Stephen Berry - Final Assault

"Company comes, bearing blasters," said the commodore. "Meet us on the bridge."

Black, squat monsters, the battle tanks hung back from Implacable, fusion cannons cranked high, as the personnel carriers swept in, disgorging gray-uniformed troopers who charged up the landing ramp of airlock 59, M32 assault rifles in hand.

"Gray uniforms?" said DTrelna. The three officers stood on the silent bridge, watching the investiture of their ship on the main screen. "Since when in the last five thousand years has any Fleet unit worn gray?"

"Fleet Security changed to gray last year, J'Quel," said the captain. "They call it imperial gray. You should keep up on FleetOps Orders of the Day."

"I always use the first two paragraphs to get to sleep, H'Nar," said DTrelna. On the screen the last of the troopers had entered the ship.

"Ready yet, Mr. N'Trol?" said the commodore, turning to where the engineer sat, busy at the first officer's station.

"Can't do it manually," said N'Trol, shaking his head. "Computer won't let me."

Captain and commodore stepped to the first officer's station. Reaching past N'Trol, DTrelna opened the complink. "Computer. DTrelna. Destroy all record of commtorps last launched from this vessel."

"Illegal command," said computer. "Fleet Directive 60.35. B states that…" It broke off, then spoke again, its voice coming from the bulkhead speakers. "Personnel properly identifying themselves as Fleet Security officers are demanding admittance to this bridge."

"Command priority," said DTrelna. "Do not-repeat, do not-admit them." He glanced at the armored double doors guarding the bridge.

"Computer," said L'Wrona quickly, "authenticator Imperiad seven one, eight one. Destroy all record of commtorps last launched from this vessel."

"Implemented, My Lord," said a deep, sonorous voice from the complink.

L'Wrona smiled grimly at the other two officers. "Now let them try to find those commtorps."

N'Trol stood, shaking his head. "You tap that old Imperial programming too much, Captain, you'll have a computer with dysfunctional schizophrenia."

"I've only used it once before," said L'Wrona.

"It's unlikely we'll ever be on this ship again, gentlemen," said DTrelna.

The commlink chirped. Leaning across the vacant console, DTrelna touched the call tab. "Yes?"

"Colonel A'Nal," said a flat, hard voice, "Fleet Security. Under the authority of Fleet Articles of War, I order you to open these doors."

DTrelna tapped the Hold button. "Well?" he asked the other two.

"If he's talking Articles, he's got arrest warrants," said L'Wrona.

"We could let them drag a Mark 44 up here," suggested N'Trol. "It would take them a while. It's a hot day, they'd work up a sweat, pull some muscles…"

"And eventually burn the door down and come thundering in here, pissed as hell," said L'Wrona. "Fun, but not a good idea."

"Better let them in, J'Quel."

"Computer," said DTrelna, thumbing the complink, "please admit the properly identified members of our Fleet Security arm."

The thick doors hissed open. A rush of gray uniforms surged onto the bridge, led by a tall man with colonel's insignia and the crossed daggers of Fleet Security on his collar.

"You're all under arrest," he said as troopers took D'Trelna's and N'Trol's blasters.

"This one won't give it up, sir," said a corporal.

L'Wrona stood imperturbably, hand firmly on his weapon's grips.

"You will please surrender your weapon, Captain My Lord L'Wrona," said Colonel A'Nal.

"Not until I see the arrest order," said L'Wrona, extending his free hand.

"Certainly." Taking a paper from his tunic pocket, A'Nal handed it stiffly to the captain. L'Wrona scanned the order, eyes stopping at the signature block. He handed it back. "This is signed by a councilman. You may be able to hold Commodore DTrelna and Commander N'Trol on it-you certainly can't hold me."

"Even the aristocracy is subject to Fleet orders," said the colonel. "Even you, My Lord."

"It's just a civil order," said L'Wrona, "and I am not just any aristocrat."

A'Nal glared at L'Wrona and started to speak. As he did so, a voice called wonder-ingly from the first officer's station, "Seven hells! They've wiped the commtorps records!"

The colonel turned to the technician as the three ship's officers exchanged satisfied looks. "I thought that couldn't be done?"

The woman shrugged. "Nevertheless, they've done it-accessed the Imperial programming, somehow. It's all gone except basic commtorps inventory."

Face flushing angrily, A'Nal turned back to his prisoners. "You must be feeling very smug. We'll see how you feel after interrogation.

"Escort the commodore and the commander to the Tower," he ordered, "and remand them to the custody of the commandant."

D'Trelna shook off the hands that reached for his arms. "What did you do in the war, Colonel?" he asked.

"In the war?" repeated A'Nal, staring uneasily at D'Trelna's battle ribbons.

"He means the ten-year war with the S'Cotar," said N'Trol helpfully. "The one that ended this year."

"My record's none of your concern," said the colonel. "But it's one I'm proud of-I was assigned to ground headquarters of the Home Fleet."

"In what capacity?" asked L'Wrona. "Budget officer."

"Interesting," said DTrelna. "How'd you go from budget officer to colonel in a combat arm?"

"Get them out of here," A'Nal ordered a sergeant. The NCO took the commodore's arm, steering him toward the doors. N'Trol and his escort followed.

"Luck, H'Nar," called DTrelna as they took him away.

"Luck, J'Quel, N'Trol," said the captain. Alone on the bridge, he and A'Nal faced each other.

"You're correct-I can't arrest you," said the gray-uniformed officer. "I'd be very careful, though, if I were you, My Lord. Stay out of this. Go back to UTria-they need you there, now that the war's over." With a curt nod, he turned and left the bridge.

"The real war's only just begun, Colonel," said L'Wrona softly. Alone on the big old ship, he watched the convoy disappear into the heat of midday, then turned and left the ship.

Terra. A speck of nothingness on the spiral arm of our galaxy. Which is, of course, why the Empire-or certain members of the Empire-chose to build on Terra's moon a cybernetic guardian that would, when the moment was right, create and unleash into our somnolent Confederation an aggressor race, to "prepare" us for the "real" enemy, those long-forgotten AIs who lived just a universe away. That this cybernetic guardian, some five thousand years after the fall of the Empire, chose to create such a formidable lifeform as the S'Cotar biofabs, made the contest all too real. That we won was a miracle; that we will ever be entirely rid of the S'Cotar plague unlikely. It can only be done planet by planet, nest by nest. And it can only be done by the Watchers.

Colonel S'Rel

Report to the Confederation Council Archives Reference 518.392.671

c

"What are you trying to tell me, S'Rel?" said Sutherland, interrupting the Watcher in mid-evasion.

The K'Ronarin stopped speaking, then leaned forward, fists on the CIA director's desk. "Very well, Sutherland. I'll be blunt. My men and I have been ordered back to K'Ronar -we leave Terra tomorrow."

"Leave? Tomorrow?" Sutherland heard himself stammer.

S'Rel nodded. "Repulse is going home. We're to go with her."

"Repulse is pulling out?"

S'Rel nodded.

"Is she being replaced?"

"No."

Sutherland slumped back in his chair. "My God, S'Rel-you're leaving this planet defenseless against…"

"Against nothing," said S'Rel, walking to the big picture window with its view of the Potomac Palisades. A wiry, pale-complexioned man in his thirties, dressed for the weather in a short sleeve plaid shirt and denim pants, he stared across the sullen brown river at Washington.