Stephen Berry - Final Assault

"Fascinating," said L'Wrona, watching the faint, rhythmic pulsing of the aura. "What kind of power source can withstand a full fleet bombardment," said the captain, "keep this installation intact even as it sinks into molten rock, then keep the earth itself from crushing it over fifteen thousand years?"

If I knew, I'd be rich," said D'Trelna, looking down the ancient pathway on which they stood to the valley below. Nestled in a grove of silver-barked trees was a white, one-story villa, of the sort that had once dotted lakes and streams throughout the Empire-a graceful, blue-roofed structure of tiled courtyards, fountains and formal gardens.

"Not a palace, not a mansion and certainly not what I was expecting," said D'Trelna.

"What were you expecting, J'Quel?"

"Darkness. Hideous, menacing shapes." Raising his hands, he curled them into talons. "Things that suck the souls out of…"

"J'Quel, you're being silly," said L'Wrona, lowering the commodore's nearest hand with his own. "Just because the man had an unsavory reputation doesn't mean he lived in a charnel house."

"Unsavory?" said the commodore, starting the walk down the road toward the villa. "Try evil."

"Evil?" said L'Wrona with faint contempt. "Really, J'Quel-such a simplistic…"

"Evil," repeated the commodore, chopping the palm of one hand with the other. "Can't exist, can it, H'Nar? Not a logical construct. The cool winds of reason blow through the temple of technology. Superstition's cast aside."

"I didn't say…"

"Evil," said D'Trelna. "Biofabs, corsairs, mindslavers, components, AIs. Evil. You should recognize it by now, H'Nar-we've been fighting it long enough." He strode on ahead down the ancient pathway, a fat, angry man ready for whatever awaited.

L'Wrona caught up, stopping him with a hand to his shoulder. Surprised, D'Trelna turned, staring up into an angry face. "My people came here with the Golden Fleet. We stood with T'Nil when he overthrew the Mindslavers' Guild. We held the Marches against every form of human vermin that tried for K'Ronar. We fought R'Actol and her creatures. More good men and causes have called us friend than you and I have years, Commodore. My family, my friends-they're all dead. My home's a netherworld of walking dead. Don't lecture me on evil."

D'Trelna opened his mouth, then shut it. Controlling himself with visible effort, he started back down the path, L'Wrona following. They walked silently, footsteps absorbed by the soft rubbery surface of the footway. As they reached the floor of the valley, the dead soil to either side gave way to green heather and flowering shrubs. #

L'Wrona stopped. "Did you see any flora from the hilltop?" he asked.

D'Trelna shook his head. "Just those trees," he said, pointing ahead to the grove of silver-barked trees.

Twilight vanished, replaced by a bright summer noon. Commodore and captain bed up, squinting-the shield now glowed yellow.

Sunlight and flowers," said D'Trelna, stopping to smell a delicate red bud. "Spring stirs to life. Our doing?" he asked, turning back to the road.

"Let's hope spring's all that's stirring," said L'Wrona as they walked through the small stand of silver trees. As they walked, the interlaced boughs over their heads grew leaves, forming a golden canopy over the two. "S'Yal was head of some hideous cult that promised immortality in exchange for loyalty," said L'Wrona. "Fanatical loyalty-and he probably had enough of the Old Science to pull it off. Mystical idiocy reinforced by ritual sacrifice-that alone would have destroyed him, in time. But then he went and betrayed the very AIs his grandfather had freed…"

"A revolt he put down," said D'Trelna. "Lost his personal fleet and most of the rest. So having blown the AIs away, the remnant came home and took care of S'Yal-to the general good of all. So? You think he left something behind?"

"Does this strike you as a fortress, J'Quel?" said L'Wrona, gesturing about him.

"Grubby, gray things with too-bright corridors that stink of metallic air?" said D'Trelna.

The captain nodded.

"No." The commodore shrugged, hands behind his back. "But who's to say what an Imperial citadel would look like, given the technology then available?"

"We've both seen Imperial fortresses of about the same period," said L'Wrona. "Does this look like A'Gran Seven's Redoubt, or S'Hlor's Third's Defense Ring-all battlesteel and weapons batteries?"

"No," said the commodore. "But if you're implying we've woken some sort of sleeping dreadfuls…"

Leaving the grove, they rounded a bend and stopped before the gate.

"There was no gate here," said D'Trelna, reaching out a hand to touch the wooden planks. "Not when we stood on the hillside." A double-doored, brass-hinged gate, it was set in a high, vine-choked stone wall that ran away to either side, disappearing around the villa.

"Well, there's a gate," said L'Wrona, pushing it with both hands. It didn't budge. "And it's locked."

"We don't have time for this," said D'Trelna. "Combine T'Lan could be slicing up K'Ronarport by now. Take it out, H'Nar," he ordered, stepping back.

Nodding, L'Wrona stepped back, drew and fired. Three red bolts burst through the gate, leaving behind a few charred and flaming sticks clinging to scorched hinges.

Captain and commodore stepped cautiously through the smoke, weapons in hand, and found themselves standing back on the hillside, looking down at the distant villa. There was no wall, no gate. Twilight had returned.

The two officers stared at the valley for a moment, then at each other. "We're being toyed with," said D'Trelna, holstering his side-arm. "Suggestions?"

"A time field?" said L'Wrona.

D'Trelna glanced at his chronometer. "No. Time has advanced, not retreated."

"Internal transporter?"

"I'd say yes, except that the visual images keep changing." D'Trelna ran a hand through his hair. "Which leaves…"

"Illusion."

"Certainly some form of mind control," said D'Trelna. He looked at L'Wrona. "I really wanted to strangle you back there, H'Nar. We're not the most compatible couple Fleet ever fielded, but I've never been that angry at you."

The captain met his gaze and nodded. "You're right-we're being toyed with. How?"

D'Trelna looked back down into the valley. "Something that alters our perception of reality-some gentle electronic whisper seducing our senses, goading our baser instincts."

"And to counter it?" said L'Wrona. "We've no grasp of the technology…"

"A sharp dose of reality," said D'Trelna. Drawing his blaster, he twisted the muzzle power selector to low, covered the aperture with his left hand and clicked off the safety.

"J'Quel!" cried L'Wrona, stepping toward D'Trelna, hand reaching for the blaster.

D'Trelna squeezed the trigger just as L'Wrona seized his wrist. A bolt of raw red energy lanced D'Trelna's left hand.

L'Wrona found himself alone, his hand clutching nothing.

"You've got to pass them," said Admiral L'Guan with more calm than he felt. "K'Ronar's about to be decimated. The Palace, the Tower, Archives-the cultural and historical legacy of galactic humanity…"

"No," said Line. "Those ships are only fourteen percent of the total recalled. Of those, eight percent are corsairs. And the Fleet units present represent over forty-seven disparate commands. Do you seriously expect to get them all to fight as a unit, for the same cause, without a week's training, Admiral?"

"But…"

"We'll hold them in reserve," said Line. "Until the rest of the recall comes in, and the Heir returns."

L'Guan shook his head and turned to stare at wall screens with their vivid images of the Combine ships wiping out the remainder of K'Ronar's defenders: blasted and crumpled wreckage tumbling in erratic, decaying orbits around the planet; lifepods torn open by the precise little bolts of Mark 44 fusion cannons, holes in their hulls choked with tangled wreckage and bloated, unsuited bodies.