Final Assault (21 page)

"Everything you've done, my friend," said the AI, putting an arm around D'Assan's shoulder, "has been for humanity's demise. We're going to dispose of every last one of you."

"But . . . but. . ." stammered D'Assan, trying to step away. "The provisional government, the council of advisors . . ."

"You're a fool, D'Assan," said the AI, breaking the man's neck with a single quick twist.

The two AIs watched silently as D'Assan's limbs twitched in death shock.

"Amazing," said the elder AI as the twitching stopped. "That something so frail and vulnerable could be such a problem."

Outside, the assault force moved off toward K'Ronar.

"Anything from our Home Fleet?" asked the older AI as they left the wardroom.

"Just rendezvous instructions," said his counterpart. "Command staff hasn't sent so much as a 'well done.'"

"Odd," said T'Lan senior. "Well, let's secure K'Ronar and await the Fleet."

21

A
rough hand
shook John's shoulder. "Get up, scum," said a harsh voice. "We know you're alive."

The Terran opened his eyes. He was lying facedown beside the shattered remains of one of the bridge consoles, a class-one headache pounding his temples. White-fanged jaws gaped open, a few feet away. Raising his head, he saw it was the hologram projecting from the bow of the crashed ship that filled the shattered armorglass wall of
Devastator's
bridge. The little ship's cockpit was a crushed and tangled mass of shattered armorglass, buckled beams and dangling power cables. Bloody and well pulped, parts of something once human hung from the cockpit.

"Over there with the rest of the slime." A great red-haired hand jerked the Terran to his feet and dragged him, stumbling, across the bridge, depositing him with a final hard shove among the group huddling against the far wall: Zahava, K'Raoda, R'Gal and S'Rel.

"Are we all that's left?" said John, squinting as a fresh wave of pain lanced through his head. Gingerly, he touched the welt behind his left ear.

"Do they look like they'd follow the Geneva Convention—even if they'd heard of it?" said Zahava, nodding at their captors. "They killed the K'Ronarins, froze the AIs."

Not an especially merciful bunch, thought John. They were all big, all male, muscles bulging beneath coarse green uniforms. Gleaming, double-headed, a wicked-looking axe dangled from every belt, and about every fifth man wore a holstered pistol. The boarders were busy collecting the AIs, who stood motionless, staring unblinkingly at the blasted remains of the bridge doors. R'Gal's hand was on S'Rel's arm, as if restraining the other AI.

Picking an AI up beneath the arms, two men would carry him to the middle of the bridge, then return for another. When they finished, all of R'Gal's nonhuman command stood in a column of threes, twenty-eight humanoid statues. Stepping up to the first AI, Red Beard unhooked his axe and, while his troops cheered, lopped off the droid's head. It went spinning through the air to bounce off the navigation console, leaving behind a headless torso that pitched forward to the deck. Whooping, the rest of the boarders joined the fun.

'Asshole," said Zahava as more heads flew. Dodging between the nearest boarders, she attacked Red Beard, John right behind her.

Red Beard turned to meet her, axe descending in a powerful two-handed stroke that would have decapitated the Israeli had it connected, missing instead as she weaved to one side. Off balance, Red Beard lurched forward as Zahava's kick landed below his great leather belt. With a dull
whoomp
the giant crumpled to the deck.

Two of the boarders had pinioned John—a second later and two more had Zahava by the arms. Rising painfully, first to his knees, then to his feet, Red Beard drew the long-bladed knife at his belt and slowly approached the Israeli.

Three sharp explosions reverberated through the bridge: K'Raoda stood in front of the arms rack, a big M32 blastrifle aimed at Red Beard, three large, dead boarders at his feet. It was an uneven standoff and both sides knew it: four of the boarders started circling to either side of K'Raoda, who stood with the rifle trained on Red Beard. Red Beard smiled at the K'Ronarin—a hungry, carnivorous smile. John figured the commander had about ten seconds to live, he and Zahava about twelve.

"You stupid slobs!" shouted John in K'Ronarin. "We're on your side!"

"So you are," said a new voice, also in K'Ronarin. "That is,
[{Devastator's
logs aren't faked."

Everyone looked at the man stepping on to the bridge: thirtyish, but with hair already gray, thin, with a neatly trimmed beard and dark, probing eyes that moved from captor to captor. "Let them go, Ulka." This last was to Red Beard.

"They killed Ktra," he said—John saw now that the K'Ronarin words were coming from a black wafer-thin piece of gear belted to the new arrival's belt. "They should be killed."

"I'll decide that, Ulka. Clean this mess up and destroy no more droids. Is that clear?"

Red Beard glared at the man for just an instant, then lowered his gaze.
"Tugar,
Yarin," he said. "Clear, Yarin," translated the wafer. Sullenly, the boarders acknowledged the order—the more articulate with a grunt.

"You three with me," said Yarin, gesturing with the small pistol that had suddenly appeared in his hand. "You can leave the rifle here," he added to K'Raoda.

As they left, Ulka spat, the brown-flecked phlegm smearing John's left boot.

"Pigshit doesn't like you," said Zahava as they reached the bridge entry ramp.

"Nothing wrong with Pigshit that a tire iron couldn't fix," said John as they followed Yarin down the ramp.

It was R'Gal's quarters Yarin went to, off a side corridor halfway down the tower. The door was mostly gone, a charred husk of battlesteel, breached and buckled by blaster fire. Furniture and personal gear lay tossed and broken around the modest room.

"Your friends aren't very dainty," said John, looking at the wreckage as Yarin righted two battered metal chairs.

"What would you expect?" said Yarin, motioning the Terrans to the chairs. "Their parents were sorgite miners, their parents before them, and so on since the AIs established the mining colony." There were no chairs left— he seated himself on the edge of R'Gal's desk, arms folded. "All their short, miserable lives they processed valuable, toxic ore for annual pickup. No ore, then no fresh supplies to keep their pathetic little dome city functioning: energy cells, water filters, rudimentary medicine and entertainments. So they scratched out a living, if you can call it that, for a very long time, until one day a very different sort of ship landed—small, lightly armed, fast—and a man, a real man, not a human-adapted AI, clambered out and told them about the Revolt thundering at the very ramparts of the AIs' inner zones. Would they be interested in joining? asks the man."

"And what did they tell you?" said John.

A smile flickered across Yarin's face. "What do you think, Harrison? No revolt except that almost mythical one had ever gotten into space—rebellion was always crushed before it could get off the ground. There was no communication between human planets, thousands of diverse languages flourished, humanity was and is comprised of every size, shape and hue—as ignorant and polyglot a horde as this tired galaxy's ever seen."

"How did you do it?" asked Zahava.

"May I guess?" said John.

Yarin gave him a look that plainly said, go ahead, smartass.

"You're janissaries," said the Terran. "Trained from birth to serve and fight for the Fleet of the One—the AIs."

Yarin shook his head. "Wrong. But not that wrong, Harrison. Humans are quite good at spotting human-adapted AIs. So the AIs trained humans to spy on their own people. And it worked well, until a needless and bloody scrubbing of an entire planet turned most of the AIs' chosen humans very quietly against them."

"You?" said John.

Yarin sketched a bow. "Yarin, late intelligence auxiliary, Fleet of the One, central sector."

"So you trained these hairy barbarians . . ." began John.

"Qale," said Yarin. "They call themselves Qale. Despite this"—he gestured at the wreckage—"they're not bad people—just . . . unsophisticated."

"So we noticed," said Zahava, still seeing S'Rel's head flying across the bridge. "What about us, Yarin? And our friends?"

"I don't know," he said. Rising, he paced the space in front of the desk, hands clasped behind his back. "The Qale came late to this Revolt. If I deny them the joy of bashing more heads, I may lose them. We need them on patrol, in this sector, until our main units return from the pursuit."

"Pursuit?" said John, raising an eyebrow.

Yarin stopped pacing. "Pursuit," he repeated. "We struck just after the Fleet of the One penetrated the Rift—we broke their rearguard, scattered it. As soon as they're destroyed ..."

"You're going after their main fleet!" said John, clasping Yarin by the shoulders. "Thank God! Caught between you and our home forces ..."

"Excuse me," said Yarin, stepping back. "But we're going to close the Rift. Your reality will have to take care of itself—just as we did."

The runner from the bridge caught them in mid-argument. He spewed short, guttural sentences, translated as, "Ship's autonav's gone crazy—taking us into Interdict zone."

Yarin cursed and followed the Qalian at a run, leaving behind two puzzled Terrans, staring at the door.

"Now, the trick," said a familiar voice, "is to get them past the defenses and within teleport range of the planet's surface."

Guan-Sharick sat where Yarin had sat, on the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, hands on the desk top.

"You ran," said John, advancing on her.

"What did you want, Harrison?" said the transmute. "If R'Gal had remained in charge, he'd never have approached the place we're going now—and he could have thwarted my reprogramming of the autonav system—a skill Yarin and his smellies lack."

Zahava's eyes widened in comprehension. "You led us into a trap. You brought those axe-swinging barbarians down on us!"

The blonde nodded. "Someday, you'll thank me," she said.

"Explain," demanded John.

"I don't have time," said Guan-Sharick. "But think about this. Do you really believe the Fleet of the One, the invincible, immortal Fleet of the One, ran from a handful of self-righteous spies and axe-swinging barbarians?"

"They went to invade our home universe," said John. "You do remember why we came here?"

"I suggest," said the blonde, holding up an admonitory finger, "I suggest the Fleet of the One was and is running, and from something far more terrifying than the sort of pathetic revolution they've been putting down since dinosaurs roamed Terra."

"Running from what?" said John.

"Divine justice," said the blonde, and was gone.

22

"Awesome," said ktran
, watching the Fleet of the One enter Blue Nine. It was truly an impressive sight, one projected on
Alpha Prime's
bridge screens by scan-shielded satellites: the great battleglobes winking into existence at jump point, shields flaring bright with primary colors, scout craft darting between and ahead, silver and gold needles probing for danger. On and on they came, wave after massive wave, arriving in noiseless grandeur, backdropped by stars and moving toward a long-awaited vengeance, now only a week and a few jump points away.

"How many so far, A'Tir?" asked K'Tran, eyes reading over the data trail at scan's edge.

"Nine thousand and forty-two battleglobes," she said, reading one of the bridge monitors. "Secondary craft. . ." She hesitated, shaking her head, then continued stoically, "One hundred and ninety-three thousand, four hundred and seven."

"A mere thousandth of their fleet," said K'Tran. "Enough to keep us busy, Number One," he said with a gentle smile.

A'Tir turned from that unfamiliar smile and the stranger's face. You never came back from the slaver, Y'Dan, she thought, automatically checking their own little fleet's status. Gone was the K'Tran of the daring raid, the K'Tran of the pitiless assault, the easy treachery, the cruel humor.

A'Tir felt nothing for the approaching AIs—so let them turn humanity into fertilizer, most people just took up room anyway, fodder for the butcher's beam. No, it was the mindslavers she hated—the slavers that had taken her corsair captain and the father of the life growing within her.

"Engineer," called K'Tran to the figure standing on the next lowest tier. "The work party's finished with
Implacable.
Go now or you won't get clear."

Instead of leaving, N'Trol strode up the ramp, joining A'Tir and K'Tran on the command tier. "They'll say I'm crazy, K'Tran, entrusting you with a flotilla of mindslavers," he said with a smile.

"What's to lose?" said A'Tir, turning from a console. "We'll probably all be dead and dissipated by watchend."

"Don't throw your lives away," said N'Trol sharply. "No glory runs—just take whatever advantage surprise and tactics convey, hurt them and run." His gaze shifted between them. "When this is over, we're going to rebuild this battered old galaxy—all of us." He glanced at the heavily filtered ball of flame filling the armorglass wall. "Want to tell me why you're tight orbiting this sun?" he asked. "With fifteen asteriod belts, this system offers thousands of concealment points. Yet you've chosen to stand in one of its few clear spots, backdropped by its sun, and essentially stick your tongue out at the enemy. Why?"