Final Assault bw-4 Page 13

  "Precious cargo?" said D'Trelna. "I thought Scepter and Crown were enshrined in the Palace?"

  "Human cargo, D'Trelna," said L'Guan. "The last hope of this dying republic, and, oddly, an aristocrat-though he hides it well-a bit too well."

  "The Heir," said L'Wrona wonderingly. "You put the Heir Apparent on board!"

  "I didn't know there was an Heir," said D'Trelna.

  "A well-kept secret," said L'Wrona. "I've always known there was an Heir, but never who he was."

  "Why on Implacable?" demanded D'Trelna. "To protect him? We were in the thick of it-he could have died a hundred times!"

  "You weren't supposed to be in the thick of it," said the admiral. "And he may die yet."

  "Who?" asked both men at once.

  L'Guan laughed and refilled his empty glass. "A toast, gentlemen, to the last of a great house: K'Yan, sixth of that name, Heir Apparent to the Sceptered Throne, Commander of the Founding Fleet, Guardian of

  "Who?" said D'Trelna.

  "Your engineer, N'Trol," said the admiral, emptying his glass.

  "I don't believe it," said D'Trelna.

  "Believe it," said L'Guan.

  "Then we're a doomed race," said D'Trelna. "He's irresponsible, hates people, loves only his engines…"

  "Excuse me," interrupted Line. "But the Fleet of the One has just entered Quadrant Blue Nine. The mindslavers are engaging them."

  18

  "How are you feeling, Y'Dan?" asked a familiar voice-a woman's voice.

  Feeling? thought K'Tran drowsily. I don't feel anymore-the question's irrelevant.

  He felt a rough hand on his shoulder. "Stand to, corsair captain," said a man's voice. "For your Emperor, your Gods and your Fleet."

  "Pompous asshole," said K'Tran, and opened his eyes.

  "I thought that would bring you around," said N'Trol, smiling down on the surgical table.

  "How are you, Y'Dan?" said A'Tir, stepping into K'Tran's field of vision.

  "All right, I think, Number One," he said carefully, and sat up. The first thing he saw was his feet-large, pale and hairless, with blunt, square toes and high arches. He looked at: he rest of his naked body, then felt his face. This is not my body," he said carefully.

  "The last R'Actolian destroyed your body just before it escaped," said a perfect voice -the voice of a computer.

  "And who the hell are you?" demanded KTran.

  "We are the master computers of the Golden Fleet, linked in series," said the voice.

  "Give me back my body!" demanded KTran, looking from A'Tir to N'Trol and back.

  "It's been reduced to carbonized dust," said the machines. "We've given you the body of an Imperial Marine lieutenant whose brain was destroyed in stasis flux, some years ago. We would point out, Captain KTran, that this body is twenty years younger than your original, perhaps more aesthetically pleasing, and in excellent condition. And as a compensation for your loss, we have enhanced the genitalia."

  The shock fading, K'Tran looked down again. "Good God!"

  "We can live with it, Y'Dan," said A'Tir, following his gaze.

  N'Trol cleared his throat. "K'Tran, 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 K'Tran, pulling on a pair of black pants. "N'Trol. You death-tripped my cruiser off Terra." He slipped on the matching black shirt, frowning at the single gleaming comet on the collar. "This is an Imperial admiral's uniform." His new voice disconcerted him-it was too deep, and somehow made his polished, old line Academy intonation sound affected.

  N'Trol nodded. "Win this battle, all your crimes are pardoned and the rank is permanent."

  "Who are you to go around handing out a dead empire's flag ranks, Engineer?" said K'Tran, sitting to pull on the boots that sat by the bedside.

  "He's your bloody damned Emperor," said A'Tir, looking at N'Trol.

  N'Trol laughed. "If we win-probably. If not, well, K'Tran, you get to be an admiral for a while."

  K'Tran stood, looking around the mind-slaver's sickbay. It was an immense hall that seemed to go on forever: row upon row of beds, and each bed had an occupant. K'Tran looked back at N'Trol. "You're restoring them all," he guessed.

  N'Trol nodded. "The computers are-on this and the twenty-one other ships of this

  Beet. And, to avoid bedlam, each brain in its brainpod is now being briefed on our situation and given an option-help us fight, or remain off-line until after the battle. There're representatives here from every dynasty since the fifth, plus people dragooned off a slew of lost colonies in Blue Nine. Imagine the mess we'd have trying to brief them all separately." He turned back to K'Tran. "Now, sir, will you stand with us, or await the outcome?"

  "If you win, and I haven't fought?" asked K'Tran, knowing the answer.

  N'Trol shrugged. "You'll be tried by the Fleet you betrayed and given loser's options: Death by hanging, death by firing party, death by poison, death by spacing, death by…"

  K'Tran clenched a large new hand to his breast. "An honor to serve you, My Lord."

  "You see what they're doing," said Admiral L'Guan, pointing to his left. He, D'Trelna and L'Wrona stood in Line's war center, looking at the tri-dee projection of a slice of space inside Line's. Cruisers marked with the emblem of Combine T'lan were taking up station off Prime Base.

  "They wouldn't dare," said L'Wrona.

  "Why not?" said L'Guan. "Fleet's scattered throughout the Confederation. Those mechanical slime know Line can't fire on the planet. And with Councilor D'Assan virtually owning FleetOps, no one's going to recall so much as a single class-E destroyer."

  "Sir, I think you underestimate the integrity of the FleetOps command," said L'Wrona.

  "I hope so," said L'Guan. "But with no Fleet, FleetOps is just a hole in the desert."

  "What if the Fleet were recalled?" asked D'Trelna, looking at L'Wrona, then back at the admiral.

  "Line?" asked the admiral.

  "Eighty-two percent return rate in one week," said Line. "The balance scattered over two months. But only in a bona-fide state of siege, as proclaimed by Council edict, may FleetOps issue a recall."

  "With your permission, Admiral?" said L'Wrona, indicating a complink.

  "Certainly," said L'Guan, "but what…"

  "He's going to recall the Fleet, I think," said D'Trelna as L'Wrona sat down at the terminal.

  "If you'll stop shouting, I'll try to explain," said the tech officer.

  Commodore A'Wal stopped shouting. "Explain, then," he said. Outside, beyond the armorglass wall of his office, FleetOps was in chaos-officers running like frenzied insects from station to station, comm officers frantically issuing and reissuing unheeded instructions to units scattered across millions of light-years; the worried faces of flotilla and sector commanders mirrored 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 floor. "Everything out there, right down to the lighting panels, is just as it was five thousand years ago-except that some of it doesn't work quite as well."

  "Tell me something I don't know," said A'Wal, sitting on the outer edge of his desk, arms folded. "So?"

  "No one's rewritten the computer programs since the Fall," said the tech officer. "We know their machine code, but we don't have their security protocols. If we…"

  "If we tamper with it, we might wipe the whole combat command system," said A'Wal, eyes on the operations floor. The tech officer turned, following his gaze: Admiral I'Tal was engaging in a shouting match over the skipcomm with an admiral second. I'Tal ended the discussion by stabbing a finger at the younger officer and hitting the disconnect. Unaware that he was being watched, he sank into his chair, shaking his head.

  The tech officer and A'Wal returned to their discussion. "You remember Implacable''s encounter with Imperial machine
code and that stasis algorithm out in Blue Nine?"

  The commlink on A'Wal's desk began to chirp. Ignoring it, he said, "Tell me quickly, Commander-without the background briefing. Why are over eight thousand starcruisers making for here at flank-corsairs as well as Fleet? Why are their crews and we unable to stop this unwanted return?"

  "Someone has bypassed our programming overlay," said the tech officer. "They've activated a section of the old Imperial programming last used at the Fall."

  "What portion?"

  "The recall, sir. Someone with access to FleetOps channels and knowledge of an authentication sequence sacred to the last Royal House has recalled the Fleet. If the crews try to tamper with the recall programming, those sturdy old Imperial jump drives will self-destruct."

  There was a loud knock on A'Wal's door. He ignored it. "Who and why?"

  "Who?" The tech officer shrugged. "There being no Heir…"

  A'Wal held up a forefinger. "Do not assume that."

  The tech officer raised an eyebrow. "Sir? May I ask if you know. ..?"

  A'Wal shook his head. "Just rumors -vague rumors over the past five years or so. Continue, Commander." The knocking had stopped, but not the commlink's chirping.

  "Absent an Heir," said the tech officer, "I would assume the Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard-except that he's dead. Or," he said, seeing something in A'Wal's expression, "should I not assume that either?"

  "Perhaps not," said the commodore. "But why the recall?"

  With a hiss and a pop of shorted electronics, the door to A'Wal's office slid open. Stepping past a technician and her scattered tools, Admiral I'Tal came in. "I need you out there, A'Wal. Now."

  "What…" began the commodore as the tech officer slipped out.

  "We're receiving an invasion alert on an old High Imperial watch channel," said the admiral.

  "Is it authenticated?" asked A'Wal as the two men hurried down the stairs onto the operations floor.

  "Archival match," said the admiral. "Imperial battlecode of the House of T'Rlon, coming from a mindslaver fleet off the Rift-a fleet allegedly commanded by one Admiral K'Tran."

  "The galaxy's bloodiest butcher commanding a fleet of the dead and the damned," said A'Wal. "The Last Days are here.

  "What's K'Tran sending in for evidence, if anything?" asked A'Wal as they reached his console. An air of quiet purpose pervaded FleetOps, with brown-uniformed officers grimly intent on their work.

  "If their data transmission's to be believed -and if it's faked, it's very good," said the admiral, "about ten thousand AI battleglobes have just entered Blue Nine. If we survive the next few hours, I'll worry about it."

  "Sir?"

  FTal nodded at the status board. A swarm of red blips was forming between Line and K'Ronar. "Looks like Combine T'Lan's about to try to take over this planet. Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say? We're massing our pitiful handful of picket ships backside of the planet from them."

  "Sir." It was a tech officer, dun-colored commjack in his ear, tiny transmit nodule tied to his throat. "Commander Prime Base advises Councilor D'Assan has received Council sanction to relieve you and half the general staff of command."

  "Leaving the politicos to not defend the Confederation," said A'Wal.

  "I see," said the admiral, turning back to the board and the tacscan. "Has the Council issued any orders to its new general staff?"

  "Stand down and not bother the Combine trader fleet assembling in orbit."

  "They must have meant the traitor fleet now assuming bombardment positions," said A'Wal, inserting his own earjack.

  "Instruct Commander Prime Base," said I'Tal, "to prepare for ground combat

  – commandos and gun crews to battleposts, shields to max." "Yes, sir."

  "Commodore," said the admiral, turning to A'Wal. "On my authority-Invasion Alert -all ships, all stations. Advise readiness status by planetary and quadrant command as received. Planetary Guard and available Fleet elements to attack all installations and vessels of Combine T'Lan wherever found."

  "Might I suggest, Admiral, the true nature of Combine T'Lan be revealed?"

  "Very well," said I'Tal after a moment. "Summarize Admiral S'Gan and DTrelna's report from the Blue Nine expedition and put it out on Fleetcomm, counterintelligence priority one."

  "And commercial channels?" suggested A'Wal.

  "And commercial channels," said the admiral.

  "Those armed merchantmen," said L'Guan, turning from the war center's tri-dee, "are going to be lunching in the Palace."

  "They don't eat," said L'Wrona, reading the data trail.

  "H'Nar," said the commodore, "do you or do you not have the location of S'Yal's last citadel?"

  L'Wrona nodded. "Under the dead riverbed of the R'Shen. The freeholder established that even though it sustained a full flotilla bombardment, its shielding held. It's there now, shields still on, a perfect sphere walled by the tons of molten rock that cooled around it. And somewhere in there is the means to recall the Twelfth Fleet."

  "Given a year," said L'Guan, "an impressive budget and great care, we could probably chip it out."

  "We've got about one watch," said D'Trelna. "One."

  "Commodore?"

  "Could you transport L'Wrona and me to a point beneath K'Ronar's surface?"

  "Just give me the coordinates, Commodore."

  The two men looked at L'Guan. The Admiral spread his hands helplessly. "What's to lose? Take what you want from Weapons and Stores and luck to you."

  The invasion alert came in a moment after they were gone.

  "I have 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 K'Tran commands the mindslavers?"

  "They'll take out a few battleglobes and then they'll be slaughtered," said L'Guan. 'And then our ancient masters will arrive -probably to find K'Ronar a smoldering ruin and you and me still arguing. I ask again -will you end our splendid isolation? Will you deploy?"

  "You know my answer. The Heir was supposed to be here, giving the necessary orders, Admiral." L'Guan looked up, surprised at the petulant tone.

  "He would have been, if he hadn't gotten kidnapped by that miserable woman and her cutthroats."

  "I have no other option than to wait, Admiral."

  "Fine," said L'Guan, sinking into his chair. "We'll wait, Line-for your Emperor and a miracle."

  19

  Q'nil looked up as the door to Devastator's sickbay hissed open. "Harrison," he said, returning to his computer terminal. "You look your usual robust self."

  "And you're your usual sardonic self, Medtech." Taking a straight-backed metal chair from beside the medanalyzer, he pulled it up to Q'Nil's desk and sat, arms folded over the back, facing the medtech.

  "Why don't you sit down," said Q'Nil, working the complink.

  "How long have we known each other, Q'Nil?" asked the Terran.

  "If you're going to propose some quaint Terran mating contract…"

  "Marriage. I wasn't going to propose it."

  Q'Xil jotted a note, then returned to the complink. He looked about forty, tall, thin, hair receding, with an intelligent forehead and high cheekbones. John had seen him smile only once.

  "About two years, Harrison," said Q'Nil. "The battle at the Lake of Dreams, then the original Terra Two nastiness, the skirmish in Blue Nine and now this last, desperate sally." He looked up. "Why?"

  "I've searched the computer banks, backtracked all the mission logs, correlated…"

  Q'Nil shrugged and returned to his work. "And you've determined that whenever Guan-Sharick appeared, I was nowhere around. And with two years of data, most of it from Implacable, you've eliminated all other shipboard contenders. I am, ipso facto, Guan-Sharick, late Illusion Master of the Infinite Hosts of the Magnificent-a being wanted by the K'Ronarin Confederation for
sundry war crimes." The medtech looked up again, cool blue eyes looking into John's. "So?"

  "You… you admit it?" asked the Terran.

  "D'Trelna knew, back on Implacable," said Guan-Sharick. The blonde replaced Q'Nil's lanky form, yellow hair cascading over her shoulders as she tossed her head back. "And Hochmeister, even before then. You've taken a well-worn path to my door."

  "Is this really you?" he asked, reaching out a tentative hand, touching her wrist. "And none of your metaphysical bullshit," he said as she opened her mouth.

  Guan-Sharick laughed. "All right, Harrison," she said. "No more metaphysical bullshit. Yes, it's really me. And am I really a hundred thousand years old?"

  He said nothing, watching as she folded one leg across another. "Yes, counting all my clones. This one"-she touched her chest -"is about fifty years old."

  "You've killed a lot of people," said John. "To what end?"

  The transmute held up a finger. "In a language older than the AIs, 'Guan-Sharick' means healer. That's what I am here-what I've alv/ays been. When the Emperor of the Golden Fleet led the great human exodus from this galaxy, I was his medical officer. I'm still a medic, Harrison-it's just that my practice now spans two galaxies."

  "I see," he said. "You've been playing Machiavellian games with galactic humanity for a hundred thousand years…"

  "Only seventy thousand."

  "… orchestrated the destruction of millions, created those hideous biofabs, and now what? You're saying it was for the good of all?" He found himself with his hand on his blaster.

  Guan-Sharick said nothing, merely looked at him with those cool green eyes.

  "Fine," said John, taking his hand from his sidearm. "You're a healer. What are you trying to heal?"

  "Think I'm crazy, don't you?" she said.

  "Pretty much, yeah," he said.

  She smiled. "Let's see if I can convince you otherwise, Harrison." Opening one of the desk drawers, she took out an amber-colored bottle. "S'Tanian brandy." Reaching into another drawer, she took out four glasses and touched the door entry. "You must be tired of listening on your communicators," she called. "That corridor pulls an awful draft."