Chapter 16
The handful of Terrans strode purposefully down the gray curving corridor of Nasqa. Scotar scuttled and flitted about, paying them no mind.
“They’re arrogant and literal-minded,” POCSYM had said earlier, as the teaching helms settled over their heads. “Arrive undetected and they’ll think you’re transmutes disguised as humans. You’ll make it to the bridge.”
When the helms lifted, three lost minutes later, they knew Nasqa: her layout, crew disposition, bridge operations—knew her as well as any Scotar. It was hard-won data, gleaned by POCSYM and Fleet Intelligence over the years. The bridge crew should number no more than six. If the humans reached the bridge, they might win.
Maybe, thought John, running his thumb along the smooth leather of his holster.
POCSYM had put them as near to their objective as possible in so distant a moving target. The Terrans had walked only a hundred yards before reaching the bridge. Scotar came and went through the round open doorway.
An alarm screamed amid strobing lights. Thinking the worst, John turned to shoot the nearest aliens. But the Scotar ran past, ignoring them. Giant blast doors began trundling shut. In a moment the bridge would be sealed.
“They’re getting ready to engage Implacable,” whispered Sutherland, drawing up beside John.
“Now or never,” said John. “Let’s go.”
Caution aside, he led the rush through the closing doors.
Nasqa’s battle board showed the position of her fleet relative to two dots midpoint between Earth and Moon—two dots, John noted with relief. Revenge had joined Implacable.
High-backed chairs fronted the six bridge positions, hiding their occupants from view. “Turn slowly and you won’t be hurt,” lied John, seeking to spare only the consoles.
The chairs swiveled slowly about. Six empty chairs. Drop your weapons or die where you stand, hissed something cold in all their minds.
The bridge swarmed with warriors.
Kiroda had briefed McShane as the three of them rode the small open hovercar through Revenge’s broad empty corridors—more roadways than corridors—eerily still save for the vehicle’s quiet purr.
“All we know of mindslaves comes from POCSYM and N’Rar’s Annals of the Empire,” said the young officer. “Both say you must dominate the mindslaves, force them to your will.”
“N’Rar wrote from personal experience?” asked Bob.
“No,” said Kiroda. He broke off, grabbing for a sidebar as Detrelna banked sharply around a corner at full speed, yet another of Bob’s cigars clenched between his teeth.
“Sorry,” grunted the captain. “You may not believe it, but I was a fighter pilot once.”
“I’m sure the hovercar has unique handling characteristics, sir,” said Kiroda, knuckles white on the sidebar. “Bob,” he continued “it’s imperative you overcome the mindslaves’ initial resistance.”
“And if I fail?”
Detrelna spoke as Kiroda hesitated. “They’ll burn your brain away and feed on your death agonies. Don’t fail.” They pulled up before a small door neatly labeled Symbiotechnic Control Facility.
“Remember,” added Kiroda, “don’t mindlink until POCSYM has us in orbit. And leave your communicator open on tactical. We’ll be on the bridge, driving this battleboat. You’ve got forty-five minutes to take control. Assuming our friends succeed aboard Nasqa, we’ll need all the firepower you can give us. Good luck.”
As soon as he was inside, they drove off.
An innocuous little room, thought Bob, to house such evil. Two thickly padded armchairs faced a soaring, blank screen. A “primary battle board” POCSYM had called it. Above each chair hung a translucent bowl-shaped helmet, similar to POCSYM’s teaching helms.
“Sit in one of the chairs,” POCSYM had instructed. “The helmet descends. What happens then varies. But you, not the mindslaves, must control events. Beware: they’re treacherous.”
The condemned man enjoyed a hearty last cigar, thought the Bob, patting his pockets as he walked down the spiral staircase into the pit. Reaching the bottom, he groaned. Detrelna had filched his last panatela. C’est la guerre. He smiled wistfully, recalling another war, other faces.
Bob wasn’t long alone with his memories before Detrelna called, “We’re in space. Please begin.”
“Beginning now.” He sank into one of the comfortable chairs. The helmet settled over his head.
Hail, comrade, came a single gentle whisper that was also many. Welcome to our sepulcher. Long have we waited. What service may the penitent perform for Emperor and Empire?
The Empire is dust, thought Bob. You may, however, save humanity from that which would destroy it—a humanity you betrayed.
Surely a noble task, comrade, came the ghostly chorus. We would know more, but sense that time is precious. Open your mind to us, so we may know all.
Thank you, no. You’ve a durable reputation for malevolence.
One of which we’re proud, comrade
There was a fierce buzzing, as of angry bees in conclave, then the attack Bob had expected struck—sharp stingers probed his mind’s defenses, trying to win through. But the needles of raw mental energy couldn’t penetrate, deflected by his shield. Oblivious to the hatred tearing at him, Bob was calmly reviewing Descartes’s proofs for the existence of God.
“Tight little coffin,” said John, looking about the tiny cell into which the Terrans were crammed deep within Nasqa. The gray of the surrounding walls was broken only by the slight shimmer of the force field securing the doorway. A small oval-shaped hole in the corner of the floor was the only amenity. “They were expecting us,” said Zahava after a moment’s glum silence.
“How?” asked John, tentatively feeling the force field with his fingertips. The shimmer became a blur and he could move his hand no further. Giving up, he turned back to his companions.
“Maybe we triggered their intruder alert system after all,” suggested Sutherland.
“They’d have cut us down as we arrived,” John said. “No. Zahava’s right—it was a trap, carefully laid. Nasqa’s crew had some lead time.”
“Well, what now?” asked Bakunin. “They’re probably going to interrogate us as they did your late President.”
“We’ve got to escape,” said Zahava.
“Surely, André,” Sutherland said, eyeing the Russian with a certain satisfaction, “your people must have a technique for breaking out of jail? Or do you only concern yourselves with keeping people in them?”
“And a cheap shot, too, after all we’ve been through.”
Their conversation was ended by the arrival of two warriors and a transmute. The doorway barrier vanished.
Come with us. The Scotar pointed their blasters at John, their leader motioning him away from the others with a flick of his pistol.
Silent until now, Greg elbowed his way past John. “We’re all idiots,” he said irritably, stepping in front of the leveled weapons. “We forgot about the warsuits—and so did they!”
With a shout, he threw himself on the aliens, dragging them down even as they fired.
“Take ‘em!” barked John.
It was short and messy, the humans kicking and gouging for the eyes, the insectoids fighting back with tentacles and mandibles, Zahava ending it with a captured blaster.
The victors stood with a collection of bruises and cuts. All but Greg. The lanky geologist lay unmoving between two of the enemy, dead. Gently turning him, John saw why: most of Greg’s stomach was gone. His warsuit had failed, as he must have known it would, beneath the close fire of several weapons. John gently closed the sightless eyes and stood, face grim and set. “I say we still have time to take the bridge. Agreed?”
From somewhere deep within Descartes, McShane half noticed the mindslaves’ attack waning, the once-sharp buzzing now muted. Distant but distinct, a voice called his name. “Detrelna to McShane. Scotar forward elements are coming within range. See if you can activate the weapons systems. Bridge
monitors still show them down.”
With a small mental sigh, Bob carefully shelved Descartes, then called, Brothers, sister, I call upon you to right ancient wrongs.
The buzzing stopped.
I exhort you by the names of all those whom you condemned to your fate, right the wrong you’ve done. Destroy the enemy now before you.
The whisper that was one-yet-many sounded again. Bob pondered his reply. Yes, he finally answered. I promise. Help us now and it will be done.
When?
When the enemy is destroyed.
It is agreed.
The battle board came alive, transformed into a three-dimensional projection of the solar system. The advancing Scotar were now well inside Mars’s orbit, deployed in a great wedge pointed straight at Earth. They are within our range, comrade. You have but to give the command.
He spoke it. “Fire!”
The Terrans had almost reached Nasqa’s bridge when the alarm sounded, this time for them.
Not that the four could hear it. A passing group of warriors whirled and fired. Thanks to the warsuits and Zahava’s vigilance, it was the Scotar who died. The firing signaled a desperate running battle to the bridge. John leading, they weaved through a maze of corridors, blasting down the enemy before them, keeping those behind at bay.
A mixed party of warriors and transmutes guarded the bridge, weapons ready. They opened fire as John and Zahava lobbed the small orbs they’d taken from dead Scotar. A pulsating red glow filled the corridor as blaster fire crackled from both sides.
The aliens died, their aim distorted by spectral grenades keyed to their vision. But the bridge was sealed.
Undeterred, John and Zahava busied themselves before the massive doors. Sutherland and Bakunin kept their pursuers back. “Hug the wall!” John ordered. They braced themselves against the bridge bulkhead as Zahava pressed a button on her belt. The huge blast doors didn’t so much blow up as disintegrate in a fierce white heat, frames buckling.
The Terrans charged in and killed the bridge crew.
“Gentlemen, guard our rear,” John asked, and Bakunin and Sutherland ran out again.
Going to the communications console, John tapped withdrawal orders he’d been given into Nasqa’s computer, hoping the symbols given him by Detrelna were right. He and Zahava watched as a moment later the Scotar fleet began obediently dispersing.
“Time to leave, I think.” Bill’s voice was tense over the commnet. “Much company.” He and the Russian dived through the doorway, energy bolts rending the air above them. Crouching to either side of the door, they fired back.
“POCSYM, standby to pull us out,” John ordered.
“Acknowledged.”
He ran to the command console, pressed an isolated button and pointed at Zahava, standing by the first officer’s station. She carefully typed a few characters, using keys never meant for human digits, then nodded at John.
A great bolt of raw red energy tore through the navigation console, ochre flame and blue sparks exploding in its wake.
“Heavy weapons!” Zahava turned toward the door as a solid wave of Scotar swarmed the bridge, overrunning Sutherland and Bakunin.
“Now, POCSYM!” shouted John, blasting two warriors and grappling with another.
Battered, singed and exhausted, four Terrans stood on Implacable’s bridge.