Stephen Berry - Final Assault

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."

"We?" said A'Tir.

The pickup shifted to a tacscan-nineteen red blips fronting an oncoming tide of silver ones.

"You can't possibly stop them," said N'Trol. "What are they, a hundred thousand battleglobes?"

"Merely the vanguard of their main fleet," said the overmind.

"And your strategy?" asked N'Trol.

"Enough." A'Tir stood. "You will reassemble Captain K'Tran, mind and body restored to the condition he was in when you took him. You will let him and me leave this ship and withdraw from this sector aboard Implacable."

There was a brief silence, N'Trol watching A'Tir as he might watch an interesting bug.

"Why?" asked the overmind. "K'Tran's a tactical genius, corsair. It's unlikely we'd ever let him go. Certainly not at this time of need."

"You will do as I say," said A'Tir.

"Really," said the overmind. "Is this where you threaten us?"

"Or I will take command of this ship," she said.

"That's about where we left off with Captain K'Tran," said the overmind. "The genius that designed, built and crewed this ship would never have been so stupid as to place in it the tool of their own undoing."

"J'Yay k'antal a'ktay," said A'Tir defiantly, hand to her sidearm.

The overmind laughed-a faintly hysterical, high-pitched laugh. N'Trol buried his head in his hands.

"What?" said a confused A'Tir, looking at N'Trol as the laughter died.

The engineer raised his head. "You just ordered a vegetable, extinct, creamed-in a very old, very dead language. Where in all the hells did you get that?"

"I bribed an archivist on K'Ronar," she said, turning to look at the rampway and the components. Too many, her eyes said.

"I hope you all enjoyed that," said N'Trol.

"We did," chuckled the overmind. "We certainly did."

"Good. Now, how about answering my question?"

"Our strategy?"

"Yes."

"Quite simple," said the overmind. "Two ships will be left to engage the AIs. The rest will jump through the Rift and make ourselves at home in the AI universe."

"I see," said the engineer softly. "And how will you prevent the Fleet of the One from coming back and blowing you into noxious vapors?"

"The Rift can be sealed from the AI side

– we have the means. The AIs and humanity can battle here till the stars die, while we convert the AIs' home worlds to our needs."

A'Tir looked at N'Trol. "Can they do that?"

He nodded slowly, looking through the armorglass. "Alpha Prime's original cybernetics were salvaged from ships' computers left in the care of the Imperial governor on D'Lin -parts of the original fleet that brought humanity to this universe, fleeing the AIs, about a hundred thousand years ago." He looked at her. "You know about S'Hela R'Actol?"

"Everyone knows about R'Actol and her biofabs."

Twelve thousand years ago, geneticist S'Hela R'Actol used her family's influence to be appointed Imperial governor of Quadrant Blue Nine, out on the fringes of the Realm. Taking advantage of her rank, her all but absolute authority and the relative isolation of her post, R'Actol had conducted illegal experiments in the life sciences-experiments culminating in the creation of a race of psychotic geniuses, the R'Actolian biofabs-biological fabrications. Quickly disposing of R'Actol and her forces, the biofabs had gone on to build a fleet of mindslavers that took an all but unsuspecting Empire in the rear and almost toppled the Sceptered Throne. Only when the Empire had built its own mindslavers in overwhelming numbers were the R'Actolians defeated. Seeking the immortality of their own brainpods, the last seven R'Actolians had put their surviving ships in stasis and retreated to the depths of Blue Nine, biding their time.

"Know this, then, corsair," said N'Trol. "With the equipment on this ship, they can do it-the Seven can pull through the Rift and shut it as easily as closing a door. That won't be allowed." He stood, facing the deep-shadowed bridge and a hundred empty stations. "You will keep your word," he said. "You will fight."

The overmind spoke. "The Seven concur that you are both very foolish and will be brainstripped. The question arises, however, Engineer…"

"Yes?"

"How do you know the old Tongue? How do you know about this ship's cybernetics? Only the AIs remember those things, and bioscan shows you're not an AI."

"What does the bioscan show of my chromosomes, my heritage?"

There was a very long wait. "What are you doing, N'Trol?" demanded A'Tir. "What in all the hells are you doing?"

"Empire and Destiny, witch," he said, nodding more to himself than to her. "The pieces of a failed vision may save us yet."

N'Trol stood and walked to the tier's edge, looking down on the great empty cavern of the slaver's bridge. "Seven of R'Actol, show yourselves," he ordered, gripping the rail.

Only the faint hum of equipment answered him. Loud, clear and strong, N'Trol's voice rang from the battlesteel. "Undead monsters! Murderers! I call you to judgment! Appear!"

Something stirred behind him. N'Trol turned as A'Tir said softly, "Now you've done it." She stepped slowly back, stopping next to the engineer as nine brainpods rose from inside the command console and waited, hovering above the console's open access hatch. Seven brainpods were full, with each transparent globe filled by the furrowed gray mass of a human brain. It was the two empty ones that held A'Tir's attention.