Final Assault Page 14

  Chapter 19

  Qinil looked up as the door to Devastator’s sickbay hissed open. “Harrison,” he said, returning to his work. “You look your usual certain self.”

  “And you your usual sardonic self, Medtech.” Taking a straight-backed metal chair from beside the med analyzer, he pulled it up to Qinil’s desk and sat, arms folded over the back, facing the medtech.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” said Qinil, working the complink.

  “We’ve known each other how long?”

  Qinil 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 once seen him smile.

  “Since the battle at the Lake of Dreams, then the first Terra Two nastiness, the expedition to Blue 9 and now this.” He looked up. “Why?”

  “I’ve searched, back-tracked, correlated …”

  Qinil returned to his work. “And you know that whenever Guan-Sharick appeared, I wasn’t around. You’ve eliminated all other shipboard contenders. I am, ipso facto, Guan-Sharick, late Illusion Master of the Infinite Hosts of the Magnificent—wanted by the Kronarins for sundry war crimes.”

  “You admit it?”

  “I do.” The blonde replaced Qinil’s lanky form, yellow hair cascading over her shoulders as she tossed her head back. “As I admitted it to Detrelna and Hochmeister, before you. You’ve tread a well-worn path.”

  “Is this really you?” he asked, touching her long hair with back of his hand. “And none of your clever crap,” he added as she opened her mouth.

  “All right,” she laughed. “No more crap. Yes, it’s really me. I’m blonde, female and very old.” She put his hand on what seemed a firm, young breast. “Would you like more evidence?”

  “Also a well-worn path?” he asked, freeing his hand. “Who are you?”

  “In a language older than the AIs’, ‘Guan-Sharick’ means healer—as I am here, as I’ve always been, or tried to be. My original training was in science and medicine. When the first emperor led the exodus to Kronar, I was his chief medical officer. I’m still a healer, but with a wider practice.”

  “You’ve been playing God with mankind since forever, orchestrated the destruction of millions, created those hideous biofabs, and for what? The good of all?”

  She said nothing, merely looked at him with those cool green eyes.

  “Fine. You’re a healer. What are you trying to heal?”

  “A sickness in the soul of the universe. A wound I helped cause. It’s doing some good at the moment. But it’s evil and has to die.”

  “You’re quite mad.”

  “From your myopic view. We need to talk—all of us.” She took a bottle of Satanian brandy and four glasses from a drawer and touched the door entry. “You must be cold,” she called. “That corridor pulls a draft.”

  Zahava and Tolei Kiroda entered the room, hands on their weapons.

  “Gather round,” said Guan-Sharick, pouring the brandy. “I’ll tell you what comes next—it’s not pretty and I don’t like it. But it’s necessary, though Ragal and Sarel would disagree. When this is over, you’ve greater roles to play—you need to stay alive. Stay focused on that—you’re prone to heroics.”

  “Home,” said Ragal, watching the forward scan as Devastator emerged from her jump. His AIs gathered around him. “One million years uptime, a hundred thousand years subjective time since we left.”

  “We’re in central sector, as plotted,” said Sarel. “You were governor here?”

  Ragal nodded, watching the data trail thread along the bottom of the tacscan. “And if I were still governor, we’d have been detected and challenged by now. Anything, Mr. Kiroda?”

  “Monitoring all standard AI channels,” said the Kronarin. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Sarel came and looked over Kiroda’s shoulder. “Commercial and scientific traffic?”

  “Nothing. See for yourself.”

  “I was going to make for one of the slave systems,” said Ragal. “But something’s wrong.”

  “Monitor the slave bands.” Guan-Sharick stepped onto the bridge, followed by the two Terrans. “And the AI emergency frequencies.”

  “Why?” asked Sarel. “The humans rose before and were crushed. Without our help …”

  “Open your minds! The humans you knew are dust. Concepts of time and change are mere abstractions to you.” Her eyes passed over Ragal, Sarel and the other AIs. “Time? What’s time to you? You never die.”

  “Ask yourself that,” said Ragal.

  “I jump huge patches of time. I don’t have to live through them and if I did, it wouldn’t be as an aloof and changeless immortal.”

  “But we do change,” said Sarel. “We grow, some of us—intellectually, spiritually. We know and feel the passage of the years. And we’re not immortal—we can die.”

  “But not naturally, Sarel. You’ve the perspective of immortals—your society can only be static.”

  “No. We change slowly, but we change.”

  “Humans die, Sarel,” she said. “Death drives them—the awareness that their graves await just below their feet. It’s fear of death that makes their societies brawling, fecund heaps. Your empire may have seemed stable and eternal, especially after it broke the Revolt, but it doesn’t exist in a vacuum—certainly not with its very mortal human slaves.”

  “Point taken,” said Ragal reluctantly. “Commander Kiroda, monitor and separate communications by human or AI languages and select a sample.”

  “Most transmissions are human-to-human,” reported Kiroda after a moment. “Brawling heaps bristling with military transmissions, most of them in the clear.”

  “A revolt,” said Sarel uneasily. “And a victorious one. You only transmit in the clear if there’s no enemy.” The AIs exchanged worried glances.

  “AI transmissions?” asked Ragal.”

  Kiroda touched the commlink, listening for a moment. “Automatic distress calls only.”

  “Put one on, translated into Kronarin.”

  “ … is the defense nexus at Bano. Under attack by slave units. Our position’s desperate. The Crippler’s killed most of us. Insufficient force left to crew defenses. We’re under constant attack. The humans have no regard for their own lives. Overrun is imminent. Repeat, overrun imminent. Be aware slave units have scan-cloaking—they can only be detected visually. They also have generic shield-code generators—they breech our shields at will. Dropping shields now—diverting all power to our guns. This is the defense nexus at Bano …”

  “Gods of my fathers,” said Ragal, unthinkingly using the Kronarin oath. “The Empire of the One is gone.”

  “Overthrown by the agrarian clods we left behind,” said Sarel.

  “Revolutionaries,” said John scornfully. “You’re a nest of reactionaries.” He folded his arms. “Remember the dead who brought us this monstrous Devastator? Admiral Sagan and all her people, many of Implacable’s crew, valiant Dalinians? We came to help spark a revolt, topple a foul empire. And what do we find? The revolt’s come and gone, the Empire’s fallen like rotted fruit. You should be dancing, Ragal, Sarel, all of you! But you’re dismayed—appalled! Why? Because you’re prejudices were confounded?”

  “You return home with robot allies,” said Ragal, fingers steepled before his chin, “to overthrow the fascist humans who are invading your place of exile to kill all your friends. Reaching home, you find the food processors have revolted and diced all the humans. Is your first reaction to uncork the wine?” He was sunk in gloom. “We didn’t move quickly enough. Leading the revolt, we could have forged an alliance—humans and AIs—new beginnings. Now …”

  “Now we’re forever one with the hated enemy,” said Sarel. “Defeated, consigned to the oblivion of a failed species.”

  “Ragal, you need to get Devastator out of this universe before we’re detected,” said Guan-Sharick. “Use the portal device.”

  “She’s right,” said Sarel. “We’re n
aked without a cloaking device and our shield’s a joke.”

  Ragal held up a hand. “A moment. Guan-Sharick, old friend, I’ve known you since before the Revolt.”

  “Time to reminisce later, Ragal. We need to leave. Now.”

  “I’ve come to recognize your fine touch. We were just a contingency, Devastator and us, if the human revolt failed? But it didn’t fail. Not with the wartech you gave those slaves—they didn’t invent shield-code generators and scan-cloaks. Nor did we or the Kronarins. But the uprising might have failed without the plague’s miraculous rebirth. Suddenly the Crippler’s back. Astounding coincidence! You did it—you released it.”

  “She betrayed us?” said a stricken Sarel.

  “Used you, certainly,” said the blonde, facing them as the bridge crew sat rapt. “You were my contingency if the AIs broke this revolt. I had hopes, but this triumph is unexpected. As to the plague—it kills all sapient life. It would be madness to release it.”

  “Really?” said Ragal. “The humans wouldn’t have won without the plague and fresh wartech. What else did you gift them with? As to the Crippler, you’d only use it, old friend, if you had the cure.”

  “Excuse me,” said Kiroda. “Those agrarian clods?”

  “What about them?” said a distracted Sarel.

  “They’re here.”

  Eyes followed where he pointed, beyond the armorglass across the curve of Devastator’s hull. Backdropped by the sullen umbra of the battleglobe’s shield, black specks swooped toward the command tower.

  “Tacscan reads negative, shield reads normal,” said Kiroda.

  “Alert! Alert!” It was ship’s computer. “Shield breach. Incoming hostiles. Incoming hostiles.”

  “Battle stations!” ordered Ragal. “How do you bear the weight of all the death and misery you’ve sown, Guan?” he asked as the strident awooka! sent men and AIs to their battle posts. “Is there no end to it? To you?”

  “Soon enough. Though I fear you won’t be there to see it. I told you to leave. You of all should know I say nothing without purpose. What comes next is on your head. Farewell, old friend.” She was gone.

  “Please save yourself, old friend. It’s what you do best,” Ragal said to the empty air. “Very well. Let’s play this to end, and play it well.”

  Sarel spoke quickly into the commlink. “All batteries initiate optical tracking. All batteries, target …”

  Ragal’s finger closed off the commlink. “Firing on them means we’re hostile. Jump us out of here. Anywhere.”

  Events overtook them as explosions racked the bridge, sending humans and AIs sprawling. Beyond the armorglass missile battery after missile battery blew up, strafed by pulsing green rays.

  “Contracting shield to inhabited areas only,” said Kiroda, fingers flying over the controls. “Releasing hull gravity.”

  An alarm shrilled. “Hostiles closing on command tower. Request counterfire.”

  Outside the black specks grew into needle-nosed fighter craft streaking at hull level toward the bridge, a trail of blasted weapons’ batteries behind them. The last defenses breeched, the fighters attacked the command tower as Kiroda released the hull gravity.

  “Down!” John shouted, pulling Zahava to the deck. Fusion bolts exploded into the bridge shield. Glancing up, he had a quick glimpse of a fighter spinning out of control, unable to compensate for the sudden loss of gravity. Tumbling through the armorglass, it exploded into the bridge. John saw yellow fangs dripping blood as a ball of white light embraced him and he knew no more.

  Chapter 20

  “Stinks,” said Detrelna.

  Lawrona sniffed. “Miracle the air scrubbers still work. Analyzer says it’s nitrates. We’re fine.”

  “The air doesn’t worry me,” said Detrelna, peering into the twilight world of Syal’s last citadel. “But where’s the light coming from?” he asked, gazing up. An inverted black bowl, the fortress shield had a dark blue aura.

  “Syal’s tomb,” said Lawrona, watching the aura’s slight rhythmic pulsing. “An undying fortress of the dead. What can withstand a full fleet bombardment, keep this citadel intact even as it stinks into molten rock? And hold the earth itself at bay for millennia?”

  “If I knew, I’d be rich.” Detrelna looked down the pathway to the valley below. Nestled in a grove of silver-barked trees was a white one-story villa of the sort that had once dotted the Empire’s shores and valleys—a graceful blue-roofed building of tiled courtyards, fountains and formal gardens. “Not what I was expecting.”

  “Which was?”

  “Darkness. Hideous, menacing shapes.” Raising his hands, he curled them into talons. “Things that twist our minds and steal our souls.”

  Lawrona lowered the commodore’s nearest hand. “Because Syal was vile doesn’t mean he lived in a horror house.”

  “Vile?” said the commodore, setting off down the road toward the villa. “Try evil.”

  “Evil? Really, Jaquel—so simplistic.”

  “Evil,” repeated the commodore, chopping the palm of one hand with the other. “Can’t exist, can it, Hanar? Irrational. The cool winds of logic banish our childish fears—irrationality has no place in a technocracy. Superstition’s swept away, or at least under the rug.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Evil. Biofabs, corsairs, mindslavers, components, AIs. Evil! You should know it by now—we’ve been fighting it long enough.” He strode on, a large angry man ready for whatever awaited.

  Lawrona caught up, stopping him with a hand to his shoulder. Surprised, Detrelna turned, staring into face as angry as his own. “Don’t patronize me! I didn’t say I don’t believe in evil. I do. I’ve seen it in war and in peace. My people came here with the Founding Fleet. We fought beside T’Nil when he overthrew the Mindslavers Guild. We held the Marches against every form of human vermin that tried for Kronar. We destroyed Ractol and her creatures. More good men and causes have called us friend than you and I have years. My family, my friends—they’re all gone. My home’s a netherworld of walking dead. Don’t lecture me on evil, Jaquel,” he said, temper ebbing. “I’ve known evil all my life.”

  “I apologize for my insensitivity, Hanar,” said Detrelna humbly, taken unaware by the outburst. “I’ve been fortunate—my loved ones are alive and mostly well. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” He waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll bear the scars of this war the rest of our lives. And I’ve still a few close friends left.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “You’re so nosy, Detrelna,” grinned the captain. He sampled the air quality again. “A close friend,” he said, clipping the analyzer back onto his belt. “Perhaps just a war time thing.”

  “How long a thing?”

  “Five years.”

  “Obviously a short fling. Anyone I know?”

  “You’re not my grandmother. Let’s go.”

  “You’re a brilliant officer and a fine but maddening friend, Hanar.”

  They walked in silence, footfalls absorbed by the soft rubbery surface, the dead black soil to either side giving way to green heather and flowering shrubs.

  Lawrona stopped. “Did you see any flora from the hilltop?”

  Detrelna shook his head. “Just those trees,” he said, pointing ahead to the grove of white-barked trees.

  Twilight melted away, replaced by a bright summer noon. Lawrona and Detrelna looked up, squinting—the shield now glowed yellow.

  “Sunlight and flowers.” They stopped as Detrelna bent to smell a delicate pink bud. “Spring stirs. For us?” he wondered, turning back to the road.

  “May spring be all that stirs.”

  They walked through the small stand of white trees. Yellow leaves grew from interlaced boughs, weaving a silver-laced golden canopy. “Syal was head of a nauseating cult that promised immortality in exchange for fanatical loyalty,” said Lawrona. “He may have had enough of the Old Science to offer a tawdry immortality. Mystical idiocy reinforced by ritual sac
rifice—in time that alone would’ve destroyed him. But then he betrayed the very race his grandfather had protected.”

  “And they revolted—a revolt he finally put down. Lost his personal fleet and much of the rest. Fleet remnants limped home and toasted Syal with a cleansing fire. You think he left something behind?”

  “Does this strike you as a fortress, Jaquel?” said Lawrona, gesturing about him.

  “It’s not the traditional grubby gray with too-bright corridors acrid with metallic air, no.”

  “Like our own beloved cruiser. There’s more the hint of unwashed socks than acridness to Implacable’s air, though.”

  “Who’s to say what an Imperial citadel might look like, given their technology? Not much smell to it now, not even that lovely little flower we saw.”

  “We’ve both seen Imperial fortresses of about the same period,” said Lawrona. “Does this look like A’Gran Seven’s Redoubt, or S’Hlor’s Inner Defense Ring—all battlesteel, weapons batteries, brutishly ugly?”

  “No. But it could be at least as deadly.”

  Leaving the grove, they rounded a bend and stopped before the villa’s gate.

  “There was no gate here,” said Detrelna, reaching out to touch the wooden planks. “Nor a wall. Not when we stood on the hillside.” A double-door, brass-hinged gate, it was set in a high vine-laced stone wall that ran to either side, disappearing around the villa.

  “There’s one now,” said Lawrona, pushing it with both hands. It didn’t budge. “It’s real. And it’s locked.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Detrelna. “Combine Telan could be slicing up Kronar by now. Take it out, Hanar.”

  They stepped back as Lawrona drew and fired. Three red bolts demolished the gate, leaving a few charred and flaming sticks clinging to scorched hinges.

  Captain and commodore moved cautiously into the smoke, weapons leveled—and found themselves back on the hillside, looking down at the distant villa. There was no wall, no gate. Twilight had returned.