21

An agitated red sphere, the captain moved from station to station. "Shield status?" he asked, halting at defense screen control.

''Down one third," said the human-adapted AI manning the position. "We lost seven main-line and four auxiliary shield transponders. Situation has stabilized."

"Sir." It was combat control.

"What?" said the captain, moving right.

"We've lost four ships."

The AI officer read the scan—four battleglobes destroyed; enemy losses, none. "Enemy closing."

The image of a pair of mindslavers came onto the battlescreen, moving in on the representation of Devastator.

"All batteries open fire," ordered the captain.

Wave after overlapping save of light flashed across the battleglobe's surface as thousands of missile and fusion batteries sent awesome salvos of death out towards the mindslavers. Above, Devastator's shield glowed bright red, absorbing the slavers' counterfire.

"This is it," whispered L'Wrona. Just around the corner, halfway down a long gray corridor, two blades hovered before a closed door. "Sure?" whispered John.

The captain nodded. "According to R'Gal—and this is all according to R'Gal." He turned to his troop. "With me," he said.

They came around the corner, firing, a line of black-uniformed humans rushing the blades.

Three commandos died in seconds, torn by perfectly aimed blaster fire; then the blades went down, blown apart by the return volley.

They were still skidding along the deck as S'Til slapped the blastpak against the door, then joined the others pressed against the wall.

The door disappeared in a burst of orange flame, the explosion reverberating down the long corridor. Charging into the room, the humans gunned down a pair of cybertechs trying to hide behind the long banks of equipment.

"Which one?" said John, looking around the big room as the rest of the force fanned back out into the corridor.

"Here," said L'Wrona, leading him to a group of five yellow-colored machines standing slightly apart from the rest. Taking a flat metal device from his pocket, he set it atop a console, then knelt and snapped open the machine's inspection hatch. A glittering web of multicolored light greeted him, thousands of delicate strands busily maintaining Devastator's shield.

"Found it," said the captain, gently fingering a connection. "Pass me the suppressor."

As John turned, reaching for the device, a blaster bolt snapped past his chest and plowed into the console, just missing his hand and shattering the suppressor.

Whirling, John drew and fired, destroying a third cybertech who'd lain hidden behind a machine housing.

L'Wrona and John stood for a moment, looking at the shattered bits of the suppressor.

"Now what?" asked the Terran.

"Manual override," said the K'Ronarin. "It's only temporary, though." He looked at the time. "It'll be enough for the boats."

"What about the ship?"

"We can't wait here. We'll have to do that the hard way. Stay here, push this button"—he indicated a red control—"when I say to."

John nodded as L'Wrona walked to the end machine and stood, finger poised above a button. "Now," he called.

Both men pressed at the same instant.

Unprotesting, all but one of the consoles died, lights winking off.

"And out," said L'Wrona.

"Did it work?" asked S'Til, not taking her eyes from the corridor.

"We'll know soon," said L'Wrona, glancing at the time. "On to our secondary target."

The small force moved out on the double, following L'Wrona back toward the lift.

The alarm was deafening, an alert fit for the end of the universe. The AI on shield control glanced at telltale, then flipped a switch, tapped it, then flipped it again. The readout was unchanged. "Captain," he called, "confirming shields down. Someone's cut the fusion flow in shield nexus seventeen."

The warning was unnecessary. All Operations personnel were looking up through the armorglass—the blue glow that protected them was gone.

"Reaction force and repair party dispatched," reported the senior security blade.

"Much it will help us," said the AI captain. He moved to the glass wall. "Why are we still alive?"

"Enemy withdrawing," came the report a second later.

The battlescreen showed the two mindslavers moving off, replaced by a handful of smaller craft.

The captain hovered for a moment, immobile, not trusting his sensors. Finally he spoke. "They're attacking us. In assault craft. They plan to seize this ship." Finally convincing himself that it was true, he moved back into the center of Operations. "Fusion batteries to open fire. All available security forces deploy to repel boarders."

R'Gal told them they couldn't take the battleglobes' primary generating facility—too big, too well guarded But . . .

There were two primary feeds leading off a tertiary power nexus. That nexus, R'Gal had said, powered the gun and missile batteries in quadrants seven red through eleven yellow—the only quadrants that could accurately range in on the assault boats.

"And how long has it been since you've been aboard a battleglobe, R'Gal?" D'Trelna had asked.

"Irrelevant, Commodore," the AI had said. "I forget nothing."

"And if they've changed the design?"

"They won't have."

"Pull," gritted L'Wrona, tugging on the thick floor plate. Grunting with effort, he, John and S'Til finally pried it loose. Sliding it aside, the three looked down into the conduit—and backed off, covering their eyes. Two thick crystalline lines blazed with blinding sunlight—energy feeding the guns.

"Do it," said L'Wrona, rubbing his eyes.

S'Til dropped two blastpaks into the conduit.

"Run!" shouted L'Wrona, making for the access stairs.

"Blades!" cried a voice just as they reached the door.

They were swooping in from both ends of the corridor, blue and red bolts snapping at the retreating commandos.

A withering counterfire met the machines as S'Til and two squads covered the others. The corridor became bedlam: blasters shrilling, fusion bolts exploding into walls, floors, men and machines, commandos screaming, blades crashing in flames.

Harrison and two troopers knelt in the doorway, firing at a trio of blades that had broken through the cordon. Hit, the blade to the left wobbled, turned and banked into the ceiling. The center machine retreated, accelerating through the showering debris of its companion. Dropping to floor level, the blade on the right kept coming and firing.

The trooper to John's left died, shot through the heart.

Cursing softly, the Terran aimed two-handed and held the trigger back, sending the rest of the chargepak tearing into the machine, then leaped back as the killer machine reached the doorway.

Smoke streaming behind it, the blade knifed through the other trooper, neatly decapitating her, then plowed into the ramp, a brief pillar of flame narrowly missing L'Wrona and the rest of the commandos.

The trooper's blood soaking him, John watched transfixed as the headless corpse stood for an instant, crimson geyser ebbing, then folded into a soft pile of clothes and cooling flesh.

S'Til and three troopers raced through the doorway, securing it behind them with a well placed bolt to the control unit.

"More of them right behind us," she said to L'Wrona. "No one else . . . .?" said the captain. S'Til shook her head.

There was a nearby shrilling of blasters—the door began to glow white.

"Let's go," said L'Wrona. "Up three levels, then we do it."

The troopers broke into a run, following L'Wrona up three long, spiraling levels, then halted as he raised his hand. "Everyone take cover against the wall," he ordered, risking a quick look over the ramp. The door below was blazing scarlet now, about to give.

Stepping back, L'Wrona took a flat black detonator from his pocket, armed it and pressed the firing stud.

Whoomp! Everyone went sprawling as the explosion buckled the wall and twisted the ramp two levels below.

Picking himself up, John joined the others looking down over the ramp's edge. Where they'd been was now a wreck, the ramp compressed to half its original width by the great bulge of the corridor wall thrown against it. The wall was holed in a dozen places. As the humans watched, a stream of raw, white energy began eating through the holes, enlarging them.

"Pure epsilon energy," said L'Wrona. "Everyone out— quickly!"

The explosion had jammed the door on their current level, and the one above. ''Try it," said L'Wrona at the second door, worriedly eyeing a small hazard monitor taken from his belt.

Its lock worked by the thin tip of S'Til's commando blade, the door gave with a faint sigh. The humans exited on the run as smoke, flame and a deadly river of hard radiation poured into the rampway.

"Fire," repeated the AI captain, moving to the gunnery station.

"Saboteurs have destroyed seven red through eleven yellow fusion feed," reported the gunnery officer. "There are no batteries within effective range of the assault craft.''

"Use the missiles," said the captain, looking out the window. He could see the attackers now—nine small stars against the firmament—stars falling toward the Operations tower.

"Too close," said the gunnery officer. "We'll blow ourselves up."

Overhead, the shield came back on, a false sky of blue blotting out the stars, its light gleaming off nine tiny silver ships.

"Shield restored," reported the engineering officer. "But we have a fire on level one four nine, initiated by sabotage of a tertiary fusion feed. Fusion feed has been diverted, fire coming under control."

The captain looked at the battlescreen. Cold and precise, the green figures showed nine of the enemy ships destroyed, with forty-seven AI battleglobes either disabled or destroyed. The rest of the battleglobes were scattering, pursued by mindslavers that tore at their shields with beam and missile. The last flurry of messages received from the acting flotilla commander had been a disengagement signal, then general retreat, then a distress call directed toward home.

"This is the first battle we have lost since the Revolt," said the captain, drifting between the consoles. "The enemy is determined to have this ship. We'll deny him that. Designated emergency personnel only will direct operations. All others to reinforce security units."

Zahava hated the assault boats: you hung in the webbing like a slaughtered animal, seeing only the gray bulkhead, the pilot too busy to advise you. The waiting and uncertainty were exquisite agony, relieved by the sudden blaring of the assault klaxon; then, before you had time to be scared, the webbing released, the sides dropped and you were stumbling down the ramp followed by half a hundred other screaming fools.

It was the same this time.

She was on an endless plane of metal, a gray-white landscape overhung by a shimmering blue sky. The plane was broken by an endless array of sensor clusters and the great slitted humps of weapons turrets, guns silent now, their crews gone to join the attack.

Zahava stood transfixed, watching as hundreds of blades advanced above a long line of spherical and human-adapted AIs.

The attack closed quickly on the landing zone.

"Fire!" called Zahava, throwing herself prone as blaster bolts snapped in. Rocking up, she placed the M32's butt on her shoulder, caught a blade in the sight and fired. Not waiting to see if it was hit, she moved to the next target and the next, trying to hit the constantly shifting AIs, her aim sometimes distorted by the number of fusion bolts now screaming through the air.

All around her, D'Linians and K'Ronarins were firing from behind the thick sensors, while over their heads flashed the heavy red bolts of Mark 44's, blasting away from the assault boat turrets.

"The blades," she'd told the gunners back on Implacable. "Concentrate on the blades. They're the toughest and the most dangerous AIs we've seen yet."

The Mark 44's turned it around, breaking the AIs' charge just as it threatened to sweep over the human line.

With flawless precision, the AIs withdrew toward the tower, breaking into discernible units, each unit covering the next until all were gone.

Burnt and burning AIs lay everywhere.

"After them!" called Zahava, scrambling to her feet. Rifle at port, she started after the enemy, hoping the others were following, but not daring to look.

"This ship work now, Mr. N'Trol?" demanded D'Trelna as the engineer stepped onto the bridge.

N'Trol nodded, sinking into the empty captain's chair. His eyes were bloodshot, his uniform streaked with dirt and he smelled. "She works," he said wearily. "She could use a port overhaul, but she works."

"Excellent," nodded the commodore.

N'Trol sat up at something in D'Trelna's voice. "You're not going to take her into combat?''

"No," said D'Trelna, looking at the tacscan. "Not if all goes according to plan."

"Message from Alpha Prime, Commodore," said K'Lana. "What is it?" '

" 'Enemy in retreat. Am pursuing. Will rendezvous as planned. Luck.' "

"Acknowledge it, please," he said, watching the last of the target blips save one disappear from the tacscan.

"Window coming up, Commodore," said K'Raoda.

"Window?" said N'Trol, standing. "As in launch window?" he glanced at the tacscan. "This moon's almost on top of that battleglobe!"

"Indeed," said D'Trelna, swiveling his chair toward the first officer.

"You may lift ship and proceed, Mr. K'Raoda. And man battle stations."

Battle klaxon sounding, Implacable rose from the ruined base and headed at speed toward Devastator.

L'Wrona and John whirled at the sound of a throat clearing.

"Easy, gentlemen." R'Gal stepped into the corridor.

The other two lowered their weapons.

"Judging from the commotion topside, our assault force has landed. Did you set the shield trip?"

L'Wrona shook his head. "It was lost."

R'Gal stared at them, stunned. "Implacable will be destroyed."

"We're going to take their Operations area and lower the shield from there."

R'Gal shook his head. "You should have just blown the shield unit up."

"When we discussed that," said L'Wrona angrily, "you said they could replace it very quickly."

The AI held up a hand. "True," he said. "How many of you ....?"

The captain turned and whistled twice. S'Til and two commandos appeared. They carried another trooper between them, his head swathed in bandages.

"That's it?" said the AI.

"They chewed us up, bit by bit, before we lost them," said John.

"Six of you, to attack Operations?" asked R'Gal, incredulous.

"We're going to attack it and take it," said L'Wrona with more conviction than he felt.

"And the security posts? You can't storm them with this pathetic force."

"We were going to face that when we got there," said John. "You have a better idea?"

R'Gal nodded. "Yes. Watch."

Nothing happened for a moment, then the AI's form began to soften, its contours shrinking into a blue-red blur that quickly reformed into a smaller, more compact shape: a security blade hovered before them, baleful red sensor scan shifting along its deadly front edge.

"Just hope the security posts are as convinced as you," said R'Gal, staring at the six blasters that pointed at him.

There was a faint scraping sound as the weapons were reholstered.

"My God!" said John. "Can you change into any of those?"

"I can change into any of me," said R'Gal. "Into any of the various evolutions I've been through, down the centuries.

"Now, please leave the wounded man here, along with one attendant, and all your rifles. Tuck those Ml lA's into your jackets."

"Detection equipment?" asked John, stuffing the blaster into his belt and refastening the jacket.

"Leave them to me," said R'Gal. "Along with all else, until we reach the heart of Operations—then open up."

"Blades," hissed S'Til as five of the killers rounded the corner, flying in a tight phalanx.

"Prisoners in custody," said R'Gal, switching languages.

"You took them by yourself?" said the phalanx leader, stopping in front of R'Gal.

"My comrades were destroyed," said R'Gal. "These"— he dipped toward the humans—"are for interrogation. Captain's orders."

"Well done," said the true blade. "We're reporting to the surface—the humans have forced a landing." With that they turned a tight circle and were gone.

"Deadly, efficient, but not very complex," sighed R'Gal, turning to the humans. "Very well, let's go, straight up the corridor to the lift. Keep in front of me, please. Oh, and Captain?"

"What?" said L'Wrona as S'Til detailed a corporal to stay with the wounded trooper.

"Please, try to look defeated."