Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  But the problem was that the IBI wasn’t the Empress’ Own. It wasn’t even the Navy, sworn to defend the Constitution and the Empress. The IBI’s first and only mission was the security of the Empire. Yes, Adoula had effectively usurped the Throne. Yes, he’d committed a list of offenses a kilometer long in doing so. Perjury, murder, kidnapping, and physical and psychological torture. Technically, they should lay out the data, slap a set of restraints on him, and lead him away to durance vile.

  But realistically, he was too powerful. He had a major base in the Lords and the Commons, de facto control of the Empress, and control of most of the Navy, and Prime Minister Yang had obviously decided it wasn’t time to challenge him too openly. Whether that was because of the chaos Yang feared would overwhelm the Empire if he did so, or because he was more concerned about his own power than he was about the Empress and the Constitution was impossible to say, although Subianto had her own suspicions in that regard.

  But whatever the Prime Minister’s thinking, as Navy Minister, Prince Jackson was effectively in control of all of the Empire’s external and internal security organs, especially after he’d replaced Tebic and Subianto’s superiors with his own handpicked nominees. If they wanted to arrest Adoula, they’d need to present a list of charges to a magistrate. And even if they found one stupid enough to sign a warrant, they’d never live to process it. Besides, Adoula had already done too much damage. He’d managed to destroy the Imperial Family, and Subianto and Tebic, unlike all too many citizens of the Empire, knew precisely how vital to its stability House MacClintock had been. Without it, there was only Adoula, however corrupt, however “evil,” to hold things together. Without him, what did the Empire have? An Empress who was severely damaged. Probably civil war. And no clear heir to the Throne.

  And now they had this. Smuggling of illegal and highly dangerous materials. Collusion with a foreign power—they were pretty sure about that one, although which foreign power was less clear. Conspiracy to commit treason—sort of; that one depended on the definition and whether or not it was technically possible to commit treason against someone who had treasonously seized power in the first place. Illegal monetary transfers—definitely. Falsification of identity without a doubt. Assault. Theft.

  But . . .

  “No chance of getting eyes and ears into the building?” Subianto asked.

  “No,” Tebic replied unhesitatingly. “Security is pretty unobtrusive, but very tight. Good electronics—very good, very professional. And those Mardukans literally sleep at the warehouse and the restaurant. The restaurant has countersurveillance devices—two agents have been asked to leave for trying to get floaters and directional mikes inside—but plenty of restaurants in Imperial City would’ve done exactly the same thing. Too many conversations nobody wants overheard.”

  “Who are they?” Subianto whispered to herself. “They’re not the Associations. They’re not with Adoula. They’re not those idiots in the Supremacy Party.”

  “They’re acting like they’re going to counter Adoula,” Tebic said. “But the Associations have to know the Empress isn’t in the best condition, and there’s no clear alternate Regent, much less a clear Heir, other than this fetus Adoula and New Madrid are growing.” He paused and shrugged. “We’ve got three choices.”

  “I know.” Subianto’s face was hard and cold. “We can turn the data over to Adoula, and they disappear—or, maybe, get tried. We can do nothing, and see what happens. Or we can contact them.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Tebic said, and waited.

  His superior’s face could have belonged to a statue—one of the old Persian emperors, the omnipotent semideities, often more than just a little insane, who had gifted humanity with such enduring phrases as “killing the messenger” and “maybe the horse will sing” and “the Sword of Damocles.” This was a Sword of Damocles over both their heads, hanging by a thread. And the way those omnipotent emperors had wandered into the borderlands of sanity, Tebic knew, was from making decisions which would determine the fate of far more than just their own empire . . . and when they’d known their own lives, and their families’, were on the line.

  “I think,” Subianto said, then paused. “I think, I’m in the mood to try some new food.”

  “When were you planning on doing this?” Catrone’s voice was still cold, but he was focused again, had his mission face on once more.

  “During the Imperial Festival,” Roger replied. “We were going to have to do the attack fully on the surface—frontal assault. We were going to be in the parade that passes the Imperial Park. Mardukans in all their finery, civan, flar-ta, the works. We knew we could take down the outer perimeter guards with the Mardukans, but we couldn’t get any further than that.”

  “Adoula’s rarely at the Palace,” Catrone pointed out. “He’s either at the Lords, or in his offices in the Imperial Tower.”

  “I’ll be honest,” Roger said. “I’ve got a hard-on for Adoula, more than ever now, and I know we have to keep him from getting away. But mostly, I’ve been concentrated on getting to Mother and the replicator. Capture the queen and bring in impartial witnesses, and Adoula’s out of power. Maybe he can make it off-planet, especially with his control of Home Fleet, but he’s not going to be holding the Empire.”

  “True, but we have to take him out as well. We don’t want him breaking off his own section of the Empire. And he’s got a good many of the Navy’s commanders in his pocket. For that matter, he’s got Greenberg in his pocket. Taking the Palace isn’t going to do us much good if Home Fleet drops a kinetic weapon on our heads. Or drops all their Marines on us, for that matter. The most we’re going to be able to field is a very short battalion of guys who are mostly out of practice. We do not want to take on the Home Fleet Marine contingent supported by the ships.”

  “Okay,” Roger sighed. “Cards on the table time. We’re in contact with the Alphanes, and they have solid intelligence that Adoula intends to try to bring them into the Empire as soon as Mother is out of the picture.”

  “Is he nuts?” Catrone demanded. “No, he’s not nuts; are you nuts? You’re sure?”

  “The Alphanes are—sure enough that if we don’t get this working, they’re going to jump Third Fleet. Adoula hasn’t completely filled the command and staff there with his cronies, yet, but he’s positively, according to them, planning on using Third and Fourth Fleets against them. Fourth is already his, but he can’t divert too much of it from watching the Saints, or they may jump him from behind, so he needs Third, too. But once he’s been able to make sure he has it, all the evidence says he’s going after them. He doesn’t believe they can’t be conquered, and although they’ve got a sizable fleet, as Admiral Ral pointed out, the Empire has six fleets their size.”

  “Of course we do, but they won’t back down,” Catrone argued. “Not even if you take the orbitals. The bears are nuts about honor. They’ll all die fighting, to the last cub.”

  “I know that,” Roger said, shaking his head. “You know that. Adoula’s advisers know that. But Adoula doesn’t believe it. So if the command and staff of Third Fleet changes, the Alphanes are going active. That’s something we have to keep an eye on.”

  “And they’re your source of supply?”

  “They’re our source of supply,” Roger confirmed. “Armor and weapons. Even armor for the Mardukans, which you’ll have to see to believe. But nothing heavier than that, and it’s been hard enough to hide even that much.”

  “I can believe that. Security on this is going to be a bitch. Somebody is going to notice, sooner or later. You do realize that, right?”

  “We’ll just have to hope it’s later.” Roger shrugged. “If the IBI starts sniffing around Marduk House, they’ll discover what’s pretty obviously a cover for money laundering.”

  “Show them what they expect to see?”

  “Right. The only problem is, there is more money going out than coming in. But the money coming in is clean, too. So they’re looking for a negative
if they try to build a case. It’s not exactly clean—it’s from the Alphanes. But it’s not anything they can tie to anything illegal.”

  “All right,” Catrone said. Not because he was happy about it, but because he recognized that all they could do was the best they could do.

  “Home Fleet,” he continued, continuing his methodical examination of Roger’s plans. “Any ideas there?”

  “Well, how about a complete replacement of command and staff?” Roger replied lightly. Then his expression sobered. “The current plan is to take Greenberg out, simultaneous with the attack.”

  “Assassination?” Catrone said levelly.

  “Yes,” Roger replied unflinchingly. “There’s no way to ensure we can simply grab him and move him out of the loop. And there are officers who will follow Greenberg just because he is the designated Home Fleet commander. Take him out of the loop, and they’re going to have to make up their minds who to back. To be honest, if they’re willing not to shoot at us, I don’t care if they just sit the whole thing out. But I do not want Greenberg in charge, and the only way to ensure that, distasteful as it may be, is to kill him. There’s already a team in place.”

  Catrone’s face worked for a moment, and then he shrugged angrily.

  “You’re right, and I don’t like it.”

  “Do you have a better solution?” Roger asked calmly.

  “No,” Catrone admitted. “And I agree it’s necessary. But I still don’t like it.”

  “We do a lot of things we don’t like, because they’re necessary. That’s the nature of our business. Isn’t it, Sergeant Major?”

  “Yes,” Catrone admitted again. “So . . . where are we?”

  “Taking out Greenberg ought to put Wallenstein in command, as his exec,” Roger continued, “but our intel says that whole thing’s not as clear as it ought to be. Apparently, Captain Wallenstein . . . is not well thought of in the Navy. Something to do with his career track and the fact that he’s never commanded anything bigger than a single cruiser.

  “So with Greenberg gone, and Wallenstein labeled a paper-pusher in Adoula’s pocket, that leaves Kjerulf with a damned good chance of taking over command . . . if he has a reason to try. And if we can prime him just a bit, I think he will try, which should at least muddle the hell out of Home Fleet’s command structure. The other staff and commanders loyal to Adoula will want to intervene, but Kjerulf is going to wait and see what’s going on. I’d expect some response from Home Fleet, but without Greenberg, it’ll be uncoordinated.”

  “Even an uncoordinated response will be bad,” Catrone pointed out. “Maybe worse. Desperate men will try desperate measures.”

  “Well, we’ve also got a fleet of our own,” Roger said.

  “Who?” Catrone asked, then nodded. “Dark Helmut, right?”

  “Yes. We sent a team to contact him. They reported having made contact with one of his ship commanders, who’d arranged to transport them to meet with him, and Sixth Fleet’s moved since then. It might be coming to warn Adoula, but if so, the warning should already have been here. If Helmut were working Adoula’s side—which I doubt strongly—we’d already be in custody.”

  “So how do you get word to Sixth Fleet to coordinate things?”

  “If they’re on schedule, they’ll pick up a standard data dump from the Wolf Cluster in—” Roger thought about it and ran some calculations on his toot, then shrugged. “In three days or so. They’ll get a message that we’re in place and preparing the assault, and they’ll send a message telling us whether Helmut’s on our side or not. But we won’t know one way or the other until just before the assault. Time lag.”

  “Got it.” Catrone looked unhappy, then grimaced. “Ever think how nice it must have been to be a general or admiral back in the good old days, when everyone was stuck on one planet and you didn’t have to worry about messages taking days, or even weeks, to get to their destinations?”

  “I’m sure they had their own problems,” Roger replied dryly.

  “Yeah, but a man can dream, right?”

  “We’ll have to send out our message giving the timing for the assault before we know whether or not Sixth Fleet is going to be available,” Roger continued, ignoring Catrone’s chuckle. “Impossible to avoid.”

  “Security on that?” Catrone asked more seriously.

  “Personal ads,” Roger said with a shrug. “What else?”

  “You ever wondered how many of those personals are covert messages?” Catrone asked with another grin.

  “Not until recently. A lot, I’d guess.”

  “I’m beginning to think they’re the majority.” Catrone’s grin faded into a frown. “Security on covert ops gives me ulcers. There’s a reason my hair is gray.”

  “Yeah,” Roger agreed, then reached out through his toot to reactivate the updated hologram.

  “We’ve been looking at the best schematic of the Palace we could put together before you and Great Gran Miranda came along, trying to come up with a plan that isn’t suicide.” He loaded the simulation of the best plan they had so far, and the two of them watched it in fast-forward as the attackers’ blue icons evaporated. None of them even made it into the Palace.

  “So far, we haven’t found one,” Roger observed dryly.

  “Obviously,” Catrone said with a wince. He sat back, scratching his nose, and frowned thoughtfully.

  “There’s a rhythm to taking the Palace,” he said after a moment. “There are uniformed guards at these locations,” he continued, highlighting the positions. Most of them had been filled in already, but he put in a few more that were in “Gold” and “Silver” sectors Kosutic hadn’t known about. “But the real problems are the armored reaction squad you’ve got here,” he highlighted the position, “the automated defenses, and the bulk of the guards, who are in the barracks.”

  He highlighted the other two threat locations briefly.

  “I was in charge of the Palace’s security for a long time,” he said sourly, “and one of my background thoughts was always how I might take the place. I decided that, based on some of my own changes—well, the various commanders’ changes which I sort of suggested—it would be a bitch. But I also knew that no matter what I could do, there was a weakness. The key is Number Three Gate and the North Courtyard,” he said, highlighting them.

  “Why?”

  “The North Courtyard has two manned defense posts.” Catrone pointed them out, “but it’s accessible via Gate Three. This assumes that the automated defenses are down, you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “The courtyard is also the parade ground for the Empress’ Own. It more or less severs the barracks and the outer servants’ wing from the Palace proper. There are connecting corridors, but they’re all covered by the courtyard. Take the courtyard, and you can use it as a landing zone for support forces. The only thing stopping them would be the defensive positions, but they’re lightly manned, normally. Even upgraded security doesn’t increase those guards, because they aren’t guarding the principals directly, understand?”

  “Yes.” Roger was studying the schematic intently. “Take the gate, pin most of the garrison down in barracks, and seize the courtyard as an LZ. Then bring in your troops, use most of your support to reduce the bulk of the guards still in their barracks, and punch a group into the Palace. What about air support for the guards?”

  “Stingship squadron.” Catrone highlighted the hangar embedded in the sprawling Palace. “Only half strength, according to my information; it took a beating in the first coup, and finding more people for it is harder than finding the sort of grunts Adoula’s been willing to settle for. It takes them at least fifteen minutes to go active. The reaction squad, if it’s fully trained, can be armored up in three minutes, and react anywhere in the Palace within ten. Guards are full up in less than an hour. Completely down and surprised, when I was in charge, everyone was in armor and countering an assault in forty minutes, but an hour is the standard.”

&nb
sp; “Their communications will be dislocated,” Roger said. “I can turn those off, scramble their internal communications, with the Protocols. Leave Temu Jin in place to keep them scrambled.”

  “Which means taking the command post first.” Catrone highlighted one of the new, hopefully secure routes. “You’ll have to do it. You’re the man with the codes, and most of them will only respond to you.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Send the first-wave Mardukans in to take the gate,” Catrone continued, and Roger nodded.

  “They can scale the wall if they have to. They’ve done it before. And I have codes for opening the gate, too.”

  “However they do it, they get in,” Catrone said, “and take the courtyard away from the duty company before the rest of them get organized.”

  “With swords and pikes against bead guns.” Roger winced. “But they can do it.”

  “Once they have the courtyard, the shuttles come in,” Catrone continued. “Can they use human weapons? There’ll be some lying around.”

  “Like pistols,” Roger said. “Again, something they’ve done.”

  “This takes, say, five minutes,” Catrone said. “More. They’ve got to cross the Park just to reach the gate.”

  “A thousand meters.” Roger pursed his lips. “Two minutes for civan at a run; not much longer for the Diasprans. Say seven to ten minutes to take the courtyard.”

  “Which means the reaction team is up.”

  “Yeah, but they’re busy dealing with an armored force that’s already well into the Palace,” Roger countered, highlighting the route from the command center to his mother’s quarters.

  “You’re important,” Catrone said warily. “Which means you’re in the command post, right?”

  “Wrong. Because I have to open doors here, here—lots of doors,” he said, highlighting them. “That’s why there will be fifteen armored troops—to protect me.”