Stephen Berry - Final Assault

"An honorable position," said D'Trelna.

"More an honorary one, designed for fractious senior officers nearing retirement. One may not tell Line what to do, only advise it-not the most fulfilling duty for someone who's been commanding starships much of his life.

"Anyway," continued the admiral, "the Council's meeting all night on my fate. It should be resolved by dawn." He looked out the window. The first hint of dawn could be seen, outlining the rough hills of the western desert.

He turned back to D'Trelna. "S'Gan's final report said you were going to try to take an AI battleglobe. Did you?"

D'Trelna nodded. "Yes, sir. It's on its way to the AI Empire, on an urgent mission of confusion and destruction. R'Gal thinks he can foment a revolt."

"Luck to him-if he even gets there. As for us, your report said we're about to be attacked by some ten thousand battleglobes. What's between them and here?"

"In Quadrant Blue Nine we were able to enlist the cooperation of a flotilla of mindslavers…"

The admiral shook his head. "I know-it was in the report-horrors out of the Empire's darkest past. Part human, part machine, totally mad. They hate us, D'Trelna.

They'll turn on us at the first opportunity."

"Yes, sir. They hate us, they fear us, but they hate and fear the AIs more. The mindslavers will try to hold the Rift for us until reinforcements arrive."

"Reinforcements?" said L'Guan. "I thought I explained-our tactical situation is hopeless."

"The Twelfth Fleet of the House of S'Yal," said the commodore.

There was long silence in the room, broken by a sigh from L'Guan. "Others have done what you're doing, D'Trelna," he said, "and under similar pressures-the Confederation's dissolving around us like a sand fort and you're seeking refuge in Imperial mysticism." He hurried on before the commodore could protest.

"Every kid knows that wildtale-a mythical fleet from the height of the Empire, trapped in some sort of jump stasis."

D'Trelna shook his head. "Not mythical, sir. The Twelfth Fleet and its loss are duly recorded in Archives. Supposedly a means of recalling the fleet was devised but never implemented-it lies buried with S'Yal, somewhere on this planet."

"And you propose to find it after-what? -ten thousand years?"

"Closer to fifteen thousand, Admiral. And not me-H'Nar L'Wrona. It's in S'Yal's last citadel."

"Last citadel. Lost fleet." L'Guan shook his head. "Lost, D'Trelna-lost is the operative word." He looked past the commodore, out on the lights of man's first city in the galaxy. "Quadrants revolting, bioengineers loosing monsters upon us, the Empire falling, planets torched like diseased fruit, but through it all-a hundred thousand years. Commodore -civilization survived. A civilization that's dying on our watch, D'Trelna," he said softly. The admiral looked up, as if expecting to see AI assault ships descending through night.

"We're not finished yet," said D'Trelna. "If anyone can…"

Both men turned, startled by the muted sound of blaster fire echoing through ancient stone.

The thick wooden doors slammed open and a commando major hurried in, big M32 blastrifle on his hip. Behind him, a squad of commandos reinforced the two troopers guarding the door, taking up firing positions along the corridor.

"Report," ordered L'Guan as the commando officer saluted, left hand to the weapon's comb.

"Tugayee have infiltrated the Tower and are fighting their way to this level."

The admiral showed no surprise at the news. "And our gray-uniformed friends?"

"The Tower garrison withdrew shortly before the attack on direct orders of FleetOps."

The blaster fire was drawing nearer, the shrilling of the weapons now audible above the explosions. "Can you hold?" asked L'Guan.

The major shook his head. "Not without reinforcements-every assassin in the quadrant must be in on this. And they've slapped a commdamper on the building-static on all frequencies."

"Take your men and fight your way clear, Major I'Tan," said L'Guan, ignoring the commando's startled look. "Return to base. You shouldn't have much trouble-it's me they want."

"But, Admiral…" protested the major.

"I'll be all right. Get going."

"Sir," saluted the major.

"By the way, sir," added the commando as the admiral returned his salute, "last word before the attack was that you've been assigned Line duty officer."

"Joy," murmured L'Guan as the major stepped into the corridor.

"D'Trelna," continued the admiral, turning to the commodore. "I'm sorry you're…" A movement in the hallway caught his eye. "Hostiles!" he shouted, diving behind the desk.

Feet to the side of the desk, D'Trelna pushed himself backward onto the rug as blaster bolts flashed into the office, snapping over the desk and blowing away half of a glass wall.

The hallway exploded with blaster fire as the commandos exchanged fire with four black-clad figures appearing at the far end. The firefight was over in seconds, with each badly outgunned Tugayee torn by half a dozen well-aimed bolts.

Hand to a chairarm, D'Trelna was still pulling himself to his feet as L'Guan rounded the desk and moved into the hallway.

"More coming up the south stair, sir," said Major I'Tan, communicator in hand. A blaster bolt had grazed his cheek, leaving a neatly cauterized scar. "The lift is out."

"Please withdraw, Major," said the admiral, looking at the corridor. Before the firefight a series of tapestries had hung along the walls -a triptych of a prespace battle scene: v'arx-mounted riders, clad in armor, battling in some rocky mountain pass. Brilliantly executed-the animals' nostrils flaring in fear, the shouting, the screaming and the clash of metal all but audible-the tapestries now hung in flaming ribbons from the blaster-scorched wall. "This old place's taken enough abuse."

"As the admiral orders," said I'Tan. He spoke quickly into his communicator, then caught the squad leader's eye and nodded. Moving quickly down the hallway, the squad passed the dead assassins and turned left, disappearing toward the north stairway.

"Luck, Admiral," said the major, and was gone.

"If the admiral is sacrificing us to save the antiques," said D'Trelna as they reentered the commandant's office.

"I am not sacrificing anyone," said L'Guan, swinging the doors shut, locking them.

"… then please count me out," continued D'Trelna as L'Guan faced him.

"How long have you known me, D'Trelna?" said the admiral.

"On and off? Almost twenty years. You were sector commodore in blue four, keeping the jump lanes safe for merchanters, pulling smuggler intercepts."

A traditional S'Htarian merchant, D'Trelna had never troubled himself with legal niceties. Smuggler or merchant-it depended on what you were selling, when, where and to whom.

"And in that length of time, have you ever… ever… known me to choose the grand gesture over the practical maneuver?"

The commodore thought about it for a moment. "No," he said finally.

"Thank you." L'Guan undipped a communicator from his belt. "Remember that during the next few moments." He spoke a frequency setting D'Trelna had never heard, waited for the acknowledging beep, then spoke again. "I urgently need transport for two to your location," he said into the communicator.

"Yes, I know," said a voice over the communicator-a maddeningly familiar voice D'Trelna couldn't quite place.

"How soon?" asked the Admiral.

Stephen Ames Berry "A few moments."

There was a soft snick on the other side of the door. L'Guan looked quizzically at D'Trelna. "Mark 17 blastpak," said the commodore. "Detonator's a forty-count."

"We don't have a few moments," said L'Guan into the communicator.

"I am doing the best I can," said the voice. "Some of these systems haven't been used since forests covered K'Ronar."