Stephen Berry - Final Assault

"What's K'Tran sending in for evidence, if anything?" asked A'Wal as they reached his console. An air of quiet purpose pervaded FleetOps, with brown-uniformed officers grimly intent on their work.

"If their data transmission's to be believed -and if it's faked, it's very good," said the admiral, "about ten thousand AI battleglobes have just entered Blue Nine. If we survive the next few hours, I'll worry about it."

"Sir?"

FTal nodded at the status board. A swarm of red blips was forming between Line and K'Ronar. "Looks like Combine T'Lan's about to try to take over this planet. Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say? We're massing our pitiful handful of picket ships backside of the planet from them."

"Sir." It was a tech officer, dun-colored commjack in his ear, tiny transmit nodule tied to his throat. "Commander Prime Base advises Councilor D'Assan has received Council sanction to relieve you and half the general staff of command."

"Leaving the politicos to not defend the Confederation," said A'Wal.

"I see," said the admiral, turning back to the board and the tacscan. "Has the Council issued any orders to its new general staff?"

"Stand down and not bother the Combine trader fleet assembling in orbit."

"They must have meant the traitor fleet now assuming bombardment positions," said A'Wal, inserting his own earjack.

"Instruct Commander Prime Base," said I'Tal, "to prepare for ground combat

– commandos and gun crews to battleposts, shields to max." "Yes, sir."

"Commodore," said the admiral, turning to A'Wal. "On my authority-Invasion Alert -all ships, all stations. Advise readiness status by planetary and quadrant command as received. Planetary Guard and available Fleet elements to attack all installations and vessels of Combine T'Lan wherever found."

"Might I suggest, Admiral, the true nature of Combine T'Lan be revealed?"

"Very well," said I'Tal after a moment. "Summarize Admiral S'Gan and DTrelna's report from the Blue Nine expedition and put it out on Fleetcomm, counterintelligence priority one."

"And commercial channels?" suggested A'Wal.

"And commercial channels," said the admiral.

"Those armed merchantmen," said L'Guan, turning from the war center's tri-dee, "are going to be lunching in the Palace."

"They don't eat," said L'Wrona, reading the data trail.

"H'Nar," said the commodore, "do you or do you not have the location of S'Yal's last citadel?"

L'Wrona nodded. "Under the dead riverbed of the R'Shen. The freeholder established that even though it sustained a full flotilla bombardment, its shielding held. It's there now, shields still on, a perfect sphere walled by the tons of molten rock that cooled around it. And somewhere in there is the means to recall the Twelfth Fleet."

"Given a year," said L'Guan, "an impressive budget and great care, we could probably chip it out."

"We've got about one watch," said D'Trelna. "One."

"Commodore?"

"Could you transport L'Wrona and me to a point beneath K'Ronar's surface?"

"Just give me the coordinates, Commodore."

The two men looked at L'Guan. The Admiral spread his hands helplessly. "What's to lose? Take what you want from Weapons and Stores and luck to you."

The invasion alert came in a moment after they were gone.

"I have independent corroboration from Pocsym Six's satellite network, Admiral," said Line. "The Fleet of the One is advancing through the Rift. The mindslavers are deploying to meet them."

"They'll be slaughtered."

"May I remind the admiral that K'Tran commands the mindslavers?"

"They'll take out a few battleglobes and then they'll be slaughtered," said L'Guan. 'And then our ancient masters will arrive -probably to find K'Ronar a smoldering ruin and you and me still arguing. I ask again -will you end our splendid isolation? Will you deploy?"

"You know my answer. The Heir was supposed to be here, giving the necessary orders, Admiral." L'Guan looked up, surprised at the petulant tone.

"He would have been, if he hadn't gotten kidnapped by that miserable woman and her cutthroats."

"I have no other option than to wait, Admiral."

"Fine," said L'Guan, sinking into his chair. "We'll wait, Line-for your Emperor and a miracle."

Q'nil looked up as the door to Devastator's sickbay hissed open. "Harrison," he said, returning to his computer terminal. "You look your usual robust self."

"And you're your usual sardonic self, Medtech." Taking a straight-backed metal chair from beside the medanalyzer, he pulled it up to Q'Nil's desk and sat, arms folded over the back, facing the medtech.

"Why don't you sit down," said Q'Nil, working the complink.

"How long have we known each other, Q'Nil?" asked the Terran.

"If you're going to propose some quaint Terran mating contract…"

"Marriage. I wasn't going to propose it."

Q'Xil jotted a note, then returned to the complink. He looked about forty, tall, thin, hair receding, with an intelligent forehead and high cheekbones. John had seen him smile only once.

"About two years, Harrison," said Q'Nil. "The battle at the Lake of Dreams, then the original Terra Two nastiness, the skirmish in Blue Nine and now this last, desperate sally." He looked up. "Why?"

"I've searched the computer banks, backtracked all the mission logs, correlated…"

Q'Nil shrugged and returned to his work. "And you've determined that whenever Guan-Sharick appeared, I was nowhere around. And with two years of data, most of it from Implacable, you've eliminated all other shipboard contenders. I am, ipso facto, Guan-Sharick, late Illusion Master of the Infinite Hosts of the Magnificent-a being wanted by the K'Ronarin Confederation for sundry war crimes." The medtech looked up again, cool blue eyes looking into John's. "So?"

"You… you admit it?" asked the Terran.

"D'Trelna knew, back on Implacable," said Guan-Sharick. The blonde replaced Q'Nil's lanky form, yellow hair cascading over her shoulders as she tossed her head back. "And Hochmeister, even before then. You've taken a well-worn path to my door."

"Is this really you?" he asked, reaching out a tentative hand, touching her wrist. "And none of your metaphysical bullshit," he said as she opened her mouth.

Guan-Sharick laughed. "All right, Harrison," she said. "No more metaphysical bullshit. Yes, it's really me. And am I really a hundred thousand years old?"

He said nothing, watching as she folded one leg across another. "Yes, counting all my clones. This one"-she touched her chest -"is about fifty years old."

"You've killed a lot of people," said John. "To what end?"

The transmute held up a finger. "In a language older than the AIs, 'Guan-Sharick' means healer. That's what I am here-what I've alv/ays been. When the Emperor of the Golden Fleet led the great human exodus from this galaxy, I was his medical officer. I'm still a medic, Harrison-it's just that my practice now spans two galaxies."

"I see," he said. "You've been playing Machiavellian games with galactic humanity for a hundred thousand years…"

"Only seventy thousand."

"… orchestrated the destruction of millions, created those hideous biofabs, and now what? You're saying it was for the good of all?" He found himself with his hand on his blaster.

Guan-Sharick said nothing, merely looked at him with those cool green eyes.

"Fine," said John, taking his hand from his sidearm. "You're a healer. What are you trying to heal?"

"Think I'm crazy, don't you?" she said.

"Pretty much, yeah," he said.

She smiled. "Let's see if I can convince you otherwise, Harrison." Opening one of the desk drawers, she took out an amber-colored bottle. "S'Tanian brandy." Reaching into another drawer, she took out four glasses and touched the door entry. "You must be tired of listening on your communicators," she called. "That corridor pulls an awful draft."