Stephen Berry - Final Assault

L'Guan rummaged the commandant's desk. Finding what he sought, he tossed it to D'Trelna. Deftly, the commodore caught the M11A, checked the chargepak, then pressed himself against the wall to the left of the doorway. Moving quickly, L'Guan followed, positioning himself on the other side of the doors.

A sudden whoomp! and the fragments of stout timbers older than Rome were knifing through the office, followed at once by the assault-three silent black forms that swept into the room.

D'Trelna whistled as they passed, killing the first Tugayee as he turned and the second as she fired. Aimed by a dead hand, the woman's bolt exploded into the wall to the right of the commodore's head, sending a shower of needle-sharp fragments into his cheek.

Hand to his face, eyes tearing at the sudden pain, D'Trelna was dimly aware of L'Guan over the body of the third assassin, tugging at the man's equipment belt. As the commodore wiped his eyes and faced the doorway, L'Guan rose and stepped into the doorway, a perfect target, tossed what he held in his hand, then ducked back as the blaster fire came.

The explosion ripped down the corridor, sending a brief tongue of blue flame lancing into the shattered office.

The blast was still ringing through the corridor as L'Guan and D'Trelna stepped into the doorway, pistols held two-handed.

All that moved were the flames, licking away at the few pieces of furniture, the remains of the long swath of hand-loomed rug that had led from the lift, and a dozen or so black-clad bodies, lying dead where the grenade had tossed them.

L'Guan and D'Trelna slowly lowered their Mil As. "Not bad for two out-of-shape chair jocks," said the admiral.

"Could have used you on board a mindslaver we tangled with, Admiral," said D'Trelna.

L'Guan holstered his sidearm and lifted the communicator. "If you can't pick us up now, don't bother," he said.

There was no reply.

"Shouldn't we get to the roof while we can?" said the commodore.

"It's not that sort of pickup," said L'Guan. "We're…"

D'Trelna didn't hear the rest, opening fire at

Stephen Ames Berry the first black figure to appear around the distant corner of the corridor. He and the admiral ducked back into the room as the blaster fire resumed.

"What sort of pickup is it?" asked the commodore, risking a quick one-two shot down the hallway.

"This sort," said the admiral, standing beside D'Trelna in a pleasant indoor garden. Tropical flora was all around. To their left a miniature waterfall tumbled to an azure-blue pool. "Come on upstairs and I'll buy you a drink," said the admiral.

"Imperial science," said D'Trelna, stomach churning. "Matter transporter. And just where the hell are we?" he demanded, looking up. Bright-plumaged birds flitted from treetop to treetop.

"The heart of the Empire's deadliest war machine," said L'Guan. "This is Line."

"Excuse me, Admiral," said the voice D'Trelna now recognized as that of Line-it seemed to come from a clump of ferns. "Would you please follow the guide sphere to command Center at once." A small orange sphere materialized between the two men and the waterfall, hovering at eye level.

"Something wrong?" said L'Guan, looking at the fern clump.

"FleetOps has just issued a condition two alert-persons or entities unknown are stealing the cruiser Implacable."

There was a surprise waiting for Implacable's engineer when they put him in detention.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. N'Trol," said B'Tul. The big gunner stood beside one of the twenty bunks lining the long narrow detention bay. Others of Implacable's crew came to join the reception.

"Shit," said N'Trol as the door hissed shut behind him. "Got us all, did they?"

"This is our mustering-out room," said B'Tul. "They haven't gotten around to issuing discharges yet."

"And we're not holding our breath, sir," said one of N'Trol's engineering techs, S'Kal.

"Where'd they take the commodore and the captain?" asked B'Tul, handing N'Trol a cup of fata.

"Thank you," said N'Trol, sipping the steaming brown beverage. "The commodore and I were separated upon arrival. The captain invoked the Covenant and was not arrested. He was on the ship when we left."

"The captain bluffed his way free?" said B'Tul disbelievingly.

"No," said N'Trol, sitting on the edge of one of the hard duraplast beds. "He enjoys the protection of the Covenant between the Confederation and the Imperial House."

"That grants immunity only to the direct descendants of the Imperial House," said S'Kal.

Hunching forward on the bed, N'Trol sipped the t'ata, holding the chipped cup in both hands. "Absent an Heir," he said, "H'Nar L'Wrona, Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard, Margrave of U'Tria, Defender of the Galactic Marches, Hereditary Viceroy of the Blue and Red, is Pretender to Throne and Crown." He made a face. "This t'ata's awful, Gunney."

"Well, look who's here," said a sarcastic voice.

N'Trol looked up, then stood. "A'Tir," he said carefully.

The corsair stood at the foot of the bed, a red-bearded man beside her. "K'Lal," said

N'Trol. "I see your ugly selves are still alive."

The corsairs wore the same brown Fleet duty uniforms as Implacable's crew, but with all insignia gone-ripped off by Fleet Security.

"I thought we agreed," said B'Tul, stepping forward, "that you and your lot would stay at your end." He nodded his head to the left, where a thin but clear line of white had been crudely drawn across the stone blocks.

"Special occasion, Gunney," said A'Tir. She was a slight-figured brunette, neither unattractive nor stunningly beautiful-the sort who'd have blended easily with any crowd of tech officers anywhere in the Fleet. Indeed, she'd begun her career as a Fleet officer.

"So you're going to rot here with the rest of us, N'Trol," said the corsair. "Reaping the rewards of loyalty."

"Perhaps," said N'Trol. "But my lover hasn't been brainstripped by a mindslaver -that is what happened to K'Tran, isn't it, A'Tir? Brain sucked out and popped in a jar, body on ice and all forever. A better sentence than a tribunal could have…"

She went for his eyes, but N'Trol was faster, dashing the hot t'ata into her eyes. As A'Tir fell back, screaming in pain, K'Lal stepped toward N'Trol, only to be intercepted by B'Tul and two burly gunner's mates. "Take your lovely little commander back to your area, friend," said the gunner, hand twisting the other's shirt, "before there are any more accidents."

At A'Tir's scream, the rest of the corsairs had come on the run, only to be stopped by a line of Implacable's crew stretched out along the white line. There were only eight corsairs to eighteen Fleet regulars. The rush stopped at the line.

"Come on, Commander," said K'Lal, helping A'Tir to her feet and taking her elbow. She said nothing, merely held her hands over her eyes. "You're dead, N'Trol," she said as they moved away.

The engineer ignored her, watching until A'Tir and K'Lal had crossed to their side of the bay and the two groups had disassembled.

"Just the ten of them?" he asked, picking up the cup.

"In this bay, yes," said B'Tul, eyes still on the retreating corsairs. He turned to the engineer. "Another ten or so in another bay. I think they put us in here hoping we'd kill each other. Which we may do."

"Now what, Mr. N'Trol?" he said.

"Now," said N'Trol, settling back on the bunk, feet crossed, "now we wait, Gunney." He held out the cup. "Who'd like to get me more t'ata?"

A rough hand shook N'Trol awake. "Commander," whispered a voice.

N'Trol sat up, shaking his head. It was the middle of the night-the detention bay was in darkness. "B'Tul?" he whispered sleepily. "What…"

"Listen," hissed the gunner.

The officer listened, then heard it, very faintly: the sound of blaster fire.