Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  “I’m out of bullets,” he said wistfully. “How do you reload this thing?”

  “Just . . . use it as a club,” Krindi said, running to the end of the corridor with Erkum on his heels. Despite this planet’s hellish climate, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have needed his environment suit anymore. The building was getting hot as hell.

  “What the hell was that?” Clovis shouted.

  “I don’t know,” Trey said, checking right, “but this place is seriously on fire!” He fired once, and then again. “Clear.”

  “I’m melting!” Dave shouted in a cracked falsetto. “I’m melllllting!” he added, taking down two guards who had just rounded a corner at the run.

  “Up,” Catrone said. “Whatever it was, it’s given us an opening. Let’s take it.”

  He tapped Dave on the shoulder and pointed right.

  “Daddy, don’t touch me there, please?” Dave said in a little kid’s voice as he bounded down the corridor and skidded around the corner on his stomach. He cracked out three rounds from the bead gun and then waved.

  “Corridor clear,” he said in a cold and remote voice.

  “Office of the Prime Minister,” a harassed woman said, not looking up at the screen. Sounds of other confused conversations came through from behind her, evidence of a crowded communications center without a clue of what was happening.

  Eleanora cursed the fact that the only current number she had was the standard public line.

  “I need to speak to the Prime Minister,” she said pointedly.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” the receptionist said. “The Prime Minister is a busy man, and we’re all just a little preoccupied here. Perhaps you could call back some other time.”

  She started to reach for the disconnect key, and Eleanora spoke sharply.

  “My name is Eleanora O’Casey,” she said. “I am chief of staff to Prince Roger Ramius MacClintock. Does that ring any bells?”

  The woman looked up at last, her eyes widening, then shrugged.

  “Prove it,” she said, her voice as sharp as Eleanora’s. “We get all sorts of cranks. And I’ve seen pictures of Ms. O’Casey. They don’t look a thing like you.”

  “Are you aware that there’s a battle going on in the city?”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “Well, if Prime Minister Yang wants to know what’s going on, you’d better put me through to him.”

  “Damn it,” Adoula snarled into the com screen. “Damn it! It really is that little bastard Roger, isn’t it?”

  “It looks that way,” Gianetto agreed. “We haven’t captured anyone who’s actually talked to him, but there’s a widespread belief that he’s back, and more his mother’s son than his father’s, if you get my drift. And they may be right. If I didn’t know exactly where she’s been and what her condition is, I’d say this plan had Alexandra’s markings all over it. Especially the assassination of Greenberg. If it hadn’t been for that . . .” He shrugged. “The point is, I’d say there’s an excellent chance that they’re going to at least get control of the Palace. And they’ve already taken out your office downtown. I’d be surprised if they hadn’t made arrangements to deal with your other probable locations.”

  “Very well,” Adoula said. “I understand. You know the plan.”

  He switched off the communicator and sat for just a moment, looking around his home. It was a pleasant place, and it pained him to think of giving it up forever. But sometimes sacrifices had to be made, and he could always build another house.

  He stood up and went to the door, looking through it into the office on the far side.

  “Yes, sir?” his administrative assistant said, looking up with obvious relief. “There are a number of messages, some of them pretty urgent, and I think—”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Adoula said, frowning thoughtfully. “It’s all most disturbing—most disturbing. I’m going to step out for a moment, get a breath of fresh air and clear my brain. When I come back, we’ll handle those messages.”

  “Yes, sir,” the woman said with an even more relieved smile.

  She really was rather attractive, the prince reflected. But attractive administrative assistants were a decicred a dozen.

  Adoula walked back to his own office, and out the French doors to the patio. From there it was a short walk through the garden to the back lawn, where a shuttle waited.

  “Time for us to go visit the Hannah, Duauf,” he said, nodding to his chauffeur/pilot as he stepped aboard.

  The chauffeur nodded, and Jackson settled back into his comfortable seat and pressed a button on the armrest. The sizable charge of cataclysmite under his mansion’s foundations detonated in a blinding-white fireball that virtually vaporized the building, all of the incriminating records stored on site, and his entire home office and domestic staff.

  A tragedy, he thought, but a necessary one. And not just to tie up loose ends.

  Admiral Prokourov spent the ten-minute delay while he waited for Gianetto’s response to his own reply dictating messages to his squadron to prepare for movement. He also sent one other message of his own to another address while he waited. When the general’s reply came, it was more or less what he’d anticipated.

  “You’ve got the frigging order from me.” Obviously, Gianetto had also been giving orders on another screen while he waited, but he snapped his head back to glare into the monitor and snarled the reply as soon as he heard the admiral. “And if you don’t think you can do the job, I’ll find someone who will! We don’t have time to dick around, Prok!”

  “Four hours-plus from our current position,” Prokourov said with a shrug. “We’ll start moving—”

  The admiral paused as his shipboard office’s hatch opened, and his eyes widened as he saw the bead pistol in the Marine sergeant’s hand.

  The Marine walked over and glanced at the monitor, then smiled.

  “General Gianetto,” he said solicitously. “What a pleasant surprise! You may be unhappy to hear this, but Carrier Squadron Twelve isn’t going anywhere, you traitorous son of a bitch!”

  He keyed the communicator off long before the general even heard the words, much less had a chance to formulate a reply. Then he turned to Prokourov. He opened his mouth, but the admiral gestured at the gun in his hand.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Prokourov said, “but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Oh?” the sergeant said warily, and glanced over his shoulder. There was one other Marine at the hatch, but the rest of the flagship’s Marine detachment was spread out attending to other duties, involving things like bridges and engineering spaces.

  “Oh,” Prokourov replied. “Do you know what’s going on, Sergeant?”

  “No, Sir,” the sergeant replied. He started to lower his bead pistol, then paused, eyeing the admiral warily. “All I know is that we were supposed to do everything we could to prevent Home Fleet from moving to the support of the Palace and, especially, of General Gianetto.”

  “So what’s your chain of command?” the intel officer asked with a frown.

  “Dunno, Sir. Word is that the Prince’s back, and he’s taking a crack at getting his mother out. I know he’s a shit, but, damn it, Sirs!”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Admiral Prokourov said. “Damn it, indeed. Look, put down the pistol. We’re on your side.” He looked at the intel officer with a raised eyebrow. “Let me rephrase that. I’m on your side. Tuzcu?”

  “I’d sure as hell like to know that whatever’s going on has a chance!” The intel officer grimaced. “Certainly before I commit, for God’s sake!”

  “Sir,” the sergeant said, lowering his pistol, “the whole Fleet Marine Force is on the Prince’s side. Of the Empress’, that is. Sergeant Major Brailowsky—”

  “So that’s why he was arrested,” Prokourov said.

  “Yes, Sir.” The sergeant shrugged and holstered his pistol. “You serious about helping, Sir?” he added, keeping his hand close to the weapon.

  “I’ll admit I’m no
t sure what I’m helping, Sergeant,” the admiral said carefully. “What we have right now is a total cluster fuck, and I would deeply like to get it unclustered. And as it happens, I’ve already contacted Moonbase to see what they have to say.”

  “I can guess Greenberg’s reaction,” the Marine growled sourly.

  “That’s assuming Greenberg is still in command,” Prokourov noted. “Which I tend to doubt, since our movement orders came direct from Admiral Gianetto, not the fleet commander. It’s possible, I suppose, that Greenberg was simply too busy doing something else to give us a call, but I expect he’s suffered a mischief by now. And if he hasn’t, you might as well just shoot me with that pistol, because if their planning—whoever ‘they’ are—is that bad . . .”

  “Incoming call from Admiral Prokourov.”

  “My screen,” Kjerulf said, and looked down as Prokourov appeared on his main com display.

  “Connect me to Admiral Greenberg, please,” the admiral said. “I need confirmation of instructions from the Navy Minister’s office.”

  “This is Kjerulf,” he said, looking at Prokorouv’s profile. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but Admiral Greenberg is unavailable at this time.”

  Prokourov had his pickup off, and was speaking to someone off-screen while he waited out the transmission delay. He didn’t appear flustered, but, then, he rarely did, and Kjerulf turned off his own pickup as he noted a blip on his repeater.

  “Carrier Squadron Fourteen is moving,” Sensor Three reported. “Big phase signature. They’re headed out-system at one-point-six-four KPS squared.”

  “Understood,” Kjerulf said, and looked back down at Prokorouv’s profile waiting out the interminable communications lag. He’d expected CarRon 14 to move as quickly as it got the word, but Prokorouv’s CarRon 12 had become just as critical as he’d feared, because Greenberg had changed the lockout codes on the base’s offensive missile launchers.

  It was another one of those reasonable little safety precautions which was turning around and biting everyone on the ass in the current chaotic situation. Modern missiles had a range at burn-out of well over twelve million kilometers and reached almost ten percent of light-speed, and a few dozen of those fired against Old Earth—whether accidentally or by some lunatic—would pretty much require the human race to find a new place to call home, even without warheads. So it only made sense to ensure that releasing them for use was not a trivial process. Unfortunately, it had allowed Greenberg to make sure no one could fire them against any other target—like traitorous ships of the Imperial Navy supporting one Jackson Adoula’s usurpation of the Throne—without the command code only he knew. And he was no longer available to provide it.

  Fortunately, he hadn’t done the same thing to Moonbase’s countermissile launchers, so the base could at least still defend itself against bombardment. But it couldn’t fire a single shot at anything outside the limited envelope of its energy weapons, which meant the four carriers of Fatted Calf Squadron were on their own. Things were going to be ugly enough against CarRon 14’s six carriers; if CarRon 12 weighed in with four more of them, it would be bad. If they continued to sit things out, at least it would only be four-against-six, and that was doable . . . maybe.

  The other squadrons were still too way the hell far out-system to intervene. So far. And they also had longer signal delays. Wu’s Squadron Six was all the way out on the other side of the sun, over forty light-minutes from Old Earth orbit. Thirteenth, Eleventh, and Fifteenth were all closer, but round-trip signal time even to them was over forty-three minutes. And, of course, their sensors had the same delay. They couldn’t know yet what was happening on the planet, which meant none of them had had to commit yet. But they would. For that matter, they could already be moving, and he wouldn’t know it until his light-speed sensors reported it.

  He closed his eyes, thinking hard for a moment, then opened them again and glanced at his senior com tech.

  “We still have contact with the civilian com net planet-side?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then look up a number in Imperial city. Marduk . . . something. House, maybe. Anyway, it’s a restaurant. Tell them where you’re calling from and ask for anybody who has a clue what’s going on! Ask for . . . ask for Ms. Nejad.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” the noncom said in the tone of someone suppressing an urge to giggle hysterically.

  “Marduk House,” the Mardukan said in very broken Imperial.

  “I need to speak to Ms. Nejad,” an exasperated Kjerulf said.

  “Kjerulf,” Prokourov said on the other monitor, responding to Kjerulf’s last transmission at last. “I’d sort of like a straight answer on this. Where’s Greenberg? And what do you know about the fighting dirt-side?”

  “She busy,” the Mardukan said. “She no talk.”

  “Sir,” a sensor tech said, “CarRon Twelve’s just lit off its phase drive. It’s moving in-system at one-six-four gravities.”

  Kjerulf’s jaw clenched. So much for CarRon 12’s neutrality. He glared at the Mardukan on his com display.

  “Tell her it’s Captain Kjerulf,” the captain snapped. “She’ll talk to me. Tell her!”

  “I tell,” the Mardukan said. He walked away from the pickup, and Kjerulf wheeled away from his own to the monitor with Prokourov on it.

  “Greenberg’s dead,” he barked. He said it more harshly than he’d intended to, but he was a bit stressed. “As for the rest, Admiral, if you want to support Adoula, then you just bring it on!”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, understand me. Roger is not the boy you knew,” Eleanora said firmly, holding onto her temper with both hands. It had taken almost fifteen minutes just to get the pompous, self-serving jackass on the line, and he’d been fending off anything remotely smacking of taking a stand for at least five more minutes. “What’s more important, you have to know what’s been going on in the Palace.”

  “Know and suspect are two different things, Ms. O’Casey,” Yang replied in his cultured Old Terran accent. “I’ve met with the Empress several times since the first of Roger’s coup attempts—”

  “That was not Roger,” Eleanora said flatly. “I was with Roger, and he was on Marduk.”

  “So you say,” the Prime Minister said smoothly. “Nonetheless, the evidence—”

  “As soon as we take the Palace, all I ask is a team of independent witnesses to her Majesty’s condition—”

  “Guy named Kjerulf on the other line,” one of the Diaspran infantrymen said. They’d moved to an office suite in an old commercial building, well away from the warehouse, which they’d known was going to be blown the moment the stingships lifted. All calls to the warehouse and restaurant were being forwarded, over deceptive links, to the office. “Says he wants to talk to Ms. Nejad. That’s you, right?”

  “Got it,” Eleanora said, holding up her hand. “That’s all I’m asking,” she continued to the Prime Minister.

  “And agreeing to it would be tantamount to supporting you,” Yang pointed out. “We’ll have to see what we see. I don’t care for the Prince, and don’t care to have him as my Emperor. And I’ve seen no data that supports your contention that he was on Marduk.”

  “Give me a more private contact number, and I’ll dump you the raw file. And the presentation. Furthermore, we had Harvard Mansul from the IAS with us for part of it as independent corroboration, and an IBI agent for a third independent data source. There’s plenty of documentation. And you know the Empress was being conditioned. You’d met her too many times before to think she was acting normally.”

  “As I said, Ms. O’Casey, it will be quite impossible for me, as Prime Minister, to . . .”

  “Roger, this is Marinau, do you read?”

  “Yes,” Roger panted as he ran down the corridor. Automated systems had gone to local control, and he triggered a round at a plasma cannon that popped out of the wall. The cannon—and at least six cubic meters of Palace wall—disappeared before it could swivel and target his group. Another cur
tain of water erupted from overhead and splashed around his team’s armored feet as they pounded onward.

  “We’ve got the courtyard, but the shuttles are late,” Marinau said over the sound of heavy firing.

  “I’ve got the doors open up there,” Roger snarled. “What more do you want?”

  He paused and went to a knee, covering, as they reached another intersection and the team went past him. Plasma fire erupted from one of the side corridors, and the Mardukan who’d been crossing it was cut in half.

  “Can you detach anyone?” Marinau asked. “We’re getting slaughtered up here!”

  “No,” Roger said, his over-controlled voice like ice as he imagined the hell the unarmored Mardukans were facing. He’d fought with them across two continents, bled with them and faced death at their side. But right now, they had their job, and he had his. “Contact Rosenberg. See what the holdup is. Continue the mission. Roger out.”

  The corridor intersection had been taken, at the cost of another armored Mardukan and one of the Empress’ Own. They were down to fifteen bodies, and less than halfway to his mother’s quarters.

  It was going to be tight.

  Catrone held onto the desk as another titanic explosion rocked the building.

  “What in the hell is that?” he asked as the armored room shuddered and seemed to lean to the right.

  “I think I know,” Despreaux said tightly. The rescue team had made it to Siminov’s office, but they were pinned down again, with guards on both ends of the corridor covering the door.

  “Me, too. And I’m going to kill Krindi for letting Erkum anywhere near a plasma gun,” Pedi added, stroking her horns nervously.

  “No way out, there, Boss,” Clovis said, ducking back as bead rounds caromed off the doorway.

  Trey was being tended to behind the desk after taking a bead through the thigh. The nasty hit had pulverized the femoral bone and cut the femoral artery, but Dave had an IV running and a tourniquet in place.