Final Assault (7 page)

She went for his eyes, but N'Trol was faster, dashing the hot t'ata into her eyes. As A'Tir fell back, screaming in pain, K'Lal stepped toward N'Trol, only to be intercepted by B'Tul and two burly gunner's mates. "Take your lovely little commander back to your area, friend," said the gunner, hand twisting the other's shirt, "before there are any more accidents."

At A'Tir's scream, the rest of the corsairs had come on the run, only to be stopped by a line of
Implacable's
crew stretched out along the white line. There were only eight corsairs to eighteen Fleet regulars. The rush stopped at the line.

"Come on, Commander," said K'Lal, helping A'Tir to her feet and taking her elbow. She said nothing, merely held her hands over her eyes. "You're dead, N'Trol," she said as they moved away.

The engineer ignored her, watching until A'Tir and K'Lal had crossed to their side of the bay and the two groups had disassembled.

"Just the ten of them?" he asked, picking up the cup.

"In this bay, yes," said B'Tul, eyes still on the retreating corsairs. He turned to the engineer. "Another ten or so in another bay. I think they put us in here hoping we'd kill each other. Which we may do."

"Now what, Mr. N'Trol?" he said.

"Now," said N'Trol, settling back on the bunk, feet crossed, "now we wait, Gunney." He held out the cup. "Who'd like to get me more t'ata?"

A rough hand shook N'Trol awake. "Commander," whispered a voice.

N'Trol sat up, shaking his head. It was the middle of the night—the detention bay was in darkness. "B'Tul?" he whispered sleepily. "What ..."

"Listen," hissed the gunner.

The officer listened, then heard it, very faintly: the sound of blaster fire.

"Somewhere on the upper levels," said B'Tul. "And the guards are gone."

The thick gray door slid open and the lights came on. As N'Trol and B'Tul turned toward the door, squinting, a tall man in a torn, blood-splotched uniform stepped into the room. "Commander?" he called.

"Here, S'Lei," called A'Tir, leading her group toward the new corsair. A few of
Implacable's
crew started to block her.

"Let her by," said S'Lei, raising the long-barreled Ml 1A he held and waving it casually.

"Let them go," said N'Trol.

"Report," said A'Tir, walking past N'Trol without a glance.

"Tower's bedlam," said the tall corsair. "Commandos came in, Security pulled out, then Tugayee infiltrated and took on the commandos. Fighting's concentrated on the upper levels."

"How'd you get out?" A'Tir asked.

"There was a running firefight through our confinement level—commandos and Tugayee. An M32 blast took out the door— along with K'Ona and S'Al." S'Lei waved his hand over the bloodstains. "We came down here, found the guard posts deserted and set your security lock to open."

"Where's the rest of your group?" said A'Tir.

"Right behind me. I sent them to liberate an armory."

As he spoke, more corsairs came into the room, all with holstered pistols on their belts and spares slung over their shoulders.

"Orders, Commander?" said K'Lal, taking one of the spare Ml 1 As and belting it on.

"We're still in Prime Base perimeter—we'll grab a shuttle from the Tower depot, take over a ship and run for it."

"Line will stop us," said S'Lei.

"No," said A'Tir, arming herself. "Line will challenge us. It won't stop us if we're not a direct and immediate threat to the security of the planet. Which we aren't, as we're leaving it."

A'Tir pointed to where
Implacable's
crewmen stood in a silent knot. "Kill them and let's go," she said. "The engineer's mine," she added, drawing her sidearm and thumbing the beam down to its cutting setting.

"You're stupid, A'Tir," said N'Trol, stepping in front of his crew. "You haven't enough crew to man a ship that will get you past the Fleet pickets. Most you can run is a destroyer. You need at least a cruiser."

"We'll take our chances," said A'Tir. "Hold him," she ordered. Two corsairs grabbed N'Trol's arms as A'Tir took careful aim at his eyes.

"With us," said the engineer, "you can have
Implacable."

There was a murmur of protest from N'Trol's crew.

"Let him go," said A'Tir, lowering the blaster. "What did you have in mind, Mr. N'Trol?" she said.

"We're in the same situation," said N'Trol, adjusting his cuffs. "Prisoners for whatever reasons. Our mutual interests lie in escape ..."

"But, sir," protested B'Tul, "to join up with these scum ..."

"What do you want, B'Tul, to stay here and face court-martial for performing your duty? How many times have we saved the fat asses of the ground-hugging slobs? And this, this is our reward." His hand swept the room. "Freedom"—he pointed to the door—"or the Tower?"

There was a brief, whispered consultation, then B'Tul turned back to N'Trol. "We're with you, sir. As long as they put us off at first planetfall," he added, looking at A'Tir.

"Agreed," said the corsair commander. "Provided we take
Implacable.
Otherwise, you stay here, we'll take up where we just left off, you and me."

"Fine," said N'Trol. He held out his hand.

"Now, if we could have some weapons . . ."

"Not just yet," said A'Tir with a tight little smile.

The distant blaster fire was suddenly punctuated by the dull
KRUMMP!
of an exploding grenade, the echo rolling through the Tower.

"Let's go," said A'Tir.

Filing from the detention bay, the new allies moved in a quick double file down the empty corridors, past the deserted guard posts and out into the night.

Implacable
was a grand sight at night, the winking of her red and green running lights reflecting softly along her silver hull. She sat alone in bright-lit splendor, one of the last of the Imperial cruisers.

"Two guards," whispered K'Lal, ducking back behind the white supply modules stacked next to the cruiser. "Corporal and a private."

"That's it?" said A'Tir.

"Yes."

"Sloppy," she said. "Should have two squads for a capital ship, not two men." She turned to N'Trol. "Still want a weapon, Engineer?"

N'Trol saw what was coming. "Not just yet," he said, mimicking her tight little smile. The light wasn't especially good, but she saw it.

"Here." The corsair slipped the commando knife from her boot sheath and wrapped

N'Trol's fingers around the haft. "Take it and go kill those guards. Or we'll do it ourselves and leave your bodies on the duraplast."

"You've persuaded me," he said, slipping off to the left, where the module stacks ended. Snapping shut the weather flap on his holster and slipping the knife blade up his sleeve, N'Trol stepped from behind the stacks and into the light, walking purposefully toward the boarding ramp and the two gray-uniformed sentries.

"Evening," he said as the guards brought their rifles up to order arms.

"Halt," said the corporal. "Who goes?"

N'Trol halted. "Commander N'Trol, Engineer,
Implacable,"
he said, gambling that these two hadn't been told about the arrests. It wasn't likely, given Fleet's mania for security.

"Advance and be recognized," said the corporal.

N'Trol closed the distance between himself and the foot of the ramp, stopping an arm's length from the corporal. The sentry was young—a kid, really—almost old enough to shave. "Here to do some tinkering," said N'Trol easily.

The corporal frowned. "Sorry, sir. We've no orders to admit ..."

N'Trol sucker-kicked him, knee to the groin, then hit him on the chin with the knife pommel as the kid doubled over. The soldier folded silently, crumpling to the landing field.

The private tried to bring the big M32 around, but N'Trol grabbed the weapon's stock with one hand and pressed the knife blade against his throat with the other. "Drop it or die," he said. He'd no idea what he'd do if the other continued to struggle—fortunately, the trooper dropped the M32.

"Turn around," said the engineer.

As the private turned, N'Trol brought the pommel down behind the soldier's right ear. He collapsed as silently as the corporal.

"Well and mercifully done, Mr. N'Trol," A'Tir said as her corsairs charged across the landing field and up into the ship,
Implacable's
crew following. "You may board."

Last one in but for A'Tir, he'd stopped to look at the distant flames of the Tower and the circling firecraft, when two blaster shots sent him whirling, looking down to where A'Tir stood, holstering her blaster beside the dead sentries.

Gripping the safety rail in white-knuckled fury, N'Trol waited for A'Tir to reach him. If he'd been beside her when she fired, he knew he'd have broken her slim neck. "Why?" he demanded coldly when she appeared, his emotions under control.

"Why?" She smiled. "Why, because you wanted them to live, Engineer. So I wanted them dead. Now check your engines and prepare to lift ship, mister."

7

A
hexagonal honeycomb
of a building, facility 19 had once held over six hundred star-ships. But the war had reduced that number to less than two hundred: Ship after ship had been deeded to the Confederation to pay the death taxes of monied officers. Now green "Available" lights glowed softly over most of the berths on level 9.

Oblivious to the green lights, L'Wrona moved quickly down the long empty duralloy corridor, pistol in hand, looking for berth 9-42-A. He found it after two turnings—one of only five red-lighted berths in that stretch of level 9. Standing before the entry, he pressed the access button.

"Access code, please," said a resonant, masculine voice.

"There is no code," said L'Wrona. "Wrong," said the voice. "Right," said L'Wrona. The door slid open. "Hello, H'Nar," said the voice.

"Hello, Dad," said the captain. He stepped onto the catwalk, the door sliding shut behind him. Below, nestled in its berth, lay a trim little O'Lan-class scout ship, the subdued lighting of the berth glinting dully along its silver hull.

To the casual observer, the ship would have seemed just another surplus scout, sold off after the A'Ran Police Action of a decade ago. And so it had been, until the previous Margrave of U'Tria, L'Wrona's late father, had gotten his hands on it.

"Green-light the door, would you, Dad?" asked the captain, turning to clamber down the access ladder to the ship. "Got some unfriendlies looking for me."

"You in trouble again, son?" said the ship.

Out in the hallway the red light over 9-42-A changed to green.

L'Wrona walked across the narrow apron of the berth, then scrambled up the ship's boarding ladder. Reaching the top, he grabbed the support bar above the airlock and pulled himself in, feet first. The outer door hissed shut behind him. He stood in the coffin-sized space between inner and outer door—an area equipped with an array of miniaturized scanners that could discreetly explore the contents of a guest's garments, analyze his or her physiology for anything from infectious diseases to narcotics, and, if necessary, dispatch unwanted visitors with a brief needier burst.

There was no needier burst. The inner door opened on to a short, well-lit corridor. "It seems you are H'Nar, H'Nar," said Dad.

"You sound disappointed," said L'Wrona, walking down the corridor to the bridge. On his way he passed an alley-shaped galley on his left, and a bedsitting room on his right. Had he turned left at the hatchway instead of right, he'd have come to the engine room.

"You try sitting on standby for ten years and see how you like it . . . son. I led a robust life—I crave action."

"Action is why you're dead," said L'Wrona, sliding into the left seat. The bridge was small, just the two flight chairs, but crammed with instruments. Fleet compliance inspectors would have been astounded to see that the original gunnery controls not only were intact—a very serious illegality—but had been augmented by the best combat command and information system available. The CCI was a salvaged Imperial model, unmatched since the Fall. When L'Wrona had asked the old man where he'd gotten it, the margrave had merely touched his fingers to his lips and winked.

"You're lucky to still have me, H'Nar," said the ship. "Not every parent would have been so thoughtful."

Twelve years ago, smiling happily, accompanied by a pair of twenty-year-old female companions, the margrave had departed on his annual jaunt aboard one of the jump-equipped cruise liners that catered to the affluent. Done in by too much companionship somewhere off A'Gal IV, the old man had come back in a bodybag—still smiling. Family and Confederation had consigned his body to space with full honors, the guns of the Home Fleet saluting him as he was launched —still smiling—toward galactic north.

Behind him, the margrave had left titles and estates stretching back to the T'Rlon Dynasty and this one heavily modified "pleasurecraf t."

Calling up the preflight checklist prompt on the commscreen, L'Wrona was reviewing the jump drive status—green/on-call—when Dad said, "Cleared straight through, son, but with a suspicious delay. K'Ronarport was checking with someone."