by Blaze Ward
Gods above knew what those two women would do to the Empire.
CHAPTER LXIV
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 8, 398 IMPERIAL PALACE, WERDER, ST. LEGIER
It were an eerie field trip inta an empty museum on a Tuesday morning. That early stretch o’day when even mosta the docents weren’t up yet, let alone followin’ along as she traipsed quietly through empty halls committin’ culture.
Moirrey kept her internal commentary to herself. T’weren’t the time n’r th’place to offer up silly historical facts about the art work’n’how it comed to be here. Regardless of how silly some of th’stuff here looked.
She were up front, lookin’s all innocent’n’stuff. Inside th’building, she’d stuffed the hooligan back in a pocket and left her jacket with Street. She were dry underneath, so her shirt weren’t stickin’ to her boobs er’nuthin’, but it were obvious she were a girl, with curves and hair and maybe a little makeup.
Girl’s got to be lookin’ good when we go rescuin’ Emperers, ya know.
Her wrists were kinda crossed in front of her, right hand holding left wrist, left hand still all wrapped up in the purple scarf.
With a pistol.
From far enough away, it outta look like she had frilly sleeves and someone had hand-cuffed her.
As if.
All the frilly stuff were for parties. Real engineers added buttons to sleeves so’s you could roll ’em up when it were time ta gets ta work.
Mountain o’Doom walked right behind her. Vo were doing the same thin’ with his hands as her, but countin’ on them payin’ttention to Moirrey’n’her hips and only kinda lookin’s at the dude twice her size, or the ruffians th’t apparently had ’em both supposedly under arrest.
It were a long hallway. They’d entered th’palace in on a weird, lil side corridor ’tween rows o’offices thet was all empty t’day. National holiday from work, kinda thin’.
She’d stuck the end of her slab ’round the near corner and took a pic, so’s they could plan it all out an’ ever’one knows their job.
Now, it were showtime. Lights down. Curtain up. Makeup perfect. Glitter ready.
’Cause, you know, glitter.
Long hallway, completely empty, ’ceptin’ four fellows facing each other in pairs across fr’m th’door Vo wanted.
They weren’t even that bad, as far as professionals went. Moirrey could see that as she got close.
The nearest two detached themselves from their walls’n’turned her way. Th’other two paid attention to their left, away from Moirrey, like this were all some elaborate trap. Which it were, but not that kind.
“What’s going on?” the older man on the left demanded.
Moirrey kinda drifted to a halt, almost in synch with Vo.
“High value prisoners,” Street replied in a drawl gone laconic. “Gamma Command said to bring them here for storage.”
“Gamma Command?”
The man were confused now. Which were the whole point’o’th’thin’.
“I’ve never heard of them,” he continued.
“If you’ve never heard of them, buddy,” Street fired back. “Then your security clearance probably isn’t high enough to even be talking to us in the first place. Is the Emperor in there? This is where we were told to bring these two.”
“Who are they?” the man stammered slightly.
“Aquitaine spies,” Street declared harshly. “Unlock the door and let us get back to doing our job.”
“The Emperor and his family are our responsibility,” the man puffed up officiously.
“You’re babysitters, punk,” Street growled. “Open the damned door so the real teams can get back to wiping your asses for you.”
Not exactly th’way she’d’a ’splained it to Street, but close enough. More or less on script.
Dude in charge wanted to growl’er’somtin, but apparently figured this weren’t the time to muss. He turned to the other guy on his side and nodded.
That guy pulled a badge out of a pocket and turned to the magical door that were the center of Vo’s existence right now, far as Moirrey could tell.
That were her cue.
Moirrey took three quick steps that put her right up in th’other guy’s face. Or, chest. He were tall. Not Vo-tall, but tall like somma her cousins. Not near as big. Just tall.
He reacted placidly, like a cow, kinda bugging out his eyes a little and staring at her boobs rather than payin’ttention to what she were doing.
There were little time fer subtle, so Moirrey reached out with her free hand and jes punched him in the balls as hard as she could.
Some things from junior high stayed wit’ ya ferever.
He even tipped like a cow, too, going down in a great big heap of painful groan as she slipped the keycard outta his hand. Behind her, more thumps as angry men used unnecessary force on unsuspecting villains.
Moirrey turned around, all set ta shoots someone, but all the bad guys were seeing stars. ’Cept hers.
She kicked him in the head once, just so he dinna miss out on the fun of his own, personal kunkussion, and then looked ’round to scope thin’s out.
Museum were still way too early on a Tuesday morning kinda quiet, which was good.
Vo nodded, still in that God of Ugly Doom place, from th’look on his face. Street, Horst, and Danville were pulling bodies towards her and stripping tunics theys could wear.
Nobody were actually dead yet, mostly because Vo’d told them not to get blood’n’brains all over uniform jackets they might need, the rest o’th’189th all being in mufti ’til now. Still, apparently she weren’t the only one knew where to take a bully down, fast’n’silent.
Good to know.
Nobody here were near big enough fer a jacket to match Vo. Nor her. But they’d figured that, going in.
Instead, Edgar pr’ceeded to pull eleven pairs o’handcuffs from belts and pockets of their new playmates and truss ’em ups like turkeys, then Street, Edgar, and Hans swapped themselves inta Imperial Security ruffians.
Why did four men need eleven sets of handcuffs?
Still, nobody comin’er going. Maybe they’d pull this thing off, after all. Door across the way were a small utility closet, filled w’mops and buckets and shelves.
And four fast-bound and gagged doofuses. Apparently, none of them managed to get themselves deaded, so they could hang out there until someone noticed the problem.
Moirrey took her spot at the door with Doom standing ahind her and Street playing watch goose.
Hans badged the door. It clicked with a nice, solid thunk, and Street pulled it into the hallway.
Okay.
Empress-Lady-Mom on the left, in the big chair. Holdin’ hands with the Emperer, then Steffi and Cute Prince on th’sofa. ’Nuther girl in a chair in th’corner, trying to be invisible.
Must be Lady Yulia.
Watch goose just inside the door. Four more goobers outside, beyond the door, butts more or less against the glass facing outwards, in outta th’rain that had gotten right nasty in the last few minutes.
Amazingly-fat dude in a frilly uniform standing on th’far side’o’th’room, apparently ranting at th’Emperer ’bout somet’in’ important-like.
The goober on her right woke up outta his doze as she stepped past him into the room.
Moirrey ignored him and took another step, smiling huge and flirty with the guy. Doom and Street could handle the one guard. This one were an officer of some sort.
“Hi, cutie,” she said, taking another step. “Who’r’yu?”
“I am General Grundman of Imperial Security,” he wheezed at her, totally knocked off track and distracted. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Yup, story as old as boys noticin’ girls. His face went kinda blank as he stared at her boobs.
Eyes are up here, watch goose.
Still, there was no way she were gonna get close enough to kick him. Moirrey took one more step and let go of her wrist, bringing the pistol up in
a smooth motion and shooting the fat man square in the chest with a thump.
Hopefully, the glass were heavy enough thet nobody outside would hear it or feel it, butts up against the glass, and all.
This shot were cleaner. Navin th’Black’d be proud o’her shootin’iron skills, nowadays.
Fat man went down like a bag of ugly potatoes.
Behind her, dead silence.
Hopefully, a good sound.
Moirrey kinda turned with a sidestep, in case somebody were about to whomp her upside the head. Not that this were a bar or a lockerroom, or nothin’.
Goon by the door were looking at Doom and his big, gnarly pistol from just far enough away that the eyelashes on the right eye would brush metal if’n he were to actually blink.
Smart boy done froze, kinda like a department store mannequin back home.
Street pulled the door in from the hall with him and closed it while she watched, leaving Horst and Danville to guard the hallway.
Mountain o’Doom took possession of the guard’s pistol and then they both watched as Street cuffed and stuffed the guy, with one of Moirrey’s eyes still kinda on the glass wall and the butts outside.
They weren’t all dumpy and outta shape, but none of them was lookin’ in. That were good.
Moirrey nodded, mostly to the room, and kinda to the good luck fairies, and turned to his Empererness, who had remained utterly still and quiet fer the three seconds the whole op had taken.
Moirrey blanched as her junior high geometry teacher come back from those regular nightmares to point out the path o’th’shot she’d took to get the fat guy.
If Steffi’d been taller through the torso, maybe the size of the boyz on either side o’her, Moirrey’d’a just about perfect split the gap between Steffi’s right ear and Karl’s left one with that shot.
From the look on the Emperer’s face, he were kinda aware o’that, too, and politely not bringin’ it up just yet.
Whoops.
“Your Majesty,” Vo rumbled like an avalanche wakin’ up. “Time is short. We need to get you to safety.”
Karl fixed her with a knowin’ eye and bounced upright in one fast kip, like he were an acrobat er sometin’.
Who knowed with Emperers?
“Lord Vo,” the man said graciously. “Lady Moirrey. Thank you. What about the men outside?”
“This is a small op, sir,” Vo replied. “Surgical, until we can get you to a secure facility and call in the fleet.”
Vo gestured and the others were in motion, too.
Moirrey found herself at the short end of a really tall hug. Two of them. From Steffi and then Empress-Mom.
She felt eight again, around people this tall.
“The Fleet?” his Empererness asked.
“Yes, sir,” Vo said, moving towards the door and rapping lightly three times in slow cadence. “Princess Casey has declared herself Emperor in your stead and appointed the Fleet Centurion as her Admiral. Whoever was bombing the planet has apparently been neutralized, but we’ve been off the newswaves, so I couldn’t tell you who or how.”
“Casey got away?” Steffi asked, hugging Moirrey again with a gleeful giggle. “Good for her.”
Moirrey’d seen the looks the older princess had given everyone durin’ Moirrey’s special show. There were a little sibling rivalry goin’ on, but more of it were a family tryin’ to deal with an oddball kid were too smart fer the farm.
Not that she had ANY experience with THAT sorta thing.
Vo knocked four quick raps on the inside of the panel to signal.
Danville opened the door and peaked in. He mostly had the blade outta immediate sight. Ya had to ken how he were standin’ to know how quick he could stab, block, or maybe throw it in pinch.
“Danville on point,” Vo ordered in that doom voice. “Street and Horst on the flanks, running uniform interference. Empress first. Crown Prince next. Then the Emperor, and the Princess and Lady Yulia last. Moirrey and I will be on the rear.”
“Colonel?” the Cute Prince asked.
“Everyone else here is expendable in layers, sir,” Vo rumbled. “Including you.”
That were apparently good enough. Kid nodded and fell into his place in line, behind his mom and with Edgar and Street covering his wings.
Hallway were still museum on a quiet mornin’ as they got out into it.
But there was a weird echo before they got more’n a few meters.
“What’s going on here?”
CHAPTER LXV
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 176/11/08. IMPERIAL PALACE, WERDER, ST. LEGIER
To top it all off, the fools guarding the palace had dropped an armoured fighting vehicle in the middle of the main driveway and dug it in to the point that it would take half an hour to rearrange things so that his driver could deliver him to the covered part of the driveway. Wheels instead of lift, again.
Any other day, Sigmund would have considered making them move the damned thing, just to put a razor-fine point on the kind of power he normally commanded, even before his Ascension to the throne.
Peons needed to be reminded of their place occasionally, even if it required a rolled up newsprint to do so.
Today, time was too tight for the grand gesture. Sigmund settled for walking the last three hundred meters in a bitter, stiff rain. Of course he didn’t have a jacket, but his white Admiral’s uniform would stay dry enough.
Around him, men of the Imperial Security Bureau let him know they felt his indignity by taking out their own anger on everyone they met.
As praetorians, not the worst fit today.
Sigmund paused just inside the door to run his hand backwards through his brown hair. One of the troopers handed him a small towel pulled from a dry pocket. Sigmund memorized the man’s face and nodded. At least someone had managed to think ahead of the situation.
Around him, a dozen heavily-armed men and two officers could wait while he dried himself off. What was about to happen would be in the history books. It would not do to come in dripping and disheveled, except possibly for the propaganda posters he would need to put up soon.
Sigmund Dittmar as some sort of action hero from the videos, with wet hair and a lantern jaw. That would probably sell well in many parts of the Empire, not that he required more groupies. But it might be a useful recruiting tool for the Navy, one of these days.
Sigmund handed the damp towel back to the soldier. He tugged his jacket down and smoothed out any wrinkles.
Catching a glimpse of himself in a side mirror as they passed. Nodding in approval. He looked Imperial.
Now he just needed to convince his people of that.
One other thing that caught Sigmund’s attention as they walked was the amount of noise generated.
Sigmund had spent his entire career, and most of his life, surrounded by naval officers. Those men tended to be noisy when they walked, a giant drunken centipede on metal floors.
The Imperial Security troops accompanying him today were remarkably quiet, by comparison. Had he closed his eyes, Sigmund would have guessed less than a handful walked with him, rather than the dozen men he actually had.
He supposed that made a perverse sort of sense.
These were the sorts of men you sent for the midnight knock. You didn’t want your prey alerted to their presence until it was too late to do anything but disappear.
Thus were empires upheld.
Sigmund hadn’t spent that much time in the personal quarters sections of the Imperial Palace. He had his own palace that was just as sumptuous not far away, and had spent large portions of the last two decades elsewhere, either serving aboard a ship, or at Fleet Headquarters.
He had forgotten how large the palace was.
Still, he was making good time. If Bakemann would get off his fat ass, and Grundman, as well, they could bring this to a head shortly and then begin the laborious task of remaking the Fribourg Empire into someplace he could finally be proud of.
The group came through a set of s
ecured doors that split the office parts of the building from the private spaces. The building had been under lock-down for several hours, with most of the inhabitants rounded up and secured in a separate building.
So it was a surprise to see a large group of people moving away from him at the far end of the hall.
Worse, when he recognized his cousin among the group, as well as the foreigners, including that bitch Kermode.
“What’s going on here?” came out of his mouth in a harsh snarl, even before his brain processed the scene.
But he already knew.
Imperial Security had failed him, just as the Fleet had. The former Emperor, Karl VII, was in the process of escaping.
“Stop them,” he commanded in a voice best suited for a burning bridge.
Around him, his troops opened fire at long range. Sigmund’s dress uniform lacked a sidearm, or he would have joined in.
None of them would be allowed to live.
CHAPTER LXVI
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 8, 398 IMPERIAL PALACE, WERDER, ST. LEGIER
This hadn’t been his war.
That hadn’t stopped Vo from becoming personally involved. Emotionally involved.
From breaking into the Imperial Palace and killing people whose only crime had been being in the wrong place.
From trying to be a hero.
No, he wasn’t trying to be a hero.
He was trying to do what he thought was right. What Navin the Black had been pounding into him for better than a decade.
Dignity. Duty.
Honor.
Ahead of him, Danville had that blade low against his thigh, all set to slide between ribs and seek hearts. Edgar and Street held his rear corners. The Empress, the Crown Prince, Karl himself, and then the two girls, hurrying along down a back hallway, fleeing to that corner where they could escape, shepherded by he and Moirrey.
They just might pull this off.
“What’s going on here?”
Vo hadn’t realized until that very moment that he had been subconsciously expecting those words for better than an hour.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he glanced back over a shoulder.