The Glory of the Empress
Page 32
“But we are,” Bjorn replied, remembering what Woodhouse had said. If Woodhouse was right about the xenos and the communications blackout, what the Imperium had in mind was going to make New Sochi look like a minor inconvenience. New Sochi had merely been a small planetside city with a band of particularly tenacious insurgents. When the Evagardian forces tasked with securing the city weren’t easily able to do so, they leveled it from orbit.
An entire city. People talked about the numbers. The horror.
But a city was nothing compared to what the biohazard from Oasis was capable of.
Mao was studying his face.
“It’ll never happen,” she said.
“What?”
“What you’re thinking.”
“Woodhouse was right. Your call for help got heard. Our people were there. In Demenis all along,” Bjorn said.
“I know that, but it doesn’t matter,” Mao said firmly. “The Empress would never allow it. She would never use a weapon like that. The cost to noncombatants would be too high. New Sochi wasn’t her fault, Bjorn. It was ours.” She tilted her head, holding his gaze. “Our people in the Service aren’t perfect. We were too full of ourselves. We believe our own press. We think everything has to be easy. Someone made a mistake, but it doesn’t end there. We can do better, and we will. I will. I promise you.”
The holographic Prince Dalton spread his arms as the music swelled, and the cheering from the park rose even higher. It was a controversial decision for the people running the festival to choose Ganraen culture to celebrate tonight, but they were playing it safe by going with Dalton music. Even the war couldn’t weaken the hold Prince Dalton had on music lovers, imperial and galactic.
“I believe you,” Bjorn told Mao, looking down at her.
She took his collar and started to pull him down, but Prince Dalton vanished, and the music died.
They both looked up at the park, which was suddenly dark without the bright glow of the massive hologram. A moment of silence was immediately muscled out by the sounds of confusion from the crowd.
Some people, unsure of what was going on, were backing away. Bjorn and Mao ran toward the heart of the commotion, but there were a lot of people between them and the pavilion. They tried to push through, and Bjorn saw nearly everyone lighting up their holos. He saw news feeds.
“Something’s happening,” he shouted to Mao. He kept his grip on her hand, and the crowd only grew louder.
No one could hear the audio from their own holos, so they were shouting to the event organizers to broadcast the news. The people in the pavilion were trying to comply.
A new hologram lit up the night, and startled people instinctively backed away.
Bjorn and Mao did not. They only stared.
It was an Evagardian news broadcast. Bjorn was suddenly dizzy, but he saw the anchor, the buildings, the stars, and the rest of it.
“That’s Little Norwich,” Mao called out, eyes wide.
Bjorn knew what it was. The Ganraen capital station. Little Norwich was the heart of the Commonwealth.
Something was wrong with the audio. The massive holographic feed was showing the news, but still playing the Prince Dalton song from a moment ago. The music was deafening, but it didn’t matter.
No one needed anyone to tell them what was happening. They could all see it for themselves. It was taking place on the other side of the galaxy, but it was still right in front of them.
Bjorn didn’t believe it. It was something from a drama.
A dreadnought the size of the Julian was on a slow descent, crashing through the protective dome over the Ganraen station. Pieces of carbon shielding larger than city blocks were crashing down among the shining structures, but that destruction was nothing compared to what happened when the ship itself struck.
The station wasn’t being damaged; it was being destroyed utterly, along with everyone on it. The ship had Commonwealth emblems on its hull. The music pounded Bjorn’s ears, and the hologram burned his eyes.
The largest Ganraen warship Bjorn had ever seen was crushing the Ganraen capital.
This was no accident. Bjorn found Mao’s hand and he held on.
Photo by S. Morris
Sean Danker has a background of military service and social work. He wrote his first novel when he was fifteen and has been writing ever since. He likes cooking and music, but hates parties and checking his voice mail. He hopes his books are more interesting than he is.
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