"J'Quel!" cried L'Wrona, stepping toward D'Trelna, hand reaching for the blaster.

D'Trelna squeezed the trigger just as L'Wrona seized his wrist. A bolt of raw red energy lanced D'Trelna's left hand.

L'Wrona found himself alone, his hand clutching nothing.

"You've got to pa.s.s them," said Admiral L'Guan with more calm than he felt. "K'Ronar's about to be decimated. The Palace, the Tower, Archives-the cultural and historical legacy of galactic humanity ..."

"No," said Line. "Those ships are only fourteen percent of the total recalled. Of those, eight percent are corsairs. And the Fleet units present represent over forty-seven disparate commands. Do you seriously expect to get them all to fight as a unit, for the same cause, without a week's training, Admiral?"

"But. . ."

"We'll hold them in reserve," said Line. "Until the rest of the recall comes in, and the Heir returns."

L'Guan shook his head and turned to stare at wall screens with their vivid images of the Combine ships wiping out the remainder of K'Ronar's defenders: blasted and crumpled wreckage tumbling in erratic, decaying orbits around the planet; lifepods torn open by the precise little bolts of Mark wreckage tumbling in erratic, decaying orbits around the planet; lifepods torn open by the precise little bolts of Mark 44 44 fusion cannons, holes in their hulls choked with tangled wreckage and bloated, unsuited bodies. fusion cannons, holes in their hulls choked with tangled wreckage and bloated, unsuited bodies.

As L'Guan turned away, his eye was caught by another screen on which a round silver lifepod fled toward a red glimmer on K'Ronar's surface-the shielded sanctuary of Prime Base. As the admiral watched, two slender silver missiles overtook the lifepod, exploding within meters of its unshielded hull. "Line," said L'Guan, turning from the image of ochre-colored gases dissipating into s.p.a.ce, "you're an unfeeling slime."

"Just doing my job, Admiral."

"Now, this is more like it," muttered D'Trelna, looking at the real citadel as the medkit tended his hand.

The original twilight was there, generated by the same shield-all else had changed. Where the villa and its grounds had stood now loomed a dark ziggurat of a pyramid, made of the same black metal as the citadel's flooring. The only other structures were oblong, vertical mirrors, set in the flooring. Slightly taller than a man, they ringed the pyramid at the same distance as had the stone wall. A second, smaller group of mirrors stood in four rows fronting the ring at about the same distance as the trees had the wall.

The medkit chirped as its amber light turned green. The commodore slipped the little machine off his hand and snapped it back onto his belt. Raising his left hand to his face, he examined it carefully, flexing his fingers. Gone was the neatly cauterized hole of the beam hit that had pierced the palm, only a small white scab marking its place. Satisfied, D'Trelna drew his blaster, twisted the muzzle back to operational mode and turned to where L'Wrona stood. Seemingly unaware of D'Trelna, he stared around and through the commodore, eyes scanning the citadel. "J'Quel!" he called, hands cupped.

"Here, H'Nar," said D'Trelna.

L'Wrona seemed not to hear, instead taking out his communit and keying the transmit. "D'Trelna. L'Wrona. Acknowledge," he called.

Reaching over, D'Trelna seized the captain by the shoulder and shook him, hard.

"D'Trelna!" exclaimed the captain, seeing the commodore for the first time. "Where in . . ." He stopped, his eye caught by the dark spectacle of S'Yal's citadel. "G.o.ds," he said. "You beat their camouflage." He glanced at DTrelna's hand.

"Medkit?"

"A marvelous device," nodded the commodore.

"What are all those mirrors for?" asked L'Wrona, his gaze returning to the citadel.

"I have my suspicions," said D'Trelna.

"Care to share them?"

"Not yet-I don't want to have to argue my primitive superst.i.tions with you when we should be penetrating that large lump out there."

"I see," said the captain. "Well, if it's here, it's in there-S'Yal's resting place, would you say?"

D'Trelna nodded. "And well protected, Fd think." He drew his sidearm. "Let's go. And let's not touch the mirrors-just in case Fm right."

Side by side, weapons leveled, they advanced toward the dark pyramid and its strange guardians.

"AI commander on Fleetcomm nine," said computer into A'Wal's earpiece.

The commodore tapped a comm sequence, then watched as the familiar image of Goodman T'Lan appeared on his commscreen.

"Good afternoon, Commodore A'Wal," said T'Lan. "Though probably not so good for you down there in FleetOps, is it?"

"What do you want?" said A'Wal, eyes shifting to the big board and the final wiping of the last picket ships. He only wished he'd been up there rather than in the hole.

"I want to speak with Admiral I'Tal."

"He's indisposed," said A'Wal. They'd carried the old man out with a heart attack a moment after the K'Ronarport shield had failed. "I command here."

"Very well," said T'Lan. "I want your surrender. Now. The city shields have fallen. The Fleet of the One has penetrated Quadrant Blue Nine and will be here within the week. Surrender now, we'll spare the planet. Otherwise we'll sit up here and blast your cities to glowing rubble and your people to windblown ash. Prime Base and FleetOps can huddle behind their shield for another week, then the battleglobes will be here. You do know what a battleglobe is, Commodore?"

"Rust in h.e.l.l," said A'Wal, switching off. He touched another commkey. "Commander Prime Base," he said.

A woman's tired face appeared in the commscreen, commodore's insignia on her collar. "A'Wal," she said.

"S'Jan," he said. "They just called for surrender."

"You told them to jerk their circuits."

"I did. Just a suspicion, but I think they're going to try a selective field damp and run an a.s.sault force in on us."

"We're ready for them," said S'Jan. "Can't stop them, but we'll keep them out of the hole for a while." She looked up at something offscan, then turned back. "Councilor D'a.s.san slipped out of the city-Intelligence believes he's with the T'Lan."

"Gone for a traitor's reward. Luck, S'Jan." "Luck, A'Wal. Luck to us all."

"Can you take Prime Base?" asked D'a.s.san, setting down his drink.

"With the data you've provided," said the elder T'Lan, "certainly. We can penetrate that portion of the shield directly over FleetOps, take them and the shield generators out and scrub Prime Base. That should end all but guerrilla resistance. If you'd care to look, you can see the a.s.sault force a.s.sembling now."

Taking his drink, D'a.s.san left the armchair and walked over to the wardroom's armorgla.s.s wall, accompanied by the two T'Lans. Outside, sheltered by the fleet's heavy cruisers, thousands of a.s.sault craft were ma.s.sing: wingless, oblong shuttles of K'Ronarin design, each capable of carrying fifty humans.

"What's in there?" asked D'a.s.san, sipping his drink. "Security blades?"

"Yes," said T'Lan junior. "But piloted by humans familiar with the K'Ronarin defense grid-you're a naturally corrupt species."

"Not all of us," said D'a.s.san, turning to the AI. "Everything I've done's been for the betterment of humanity. We're illogical, incapable of governing ourselves-you've taught me that."

"Everything you've done, my friend," said the AI, putting an arm around D'a.s.san's shoulder, "has been for humanity's demise. We're going to dispose of every last one of you."

"But . . . but. . ." stammered D'a.s.san, trying to step away. "The provisional government, the council of advisors . . ."

"You're a fool, D'a.s.san," said the AI, breaking the man's neck with a single quick twist.

The two AIs watched silently as D'a.s.san's limbs twitched in death shock.

"Amazing," said the elder AI as the twitching stopped. "That something so frail and vulnerable could be such a problem."

Outside, the a.s.sault force moved off toward K'Ronar.

"Anything from our Home Fleet?" asked the older AI as they left the wardroom.

"Just rendezvous instructions," said his counterpart. "Command staff hasn't sent so much as a 'well done.'"

"Odd," said T'Lan senior. "Well, let's secure K'Ronar and await the Fleet."

21.

A ROUGH HAND ROUGH HAND shook John's shoulder. "Get up, sc.u.m," said a harsh voice. "We know you're alive." shook John's shoulder. "Get up, sc.u.m," said a harsh voice. "We know you're alive."

The Terran opened his eyes. He was lying facedown beside the shattered remains of one of the bridge consoles, a cla.s.s-one headache pounding his temples. White-fanged jaws gaped open, a few feet away. Raising his head, he saw it was the hologram projecting from the bow of the crashed ship that filled the shattered armorgla.s.s wall of Devastator's Devastator's bridge. The little ship's c.o.c.kpit was a crushed and tangled ma.s.s of shattered armorgla.s.s, buckled beams and dangling power cables. b.l.o.o.d.y and well pulped, parts of something once human hung from the c.o.c.kpit. bridge. The little ship's c.o.c.kpit was a crushed and tangled ma.s.s of shattered armorgla.s.s, buckled beams and dangling power cables. b.l.o.o.d.y and well pulped, parts of something once human hung from the c.o.c.kpit.

"Over there with the rest of the slime." A great red-haired hand jerked the Terran to his feet and dragged him, stumbling, across the bridge, depositing him with a final hard shove among the group huddling against the far wall: Zahava, K'Raoda, R'Gal and S'Rel.

"Are we all that's left?" said John, squinting as a fresh wave of pain lanced through his head. Gingerly, he touched the welt behind his left ear.

"Do they look like they'd follow the Geneva Convention-even if they'd heard of it?" said Zahava, nodding at their captors. "They killed the K'Ronarins, froze the AIs."

Not an especially merciful bunch, thought John. They were all big, all male, muscles bulging beneath coa.r.s.e green uniforms. Gleaming, double-headed, a wicked-looking axe dangled from every belt, and about every fifth man wore a holstered pistol. The boarders were busy collecting the AIs, who stood motionless, staring unblinkingly at the blasted remains of the bridge doors. R'Gal's hand was on S'Rel's arm, as if restraining the other AI.

Picking an AI up beneath the arms, two men would carry him to the middle of the bridge, then return for another. When they finished, all of R'Gal's nonhuman command stood in a column of threes, twenty-eight humanoid statues. Stepping up to the first AI, Red Beard unhooked his axe and, while his troops cheered, lopped off the droid's head. It went spinning through the air to bounce off the navigation console, leaving behind a headless torso that pitched forward to the deck. Whooping, the rest of the boarders joined the fun.

'a.s.shole," said Zahava as more heads flew. Dodging between the nearest boarders, she attacked Red Beard, John right behind her.

Red Beard turned to meet her, axe descending in a powerful two-handed stroke that would have decapitated the Israeli had it connected, missing instead as she weaved to one side. Off balance, Red Beard lurched forward as Zahava's kick landed below his great leather belt. With a dull whoomp whoomp the giant crumpled to the deck. the giant crumpled to the deck.

Two of the boarders had pinioned John-a second later and two more had Zahava by the arms. Rising painfully, first to his knees, then to his feet, Red Beard drew the long-bladed knife at his belt and slowly approached the Israeli.

Three sharp explosions reverberated through the bridge: K'Raoda stood in front of the arms rack, a big M32 blastrifle aimed at Red Beard, three large, dead boarders at his feet. It was an uneven standoff and both sides knew it: four of the boarders started circling to either side of K'Raoda, who stood with the rifle trained on Red Beard. Red Beard smiled at the K'Ronarin-a hungry, carnivorous smile. John figured the commander had about ten seconds to live, he and Zahava about twelve.

"You stupid slobs!" shouted John in K'Ronarin. "We're on your side!"

"So you are," said a new voice, also in K'Ronarin. "That is, [{Devastator's [{Devastator's logs aren't faked." logs aren't faked."

Everyone looked at the man stepping on to the bridge: thirtyish, but with hair already gray, thin, with a neatly trimmed beard and dark, probing eyes that moved from captor to captor. "Let them go, Ulka." This last was to Red Beard.

"They killed Ktra," he said-John saw now that the K'Ronarin words were coming from a black wafer-thin piece of gear belted to the new arrival's belt. "They should be killed."

"I'll decide that, Ulka. Clean this mess up and destroy no more droids. Is that clear?"

Red Beard glared at the man for just an instant, then lowered his gaze. "Tugar, "Tugar, Yarin," he said. "Clear, Yarin," translated the wafer. Sullenly, the boarders acknowledged the order-the more articulate with a grunt. Yarin," he said. "Clear, Yarin," translated the wafer. Sullenly, the boarders acknowledged the order-the more articulate with a grunt.

"You three with me," said Yarin, gesturing with the small pistol that had suddenly appeared in his hand. "You can leave the rifle here," he added to K'Raoda.

As they left, Ulka spat, the brown-flecked phlegm smearing John's left boot.

"Pigs.h.i.t doesn't like you," said Zahava as they reached the bridge entry ramp.

"Nothing wrong with Pigs.h.i.t that a tire iron couldn't fix," said John as they followed Yarin down the ramp.

It was R'Gal's quarters Yarin went to, off a side corridor halfway down the tower. The door was mostly gone, a charred husk of battlesteel, breached and buckled by blaster fire. Furniture and personal gear lay tossed and broken around the modest room.

"Your friends aren't very dainty," said John, looking at the wreckage as Yarin righted two battered metal chairs.

"What would you expect?" said Yarin, motioning the Terrans to the chairs. "Their parents were sorgite miners, their parents before them, and so on since the AIs established the mining colony." There were no chairs left- he seated himself on the edge of R'Gal's desk, arms folded. "All their short, miserable lives they processed valuable, toxic ore for annual pickup. No ore, then no fresh supplies to keep their pathetic little dome city functioning: energy cells, water filters, rudimentary medicine and entertainments. So they scratched out a living, if you can call it that, for a very long time, until one day a very different sort of ship landed-small, lightly armed, fast-and a man, a real man, not a human-adapted AI, clambered out and told them about the Revolt thundering at the very ramparts of the AIs' inner zones. Would they be interested in joining? asks the man."

"And what did they tell you?" said John.

A smile flickered across Yarin's face. "What do you think, Harrison? No revolt except that almost mythical one had ever gotten into s.p.a.ce-rebellion was always crushed before it could get off the ground. There was no communication between human planets, thousands of diverse languages flourished, humanity was and is comprised of every size, shape and hue-as ignorant and polyglot a horde as this tired galaxy's ever seen."

"How did you do it?" asked Zahava.

"May I guess?" said John.

Yarin gave him a look that plainly said, go ahead, smarta.s.s.

"You're janissaries," said the Terran. "Trained from birth to serve and fight for the Fleet of the One-the AIs."

Yarin shook his head. "Wrong. But not that wrong, Harrison. Humans are quite good at spotting human-adapted AIs. So the AIs trained humans to spy on their own people. And it worked well, until a needless and b.l.o.o.d.y scrubbing of an entire planet turned most of the AIs' chosen humans very quietly against them."

"You?" said John.

Yarin sketched a bow. "Yarin, late intelligence auxiliary, Fleet of the One, central sector."

"So you trained these hairy barbarians . . ." began John.

"Qale," said Yarin. "They call themselves Qale. Despite this"-he gestured at the wreckage-"they're not bad people-just . . . unsophisticated."

"So we noticed," said Zahava, still seeing S'Rel's head flying across the bridge. "What about us, Yarin? And our friends?"

"I don't know," he said. Rising, he paced the s.p.a.ce in front of the desk, hands clasped behind his back. "The Qale came late to this Revolt. If I deny them the joy of bashing more heads, I may lose them. We need them on patrol, in this sector, until our main units return from the pursuit."

"Pursuit?" said John, raising an eyebrow.

Yarin stopped pacing. "Pursuit," he repeated. "We struck just after the Fleet of the One penetrated the Rift-we broke their rearguard, scattered it. As soon as they're destroyed ..."

"You're going after their main fleet!" said John, clasping Yarin by the shoulders. "Thank G.o.d! Caught between you and our home forces ..."

"Excuse me," said Yarin, stepping back. "But we're going to close the Rift. Your reality will have to take care of itself-just as we did."