"cant raise prime Base Command," said the commtech.
"They're probably all dead," said Commodore A'Wal, trying to find at least one operable vidunit anywhere near the headquarters complex. About to give up, he finally found one, out near a shuttle maintenance depot, far from the battle. Swinging the vidunit around, he directed it on the headquarters building and set the pickup on max.
Security blades were flying in and out of the shattered windows of the main tower, desert sun glinting off their blue metal hides. About a meter across, the flying machines were the AIs' most efficient killers, able to deliver flawlessly accurate blaster fire to multiple targets while slicing through the soft bodies of organic prey.
As A'Wal watched, a squad of blades flushed some black-uniformed commandos from behind an overturned hauler. The commandos stood their ground, firing as the blades swooped in low and fast. "Give 'em one for me," said A'Wal as the red blaster bolts exploded into the lead blade. As it cascaded to the ground in a shower of flaming fragments, the other three blades passed over the commandos, blue bolts flashing from their rims. They then soared off into the west, toward the landing fields, a half dozen smoldering corpses in their wake.
Feeling very old, A'Wal flicked off the vidscan and looked around the room. FleetOps was at a standstill, the staff going through the motions of trying to restore contact with lost ships via the satellite network -a network the Combine ships hadn't even bothered to take out.
"Planetary Guard is at ninety-four percent strength and deployed in all cities," reported the Tactics officer. "General S'An requests enemy disposition and our status."
"Advise General S'An," said A'Wal slowly, "that Prime Base has fallen, our cruisers have been blasted out of space and that FleetOps is besieged." A'Wal took off his headset and stood, drawing his Mil A. "You may further tell the General," he said, his voice filling the room, "that I and anyone who'll follow me are going to launch a sortee through the enemy, seize a ship and blast our way into space." He looked at the grim faces. "Anyone for a glory run on T'Lan's command ship?"
"We'll never make it," said a subcommand-er, reasonably enough.
"You want to wait down here for them to smoke us, K'Yar?" said A'Wal. "Or slip some blades down the vents?" Checking his blaster charge, he reholstered his weapon. "Rot here if you want-I'm going to check out an M32 and join the fun topside." Turning from his station, he headed for the armory.
"Anyone home?" called D'Trelna, his voice through the twilight world of S'Yal's last citadel.
"J'Quel," admonished L'Wrona.
Both men's communits beeped. Lifting his from his belt, the commodore said, "Line?"
"Yes," said Line. "You're hard to reach, gentlemen-I finally found an open frequency-a battle frequency of a certain Imperial House."
"No need to ask which House," said L'Wrona, looking at the obstacle in front of them.
"K'Ronar's in a desperate situation," continued Line. "Prime Base is falling beneath a sea of security blades. The enemy will then turn its attention to our cities."
"Then blow the enemy away," snapped D'Trelna. "It would take you about twenty-count."
"We've had this discussion before, Commodore. What is your situation?"
"We're about to enter the front of a three-story, curvilinear building-black, window-less, no visible sensors or weapons." He stared at the double doors barring the entrance-double doors made of the same black metallic polymer as the rest of the building and surrounded by the same almost imperceptible red glow. "The building appears to have some sort of shield overlay."
"Give me a vidscan, please," said Line, voice suddenly concerned.
D'Trelna clicked on his communit's vidscan and clipped the unit to his breast pocket. There was a faint hum as of power as the unit began transmitting the pickup.
"Not a shield," said Line after a moment. "Stasis field. Of a type not known to me."
Captain and commodore exchanged worried glances. "Are you saying that whatever's in there is the same as it was six thousand years ago?" asked D'Trelna.
"If the field was turned on then, and if it worked," said Line, "then things will be the same. The reality obtained inside that building when the field was activated will continue for a few moments after the field is turned off. Proceed carefully."
There was a rasp of metal on leather as both men drew their sidearms. Reaching out through that faint red haze, L'Wrona touched the door. As he touched it, the red haze vanished. Perfectly balanced, the door swung wide.
D'Trelna pushed open the other door and the two officers looked down a set of stairs at the end of the House of S'Yal.
Clad in Imperial blue, the Guardsmen's bodies lay strewn about S'Yal's command post: crumpled on the walkways rimming the three levels, sprawled on the floor and across the consoles. The air was thick with the sickening-sweet smell of roasted human flesh.
Two men stood facing each other in the center of the floor, unaware of the two officers watching from the entrance.
"Give it to me," said the younger man, holding out his left hand. He was thin, with pinched, almost ascetic features, his hairline thinning and his eyes sharp and gray. The single blood stone on the collar of his gray Fleet uniform proclaimed his rank: Supreme Commander. "Give it to me," he repeated, gesturing impatiently with the compact little blaster in his right hand. "Now."
"You've lost S'Yal," said the other man. He wore the uniform of the Guard, Assault Captain's lances on his collar. His hand clenched his right shoulder and the gaping blaster hit.
"The Fleet's revolted, this citadel's besieged…"
"And all but one of my traitorous guards are dead," said the Emperor.
"And all your loyal ones."
"S'Kur," said the Emperor, "give me the recall device and you'll live-my word on it."
"And let you recall the Twelfth, oath-breaker?" The young officer smiled through his pain. "And turn a coup into a civil war?" He shook his head. "Carve me up with that if you want-you'll never find it. Your House is broken, your filthy cult destroyed. But only after you cost us millions of dead, breaking the Compact with the droids, attacking them without warning." His voice rose angrily. "We made them, and yes, they're peaceful, you said, but they're growing too strong-they'll challenge us eventually. Strike now-they don't know how to fight-we can win easily. Well, they learned, didn't they?"
"We won," said S'Yal.
"Twenty-five million casualties, eight worlds, five sector Fleets. My father, my brothers, my friends, dead. And to win, you had to rebuild the mindslavers the Emperor T'Nil decommissioned." Captain S'Kur's eyes blazed. "No people deserve such a victory."
His face very pale, the Emperor raised his pistol, aimed carefully at S'Kur's head-and fell, death erasing the surprise from his face.
The whine and crash of the blaster shot was still echoing as L'Wrona reholstered his weapon and advanced with D'Trelna into the command center.
"Who in all the hells are you?" demanded S'Kur, looking at the strange uniforms and unfamiliar weapons.
"Assault Captain…" began L'Wrona.
"Commodore," said Line, its voice audible to the other two men. "Assault Captain S'Kur has a very brief time left to live. Please obtain the location of the recall device."
The young officer's face was a study in confusion. "I don't understand," he said.
"Everything, everyone you know is dead," said D'Trelna gently, hand to the Guardsman's good shoulder. "It's been fifteen thousand years since the Fall of S'Yal, five thousand since the Empire itself fell. You left us a great legacy-one we're fighting to save."
S'Kur slumped into a chair. "The stasis field," he said numbly. "During the fighting, someone must have triggered the stasis field."
L'Wrona nodded. "You were too busy to notice."
"Commodore," said Line urgently. "Observe the bodies."
The corpses were growing transparent, fading like wraiths in the morning light. Even as the three men watched they were gone. "I'm sorry, Assault Captain," said Line. "But you're on short time-no one's ever perfected a longhaul stasis field that can restore organic life for more than a few moments. Please help us."
S'Kur nodded, face pale but composed. "What do you need?"
"The recall device," said D'Trelna.
S'Kur's eyes searched their faces. "Very well," he said after a moment. Unfastening a utility pouch on his belt, he took out a communit, flatter and smaller than the ones D'Trelna and L'Wrona carried. "Our beloved Emperor missed this," he said. "Press the red tab on the left side anywhere within the confines of home system and the Twelfth will come back where it left from, just over Prime Base. Or so Fleet Research says." He handed it to L'Wrona.
"You intercepted this and S'Yal found out?" guessed D'Trelna.
S'Kur nodded. "A lot of good people died for that."
"More are dying as you speak," said Line. "Please press the tab."
L'Wrona looked at the recall device, then handed it back to S'Kur. "If you would, sir."
S'Kur pressed the switch.
"A few pockets of resistance," said T'Lan senior to the translucent red ball in his skipcomm screen. "When may we expect the Fleet?"
"The First Leader's compliments," said the red ball in its melodic voice. "We'll be there in two days. There was very fierce resistance at our initial jump point. We still aren't sure by what sort of ships-but all were destroyed."
"There was some rumor of the last of the mindslavers making a stand against Your Omnipotence," said T'Lan. "Possibly under the command of the legendary outlaw, Captain K'Tran. Defeating them, you defeated the last of the mindslavers. Nothing else of this time can succeed against the Fleet."
"Excuse me, T'Lan," said the red ball. "But if we destroyed the last of the mindslavers, what is that behind you?"
T'Lan spun around, looking out the armorglass wall. Mindslavers filled space as far as he could see, all the way to the distant shimmer of K'Ronar's atmosphere. His conversation forgotten, he ran for the bridge as the battle klaxon sounded. He was almost there when his long life ended in the fireball that consumed his ship.
Admiral Lord R'Tak was confused. He'd taken the Twelfth outsystem in one massed jump, heading for Red Seven to crush the heart of the Machine Revolt. But instead of some miserable agro planet, K'Ronar filled his screens.
"S'Lak," he said, turning to his senior captain. "What the seven hells happened?"
"Checking," she said, sifting through a wealth of conflicting data. "The new drive seems unsuitable for mass ship jumps," she reported after a moment.
"I could have reached that conclusion without the computers," said the admiral.
"There are several thousand machine-crewed ships turning Prime Base into rubble," continued S'Lak.
Admiral Lord R'Tak came out of his chair. "Seven hells! How did they pass Line?"
"No data," said S'Lak. "But they are silicon-life crewed, though of unknown configuration. Also," she hesitated. "Also, celestial readings show us to be about fifteen thousand years downtime."
"Absurd," said the admiral, resuming his chair. "All ships to run wide-pattern instrument diagnostics-after we clean up. Direct all captains to trust only what they can see." As he spoke, a holovid of the Combine attack on Prime Base came to life in the center of the bridge. "And what I see, S'Lak," said the admiral, pointing at the holovid, "is a lot of hostiles pounding the shit out of us. Blow them away. And get me Operations -someone's going to pay for this."
"Commodore! Everyone! Come quick!"
The call brought A'Wal and his pickup infantry platoon charging into the operations area, expecting a rush of security blades.
"Look!" said an excited young subcom-mander, pointing at the main screen. What they saw was a computer enchancement, taken from several hundred satellites and instantly processed into the exploding panorama of space war: the great black bulk of a mindslaver plowing through a long line of Combine cruisers stacked neatly in bombardment orbit, the slaver's massive fusion beams exploding AI ships in its wake like so many target drones; another mindslaver holding orbit over Prime Base, ignoring the beams and missiles thrown at it by half a hundred Combine ships as it sent a host of fine, blue beams knifing into the stratosphere-blue beams that flashed again and again through the pall of smoke over Prime Base, each salvo raking a cubic kilometer of blades. Wherever a beam touched, a blade died, its molten remains cascading to the ground in flaming scarlet droplets. Seen on the FleetOps vidscan, it looked as if whole sections of sky were raining blood on the burning ruins of Prime Base.
"Posts, everyone," called A'Wal, sliding the blastrifle on top of a console and taking his station.
"Tentative identification of unknown ships," reported computer. "The Twelfth Fleet of the House of S'Yal, reported lost through a jump anomaly fifteen thousand years ago."
"Sir," said a voice in A'Wal's earpiece. "Someone identifying himself as Admiral Lord R'Tak is hailing us on one of the old
Imperial Fleet frequencies. He says unless we acknowledge immediately he will assume Operations to be under hostile control and will open fire on us."
"Computer," said A'Wal, his elation of a moment ago replaced by a cold dread, "identify Admiral Lord R'Tak."
"R'Tak, J'Kor, First Baron of N'Kar, born…"
"Salient summation," hissed the commodore.
"A ruthless, powerful man, first cousin to the Emperor S'Yal, third in line of succession. S'Yal's chief executioner, commander of S'Yal's personal fleet, chief architect of the slaughter of a machine culture that had been evolving for over three thousand years. Nickname: the Butcher."
"Commodore, this is Line," said a new voice. "Delay the lord admiral as long as possible."
"What good…" began A'Wal.
"Commodore," said a nervous voice. "The slaver fleet's interfaced our commlink with their battleops-I'm listening to the firing commands go out now."
"Put the lord admiral on-no video. Understood?"
"Affirmative, Commodore. No video."
"S'Gala-is that you?" came the Butcher's voice.
"S'Gala, Admiral First, Imperial Battle
Command," said computer, its voice replacing the Admiral's for an instant.
"Affirmative, My Lord Admiral," said A'Wal, trying to sound like an Academy plebe.
"What the hell happened?"
"The enemy somehow by: passed Line, My Lord. You see the results on your tacscan."
On the flagship, R'Tak frowned as a security flag appeared on his commscreen, blinking furiously: not s'gala. voiceprint not on file.
"S'Lak," he said to his captain. "Operations is in hostile hands-open fire. Commofficer, get me the Emperor."
"Line, please," pleaded Admiral L'Guan.
D'Trelna picked up the suddenly beeping headset and listened. "An Admiral Lord R'Tak demands to speak with the Emperor," he said.
"The Twelfth Fleet has returned," said Assault Captain S'Kur.
D'Trelna pressed the commkey. "Sorry. He's not here. May I take a message?" He grimaced in pain at the squeal of a disconnect. "Rude," he said, replacing the headset. "Whatever happens, it's out of our hands now.
"Why aren't you dead?" he said to S'Kur as L'Wrona finished dressing the Guard officer's wound.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Commodore," said S'Kur, slipping his good arm back into his tunic.
"The radiation from the blaster hit," said Line through D'Trelna's communit. "It's the only variable.
"Advise if ready to return," it added.
"Bring us up," said D'Trelna.
An instant later only corpses held the last citadel.
"S'Lak, open fire. Now."
Not receiving any answer, Admiral R'Tak turned from his console to see Captain S'Lak and her entire bridge crew fading into transparency, disappearing even as he stood, reaching out-only to see through his own hand as he, too, faded away, his last despairing cry unheard.