Final Assault (24 page)

"You intercepted this and S'Yal found out?" guessed D'Trelna.

S'Kur nodded. "A lot of good people died for that."

"More are dying as you speak," said Line. "Please press the tab."

L'Wrona looked at the recall device, then handed it back to S'Kur. "If you would, sir."

S'Kur pressed the switch.

"A few pockets of resistance," said T'Lan senior to the translucent red ball in his skipcomm screen. "When may we expect the Fleet?"

"The First Leader's compliments," said the red ball in its melodic voice. "We'll be there in two days. There was very fierce resistance at our initial jump point. We still aren't sure by what sort of ships—but all were destroyed."

"There was some rumor of the last of the mindslavers making a stand against Your Omnipotence," said T'Lan. "Possibly under the command of the legendary outlaw, Captain K'Tran. Defeating them, you defeated the last of the mindslavers. Nothing else of this time can succeed against the Fleet."

"Excuse me, T'Lan," said the red ball. "But if we destroyed the last of the mindslavers, what is that behind you?"

T'Lan spun around, looking out the armorglass wall. Mindslavers filled space as far as he could see, all the way to the distant shimmer of K'Ronar's atmosphere. His conversation forgotten, he ran for the bridge as the battle klaxon sounded. He was almost there when his long life ended in the fireball that consumed his ship.

Admiral Lord R'Tak was confused. He'd taken the Twelfth outsystem in one massed jump, heading for Red Seven to crush the heart of the Machine Revolt. But instead of some miserable agro planet, K'Ronar filled his screens.

"S'Lak," he said, turning to his senior captain. "What the seven hells happened?"

"Checking," she said, sifting through a wealth of conflicting data. "The new drive seems unsuitable for mass ship jumps," she reported after a moment.

"I could have reached that conclusion without the computers," said the admiral.

"There are several thousand machine-crewed ships turning Prime Base into rubble," continued S'Lak.

Admiral Lord R'Tak came out of his chair. "Seven hells! How did they pass Line?"

"No data," said S'Lak. "But they are silicon-life crewed, though of unknown configuration. Also," she hesitated. "Also, celestial readings show us to be about fifteen thousand years downtime."

"Absurd," said the admiral, resuming his chair. "All ships to run wide-pattern instrument diagnostics—after we clean up. Direct all captains to trust only what they can see." As he spoke, a holovid of the Combine attack on Prime Base came to life in the center of the bridge. "And what I see, S'Lak," said the admiral, pointing at the holovid, "is a lot of hostiles pounding the shit out of us. Blow them away. And get me Operations —someone's going to pay for this."

"Commodore! Everyone! Come quick!"

The call brought A'Wal and his pickup infantry platoon charging into the operations area, expecting a rush of security blades.

"Look!" said an excited young subcom-mander, pointing at the main screen. What they saw was a computer enchancement, taken from several hundred satellites and instantly processed into the exploding panorama of space war: the great black bulk of a mindslaver plowing through a long line of Combine cruisers stacked neatly in bombardment orbit, the slaver's massive fusion beams exploding AI ships in its wake like so many target drones; another mindslaver holding orbit over Prime Base, ignoring the beams and missiles thrown at it by half a hundred Combine ships as it sent a host of fine, blue beams knifing into the stratosphere—blue beams that flashed again and again through the pall of smoke over Prime Base, each salvo raking a cubic kilometer of blades. Wherever a beam touched, a blade died, its molten remains cascading to the ground in flaming scarlet droplets. Seen on the FleetOps vidscan, it looked as if whole sections of sky were raining blood on the burning ruins of Prime Base.

"Posts, everyone," called A'Wal, sliding the blastrifle on top of a console and taking his station.

"Tentative identification of unknown ships," reported computer. "The Twelfth Fleet of the House of S'Yal, reported lost through a jump anomaly fifteen thousand years ago."

"Sir," said a voice in A'Wal's earpiece. "Someone identifying himself as Admiral Lord R'Tak is hailing us on one of the old

Imperial Fleet frequencies. He says unless we acknowledge immediately he will assume Operations to be under hostile control and will open fire on us."

"Computer," said A'Wal, his elation of a moment ago replaced by a cold dread, "identify Admiral Lord R'Tak."

"R'Tak, J'Kor, First Baron of N'Kar, born . . ."

"Salient summation," hissed the commodore.

"A ruthless, powerful man, first cousin to the Emperor S'Yal, third in line of succession. S'Yal's chief executioner, commander of S'Yal's personal fleet, chief architect of the slaughter of a machine culture that had been evolving for over three thousand years. Nickname: the Butcher."

"Commodore, this is Line," said a new voice. "Delay the lord admiral as long as possible."

"What good . . ." began A'Wal.

"Commodore," said a nervous voice. "The slaver fleet's interfaced our commlink with their battleops—I'm listening to the firing commands go out now."

"Put the lord admiral on—no video. Understood?"

"Affirmative, Commodore. No video."

"S'Gala—is that you?" came the Butcher's voice.

"S'Gala, Admiral First, Imperial Battle

Command," said computer, its voice replacing the Admiral's for an instant.

"Affirmative, My Lord Admiral," said A'Wal, trying to sound like an Academy plebe.

"What the hell happened?"

"The enemy somehow by:passed Line, My Lord. You see the results on your tacscan."

On the flagship, R'Tak frowned as a security flag appeared on his commscreen, blinking furiously:
not s'gala. voiceprint not on file.

"S'Lak," he said to his captain. "Operations is in hostile hands—open fire. Commofficer, get me the Emperor."

"Line, please," pleaded Admiral L'Guan.

D'Trelna picked up the suddenly beeping headset and listened. "An Admiral Lord R'Tak demands to speak with the Emperor," he said.

"The Twelfth Fleet has returned," said Assault Captain S'Kur.

D'Trelna pressed the commkey. "Sorry. He's not here. May I take a message?" He grimaced in pain at the squeal of a disconnect. "Rude," he said, replacing the headset. "Whatever happens, it's out of our hands now.

"Why aren't you dead?" he said to S'Kur as L'Wrona finished dressing the Guard officer's wound.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Commodore," said S'Kur, slipping his good arm back into his tunic.

"The radiation from the blaster hit," said Line through D'Trelna's communit. "It's the only variable.

"Advise if ready to return," it added.

"Bring us up," said D'Trelna.

An instant later only corpses held the last citadel.

"S'Lak, open fire. Now."

Not receiving any answer, Admiral R'Tak turned from his console to see Captain S'Lak and her entire bridge crew fading into transparency, disappearing even as he stood, reaching out—only to see through his own hand as he, too, faded away, his last despairing cry unheard.

24

The warning sounded
from every annunciator on
Devastator's
bridge:

"By Order of the Fleet of the One, this system is under interdict. Withdraw or be destroyed. Repeat: This system is under interdict ..."

"Get us out of here, please," pleaded Yarin. He turned to Guan-Sharick. "You seem to be in charge—do something."

A planet appeared on the main screen, a world of blue seas and brown continents, wreathed in clouds. It wasn't the planet, though, that held everyone's attention, but the energy web surrounding it, a yellow latticework of fusion beams stretching between the orbital forts that surrounded the planet.

"What would you have me do, Yarin?" said the blonde. "Argue with million-year-old automatic defenses? If we pass between those energy lines, the ship will be vaporized. If we stay here, those forts will open fire." A close scan of a fort replaced the planet on the screen. Black, unlit, it sat behind the faint blue shimmer of its shield, bristling with weapons batteries, an ancient killer that had destroyed everything ever sent against it. "Yarin!"

The group on the command tier turned in time to see Ulka crumple to the deck, hand clutching his throat.

"Don't touch him!" Guan-Sharick disappeared from the command tier and was kneeling beside the prone Qalian. The red-bearded miner was thrashing, tongue protruding, eyes bulging as he tried to get air to his lungs. A final convulsion tore a death rattle from the giant's throat—he twitched once and lay still.

"Stay away!" ordered the transmute as Yarin's friends stepped forward. She pointed to the dead man's tongue, black and covered with sores. "Plague. Yarin," she said, taking a syringe from her belt pouch. "Tell them to go to their quarters and stay there, each one away from the other." Inserting the syringe into Ulka's jugular, she carefully extracted a blood sample.

Grim-faced, Yarin started to translate. He got as far as "Plague" when the Qalians turned and bolted from the bridge.

"Where the hell are they going?" said John, pointing after the running Qalians.

"To their ships," said Yarin.

"They'll spread that virus everywhere," said K'Raoda, turning for the main gunnery console. "They have to be stopped."

"Don't bother, Commander." Guan-Sharick stood. Taking a med analyzer from her pouch, she placed it on top of a console and injected the blood sample into the specimen aperture. After a moment, the results came up on the unit's screen. "It's too late."

"What do you mean?" asked Yarin. With the others, he stood well away from the dead man.

The transmute held up the medanalyzer. "This is generic plague bacillus—the same one the Fleet of the One used on the Trel, a million years ago. It's mutated now and is attacking humans—with, I think, one intermediate step." She looked at Yarin. "You didn't drive the AIs from their home, did you, Yarin? They're fleeing—fleeing this microscopic killer. Your men contracted it when they stormed the AI rearguard, didn't they?''

His face very pale, Yarin sank into a chair, nodding. "They were dying—dying by the millions—no problem at all, wiping out their remnants. Then our people started dying —none of mine, though. We captured some of their medics—they said what you did, that it was a generic bacillus, lab-bred to adapt to and destroy any lifeform— silicon, carbon, whatever."

"You didn't believe them, of course?" said the transmute, setting the analyzer back down.

Yarin shook his head. "No," he said quietly.

Outside, unnoticed, a score of trim little fighters flashed up over the bridge and through the shield.

"It took a million years to attack the AIs," said Zahava.

"No," said Guan-Sharick. "It probably lay dormant somewhere, until someone, AI or human, came into contact with it."

'Then the Fleet of the One is a plague fleet," said K'Raoda.

The blonde nodded. "And whether they win or not, that plague fleet will spread this invisible killer throughout your galaxy. It was bred for survival—it can survive anything from hard vacuum up to fusion fire. The entire Fleet of the One can be destroyed, but if only a single piece of wreckage with this virus on it lands on some planet, anywhere, it'll spawn and await its newest victims."

"Surely there's an antidote," said John.

"Yes." The blonde turned and pointed toward the main screen. "Down there's the antidote. All we have to do is live long enough to reach there—we have about eight hours, one watch—until the bacillus kills us."

As she finished speaking, the orbital forts opened fire.

2 5

"Welcome home, my
Lord," said Admiral L' Guan.

D'Trelna and L'Wrona stood uncertainly to one side as N'Trol entered Line's command center.

"Thank you, Admiral," said the Heir. "I really had no intention of leaving, though." He looked at the other two officers. "You did well—my compliments."

L'Wrona bowed stiffly. D'Trelna just nodded.

"How's the Imperial officer you brought back?" asked N'Trol.

"He's in Line's sickbay, getting a full workup," said L'Wrona uneasily. "He seems to be fine. Sir," he added.

"Why don't we just dispense with titles and have a drink?" suggested N'Trol, sinking into one of the room's padded armchairs.

"My kind of Emperor," said D'Trelna, going to a beverager and returning with a tray of four wineglasses and a full decanter. "Though I should remind you, My Lord, that as a S'Htarian, I'm an unswerving radicalist." He finished pouring and handed N'Trol a glass. "My people were throwing grenades at yours when any talk of a confederation was treason."

"Your health, gentlemen," toasted N'Trol, and sipped his wine. "D'Trelna, assuming we survive the AI attack, there'll be a general election. If a plurality wants a constitutional monarchy, I'll be happy to restore the Throne. If not"—he shrugged—"I'll be just as happy to be chief engineer of some deepspace line again."