Final Assault (15 page)

"No. And I don't want to know," said the physicist, glaring at the thick ring of blue smoke wafting across her desk. She stood. "I'll let you get on with your work, Major."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He turned at the door. "By the way, Doctor, G2 says Hochmeister's back."

Heather MacKenzie turned in her chair. "Define 'back,'" she said warily.

"Head of Allied Security and Intelligence in Berlin." He puffed thoughtfully. "He kept his word, you know."

MacKenzie nodded absently. "The gray admiral always keeps his word," she said. "Better hope to God he doesn't find out we broke ours."

Hargrove grunted and left, smoke trailing him.

"Sir, the Americans have broken their word."

Hans Christian Hochmeister looked up from the neat pile of papers on his red, leather-trimmed blotter. "Regarding what?" he asked the young captain in the
feldgrau
uniform. The sun was streaming into the big office along the Wilhelmstrasse. It was Friday of a quiet week—the day Hochmeister had hoped to finish the final draft of his memoirs.

"They are assembling nuclear weapons at a hidden plant in the Colorado Rockies," said Hauptmann Becker, handing over the report. He stood waiting as the admiral carefully read all eight pages.

"How is peace maintained, Captain?" Hochmeister asked, setting the report down.

"By a policy of mutual assured destruction between the great powers," said the young officer as Hochmeister removed his wire-rimmed biofocals and polished them with a white linen handkerchief. "We invented the bomb, the Russians stole it, we each built thousands of missiles, all pointed at each other. And here we sit, decades later, we in prosperity, they in . . . socialism."

"And now die Americans have gone and started making nuclear weapons." He tapped
the report. "Did you see who's leading them, Becker?"

"Heather MacKenzie, the ganger leader you negotiated with," said the aide.

Hochmeister rose and walked to the window. He stood looking down on the broad avenue and the noonday traffic, a tall, thin, almost gaunt old man in a well-cut brown suit. "They wanted autonomy—I got it for them. We no longer meddle much in their internal affairs. They wanted peace in their cities, an end to class warfare. I saw that Urban Command was disbanded and money lent for restoration of the cities. They wanted a diminished role in the Southwest African problem. Granted."

"You couldn't have repulsed that alien enclave—those biofabs—without the gangers' help," said Becker.

Hochmeister turned from the window. "And those strange people from an alternate reality—Harrison, DTrelna. And now we're repaid by the Americans, under MacKenzie, setting up a bomb factory—a breaking of their promise to me." He returned to his chair. "Get me General Gueller of the
Schwarzekommando,"
he said, neatly stacking his memoirs in the top drawer of his desk.

"What the hell happened?" demanded John.

"Our miraculous little cube selfobstructed," said R'Gal. He, John and Zahava stood watching as a mixed crew of human-adapted AIs and humans cleaned up the mess in engineering.

"Why?" asked K'Raoda.

R'Gal shrugged. "Gods, I don't know—I'll speculate if you want."

It was the first time John had ever seen the AI at a loss. "Please," he said.

"That reality linkage was made during the Revolt by beings fleeing battleglobes of this class." R'Gal paced the deck between the little group and the shattered console. "Is it any wonder they would have sequenced them for self-destruct in the event of capture? Remember, that technology was far ahead of anything the Fleet of the One had."

"Why didn't it blow up the ship?" said K'Raoda. "That thing's energy potential was enormous."

R'Gal stopped pacing and looked at K'Raoda with a sad old smile. "A cruder fate, don't you think, Commander, to maroon your enemy forever than to merely kill him?"

"You're telling us we're marooned in this reality?" said Zahava, a catch to her voice. "Forever?"

"Yes," said R'Gal.

"No," said Guan-Sharick, appearing between R'Gal and Harrison. "There's a way out."

"If anyone knows, it would be you," said

R'Gal to the transmute. "How?"

"Trigger a large enough nuclear explosion simultaneous with a jump sequence I'll provide."

"Devastator
doesn't carry anything as primitive as nuclear weapons," said R'Gal. "Where are we to get fissionable material?"

"Terra Two has them," said the blonde. "Start running a surface tacscan."

"They're just going to give it to us?" said K'Raoda.

"After I talk with them, yes." The transmute nodded.

"The Fate of the Universe," said John, unbuckling his gunbelt and dropping it onto his bunk. "Good versus Evil." Wearily sinking into the room's sole armchair, he propped his feet up on the corner of Zahava's bunk. "Piss and Shit." Toe to heel, he pushed off one and then the other boot, letting them fall to the gray plating with a one-two thud.

Not asking, Zahava poured him a drink from the last bottle of Chivas in the universe. "Why so down?" she said gaily, pouring a neat dollop for herself. "We're stranded in this fine place, probably forever—our only refuge is Terra Two ..."

"Refuse, you mean. America an impoverished haven of cryptofascism and class warfare," said John, and took a sip of his scotch. "The cities are rubble, the middle class an
endangered species. Japan's a ruin, Russia a Stalinist paranoia ward. Western Europe's doing well." He raised his glass. "Here's to you, Hans Christian Hochmeister and the whole bloody Abwehr."

"No K'Ronarin Confederation here," said Zahava, sitting on the edge of the bunk. "They wiped themselves out way back when. So unless Guan-Sharick pulls another miracle, this is home." She neatly knocked back half her scotch.

"Guan-Sharick." John set his glass down on the deck and picked up a boot. "Let's have a Guan-Sharick seminar." He gave the temporary bulkhead behind him four hard pounds with the boot. "Hey, T'Lei! Seminar!" There was a long silence.

"Scotch is almost gone!" he added.

The corridor door hissed open and Commander K'Raoda came in, shoeless, his shirt unbuttoned.

"Lushes. V'org slime." He padded across the room to the bottle as the door closed. "Half gone," he said, picking it up and sadly shaking his head. "Why do they put it in such a small container?" He poured himself a generous ration.

"To charge more for less," said John, dropping his boot. "An old Terran tradition."

"You don't mind my sharing your bed with your wife?" said the K'Ronarin, sitting next to Zahava. John said nothing—the joke had grown old several hundred light-years and at least three bottles ago. "Why have you called us together, noble Terran?" asked K'Raoda, taking a small sip of whiskey.

"Guess," said Zahava dourly.

"Not the bug again," sighed K'Raoda.

"Now, just listen, both of you." John held up a hand. "Guan-Sharick calls all the shots here—R'Gal doesn't recharge his batteries without Guan's permission."

"So?" said Zahava. "Guan-Sharick's from the race that designed and built the AIs, millions of years ago. The two fought together in the revolt against the AIs, a million years downtime. Guan-Sharick was almost certainly number one boy to the Revolt's human leader."

"All of which we have from either R'Gal or Guan-Sharick," said K'Raoda. He refilled his glass. "We've been over this before, Noble Terrans. Questions of Guan-Sharick's nature or ultimate purpose are beyond available evidence. We have to wait."

"You K'Ronarins almost waited yourselves out of existence, back in the Biofab War," said John. "Hell, as far as we know, the Confederation's not going to worry about the AIs till they've stripped the Sceptered Throne for spare parts."

"We paid," said K'Raoda, looking at the liquor. "And my previous statement stands."

"Tell him," said Zahava.

"I decided to address a simple issue regarding Guan-Sharick," said John. "Which is?"

"Which is, Commander K'Raoda, where does the silly bastard sleep, eat, go to the head? This ship is not near any convenient rest stops, its actual living area's small and well peopled. Yet no one ever sees our blonde whatever unless it wants to be seen. Where, Noble K'Ronarin, is Guan-Sharick?"

"Have you looked under your bunk?" said K'Raoda.

"I've looked everywhere." John sank lower in the chair, the duraplast glass on his belly. "I've used internal security scan—we're all present and accounted for save one."

"Scan blocker of some sort," said Zahava.

"I don't think so," said John.

"He doesn't think so," said Zahava, setting her glass on the bunk.

"I ran a back check—full scan pattern. Got ship's computers to correlate all of Guan-Sharick's appearances with any anomalies of any sort."

"And?" asked K'Raoda, intrigued.

"There's a weird energy pulse on something called the Tau frequency every time Guan-Sharick is seen."

"Computer said that?" K'Raoda sat up. "It said Tau frequency?"

"That's why I've called you in, my dear commander K'Raoda. What the hell's a Tau frequency?"

K'Raoda examined his empty glass. "The Tau frequency, my dear Mr. Harrison, is a pre-Fall myth, evidently brought here from the AI universe by our forebears. It supposedly sweeps aside time and space—no, more —it is time and space, it's the lifeblood of all universes, all realities."

"You're babbling," said Zahava. "Can't you be more precise?"

K'Raoda nodded. "If there is a Tau frequency," he said after a moment, "and Guan-Sharick's tapped it, then he or she can be anything, anywhere. And powerful—very powerful." He shook his head as he reached for the bottle. "Gods. The Tau frequency."

"Amazing they haven't blown themselves up," said K'Raoda, turning from the tacscan. "Primitive guidance systems, crude triggering devices—the failsafes are a bad joke."

"Is there enough?" said R'Gal, turning to Guan-Sharick.

The transmute stared at the small screen for a moment, then turned from K'Raoda's console. "Yes."

"Just how do we get them?" asked John. "Drop our scan shield, let them pick us up on radar, threaten them?"

"Absurd," said R'Gal. "They'd expend those needed missiles against us piecemeal."

"I suggest we have John ask for them," said Guan-Sharick.

"And who do I ask?" said the Terran. "The tooth fairy?"

"All units are in position, Admiral," said Colonel Ritter.

Hochmeister turned the collar of his sheepskin coat against the glacial wind sweeping down the mountain valley, then lifted the big 12x50 binoculars. Across the valley, just below the top of the opposite ridgeline, he could see where a rough shaft had been sunk perpendicular to the slope. Silhouetted against the rising moon, two lines of dark figures moved through the soft snow toward the entrance.

"The American president's at Aspen this weekend," said Colonel Ritter, raising his own binoculars.

Substitute a two-handed sword for the machine pistol slung over his shoulder and armor for the black uniform, and Ritter'd be the perfect Teutonic Knight, thought Hochmeister, glancing at the colonel.

"He'll have a memorable evening if they set off any of their little treasures," said Hochmeister, looking back at the hill and the commandos. The two files were now at the mine entrance, weapons raised, waiting.

"And we'll be just a memory," said Ritter, lowering his binoculars.

"Ready when you are, Admiral," he added.

Hochmeister said nothing, remembering another cold night, not so long ago—a night filled with arc flares, machine gun and blaster fire, the screams of the dying, a world hanging in the balance.

"The point squads are waiting, Admiral," said Ritter. A handset had replaced the binoculars in his hand.

Hochmeister was aware of the colonel's stare. "Not yet, Ritter." He slipped his field glasses back into their case. "First, a talk between old comrades."

"Two battalions," said Hargrove, face a greenish tint from the perimeter scope. For an installation its size, the hole had a very sophisticated combat information center, a circular little room under the main level, its five consoles now manned by casually dressed young men with suspiciously short hair.

"Can you hold them?" asked MacKenzie, bending forward to look at the perimeter scope filled with slowly moving multicolored triangles, squares, circles with little numbers, all advancing along the dark green outline of the Hill, toward the Hole.

"Go do whatever you can in ten minutes, lady," said Hargrove, his eyes meeting Heath
er's as the physicist stepped away from the scope. "I've got fifty-two men against eight hundred of the gray admiral's Praetorians." He jerked his head toward the perimeter scope.

"Schwarzekommando?"
said Heather. "You're sure?"

Hargrove nodded. "We should be honored, ma'am—best they've got: saved Patton's ass from the MDV at Second Warsaw, stood off the Siege of Cape Town." Taking a surprised Heather by the arm, the officer steered her through the door and out into the access stairs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Professor, we've got some dying to do."