Final Assault (9 page)

8

"Fine;' said captain P
'Qal. "Let's say
I
believe you. You forged an alliance with the mindslavers, stopped the
AI
vanguard cold out in the Ghost Quadrant and you took this lovely pleasure dome." His hand swept the room. "Let's say
I
even believe that Combine T'Lan is an
AI
nest and you two"—his eyes shifted between R'Gal and S'Rel—"represent the heroic immortals who stood against your own kind for honor, truth and justice."

"Ease off,
P
'Qal," said S'Rel.

"Believing this," continued the captain, "and, for various reasons,
I
do, why should
I
give you the portal device? My sense of duty tells me
I
should turn you around and point you toward K'Ronar." He punched up a t'ata and took another sweetcake from the platter on R'Gal's desk. "With an AI invasion coming through the Rift in the Ghost Quadrant, headed straight at K'Ronar, Fleet needs this ship. It needs to copy its systems and deploy a fleet of these . . . Why are you shaking your head?" he asked R'Gal.

"There's not enough time, materials or expertise to build a single battleglobe, Captain," said the AI. "The weapons systems are hardly miniaturized marvels: to be effective they have to be numerous and mounted on a battleglobe. Only other battleglobes or mindslavers stand a chance against the Fleet of the One."

"What a hideous name," said S'Tat.

"And a misnomer," said S'Rel, turning to her. "It should be called the Fleet of Fear and Hate. Our fascistic brethren have built and maintained a hegemony at fearsome cost. All the enslaved races hate them, and, judging from records on this ship, the brethren are beginning to hate each other. The conservatives hate the liberals, the liberals the conservatives, both hate and fear the underraces. It's Colonel R'Gal's theory that our home realm's a rotten fruit, ready to fall. One ship—this ship—can spark a revolt that will burn out the bad and maybe spare some of the good."

P'Qal had been sipping his t'ata while he listened. "You haven't been home for a million years, any of you," he said, setting down the cup. "Yet you're so sure of yourselves." He looked at the two AIs. "The only recent arrivals from your universe have been the AIs' infiltrators who became Combine T'Lan. Therefore you have some way of independently confirming information you found on this ship. Probably ..."

"All right, Captain," said R'Gal. "Let's just say we are sure of ourselves."

P'Qal nodded. "Fine. So you can't save us from fire and blood without the portal device —if you can save us at all. Which brings me to my other objection. There is only one extant alternative-reality linkage device, an Imperial relic, evidently a prototype. Obviously, you'd have to take it with you or you couldn't access your home universe from the intervening reality. With you goes a very impressive bit of technology. I'm loath to release it on such a wild risk."

"New technology will be of no use to us," said K'Raoda, "if we're all dead. And we will be dead if the Fleet of the One isn't stopped."

P'Qal sighed. "You can have it," he said. "I hope you know how to use it with this monster's drive."

"You're a brave man, Captain." R'Gal smiled. "And we do know how to use it."

"You know what they'll do to me if you don't succeed?" he said, shaking his head. "I'll have S'Yatan release it to you."

"You may have lost your mind, Captain. I haven't lost mine," said S'Yatan, his image sharp in the commscreen. "I'm not releasing that device to anyone but an authorized Fleet detachment—preferably of flotilla strength."

P'Qal's face reddened dangerously. He leaned closer to the pickup. "Don't give me any of your Academy crap about authorizations and illegal orders, Captain," he said. "We have no way to contact Fleet. I am insystem commander. I have made the best decision possible with the available data and have now given you a direct, lawful order. They may court-martial me for releasing that device, but I sure as hell will see you shot for disobeying a direct order in a known combat zone." He leaned back, a short, fat man out of breath.

"I am making for jump point, Captain P'Qal," said S'Yatan icily, features pale but composed. "I will report your dereliction of duty to FleetOps—and my reaction to it. We'll see who faces the wall."

The screen went blank.

"Get him back, Captain," said R'Gal. "We're not going anywhere without that device."

P'Qal searched the unfamiliar console for the retransmit key.

"Don't bother, Captain," said S'Rel, turning from the complink. "I was afraid of this.
Devastator
carried a full liaison packet, with all the data Combine T'Lan had sent home over the years—sabotage plans, strategy, agents. The real S'Yatan was killed and a combat droid substituted during his plebe year. Gentlemen, our enemies have the portal device."

The K'Ronarins under R'Gal and D'Trelna had taken
Devastator,
sensor-scanned for traces of any holdouts in the thousands of miles of corridors honeycombing the battleglobe, then busied themselves with repairs, ignoring the vast reaches of the great ship. Most of
Devastator
remained unexplored.

There was one structure that attracted visitors, even though some distance from the operations tower and the hub of activity—the observatory. It was a comparatively small dome of a building, white in contrast to the battleglobe's endless black and gray, set in a slight depression between the operations tower and the yawning chasm of a hangar portal.
A
score of screens, all larger than
Implacable's
main screen, lined the concave sweep of white wall, just above the railed walkway circling the room. Instrument consoles filled the center of the observatory floor. Only one of them was on now, presenting sensor data as a familiar, sharply defined picture.

"So near, yet ..." said Zahava, looking at the screen.

John stood beside her, also looking at the scan of Earth. Home was a soft swirl of stratocumuli broken by the blue and brown pastels of a surface only an hour away.

"We'll get back there," he said. "After this is over. Go down to the Cape, open up the beach cottage, drink beer . . .

"... put our feet up on the rail, watch the sunset over the Sound and belch contentedly," finished Zahava.

He looked at her and sighed. "Said that a little too much, have I?"

"No more than twice a watch."

They were an odd contrast, she a dark-skinned, lissome Sephardic Jew with a faint Israeli accent, he a sandy-haired WASP of medium build and a barely discernible New England accent. Ex-Mossad and ex-CIA, they'd married after the Biofab War, then shipped out aboard
Implacable
into Quadrant Blue Nine, battling corsairs, mindslavers, AIs, and helping take
Devastator
from her AI crew. Now they were on board for the final confrontation.

"You really think we'll get out of this alive?" said Zahava, turning to him.

"Talk like that you won't," said a new voice, echoing in through the dome. The two

Terrans turned, hands dropping to their holsters.

"Bill!" they both said, then hurried to greet Sutherland. The CIA director returned Zahava's kiss, then shook John's hand.

"■What are you doing aboard this monstrosity?" asked John.

Sutherland shrugged. "S'Rel wanted me up here to gauge their sincerity, or something. A symbol of goodwill, I suppose. This war is long past any Terran government's influence." He glanced up at the board with its image of the planet. "Mostly, though, I came to say good-bye to two homesick friends and to wish you Godspeed."

"How's McShane?" asked John.

"The old codger's well," said Sutherland. "I got a postcard from him last month. Bought a big sailing ketch, hired a crew and took the kids and grandkids off to the South Pacific." Bob McShane, a retired professor, had been with John, Zahava and Sutherland since
Implacable
first reached Terra, playing a decisive role in both the Biofab War and the battle for Terra Two.

"So tell me, how did you acquire this homey ship?" asked Sutherland, leaning against one of the consoles.

"Ask Zahava," said John. "She took it. I just wandered around lost, playing tag with those flying blades the AIs use for security."

Sutherland looked at Zahava.

"We stormed it," said the Israeli. "One assault team infiltrated, took out the shield power, my group came in and stormed the Tower, pulling out the AI gun crews, then D'Trelna brought
Implacable
in and it was all over."

Sutherland snapped his fingers. "Just like that?" he said with a grin.

"Not really," said a new voice.

This time the long-barreled blasters came out of their holsters as Guan-Sharick appeared, standing on the other side of the nearest consoles. The blonde ignored the blasters, looking instead at Sutherland. "They came under fierce blaster fire and nerve gas attack. Zahava's assault force sustained over seventy percent casualties, John and L'Wrona's over ninety-percent. R'Gal was badly wounded. And still they were lucky."

"Long time," said Sutherland softly. "I'd hoped you were dead."

"I'm on the side of the angels now," said the blonde, walking around the console, "or haven't you heard?"

"And I'm a Trotskyite," said the CIA director.

"What I did on Terra," said the transmute, green eyes looking into Sutherland's a meter away, "was necessary. What I did to galactic humanity by instigating the Biofab War was necessary—a vital conditioning exercise." She shook her head, throwing the long golden
strands back over the shoulder of her white jumpsuit.

"You wiped out much of galactic humanity," said John. "A lot of people want a piece of

you."

The blonde looked at him, a beautiful young face with old, old eyes. "Nothing can be done to me that hasn't already been done, Harrison. Believe me." Her gaze shifted to a blank screen, seeing something the other three couldn't. "To be honest, I don't expect to survive this mad expedition. Death would be a welcome release."

Guan-Sharick looked back at the three Terrans. "S'Yatan, the captain of the
Victory Day,
is an AI," she said briskly. "He's making off with the portal device and will reach jump point before we can overtake him. I can, however, transport two of you and myself to his inhospitable bridge and do battle with the slime. Like that," added the transmute, snapping her fingers.

Sutherland was suddenly alone in the observatory. He stood perfectly still for a moment, then shook his head, lips pursed, and left the room.

On the screen, the image of Terra was just another dim point of light.

9

"Cci
works flawlessly
," said Dad as another small asteroid shattered from a red fusion beam.

"Make for final jump point," L'Wrona ordered the computer. The asteroid belt was a well-known target practice area, just off the principal ship path from K'Ronar to U'Tria. Three jump points—those unseen but well-charted points from which a ship could jump most accurately to another specified point —lay behind them, one ahead. It was here the captain expected trouble—even looked forward to it. After ten years of battlecruisers, he was reveling in the immediate response his hands brought from the sleek little ship, the almost forgotten thrill of piloting a one-man scout. Only the lack of his father's voice would have made it more enjoyable. Why ever did he impress his persona on the computer? wondered L'Wrona, not for the first time. Did he really think he was doing me a favor, or did he do it for himself, assuaging some secret guilt about being away so much when I was young?

Just before the war, after an especially long and argumentative trip aboard
Toy,
L'Wrona had consulted a ship's cyberneticist about having his father's persona and voice removed from Toy's computer. The man had glanced at the system specs, then at the programming overlay specs. "Voice is no problem," he'd said. "The personality, though . . ." He'd shaken his head. "Might as well scrap the whole system and start with fresh gear."

"How much?"

The cyberneticist shook his head again. "Can't get a replacement—system specs are unique to this series—start substituting, you're asking for big trouble a long way from home. You'd have to find another O'Lan in private berth, buy it and switch hardware —seeing as how you've made certain modifications." His finger delicately traced the schematic of the CCI interface.

Then the war had started, U'Tria had fallen and L'Wrona had forgotten all about it—until now.

"A ship has just appeared at jump point," said Dad. "ID'd as a nova-class Fleet destroyer."

The projection appeared on the tacscan —the red of the destroyer moving toward the green of
Toy
as it approached the pulsing red circle of the jump point.

"Ship-to-ship," said the computer.

A man's face appeared in the commscreen, the silver starships of a captain on his collar. He was in his middle years, graying at the temples—and he looked most unhappy. He nodded at L'Wrona. "My Lord," he said with a faint nod. "Captain Z'Than, commanding
A'Lan's Hope.
We are ordered by FleetOps to take your ship aboard and return with you to K'Ronar."