk drawer—the self-destruct terminal was gone.

  Holding the pistol high and two-handed, she stepped into the corridor that ran past the offices to the tunnel entrance.

  Smoke and the dim flicker of flame filled the tunnel, thick tendrils of white smoke spreading slowly into the complex. Three men in ski jackets burst through the smoke, turning to fire their machine pistols back down the tunnel.

  Return fire ripped through them, tumbling their bodies to the ground as the first SK squad broke into the complex—six black-uniformed troopers leaping the dead defenders, charging for Heather. You’re not taking this rebel alive, she vowed, raising her pistol.

  A rough hand jerked her into a side corridor. Twisting free, Heather saw Hargrove, shirt blackened and torn, blood trickling down his face from a nasty scalp wound. “Run!” he said, jerking his head down the tunnel. He pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed it.

  Heather ran.

  The SK squad rounded the corner at a run. The explosion turned them into four corpses and two wounded, screaming men. Hargrove made it six corpses with two quick bursts from his minimac. “Come on!” he said catching up with Heather. Behind them, assault whistles shrilled as more SKs penetrated the Hole.

  “Bomb room,” said Heather as they ran. “Manual destruct.”

  “Cuckoos have entered the nest. Cuckoos have entered the nest,” came the amplified voice of Hargrove’s executive officer, echoing through the Hole. “White Dove to chicks. White Dove to chicks.”

  White Dove’s coming to hatch her chicks, thought Heather grimly, keeping up with Hargrove. From around the tunnel’s sheltering curve, the sound of pursuit grew closer.

  Futile, the whole damn project, she thought. And Hochmeister walking in as if strolling down the K’dam, slipping in through her oh-so-secret entrance. Betrayed, said the whisper she’d learned to trust, child of a broken nation in a treacherous world.

  They halted panting at an intersection. To their right, the original tunnel continued. Left, the remains of an old cave-in choked the passageway.

  Hargrove stopped, hands feeling along the side of a vertical support beam. With a sharp click the tumbled pile of stone rumbled into the wall. They hurried past, the barricade sliding back into place behind them. They were in the Nest.

  Where does a nuclear bomb sit? thought Heather. Anywhere it wants, she answered, looking down at four hundred kilograms of Plutonium 239, encased in fifteen dull blue shells of pure cobalt. They were fat jolly little bombs on which someone had painted fat little smiling faces, complete with jowls, sitting on their dollies in a semicircle around the room’s single console. The center bomb wore an unhappy frown—as it should, the dual terminals of a thin hard wire jammed up its broad nose.

  “Get to it, White Dove,” said Hargrove.

  “King’s bishop to White Dove four.” Admiral Hochmeister emerged from the shadows into the Nest’s center. “My game, I believe,” he said, hand on the console.

  “Not yet,” said Heather, firing three quick rounds into Hargrove’s back. He was dead before his face could mirror his surprise. “White Dove takes bishop’s knave,” said Heather, advancing, gun leveled. “Only he and I knew about our bolt hole, Admiral—and I sure as hell didn’t tell you.”

  “Look again,” said Hochmeister, nodding at the body.

  Heather risked a quick glance and stood transfixed: green, over six feet tall, tentacles extending from its shoulders, antennae on its head, mandibles where its mouth should be—a Scotar transmute lay dead on the floor, three large ugly holes through its thorax.

  “The bugs are back and you sold out.”

  He shook his head. “No. That was one of Guan-Sharick’s loyalists, working for me by mutual agreement. Very competent, but with a taste for expensive
cigars.”

  “That wasn’t illusion?”

  “I have the tobacconist’s receipts. My offer stands, MacKenzie.”

  “Step away from the console, Admiral.”

  “No,” he said as the barricade rumbling opening announced new visitors. “Ritter, kill her if she takes another step.”

  Heather turned. Colonel Ritter and three SKs stepped into the Nest.

  “Get your ordnance people in here, Colonel,” said Hochmeister as they took her gun.

  “When you opened the door, how many times did you push the button?” asked Heather as they tied her hands.

  “Twice.” Frowning, the admiral looked at the small green button atop the console, then back at Heather. “Nothing happened the first time.”

  “Baby chicks take all the Kaiser’s horses and all the Kaiser’s men,” she laughed. “When we’re on alert, that little green button becomes a booby trap—press once, it opens the door with five seconds delay. More than once …”

  “Destruct sequence activated,” said a recorded voice. “Mark thirty to destruct. Twenty-nine …”

  “Cut that cable!” Ritter ordered the three-man ordnance team coming down the stairs, packs in hand. He pointed at the line running from the console to the frowning bomb. As the first man touched the cable, a green laser beam shot from the wall, boring a neat hole in his chest. He crumpled at Hochmeister’s feet.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a deactivation code?” sighed the admiral.

  “‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi?’” suggested Heather.

  Colonel Ritter was shouting into his radio to find and cut the auxiliary power.

  Hochmeister smiled ruefully. “So sad we’re ending this way,” he said as the recording intoned “Fifteen …”

  Three figures appeared in the room’s center. Cursing, the SKs dropped their weapons as red lighting from Sarel’s eyes seared their machinepistols.

  “Three, two …” said the PA system as Guan-Sharick stared at the console. Console and bomb cable vanished.

  “Don’t shoot, Colonel,” ordered Hochmeister.

  Ritter raised his hand as more SKs rushed in.

  “Not that you’d get a shot off,” said Sarel, scanning the soldiers’ faces.

  “Never give up, do you Heather?” said John to the physicist-guerilla.

  “You’ve an uncanny knack for saving my ass, John. And you got here how? A nearby starship?”

  He nodded.

  “I envy you your adventures.” She thrust out her manacled hands. “The large feldwebel has the keys.” She pointed to a stone-faced sergeant. Taking his cue from Ritter, the NCO unlocked the handcuffs.

  “Whose side are you on, Mr. Harrison?” asked Hochmeister.

  “Our own,” said John. He nodded toward the blonde. “You’ve met Guan-Sharick.”

  Hochmeister bowed slightly. “Not in such comely guise. Your associate’s come to a bad end,” he said, indicating the dead Scotar by the stairs.

  The blonde shrugged. “We’re here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “Stalin once said the same thing to me. I refused.”

  “We’re taking all your reserved fissionable materials.”

  “What for?”

  “Fuel.”

  “What are you fueling—a small moon?”

  “A lethal one of battlesteel. It’s in orbit.”

  “Why tell us?” asked the admiral. “Why not just take it?”

  “We would have,” said Sarel. “Except that you were about to dispose of it and yourselves—dramatically, stupidly.”

  The bombs and Guan-Sharick were gone.

  “Do you know how many people died for those bombs?” said Heather, face pale with rage.

  “Far fewer than if you’d used them,” said John. “We’re fighting the AIs and if we don’t win, we all die. “

  “Take it all—all the filthy stuff,” said the admiral. “If you’re cleaning us out, do the same for the Russians.”

  Guan-Sharick reappeared. “Back to Devastator?”

  “Including Heather,” said John. “Unless you’d like more German hospitality?”

  “No Gestapo Gemütlichkeit, thanks. Can you drop me somewhere else from Up There?” Heather asked the transmute.

  “I live to serve,” bowed Guan-Sharick. “Always a pleasure, Admiral. Best wishes on your memoirs.”

  “I’ll save you an autographed copy, my friend. Auf wiedersehen, Dr. MacKenzie, Mr. Harrison.”

  Only Germans were left in the room.

  “A memorable day,” said Hochmeister to the dumbfounded colonel. “Let’s go home. But first, get me the Chancellor.” How did it know of my memoirs? he wondered. The possibilities were unpleasant.

  Chapter 17

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  “Yes, Line?” Laguan looked up from the I’Wor board—it was Detrelna’s move.

  “The Margrave of Utria’s scout craft just cleared jump point. Combine Telan cruisers are in pursuit.”

  “FleetOps calls them armed merchantmen,” said Laguan, watching Detrelna’s hand hover uncertainly between two pieces.

  “The same slime who’ve been lurking near jump point?” asked Detrelna, moving his flanking captain two squares to the left.

  “The same,” said Line. “The margrave skip-jumped them.”

  “He could’ve blown his drive,” said Laguan, moving his regent. “What’s FleetOps doing about him?”

  “Flashing seize-or-destroy orders to Home System Command. The margrave’s destination is Kronar—he can’t avoid the picket ships.”

  “Try to tightbeam him,” said Laguan, taking Detrelna’s consort.

  Lawrona’s face and torso appeared to the right of the game table, above a colorful bunch of tropical flora long extinct on Kronar. “Hanar,” said Detrelna. “Do you have it?”

  “I do.” The captain held up the freeholder’s commwand.

  “His tactical situation’s hopeless,” said Line, projecting a second window beside the first: three groups of red blips closed from on a single green one; a second group of eight hostiles followed behind. “Admiral,” said Line, “I want to grant the Margrave’s ship extended sanctuary under General Order Seven. Do you concur?”

  “What is General Order Seven?” asked Detrelna. I’Wor forgotten, he was intent on the deadlier game playing out on the tacscan.

  “‘Any entity Line and Duty Officer agree necessary to the defense of the planet may be granted indefinite sanctuary,’” said Laguan. “Concur.”

  “Line, if you’re going to help, do it now,” snapped Lawrona, punching in a counter salvo as the first wave of missiles came in. Fusion beams flashed from The Shatina, touching the six shipbusters streaking in on her. Explosions blossomed around the craft.

  “Status?” asked Lawrona. Eighteen missiles were closing on him as the Combine cruisers came within beam range.

  “Our shield’s gone,” said the ship.

  “Options?”

  “Surrender or die.”

  “Now what?” said Admiral Ital, coming to his feet as every screen in FleetOps went dark. “Commodore Awal, check status on …”

  The screens returned with the starship-and-sun of the old Empire set in a black circle. “This is Defense Sphere Command,” said Line. “The ship The Shatina is under my protection as per General Order Seven. Combine Telan vessels, break off your attack or be destroyed. FleetOps, do not engage The Shatina. Combine vessels, you have a twenty-count to comply.” The screens returned to normal, but the voice remained, counting slowly, “Twenty … nineteen …”

  Admiral Ital didn’t waste time with intermediaries. Leaning across Commodore Awal, he pushed the commtab. “All Fleet units and civilian vessels—break off attack on The Shatina and withdraw. Destroy all in-flight ordnance. Fleet pickets return to stations.” He sank back into his chair, watching the tacscan on the big board. Acknowledgments were in by the time Line said “Zero.” One by one, the Fleet cruisers and destroyers turned away.

/>   “The slumbering giant awakes,” murmured Awal. He frowned. “Combine Telan hasn’t broken off,” he said as the red blips closed on the lone green one. “Combine task force commander isn’t acknowledging.”

  “Be it on their heads,” said the admiral. “Have Commander Prime Base lock down the base.” He and Awal watched as the Combine ships loosed another missile salvo, followed by a fusion barrage. “Line’s about to wipe a flotilla of the Confederation’s largest political donor—we don’t want any edict-issuing councilors bursting in here.”

  “Line is firing,” said Awal.

  Lawrona clutched the freeholder’s commwand with one hand as he futilely stabbed the jump drive engage with his other.

  “Jump transponder nodes inoperative,” said the ship. “Incoming saturation barrage.”

  Lawrona was bringing the scout around for a death-run on the Combine command cruiser when the shipbusters atomized The Shatina.

  The little grotto—jungle, trees, bluff, waterfall—Detrelna saw none of it, standing before the tacscan, watching the missiles from the Combine ships close on his friend’s ship. “Jump, Hanar!” he cried. “Jump!” Behind and above him frightened birds took flight.

  “Too late,” said Laguan, standing beside Detrelna. He put his hand on the other’s shoulder.

  Missile and target blips met and vanished. “Target The Shatina destroyed,” read the data trail.

  “Engaging hostiles,” said Line. Thousands of miles away, weapons on two artificial planetoids flashed briefly, azure beams piercing the shield wall. The remaining blips vanished from the screens, followed by the screens themselves. Overhead, the circling birds returned to their trees.

  “You moronic automaton,” said Detrelna, eyes searching the grotto, as though hoping to find some tangible part of Line that he could rip with the hands clenched at his side. “You delayed firing!”

  “I did.”

  “In the time you wasted, I could have picked those slime off ten times.” His voice rose. “The fire power of an Imperial fleet and you did nothing! Lawrona’s dead, the commwand lost—and with it any hope of defeating the AIs.” He sank into his chair. “Give me a ship, someone, please. Anything’s better than this helplessness.”