5

The shuttle had an aft storage compartment, accessed from either the passenger section or from outside, through a hatch. John hid there in the dark, pressed against the bulkhead, waiting for whatever had just exterminated ten crew to leave the pilot's cabin. He was going to wait until T'Lan had passed by, then empty the M11A's chargepak into that perfect body, holding the trigger back until the reload chimed. Forget John Wayne, the Army had taught him a million years ago—kill the enemy with the least possible risk to yourself. Although, he recalled with a faint smile, that wasn't quite the way Drill Sergeant Eddy had phrased it.

The pitch of the engines changed, climbing an octave. Must be almost to the slaver by now, thought John.

From below came the faint whine of landing struts deploying, then silence as the shuttle landed and the n-gravs died. The Terran drew his blaster and waited, a hand on the door switch.

Hurried footsteps followed the distant hiss of a door opening. The footsteps stopped in front of the storage area.

John clicked off the safety and leveled his weapon at whatever was beyond the thin slab of steel.

There was a faint click, then the whir of the passenger airlock cycling open. John counted to three, pressed the door switch and stepped squinting into the harsh light, his finger curled around the trigger.

The shuttle and the ramp were empty.

He had a glimpse of the darkness beyond the circle of light thrown by the shuttle, then T'Lan's voice spoke softly from behind. "Put it down, Harrison."

"Not following the antics on the bridge?"

Zahava looked up from her untouched food. A short, wiry-framed officer stood beside her table, wearing brown combat dress with unfamiliar insignia.

"Do I know you?" she said, pushing her tray away. With the ship on full alert, the officers' mess was deserted.

"Colonel R'Gal, Fleet Counterintelligence Command. May I?"

The Israeli shrugged.

R'Gal took a chair opposite her. "Sorry about Harrison."' She looked up, startled. "What do you mean? There's news?"

R'Gal shook his head. "No. I meant about his being . . . off-ship."

"He'll be back," she said quietly, lifting her fata cup. "Word is you're a S'Cotar hunter."

"One in need of some help," he said, smiling ruefully. The smile vanished. "You want to sit and wait, I'd understand."

"If you're looking for Guan-Sharick, we've seen him," she said, and told R'Gal of the meeting in the observation dome.

"Odd," said R'Gal, frowning as she finished. "That's the second time the bug's warned us. The first time was about the S'Cotar fallback point on Terra Two."

"I wasn't in on that," said Zahava. "How'd you know Guan-Sharick was on board?" she added.

The colonel made a V with each hand. "Two and two," he said, crossing the Vs. "According to ship's roster, a dead man came back from the Lake of Dreams battle—one Corporal S'Gat. He was killed in an assault and cremated with the rest of the dead, there on your moon. And yet"—he held up a finger—"this same corporal was later seen on Vigilant, disembarking with the rest of the commandos. Seen there, but never again.

"Then, during the Terra Two affair, Guan-Sharick was flitting about. Checking the times of his appearances against Implacable'& positions, we found that this ship"—-he waved a hand—"was always within easy transport range for a S 'Cotar transmute.''

"Circumstantial," she shrugged.

"He only showed up when her shield was down," said R'Gal, unruffled. "Over a ninety percent correlation."

"I see," said Zahava. "Kind of compelling."

"So we thought."

"Now what?" she asked, sipping her fata. "We find him."

"You're crazy, Colonel," she said pleasantly. "'Fifty miles of corridors, hundreds of compartments, passageways . . . Plus Guan-Sharick's got a device that fools your S'Cotar detectors."

"I'm a Watcher," said R'Gal.

"Oh?" she said warily. "And what do you watch?"

The K'Ronarin laughed. "It's a stupid title," he said. "Some of us have this gift." He tapped his head. "We can detect a transmute."

"Like that?" she said.

"Usually. That damned device Guan-Sharick's wearing though . . ." He shook his head. "I can tell where he's been, but not where he is. It's maddening."

"But it leaves a trail?"

R'Gal nodded. "Nothing consistent, though. However ..."

"Yes?"

"There're some very strong traces in the lifepod section. And I was thinking perhaps ..."

Zahava grinned. "You were thinking, Colonel, that with everyone at battle stations but us, now would be a fine time to check out the lifepods."

The K'Ronarin grinned back. "If you want to."

Zahava stood. "What are we looking for?"

R'Gal led the way past the food machines and into the corridor. "Anything that doesn't belong. It's the least visited part of the ship. If I had something to hide, I'd hide it there."

Waiting for the lift, he pointed to her holstered Mil A. "I hope you can use that."

The lift arrived with a loud ping.

"Let's hope I get a chance to show you," she said as they boarded.

The doors hissed shut on the empty gray corridor.

"You could be brainwiped for this, J'Quel!" L'Wrona's voice echoed down the passageway.

"I certainly will be if you keep announcing it, H'Nar," said D'Trelna mildly.

The two rounded the corner. In the distance, at the end of the corridor, a squad of black-uniformed commandos guarded a closed door.

"Sorry," said the captain as they walked. "But if FleetOps finds you've been hiding a stolen slaver computer on board ..."

"A rediscovered slaver computer," said the commodore.

"The distinction won't impress a tribunal. You took the thing off TNil's Revenge, on Terra's moon," said L'Wrona softly. "Fine. But then you hid it here"—he nodded toward the door—"and told no one. That's illegal. Now you plan to activate it, and that's criminal. FleetOps is going to do some profound reprogramming of your gray matter."

"We're hanging by our fingernails on the edge of forever," said D'Trelna. "FleetOps is not."

Ten rifles snapped to the salute as the two passed by, D'Trelna sketching a salute. "Where's Lieutenant S'Til?" he asked the NCO blocking the door.

"Dispensary, sir," said the sergeant.

D'Trelna frowned. "Odd. She's never sick."

"You going to let us in, Sergeant?" said L'Wrona.

"That's up to the computer, sir." The woman pointed to the security terminal set in the wall.

"J'Quel?" said the captain, deferring to his senior.

"Of course," said D'Trelna. He thumbed the red tab. "D'Trelna, J'Quel, Commodore."

"And L'Wrona, H'Nar, Captain," said the margrave over D'Trelna's shoulder.

The sergeant stepped aside as the door opened.

Stepping through the doorway, commodore and captain entered a wide, high-ceilinged room. Walking quickly, they passed rows of racked blasters, light artillery pieces, stacked crates of ordnance, then through a second, double-guarded door and a final security check.

"All right, J'Quel," said L'Wrona as the door slid shut behind them. "Show me."

It was a tiny room, almost a closet, its walls the same uniform gray as elsewhere—except for the wall to their left, which was white with small hexagonal niches. Sealed behind armorglass in each of the ten lighted niches gleamed a conical silver warhead. Large red lettering blazed above the warheads—lettering repeated in deathless blue flame etched into each piece of armorglass:

 

DEATH-WARNING! DEATH-WARNING! MO 18. G—PLANETARY-DESTRUCT WARHEAD! ANY ATTEMPT TO ACCESS WARHEAD WITHOUT FLEET-ISSUED BATTLECODE WILL DETONATE WARHEAD!

 

"Impressive, isn't it?" said D'Trelna. Before L'Wrona could move, he'd covered the distance to the first niche and slid the glass aside.

"J'Quel . . . !" said the captain, aghast as D'Trelna removed the warhead and began casually to unscrew it.

"When Fleet found Implacable and pulled her out of stasis," said the commodore, "she had only nine of those warheads. The first little baby here was gone from its creche. I appropriated the space."

L'Wrona had recovered, moving to D'Trelna's side. "So you created a dummy warhead as a hiding place." He laughed—shakily.

"I've often wondered," said D'Trelna, handing the captain the top of the hollow cone, "what poor rebel planet the Empire snuffed with it."

"We might also speculate on the nature of a culture that uses 'death-warning' as a compound noun," said L'Wrona, glancing at the red letters, "and went through eighteen generations of planet snuffers. . . . That's it?" he asked as D'Trelna held up a small golden egg.

"That's it," nodded the commodore. He handed the other half of the fake warhead to L'Wrona. "Would you replace this?" he asked.

By the time the captain had reassembled the casing and restored it to its niche, D'Trelna was standing beside the egg, blaster in hand.

"What now?" said L'Wrona.

"Now," said D'Trelna, twisting the MHA's muzzle to lowest power, "little egg grows up." He aimed two-handed at the spheroid.

L'Wrona held up a hand. "Wait, J'Quel. We'd better record this. Just in case."

"In case of what?" asked the commodore, lowering his weapon. "It eats us?"

"As I recall," said the captain, walking to the wall complink, "this unit's predecessor wanted your brain for use in some psychotic fantasy." He punched the On tab as D'Trelna grunted.

"Computer. Captain."

"Yes, Captain?" came the asexual contralto.

"Full scan of special vault, Armory One, commencing now. Record to auxiliary log only, and restrict access to Commodore D'Trelna and/or I."

"Illegal command," said the computer. "Fleet regulations require all log entries be part of ship's primary records, with exception in certain special situations. These situations are . . ."

D'Trelna glared at the complink as the machine prattled on. "I hate a self-righteous computer." He raised his blaster.

"J'Quel, let me take care of it," said L'Wrona, lowering the commodore's arm, a hand to one thick wrist.

"Computer," he continued, "implement command as given, per Directive Green Seven Nine, authenticator Silver Prime."

"Implemented, my lord." The machine now spoke with a brisk, efficient baritone.

D'Trelna stared wide-eyed at the complink, then turned to L'Wrona. "Generic override?" he guessed.

"Imperial," nodded L'Wrona. "Seventh Dynasty—about the time they built this old hulk." The two turned back to the little egg.

"Something the margravate keeps to itself?" asked D'Trelna.

"And uses sparingly," smiled L'Wrona. The smile vanished. "Don't use it, J'Quel! It wreaks havoc with the programming overlay—taps those six thousand year old Imperial systems."

"No, no. Never," swore D'Trelna. Sighting again on the egg, he pulled the trigger, bathing the spheroid in a soft, red light.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, as the blaster continued its shrilling, the egg started to glow—a golden shimmering that grew brighter as the spheroid began to swell. The two men stepped back as the slaver computer grew to fill the space in front of the warheads.

The golden shimmering dimmed, then vanished. The commodore ceased firing and holstered his weapon. The egg lay across the deck, inert.

"Well, that should have done it," said D'Trelna, frowning. "According to ship's archives, you just feed it a steady, low grade dose of energy." He shook his head. "We better get back to the bridge."

"And do what?" asked L'Wrona. "Lead the crew in prayer? No." He nodded toward the slaver machine. "There's got to be a simple activation command, common to the era." He stood staring at the golden orb, fingers softly drumming his holster.

"I'm going," said D'Trelna after a moment, stepping toward the door.

"Wait," said L'Wrona, eyes never leaving the egg. "I'm thinking."

"Think faster," said the commodore, halting reluctantly. "Or we're all going to be processed by that spaceborne abattoir out there." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"T'Nil was one of the most expansionist emperors— ever," said L'Wrona. "And this"—he pointed at the egg—"a vital component of his premier war machine. If it came out of the Fleet Fabrication Center on D'Kor, there'd be a generic activation command."

"H'Nar, please, try something."

The captain walked over to where the machine lay. "Computer," he said, looking down at it, "Destiny and Empire."

Silently, the egg righted itself and rose, hovering just above the deck. "Destiny and Empire," it said in a perfect tenor. "How may I serve?"

D'Trelna slapped L'Wrona on the back. "Well done, H'Nar!"

"T'Nil's battle cry, J'Quel," said the captain. "And the motto of all successive emperors."

"It should have been blood and empire," said the commodore, watching the computer. "Identify," he said to the machine.

"Symbiotechnic Control Unit Seven-Four-Three-Eight, replicant," said the machine. "Assigned symbiotechnic dreadnought T'Nil's Revenge."

"Computer," said D'Trelna, "we need—"

"I am addressed as either Seven-Four-Three-Eight-R, or Egg," said the machine.

D'Trelna closed his eyes as if in pain, then opened them. "Egg," he said carefully, "we are in need of tactical data. How would a L'Aal-class cruiser defeat a mindsla—symbiotechnic dreadnought?''

"I'm not familiar with the nomenclature 'L'Aal,' " said Egg.

"You are on such a vessel now," said L'Wrona.

"Then I must have access to this ship's central computer," said the machine.

Captain and commodore exchanged glances. "What've we got to lose?" said L'Wrona.

"Very well, Egg," said D'Trelna. "Access ship's computer through the commpanel beside the door. If you need exchange protocols, we'll have our engineering-—"

Stylus-thin, a beam of soft green light shot from the top of the spheroid to the commpanel. The connection lasted only an instant, then the beam snapped off. "This L'Aal-class cruiser is almost identical to S'Htul-class police cruisers of the S'Yal dynasty. If you wish to know how it can defeat the mindslaver now confronting it . . ."

"Yes?" said the two officers.

"It cannot. Your tactical situation is hopeless."

"For this, I left the bridge?" said D'Trelna, drawing his blaster.

"However," said Egg as the commodore twisted the muzzle back to combat setting. "What?" said D'Trelna.

"In theory, two warships of this approximate class have a slight chance against a dreadnought—that is Alpha Prime out there?"

"Yes," said L'Wrona.

"Good. She was the first of her type, without the advanced weapons systems of later ships. With myself coordinating an attack, your ships—''

"This is our only ship," said D'Trelna.

"Your crudely inhibited sensors show a second vessel, slightly smaller than this one, but heavily armed, standing off your port, poorly disguised as a rock. As Alpha Prime has undoubtedly detected her presence, a joint operation would serve you both."

L'Wrona was out the door, running for the bridge before Egg had finished.

"Come with me . . . please," said the commodore.

The commando sergeant watched, bemused, as two similar shapes, one golden and metal, the other human and uniformed, moved down the corridor toward the lift.

Unable to communicate its urgent report about Egg to any station, Implacable'% computer kept trying to bypass the blockage. With increasing alarm, it found the restraints on its operations to be firm—and spreading.

"Why haven't I been here before?" asked Zahava.

"No need," said R'Gal as the door closed behind them. "Not unless you're abandoning ship."

They stood at one end of a brightly lit corridor. It looked like any other of Implacable's long gray miles, save for the ten widely interspaced doors that ran its length, five to each side. The door to Zahava and R'Gal's right read Lifepod 1. R'Gal thumbed the entry tab.

"Shall we?" said the K'Ronarin as the double doors of the airlock slid open. Zahava stepped into the lifepod.

It was a big, round room. Rows of red flight couches took up most of the floor space, broken by three aisles and a central spiral stairway. Across the cabin from the airlock, beneath a blank main screen, two flight couches fronted a darkened double console.

"Looks more like a bus than a pod," said the Israeli.

"Long before even Implacable was built," said R'Gal as the door hissed shut, "survival vessels were one-man craft. Time went by, they grew to this." His hand swept the cabin. "Three levels, a hundred and fifty seats, maximum capacity over two hundred. Jump drive, n-gravs, automatic homers, sanitation and recreation facilities. The whole unit can be broken down to form the nucleus of a rough colony—power plant, forcefield, sanitation and shelter—just in case." He walked across the cabin as he spoke, heading for the double console.

"In case of what?"

"In case the automatic homers don't find a close-in planet emitting technology's telltale spores." Reaching the far side of the pod, the colonel dropped into the left chair and busied himself with the instruments.

"Why three levels?" asked Zahava, following him down the center aisle. "And why twice as many lifepods as needed?"

"Three levels to conform to Implacable's design. So many pods because she probably carried a larger complement five thousand years ago." He leaned forward, reading a report as it flashed onto a telltale. "Maintenance log says we're the first to enter this pod since the ship left Terra."

"Is that true?" she asked.

"It's true that the log entry reads no access since Terra." R'Gal stood as the telltale winked off. "It's also true that a S'Cotar transmute could have telekinetically reprogrammed this pod's computer. . . . Check the upper levels," he said, motioning toward the stairway.

"For what?"

"Anything that looks out of place. Everything should be as spare and as orderly as on this level. Check the storage lockers and bins, food processors—anywhere something small could be hidden. If you find anything unusual, anything at all, use your communicator and call me. I'll be checking number two. Meet me in front of three when you've finished."

She nodded and was halfway up the stairs, blaster in hand, by the time R'Gal reached the exit.

"Anything from Alpha PrimeT' asked L'Wrona as K'Raoda relinquished the command chair.

"Nothing," said the first officer, resuming his station.

Both men looked at the main screen—-the mindslaver hung there, a great dark menace out of legend, intimidating by its very existence.

"Fine," said the captain. "Let's fill our empty moments with a tactical exercise."

"Sir?" said K'Raoda, exchanging puzzled glances with T'Ral.

"Assume," said L'Wrona, fingertips pressed together, "that there's a third ship close by, a warship about our size. It's sitting dark and camouflaged, watching. Assume further that our sensors have picked it up, but are unable to correlate key data because of Fleet's restrictive programming overlay. How do we get a readout?" He looked at T'Ral.

"N-gravs," said the third officer. Turning to his console, he busied himself at the complink. No one noticed D'Trelna enter the bridge.

"Of course," said K'Raoda. "He has to be using them to counter his drift. Just a burst, now and then, but—"

"But enough," grinned T'Ral, looking up. "Five-one-seven, mark four-one. Previously charted as an asteroid."

"Tight-beam transmission to that asteroid, please," said D'Trelna. He took his seat, oblivious to the stares that followed his hovering companion. "Use alpha channel, and transmit in battlecode."

"Sir," said K'Lana, "alpha channel's a Fleet intership tactical band. And ..."

A glance from D'Trelna stopped her. "Do it," he said.

"Transmitting," she said a moment later.

L'Wrona walked to the commodore's station. "I can think of only one man who'd come into this quadrant after us, J'Quel."

"Before us," said D'Trelna. "Had to be. Otherwise, we'd have made him." He flipped the commswitch. "Implacable to unknown ship—acknowledge."

On Victory Day, A'Tir turned to K'Tran, shaking her head. "Incoming transmission on the tactical band. Implacable's made us."

The other corsair shrugged. "Much good it'll do them." He touched his commkey.

The image on Implacable's main screen changed from that of the mindslaver to the smiling face of Captain K'Tran. He wore the standard brown K'Ronarin uniform with the stylized silver ship of a starship captain on the collar. "Victory Day on your flank, Commodore. How stands the Fleet?"

A ripple of anger swept Implacable^ bridge—just about everyone had lost friends to the K'Tran's killers.

"K'Tran, you renegade butcher," growled D'Trelna. He stood, face flushed, eyes blazing with hate. "How dare you render the greeting of honorable men? How dare you wear the uniform of your victims? You parasitic v'org slime—''

"You're being wearisome, D'Trelna," said K'Tran easily. "You've made us, but I fail to see what you can do about it. Start blasting away, that slaver's going to wipe you."

The commodore sat down, recovering. "It'd be worth it, to dispose of you. . . . Some scum paying you slime to follow us?" he asked, dialing up a fruit drink.

"Now, D'Trelna, you know I can't betray a client's confidence," said the corsair. "Though, had I known about the mindslaver, we'd have found an easier mark. Like Prime Base. And as soon as it breaks your command up for parts, we'll be on our way."

D'Trelna shook his head. "We go, you go. My word on it." He swiveled his chair. "Egg," he said to the slaver machine, "by how much must we boost signal power for Alpha Prime to detect the third vessel, Victory Day?"

The golden spheroid drifted to D'Trelna's side, coming within pickup range of the transmission. "Increase by a factor of three," it said.

D'Trelna turned to the comm officer. "K'Lana, I seem to be having a problem. Increase signal strength by a factor of three, please."

"Wait!" K'Tran's smile was gone. "What do you want?"

"Hold, K'Lana," said D'Trelna. He turned back to K'Tran. "Can't you guess, K'Tran?"

A'Tir had pulled an ID from Victory Day's archives. She sent it over to K'Tran's station. He stared at the data for a surprised instant, then looked up. "Where'd you get a slaver computer, D'Trelna? TNil's Revenge!"

"Where I got it isn't important," said the commodore. "What we'll be using it for is."

"We'll?"

"Yes," said D'Trelna. "It'll be conning our combined battleops. We're going to penetrate that mindslaver's defenses and storm her bridge, K'Tran. You and me, yours and mine, side by side. Victory or death."

There was a long silence on both bridges. "You're mad, D'Trelna," said the corsair.

"Am I?" said D'Trelna. "You're a superb tactician. Consider the situation tactically, K'Tran."

He did, fingers softly drumming the chairarm, eyes distant. When he looked back at the pickup, both his and D'Trelna's crew were watching. "Victory or death, Commodore," he said. "There's no other way. What are your orders?"

"Maintain position, be prepared to link battleops on my command," said D'Trelna.

"As the commodore orders," said the corsair, switching off.

"You're serious?" said A'Tir as D'Trelna's face vanished. "We're taking orders from Fats?"

K'Tran nodded slowly. "We're too close to run, but near enough to attack. Only a coordinated assault has even a remote chance of success. That slaver computer may give us an edge."

"Or betray us utterly," said A'Tir.

"It's a fluid situation," said K'Tran slowly. "And it may yet favor us." His old self-assurance, blunted for a moment, was returning. "We're not burdened by duty, ethics or conscience." He nodded toward the screen. "They are. . . . Stand by to link battleops. And give me shipwide so everyone can share in the good news."