Final Assault (13 page)

"Acknowledged," came the reply from the bridge.

"And give us forward scan video down here, please, S'Rel," added R'Gal.

What had been a rectangular stretch of bulkhead was suddenly transformed into a view of the space between Earth and Mars where
Devastator
now hung at dead stop, her forward momentum checked by her monstrous n-gravs.

"Now what?" said Zahava.

"Watch," said K'Raoda. "Center front."

Nothing at first—a vast multitude of stars set in black velvet—then, as John watched, not quite sure he was seeing something, a bit of that blackness grew even darker, a growing circle of obsidian that quickly blotted out all but its own unnatural self. John looked away, trying to end a sudden painful ringing growing somewhere deep in his head. K'Raoda flinched and Zahava covered her ears. R'Gal seemed unaffected.

"Is it a black hole?" asked John, trying to ignore the pain that grew as the battleglobe moved slowly forward, closing the gap.

"You might call it an artificial black hole," said R'Gal, eyes on the scan. "One that's had its useful properties adapted to our needs." He glanced at the three and smiled sympathetically. "Your discomfort's due to some of the portal's emitters having the same frequency as your own latent neural receivers. It'll pass."

"Penetration attained," reported S'Rel as a swirling vortex of color replaced the blackness—a vortex that shook the great ship like a toy, throwing John and Zahava to the hard deck and spinning K'Raoda from his chair—an action that saved his life as the console exploded, a sudden orange and blue geyser of flame.

From on high, fire snuffers responded, smothering the flames in a thin, focused stream of mist that absorbed the oxygen and snap-froze the superheated console.

R'Gal touched a commpanel while the humans helped each other up. "Status," he demanded.

"Terra Two attained," said the bridge—a voice other than S'Rel's. Then, after a slight pause, "We show localized explosion in your section. What is your status?"

"Never mind us," snapped R'Gal, eyes on the console. "What do you show for reality linkage status?"

This time there was a long pause.

"Report," said R'Gal impatiently.

"Field down," came S'Rel's voice. "Possibly destroyed. The good news is that we're out of the transition flux and into our bridge universe. That's Terra Two down there."

Everyone looked at the vidscan: no more vortex, no more black hole. Blue-green and brown, a familiar world filled the scan, all soft pastels and serenity.

"Terra Two," said John to no one in particular, "is not good news."

14

"Well?" said ntrol
. Arms folded, he leaned against the armorglass, watching A'Tir dress.

"Not bad, for a loyal Fleet officer," said the corsair, fastening her pants. "You and your happy little crew can keep their miserable lives—for now." As she sat to pull on her boots, N'Trol breathed a silent sigh of relief. It had been a contest, no doubt—one which he'd won, but just barely. And one he didn't care to repeat, not for those stakes.

"Every third watch," said A'Tir, rising and walking to D'Trelna's wall safe. Taking out her holstered Ml
1
A, she belted it on and bent, tying the bottom of the black v'arx leather holster to her leg.

Witch, thought N'Trol. She reads minds.

"Every third watch what?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"You and your men live at my pleasure —literally," said A'Tir, facing him. "Back to your quarters, Engineer, and ..."

Seeing the corsair's eyes widen at something behind him, N'Trol spun in time to view the mindslaver sweep alongside, ten black-hulled miles of weapons batteries, sensor arrays, instrument pods and not a single light.

"We all live at something else's pleasure now, witch," said N'Trol as A'Tir bit her lower lip, face pale.

"Captain!" It was K'Lal's voice, tight with fear, calling from the bridge. "Mindslaver has come alongside. Permission to sound battlestations?"

A'Tir laughed—a high, musical sound that banished her frightened look and almost made N'Trol like the woman. Stepping to the commlink, she flipped the transmit tab. "Sound anything you like," she said. "We can't crew both gunnery and the bridge. And nothing we have would even make that monster's shield flicker.

"Mr. N'Trol and I are on our way."

N'Trol and A'Tir were in the lift when the slaver spoke—a dry whisper coming from every comm speaker on
Implacable.

"You barely got away alive last time, cruiser
Implacable.
You won't be so fortunate this time. You'll be processed in salvage hold eight, your organic and mechanical components used to serve R'Actol."

As A'Tir and N'Trol stepped onto the bridge,
Implacable
lurched from the force of the mindslaver's tractor beams.

There were five corsairs manning the bridge, eyes more on the screen than on their consoles. The cruiser was being drawn toward a gaping hole in the mindslaver's belly. K'Lal punched to higher magnification, zooming the scan in on the single bright-lit berth in that vast hold—a rectangular dry dock overhung by wrecking cranes and rimmed by the squat, massive form of industrial-grade welders, all shimmering faintly behind the blue haze of energy shields.

A'Tir and N'Trol paused for an instant, held by the sight of the space-borne abattoir drawing them in.

"Status?" said A'Tir, taking the captain's chair as N'Trol moved to the engineer's station.

K'Lal turned from the screen, shaking his head. "I've seen you pull miracles before, Commander." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "How about one now?"

A'Tir pushed the commtab. "Are you
Alpha Prime?"
she said.

"Yes, Commander A'Tir," came the whisper—dead leaves rustling in an autumn twilight, thought N'Trol. "You and Captain K'Tran will have adjoining brainpods."

A'Tir's fingers gripped the chairarm, white-knuckled.

"You let it rattle you, it wins," said a soft voice beside her. She looked up at N'Trol, standing beside her. The engineer smiled faintly. "Surprise—I hate it more than I do you, corsair."

"You've scanned ship's logs," said A'Tir, turning back to the screen and the yawning salvage hold that now, even on lowest magnification, filled the screen.

"Indeed," said the nightmare. "You have about a hundred-count to kill yourselves —knives only—we've put a damper field on your ship. It won't prevent us from brainstripping you, of course, but experience has shown that in the case of suicides, even with the most prompt attention, we lose about seven percent. So some of you can slip away."

"We're not here to die, thing," said A'Tir, leaning back in the chair, "or to be brainstripped. I have information vital to the survival of the Seven."

"Tell us," whispered the mindslaver. "We are the Seven of R'Actol, and we can show mercy."

"I demand a personal audience," said the corsair.

There was a long pause. "Granted," said the dead voice as
Implacable
slipped into the salvage hold.

"What's your game, A'Tir?" said N'Trol as he and the corsair approached the cruiser's number five access port, K'Lal and another corsair behind them.

"I have something that will make them restore K'Tran and turn command of their ship over to me," she said as the corridor dead-ended at the access port. A small airlock, it lay topside of the cruiser, just behind the bridge.

"Luck, Commander," said K'Lal, cycling open the airlock. With a curt nod she stepped through the double doors and onto a strip of black duraplast that spanned the gap between the cruiser and the battlesteel catwalk surrounding it. N'Trol followed, trying not to look down at the distant shimmer of the air curtain and the beckoning nothingness of space beyond. Steel ships and spineless men, he thought, wanting very much to get down and crawl across the void. The sight of A'Tir's straight back and confident walk kept him moving. Witch, he thought.

The component was waiting for them on the catwalk: gray-uniformed with a major's silver rank pips and starship-and-sun on his collar, slim Imperial-class blaster on his hip, gleaming black boots and holster. Archives would have said he was an Imperial Marine captain, Third Dynasty. Medscan would have shown he had no brain.

"Welcome to
Alpha Prime,"
it said, saluting. Its voice was warm, its smile pleasant, its eyes dead. "Follow me, please."

They were led from the salvage hold down a corridor to where an open ground car waited. Motioning them into the rear seat, the component slid into the front seat and activated the car. Rising silently, it turned, rose and moved quickly from the side corridor into one of the mindslaver's main thoroughfares, a broad, well-lit avenue of gray battlesteel. There was no other traffic.

"A'Tir," said N'Trol softly, eyes on the component, "tell me you don't have a secret code sequence from the First Dynasty that will bend this ship to your will." He saw her start, half turning to look at him.

"How did you ...?'■'

The engineer closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "I have a bridge to sell you," he said.

"A bridge?" she asked, even more confused.

"Terra. New York. Never there, were you?" He said no more, eyes ahead, ignoring her uneasy look.

The car flitted past a series of intersections, then up a broad circular ramp. Decelerating, it turned a corner and came to rest before a shimmering archway.

"You've been here before, I believe," said

N'Trol as the car settled to the deck.

A'Tir nodded.
"Alpha Prime's
bridge. Last place time I saw K'Tran, that forcefield"—her eyes traced the curtain of energy to the archway's distant top—"had just closed behind him. Bloody fool was going to take over the ship."

"You're no less a fool to think this ancient evil will go quietly, corsair."

Something in his tone turned her toward him, a question on her lips.

"Follow me, please," said the component, having seen to the ship car.

As the trio approached, the force field lifted, then lowered behind as they advanced down a wide corridor—a corridor lined by what had been Imperial Marines.

Every third component fell in behind, blastrifles at port arms, twelve soldiers of R'Actol forming a column of twos that marched in perfect step into the multitiered bridge, following the two humans and their officer up the ramp to the command tier. Halting just before the railing, the components took station and waited along the ramp, expressionless acolytes to That Which Waited.

Seven thick, black flight chairs fronted the curving console that filled
Alpha Prime's
topmost command tier—seven chairs with an unobstructed view of space through the armorglass bubble capping the great bridge. N'Trol found his eyes following the seemingly endless sweep of the slaver's hull to where it merged into a single point, miles and miles away.

"The Seven hope you're impressed," said a pleasant voice.

"And what are you, and where?" asked A'Tir, walking to the center chair, from which the voice had apparently come. With a quick motion, she spun the flight chair around. Empty.

"I'm the overmind of this ship," continued the voice.

"Are you a R'Actolian?" asked N'Trol, now trying to understand the purpose of the console. Lights winked on and off, but the language was as alien as the engineering.

"Please," said the overmind, "sit down." The center chair and the one to its immediate left swung silently out to face the two humans. They hesitated, exchanging glances.

"You can be killed as quickly there as in the chairs," said the voice.

They sat.

"What happened to the dead, whispering promises of doom?" asked N'Trol.

"We wanted very much to talk with you, in as unintimidating a way as possible, so the Seven have elected to have a mind with much of its original humanity intact serve as spokesman. Be assured, though," it said flatly, "I speak for R'Actol."

"And will R'Actol keep its pledge?" asked the engineer. "To stand against the AIs in return for my Commodore's bearing the specifics of your request to . . ."

"Pardon me," said the overmind, "but the time for alliance has passed. The Fleet of the One is even now penetrating the Rift. Your pitiful Confederation is in disarray, paralyzed by Combine T'Lan and the aftershocks of the Biofab War. It has no power to grant concessions, and nothing to give us we couldn't now take."

"Then why are you here, in harm's way?" said N'Trol. "The AIs aren't going to bother to distinguish between cyborgs and humans— any human-related life form will be wiped."

"Correct," said the overmind. "And here comes the instrument of our mutual destruction." The space view dimmed, replaced by a swirling ocher eye flecked with silver.

"The Rift," said overmind. "Now at its widest dilation—a perfect tunnel from the AIs'—and star faring man's—home universe."

"How near?" asked N'Trol, leaning forward.

"About eight light-years," said the overmind. "The scan is from the forward pickets set by the Imperial Cyborg Pocsym Six, millennia ago. The silver bits you see are AI battleglobes. Clearing the Rift, they'll regroup and jump—here. We stand between them and a number of juicy Confederation targets."