Final Assault Page 5

The admiral showed no surprise. “And our gray-uniformed friends?”

  “The Tower garrison withdrew shortly before the attack on orders from FleetOps.”

  “Admiral Gyar was it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The blaster fire was drawing nearer, the shrilling of the weapons now audible above the explosions. “Can you hold?” asked Laguan.

  The major shook his head. “Not without reinforcements—every assassin in the quadrant must be in on this. And they’ve slapped a comm-damper on the building—all frequencies are blocked.”

  “Perhaps not quite every assassin. I’ve a fresh mission for you, Major Itan. There’re whispers of a Tugayee strike on the Council. It’s in session. Take your men to Council Hall and augment their security. Council Security won’t fire on you—I’ve made arrangements. Report only to me, accept no countermands. Clear?”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “You’ll have to fight your way clear of the Tower. But they won’t pursue—Detrelna and I are their target.”

  “But Admiral …”

  “I’ll be all right, Major. On your way.”

  “Sir.” He saluted. “Sir, last word before the attack was that you’ve been assigned as Line Duty Officer.”

  “Share my joy,” said Laguan as the major stepped into the corridor. “I’ve mixed feelings about saving the Council,” continued the admiral to the commodore. Movement in the hallway caught his eye as the commandos dived for cover. “Hostiles!” he snapped, diving behind the desk.

  Feet to the side of the desk, Detrelna pushed himself backward onto the rug as blaster bolts flashed into the office, snapping across the desk and blowing away a glass wall.

  The hallway exploded with blaster fire as the commandos traded fire with four black-clad figures appearing at the far end. The firefight was over in seconds, the outgunned Tugayee torn by half a dozen well-placed bolts.

  Detrelna pulled himself to his feet as Laguan rounded the desk and moved into the hallway.

  “More coming up the south stairs, sir,” said Major Itan. A blaster bolt had grazed his cheek, leaving a neatly cauterized scar. “The lifts are out.”

  “Get your men out of here, Major,” ordered the admiral, looking down the corridor. Before the firefight a series of tapestries had hung along the walls—a triptych of a Prespace battle scene: mounted warriors battling amid snow in a rock-strewn mountain pass. Brilliantly done—the animals’ nostrils flaring in fear, the shouting, the screaming, the clash of metal all but audible—the tapestries now hung in flaming ribbons along the blaster-scorched wall.

  “Very well, sir.” Itan spoke quickly into his communicator, then caught the squad leader’s eye and nodded. The squad moved quickly past the dead assassins and toward the north stairway. “Luck, Admiral,” called the major, and was gone.

  “Is the admiral sacrificing us for the antiques?” said Detrelna as they reentered the commandant’s office.

  “I am not sacrificing anyone,” said Laguan, swinging the doors shut and locking them. “How long have you known me, Detrelna?”

  “Twenty years, on and off. You were sector commodore, keeping the jump lanes safe for merchanters, running smuggler intercepts. Gave me a quite a chase once.” In the tradition of Shtarian merchanters, Detrelna had never troubled himself with legal niceties. Smuggler or merchant—it depended on what you were selling, when, where and to whom.

  “Have you ever known me to be stupid?”

  “Only where women were concerned, sir.”

  Laguan laughed. “There is that.” Unclipping a communicator from his belt, he spoke a frequency setting Detrelna had never heard, waited for the acknowledging beep, then said, “I urgently need transport for two to your location.”

  “I know,” replied a petulant voice—a maddeningly familiar voice Detrelna couldn’t quite place.

  “How soon?” asked the Admiral.

  “A few moments.”

  There was a soft snick on the other side of the door. Laguan looked quizzically at Detrelna.

  “Mark 17 blastpak. Detonator’s a twenty-count.”

  “We only have seconds,” said Laguan into the communicator.

  “Some of these systems haven’t been used since forests covered Kronar.”

  Laguan rummaged the commandant’s desk. Finding what he sought, he tossed it to Detrelna. The commodore deftly caught the M11A, checked the chargpak, then pressed himself against the wall to the left of the doorway. Moving quickly, Laguan took the other side of the door.

  A sudden whoomp! and fragments of ancient stout timbers knifed through the office, followed by three silent black forms.

  Detrelna whistled as they passed, killing the first Tugayee as he turned and the second as she fired. Aimed by a dead hand, the woman’s bolt exploded into the wall behind the commodore’s head, sending a shower of needle-like fragments into his cheek.

  Hand to his face, eyes tearing from pain, Detrelna was dimly aware of Laguan kneeling over the body of the third assassin, tugging something from the man’s equipment belt. As the commodore wiped his eyes and faced the doorway, Laguan rose and stepped into the doorway, a perfect target, tossed what he held, ducking back as the blaster fire came.

  The explosion ripped down the corridor, sending a brief tongue of blue flame lancing into the shattered office. The blast was still ringing as Laguan and Detrelna stepped into the doorway, pistols held high and two-handed.

  All that moved were flames, licking away at the shattered furniture, the remains of the long swath of hand-loomed rug that had led from the lift, and a dozen or so black-clad bodies, lying dead where the grenade had found them.

  Laguan and Detrelna lowered their M11As. “Not bad for two out-of-shape chair pilots,” said the admiral.

  “Could have used you on board a mindslaver we tangled with, Admiral.”

  Laguan holstered his pistol. “If you can’t pick us up now, don’t bother,” he said into the commlink.

  There was no reply.

  “Shouldn’t we get to the roof while we can?” asked the commodore.

  “It’s not that sort of pickup.”

  Detrelna didn’t hear the rest, firing at the first black figure to appear around the distant corner of the corridor. He and the admiral ducked back into the commandant’s office as the blaster fire resumed.

  “What sort of pickup is it?” asked the commodore, risking a quick one-two shot down the hallway.

  “This sort,” said the admiral, standing beside Detrelna in a pleasant indoor garden. Tropical flora was all around. To their left a small waterfall tumbled into a softly lit blue pool. “Come upstairs—I’ll buy you a drink,” said the admiral.

  “Imperial science,” said Detrelna, stomach churning. “Matter transporter. Where are we?” he demanded, looking up. Bright-plumaged birds flitted from treetop to treetop.

  “The heart of the Empire’s deadliest war machine. Line.”

  “Excuse me, Admiral,” said the voice Detrelna now recognized as that of Line—it seemed to come from a clump of ferns. “Would you please follow the guide sphere to command center at once?” A small orange sphere materialized between the two men and the waterfall, hovering at eye level.

  “What’s wrong?” said Laguan, looking at the fern clump.

  “FleetOps has issued a Condition Two alert—someone’s stealing the battle cruiser Implacable.”

  Chapter 6

  A surprise awaited Implacable’s engineer in detention.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Natrol,” said Botul. The big gunner stood beside one of the bunks lining the long narrow detention bay. Others of Implacable’s crew joined the reception.

  “Shit,” said Natrol as the door hissed shut behind him. “Got us all, did they?”

  “This is our mustering-out center,” said Botul. “They haven’t issued our discharges yet.”

  “And we’re not holding our breath, sir,” said one of Natrol’s engineering techs, Sakal.

  “Where’d they take the commodore and
the captain?” asked Botul, handing Natrol a cup of t’ata.

  “We were separated. The captain invoked the Covenant and wasn’t detained. He was still on the ship when we left.”

  “The captain bluffed his way free?” asked Botul disbelievingly.

  “No,” said Natrol, sitting on the edge of one of the hard duraplast bunks. “He enjoys the protection of the Covenant of Incir.”

  “I thought that only established the Confederation?”

  “Compromises were made to avoid civil war and encourage the last Emperor to abdicate, Gunny,” said Sakal. “Limited immunity for titled descendants of an emperor was one of them.”

  “I’ve followed the captain into hell,” said Botul, “and will again, but other than him, I’ve never met an aristocrat who wasn’t a social parasite.”

  “Some few of them earn a living,” said Natrol. “But it’s a shortlist. So, Sakal, back to law school after this?

  “Implacable’s ruined me for groundside life, sir. I’d rather be a starship engineer,” said the slim young woman.

  Given Sakal’s gift for subtle sarcasm, Natrol couldn’t tell if she was she was being serious or sardonic. Hoping it was the former, he pressed on. “Might want to chill at home for a while before making a decision,” said Natrol. “See how you really feel about life without blaster fire and battle klaxons. But you’d make a fine engineer, Tech Officer. You’d need a transport line willing to give you jumps and hours toward your master’s certification. And remember how lonely it can be out there. But if you’re determined, see me after this settles down—I may be able to help. Though if you were an advocate, these rascals would make for an active client list.”

  “She should aim higher than aggravated assault and public intoxication, Commander,” said Botul.

  “Now if I’d said that …” said Sakal.

  The laughter fading, Natrol sipped his t’ata, holding the chipped cup in his hands as he picked up the conversation. “As to our jocular captain, Hanar Lawrona is Margrave of Utria and Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard. He’s close behind the Heir Apparent in the line of succession.” He made a face. “Did you scrape this t’ata off the toilet bowls, Gunny?”

  “Well, look who’s here,” said a sarcastic voice.

  Natrol looked up, then stood. “Atir. Kazim. I see your ugly selves are still alive.”

  The corsair stood at the foot of the bunk, a yellow-bearded man beside her. The corsairs wore the same brown duty uniforms as Implacable’s crew, minus insignia. “Awaiting court-martial,” she said. “They forgot us in the excitement.”

  “We agreed,” said Botul, stepping forward, “that you lot would stay at your end.” He nodded his head to the left, where a thin but clear line of white had been drawn across the stone floor.

  “Special occasion, Gunny,” said Atir. A slight-figured redhead, neither homely nor beautiful, she’d have blended easily with any crowd of officers. She’d been a Fleet officer until war’s chaos tempted her into piracy, following her corsair lover Yidan Kotran down a trail of murder and plunder.

  “So you’re rotting here with the rest of us, Natrol,” said Atir. “Reaping the rewards of faithful service.”

  “Not for long. They’ll soon try and execute you. Too bad Kotran can’t join you.”

  “He’s ten times the commander you’ll ever be, Commander,” she said, face coloring.

  “As a mindslaver brainstrip?” laughed Natrol. “His brain sucked out and plopped in a jar, body frozen and all forever? Certainly a better sentence than any tribunal—”

  She went for his eyes, but Natrol was faster, dashing the hot t’ata into her face. As Atir fell back, Kazim stepped toward Natrol, only to be intercepted by Botul and two gunner’s mates. “Take your little witch back to your area,” he said, “before something else gets spilled.”

  The rest of the corsairs had come at the run, stopping at the sight of Implacable’s crew awaiting them. There were eight corsairs to seventeen Fleet regulars. None of the corsairs crossed the white line.

  “Come on, Commander,” said Kazim. He took Atir by the elbow, her hands over her eyes. “You’re dead, Natrol,” she said as they moved away. “Dead!”

  The engineer watched until Atir and Kazim retreated to their space.

  “Just the ten of them?” he asked, picking up the cup.

  “In this bay, yes,” said Botul, eyes still on the corsairs. “More in another bay. Maybe they put us in here hoping we’d kill each other.”

  “Our women crew members?”

  “In yet another area. So now what, Mr. Natrol?”

  “Now,” said Natrol, settling back on the bunk, feet crossed, “we wait, Gunny.” He held out the cup. “Who’d like to get me another t’ata?”

  A rough hand shook Natrol awake. “Commander!” whispered a voice.

  Natrol sat up, shaking his head. It was the middle of the night—the detention bay in darkness. “Botul?” he whispered. “What—”

  “Listen,” hissed the gunner.

  Natrol listened, then heard it—blaster fire.

  “Somewhere on the upper levels,” said Botul. “And the guards are gone.”

  The bay door slid open and the lights came on. As Natrol and Botul turned squinting, a tall man in a torn blood-splotched uniform stepped into the room, a long-barreled M11A pistol in hand. “Commander?” he called.

  “Here, Solei,” called Atir, leading her group toward the new corsair. A few of Implacable’s crew started to block her.

  “Don’t,” said Solei, raising the pistol.

  “Report,” said Atir, walking past Natrol without a glance.

  “The Tower’s bedlam,” said the tall corsair. “Commandos came in, Security pulled out, then Tugayee infiltrated and took on the commandos. Fighting’s mostly on the upper levels.”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “There was a running firefight through our confinement levels. A grenade took out our door, along with Kona and Saal.” Solei waved his hand across his bloodstained tunic. “We came for you, found the guard posts deserted and opened your cell.”

  “Where’s everyone else?” asked Atir.

  “En route. I sent them to an armory.” As he spoke, more corsairs arrived, pistols on their belts, rifles slung over their shoulders.

  “Orders, Commander?” said Kazim, taking one of the spare M11As and belting it on.

  “We’re still inside Prime Base. We’ll grab a shuttle from the Tower depot, seize a ship and run free.”

  “Line will stop us,” said Solei.

  “No,” said Atir, arming herself. “Line won’t stop us if we’re not a direct and immediate threat to the security of the planet. We aren’t—we’re leaving.”

  Atir pointed to where Implacable’s crewmen stood silently, watching. “Kill them and let’s go,” she said. “Natrol’s mine,” she added, drawing her pistol and thumbing the beam down to its cutting setting.

  “You’re stupid, Atir,” said Natrol, stepping in front of his men. “You haven’t enough people to man a ship big enough and fast enough to get past the Fleet pickets. Maybe you could crew a destroyer. You need at least a cruiser.”

  “We’ll take our chances. Hold him,” she ordered. Two corsairs grabbed Natrol’s arms as Atir took careful aim at his eyes.

  “With us,” said the engineer, “you can have Implacable.”

  There was a murmur of protest from Natrol’s crew.

  “Let him go,” said Atir, lowering the blaster. “What did you have in mind?”

  “We’re all prisoners. Our mutual interests lie in escape.”

  “But sir,” protested Botul, “to join up with these scum …”

  “What do you want, Botul, to stay here and face court-martial for doing your duty? How many times have we saved the fat asses of ground-hugging slugs? And this is our reward?” His hand swept the room. “Freedom”—he pointed to the door—“or the Tower.”

  A brief whispered exchange and Botul turned back to Natrol. �
�We’re with you, sir. As long as we’re put off at first planetfall,” he added.

  “Agreed,” said the corsair commander. “Provided we take Implacable. Otherwise you’ll have a short escape.”

  You, too, thought Natrol. “Fine,” he said. “Now, if we could have some weapons …”

  “Funny,” said Atir with a tight little smile.

  The distant blaster fire was suddenly punctuated by the dull KRUMMP! of an exploding grenade, the echo still rolling when Atir said “Let’s go!”

  Leaving the detention bay, the uneasy allies moved in a quick double-file down the empty corridors, past the abandoned guard posts and out into the dark.

  Implacable was a grand sight at night, her winking red-and-green running lights reflecting along her hull. She sat alone in bright-lit splendor, one of the last of the Imperial cruisers.

  “Two guards,” whispered Kazim, ducking back behind the white supply modules stacked next to the cruiser.

  “That’s it?” said Atir.

  “Yes.”

  “Sloppy,” she said. “Should have two squads for a capital ship, not two men.” She turned to Natrol. “Still want a weapon, Engineer?”

  Natrol saw what was coming. “No, thank you.”

  “Here.” The corsair slipped the commando knife from her boot sheath and wrapped Natrol’s fingers around the haft. “Kill those guards. Or we’ll do it and leave your bodies with theirs.”

  “I’m persuaded,” he said, slipping off to the left where the module stacks ended. Snapping shut the weather flap on his holster and slipping the knife blade up his sleeve, Natrol stepped from behind the stacks and into the light, walking purposefully toward the boarding ramp and the two gray-uniformed sentries.

  “Evening,” he said as the guards brought their rifles up to order arms.

  “Halt,” said the corporal. “Who goes?”

  “Commander Natrol, Engineer, Implacable,” he said, gambling that these two hadn’t been told of the crew’s arrests. It wasn’t likely, given Fleet’s need-to-know mania.

  “Advance and be recognized,” said the corporal.

  Natrol closed the distance between himself and the foot of the ramp, stopping an arm’s length from the corporal. The sentry was young—almost old enough to shave. “Here to do some tinkering,” said Natrol easily.