Read Online Final Assault by Stephen Ames Berry - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Ames Berry
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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."
"Any idea who?"
"They had me on hold. Not smart—there's a lot of electronic sieve on those circuits. Our controller punched out to a priority line at the Combine T'Lan liaison office. The rest was in code."
There was a barely audible whirring from outside. L'Wrona threw a switch, and what had been a dark band of armorglass was suddenly clear. Outside, the berth doors were cycling open, revealing the stars of a cloudless desert night.
"And away," said L'Wrona, moving the control stalk forward. With a faint whine of n-gravs, Rich Man's Toy moved out into the night.
"Control Central orders you to return to berth and await clearance," said Dad as they banked sharply away from the lights of the spaceport.
"Do not acknowledge," said L'Wrona, tying in the CCI, just in case. Outside, the hull suddenly sprouted weapons blisters.
"Tower's on fire," said Dad as they climbed toward Line.
"What?!" L'Wrona checked the rear scan. Flames were leaping from the topmost level of the ancient fortress, a beacon that burned like a sentinel fire over the low skyline of the city. Below and from the west a V-shaped formation flew toward the Tower. Firecraft, advised the tacscan.
"Prime Base has
"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."
"Any idea who?"
"They had me on hold. Not smart—there's a lot of electronic sieve on those circuits. Our controller punched out to a priority line at the Combine T'Lan liaison office. The rest was in code."
There was a barely audible whirring from outside. L'Wrona threw a switch, and what had been a dark band of armorglass was suddenly clear. Outside, the berth doors were cycling open, revealing the stars of a cloudless desert night.
"And away," said L'Wrona, moving the control stalk forward. With a faint whine of n-gravs, Rich Man's Toy moved out into the night.
"Control Central orders you to return to berth and await clearance," said Dad as they banked sharply away from the lights of the spaceport.
"Do not acknowledge," said L'Wrona, tying in the CCI, just in case. Outside, the hull suddenly sprouted weapons blisters.
"Tower's on fire," said Dad as they climbed toward Line.
"What?!" L'Wrona checked the rear scan. Flames were leaping from the topmost level of the ancient fortress, a beacon that burned like a sentinel fire over the low skyline of the city. Below and from the west a V-shaped formation flew toward the Tower. Firecraft, advised the tacscan.
"Prime Base has
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