Stephen Berry - Final Assault

"D'Trelna," said D'Assan after a moment, shaking his head, "it's the grand lie, grandly told.

"One of the greatest moments of my life, Commodore, was when Combine T'Lan selected me for training. Me, D'Trelna"-he touched his hand to his chest-"a slum kid from 8'Lag Two with nothing but a bleak future in some stagor mine ahead of him. They took me, they sent me to the best schools, trained me, groomed me for my career. And then, the ultimate trust, they revealed themselves to me, and explained everything."

D'Assan looked beyond D'Trelna for a moment, eyes shining with the beatific vision of that revelation. The look vanished and he waved a finger at D'Trelna.

"It's Combine T'Lan who are the outcasts, Commodore. It's your friend R'Gal who is of the old order-an infiltrator, a subvertor even now leading your friends to destruction."

That shook D'Trelna. "How do you know about R'Gal and…"

"And the battleglobe they've 'captured'?" D'Assan smiled. "R'Gal's communications to his friends here are monitored."

D'Trelna shook his head. "Sweet crap again, Councilor. Combine T'Lan undoubtedly's in touch with their home universe. It knows about the capture of the battleglobe."

"Fine." D'Assan seemed to have reached a decision. "My final argument. If I am the unknowing dupe of alien slime, why haven't I or they had you killed, Commodore? Why am I discussing this with you, civilized being to civilized being?"

D'Trelna thought about that for a moment. "Two reasons: one, a convert is always more useful than a corpse, and two, Captain My Lord H'Nar L'Wrona, Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard and Margrave of U'Tria-my friend and your enemy. A strong and influential man whom you'd use me to weaken-if I bought your 'grand lie, grandly told.'" He folded his arms and waited impassively.

D'Assan stood, expressionless. "We won't be seeing each other again, Commodore," he said, touching the door signal set in the wall.

D'Trelna didn't turn as the thick slab of gray battlesteel slid open-not until he saw amazement and consternation cross D'Assan's face. "Admiral L'Guan," said the councilor, recovering with a warm smile. "An honor."

The Grand Admiral of the Fleet stepped into the room. He was an impressive figure, from his silver mane of perfectly coiffeured hair to the soles of his gleaming handmade boots-elegant in brown and gold uniform, twin comets of silver on his collar. Ignoring D'Trelna, he smiled at D'Assan, nodding. "Councilor."

"To what do I owe…"

"The pleasure?" said L'Guan. "Well, I was here to see Commandant W'Tal off to his new posting…"

"You've replaced the Commandant?" said D'Assan uneasily.

"Why, yes. Promoted to Admiral Second and posted to Red Seven Quadrant-we've still got a corsair problem out there."

"He'll be delighted, I'm sure," murmured D'Assan. "I believe the corsair problem has claimed Red Seven's last five senior field officers."

"While talking with W'Tal," continued the admiral, "I was advised that not only had Implacable been captured, but that DTrelna was being held on Council warrant pending transfer to Fleet. So I'm here to take him in tow." Reaching into his tunic, he removed a folded piece of paper.

D'Assan read the transfer receipt. "All in order and still warm from the printer," he said, folding the document and tucking it away. "You work quickly, Admiral." He took a communicator from his pocket. "I'll ask the commandant to give you an escort."

L'Guan placed a firm hand on the other's wrist, forcing hand and communicator to the table top. "Not to worry, Councilor. I have a battalion of commandos with me." As if on cue, two black-and-silver-uniformed commando officers appeared in the doorway.

"Then I'll be going," said D'Assan. "Good day. Admiral."

"Good day, Councilor," said L'Guan.

The admiral and the two officers stepped aside as D'Assan left.

"Bring the prisoner to the commandant's office," ordered L'Guan. Not looking at D'Trelna, he left the room.

D'Trelna and the two officers fell in behind L'Guan, footsteps echoing in time down the long gray passageways of the Tower.

"Spaceport," said the cabdriver.

L'Wrona looked up from his notes. The lights of K'Ronarport filled the right window. "Drop me at facility thirty-eight, please."

The cabbie's eyes flicked to the passenger monitor, reassessing his fare. Facility 38 was the private docking area, reserved for the space yachts. Only the heads of industrial combines and the wealthiest members of the old aristocracy could afford even the smallest of starships and their upkeep. A Fleet captain's annual pay would cover about a quarter of the monthly maintenance fee on a one-man flitter.

"You own or just leasing, sir?" said the driver, bringing the craft in on the roof of facility 38.

"Own," said the captain, putting away his notes. "What happened to the lights?" he asked as they settled with a whining of ngravs. Facility 38 was never busy, but before the war the entryway had always been brightly lit. Now only a solitary light shone, far in the distance near the lift.

'Some crazy idea during the war," said the cabbie, gunning L'Wrona's chit through the meter. The fare duly processed, the passenger bubble swung open. "Cut all the rooftop lights in case of a S'Cotar raid-as if anything could get past Line." He handed back the chit. "Safe trip, Captain."

"Thank you. Good night." -

It started to rain as L'Wrona began the long walk across the rooftop-rain from the violent sort of fast-moving storm that swept in from the desert. Lightning and thunder flashed and boomed around L'Wrona as he hurried through the sudden sheets of rain, using the brief illumination of the lightning to search the shadows. The rooftop to either side was a maze of ventilator shafts and instrument arrays vaguely perceptible as low, hazy humps.

This place is a Tugayee's delight, thought the captain, jogging for the lift.

The next lightning bolt was seconded by a much smaller but well-aimed bolt that snapped just over L'Wrona's head, sending him diving for the cover of an instrument pod as two more weapons flashed, fusion bolts knifing through where the captain had just been.

Two ahead, one to the left, he recalled, low-crawling from the pod to a ventilator shaft. Listening intently, he first heard only the sound of his own breathing and the dying thunder as the storm moved back out into the desert. Then he heard the birdcalls-low but distinct, one chirp answering another from three different directions.

Tugayee, thought L'Wrona. Assassins' guild journeymen, trained from birth and screened through long years of deadly assignments.

A capable officer and a crack shot, L'Wrona was no match for three of the Confederation's most adept killers. He realized that, even as the chirps ended and the Tugayee closed in, his position fixed.

Hunching cold and frightened on the rooftop, L'Wrona did something no margrave had done for centuries: pressed the hidden switch beneath his sidearm's grips and pulled forward the trigger guard. The coat of arms set in the grips-crossed sword over spaceship, rampant-glowed softly in response.

"Torgan," said L'Wrona softly, weapon to his mouth. "Astan holga shakar."

Responding to the old High K'Ronarin, the weapon rose, hovered over the ventilator for a second like a scenting hound, then was gone, leaving L'Wrona pressed against the shaft, armed only with a boot knife and a deep faith in the lost technology that had forged his pistol.

Two blasters fired almost together, somewhere off in the darkness, then a brief silence followed by the shrill and explosion of one more shot, this time nearer.

Something dark dropped from the top of the ventilator housing, landing a few feet in front of L'Wrona-a slight figure swathed in black from head to toe, only a pair of wary eyes exposed. "Drop the blade," she said with a slight flick of her blaster. It was an M59A-a section leader's model, L'Wrona noted, dropping his knife-a top line infantry weapon supposedly in the hands of only the Fleet Commando.