Crown of Empire

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I heard,” said Jessine as Ver came through her bedchamber.

  “I’ll send my men. They’ll protect you. I’d stay but—”

  “I know.” She gave him a single, swift kiss and she motioned him away.

  Then he left and the enormity of her predicament came home to her. If her assumption was right and the High Secretary was dead, the Empire would fall into chaos. In dismay she set about putting her things together, trying to anticipate how much she would need and for how long. She chose her clothing for rigorous practicality, including the three strands of almond-sized Milurean tsarovite which might buy her escape, if it came to that.

  She had no wish to be at the center of a power vacuum when the winds began to fill it. Little as she wanted to admit it, she was frightened. With Ver gone, all she had to protect her was her mute alien staff, selected for their silence and discretion, not their skill at arms. She paced around her fantasy of a room, ignoring its sensual promises. At the window she looked down nervously, anticipating the arrival of rebel squads. She didn’t know what faction would take advantage of the confusion first, but she knew Damien Ver was keeping an eye on one particular admiral with ambition.

  If only there was someone in the building she could trust. That was the worst thing about this. The alien staff would do their jobs as long as her position appeared viable. She was not certain that the aliens would protect her once armed men arrived. They had no reason to defend her. She doubted she could trust them. She doubted she could trust anyone.

  A discreet knock at the inner door caught her attention. For a moment, she stared at the door. Then she picked up the small railgun concealed in the door of an armoire. She strapped it to her hand and wrist before checking the spyhole.

  Kitchley stood at the door, his golden alien face set in lines that Jessine recognized as concern. A native of Daphne, Kitchley had served as the Appointments Clerk to the High Secretary for years and was so familiar a presence that he hardly seemed alien any longer. Originally little more than a butler, time and proficiency had turned Kitchley into a power in his own right. Although few would think of him as such, he was undoubtedly the most influential bureaucrat in the Pact.

  Jessine opened the door and stared at him, unsure what to say, not knowing his assessment of the crisis.

  “I am very sorry, Lady Jessine, for your loss, and for the danger you face at present.” His voice had an odd timbre, as if he were speaking on two tones at once, one deep and ragged, the other higher and smooth.

  “Thank you,” she said, thinking, confirmation. He’s gone. Sadness cut a narrow stream through her tension.

  “I know it must be a great shock to you,” he said gently. “Your kind are always deeply upset at the death of those close to you.”

  “Yes, I suppose . . . yes,” she said, realizing that she had given her husband no more than a passing worry. “I don’t think I can have taken it in yet.”

  “Probably not,” said Kitchley. “I am making arrangements to get you out of here. I don’t want you to have any more trouble.” His nod was courtly.

  “What do you mean?” Jessine asked, feeling disoriented.

  “I am arranging for an escort. It will take you to my vacation home in Horizon Park: the estate is fortified and patrolled. No one will suspect you are there. You will be safe until we can reestablish order.” He smoothed his long tunic, his six-fingered hand moving quickly, holding her attention.

  “That is very good of you, but I don’t want you to put yourself at risk. This isn’t a Daphne matter.” She saw approval in his amber eyes. She decided she would rather go with Kitchley now than await whatever Ver planned.

  “I have my own position to protect. Not many aliens have advanced as far as I have,” Kitchley said. True enough, and Jessine certainly understood what he intended.

  “I would be grateful for your protection. If we both survive and I have the power to do it, I will reward you.” She tried to smile, then gave it up as a bad idea. It was enough to assure him that his service would not go unappreciated. He nodded acknowledgment.

  “You have a weapon.” He indicated the small railgun.

  “Yes. And there’s a pistol in my hovercraft, if we can get to it, and extra ammunition.” She secured the wrist bands of her anorak. “Do we leave yet?”

  “Not without the escort,” said Kitchley. “We need them. You and I are too well-known. We are apt to be recognized. They will be here in ten minutes, or not at all. We will decide what to do about that if we must.” He watched the windows and the security display. “So far there are no intruders near us.”

  “How long can that last?” She flexed her hands, needing to move. “Admiral Sclerida’s troops are likely to arrive at any moment.”

  “Sclerida?” said Kitchley. “Do you mean he’s behind this?” He stared as if he truly did not believe her.

  She returned his stare. “Well, who else? The Haiken Maru conglomerate supports Senator Lomax, and he’s certainly ambitious—but why would he do something this drastic when it could mean losing his own power?”

  “But—Sclerida?”

  It was not in Jessine to reveal her sources. “You know how it is—you overhear things, you’re told things at parties and receptions by men who wish to impress you. I would have thought that Admiral Sclerida was the most likely conspirator, what with having all of Naval Logistics at his beck and call. He’s greedy enough, and he’s been trying for years to bring the High Secretary under his influence. So far unsuccessfully.”

  Kitchley nodded. “Yes. Exactly. An obvious choice; perhaps too obvious. But don’t you see, he’s not in the same position as Senator Lomax. Lomax has all the power of the biggest conglomerate in the empire behind him.”

  “I still think it must be Sclerida,” said Jessine. “If he is the one, then all ships must be regarded as hostile.” She shuddered. “To lose the Navy to a coup—that’s frightening.”

  Kitchley interrupted. “I don’t believe he controls the Protectorate, only Logistics.”

  Jessine’s eyes narrowed as she worked out the implications. “We would still be completely unprotected off Earth. If you’re right, and the Haiken Maru are with the rebellion . . .” Now she steeled herself, thinking of Ver and hearing her own doubts about him at the same instant. “I hope that the Kona Tatsu are loyal. We need at least one force to remain with us if we’re to survive. If they go over to the rebels, then—”

  “Then we will have to arrange to leave the planet as soon as possible,” said Kitchley.

  “Yes,” said Jessine, wondering if that would make any difference.

  “We’ll get you safe. Don’t worry,” Kitchley assured her, glancing apprehensively at the ornate wall clock.

  A sudden crashing knock on the main door to her suite jolted them both. They exchanged glances as the battering continued.

  “Check the screens,” recommended Kitchley. “Keep them on opaque, one way view only.”

  “Of course,” she said, irritated. “God of the Cosmos!” she whispered as the wall in front of her shifted to screen mode.

  There was a squad of well-armed Cernian aliens in the corridor. Jessine’s breath caught in her throat. “That’s not your escort, right?”

  Kitchley looked frightened “No,” he squeaked.

  Over the announcing scanner came the order, “Open up in the name of the High Secretary. We are ordered to secure these premises.”

  Jessine recovered. “I don’t think so,” she whispered. “They’re with the rebels.”

  Kitchley didn’t disagree.

  The Cernians brought their heavy repulsors to bear. Under close-range heavy barrage, the wall shuddered, then seemed to melt.

  “Perhaps we should leave now,” offered Kitchley.

  Jessine broke for the living room and the hidden dropshaft.

  Kitchley started to follow, still watching the wall-screen. Then the Cernians turned away from the wreckage of the wall. A squad of human troops in plain black uniforms came in
to the corridor, railguns at the ready.

  “Look!” Kitchley called to Jessine.

  “You look,” said Jessine, staring out the window in horror. Two armored troop carriers hovered in the central quad.

  Kitchley turned, the enormity of their problem becoming abundantly clear. “That is not my escort. How did they manage?”

  “Inside help, or they’ve taken more of the complex than we realized,” Jessine replied, still staring.

  “Down!” Jessine dropped to the floor, one hand dragging Kitchley’s sleeve. She dared not raise her head to see if he was safe. The window vanished with a crash.

  The black snout of one of the APCs poked through the empty window. Laser cannon set in the turret moved restlessly, for all the world like antennae. Still on the floor, Jessine tried to wriggle backwards, away from the advancing vessel.

  Kitchley checked the wall screen. The black-clad guards were making for the inner door.

  Jessine climbed to her feet and tried again to reach the hidden dropshaft. Kitchley rolled under a claw-footed couch. The first man into the room from the APC grabbed for Jessine, his hand just brushing her tunic. She let her breath out. She was going to make it. Then a line of red light flashed between her and the dropshaft. She stopped short, stumbling, and the man had her.

  Damn! But she gained her balance again. Moving with his pull on her arm, Jessine swung her fist back into the soldier’s groin. She felt her hand bruise against the shell of his cup. The soldier grunted, but didn’t let go. Jessine kept turning, her right hand coming up and around. As her head turned and she saw his face shield, she speared her hand at his throat. This time, he let go. But the other guards were on them. There were too many, and Jessine was overwhelmed and carried back toward the window. The Cernians were in the next room and the walls were starting to tremble.

  The side bay door of the APC slid open and soldiers inside reached out to grab her. More soldiers swarmed around her, forcing her through the door. Below them a second troop carrier was holding off soldiers on the ground

  The Cernians had almost destroyed a second interior wall and were now training their weapons on the troop carrier.

  The troop carrier’s turret laser cannon swung around and fired a short burst into the center of the Cernians. Three of them were shattered by direct hit, bits of their uniforms and flesh flung about the room in sizzling, pulsing heaps. The others drew back out of the room.

  “Get out of here,” one of the officers ordered, and the troop carrier slid back from the wreckage of Jessine’s suite, to hover over the other troop carriers in the quad. “And take care of Merimee.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” demanded Jessine.

  A tall young man pushed his way through his men. “Lieutenant Varrick of the Kona Tatsu, Madame Merimee. Our orders are to get you to safety.”

  Jessine was seldom called by her maiden name these days, and that caught her attention even as she was pushed firmly into an acceleration couch.

  Lieutenant Varrick secured the final buckles. “Just lie back and relax, Madame. You can’t do anything for the High Secretary now. Leave it to us.”

  “Who sent you?” she demanded.

  “Damien Ver,” said the lieutenant.

  The answer left Jessine with more questions, but none she thought Lieutenant Varrick could answer.

  “Opponent approaching. Opponent approaching,” declared the carrier’s computer voice. “Directly above.”

  “Above?” repeated Varrick as a shadow came over them.

  “Opponent identified,” the computer said calmly. “Naval assault frigate, Logistics garrison.”

  “Logistics? Sclerida!” Jessine slapped at the harness release and launched herself from the couch. She shoved through the packed men to the open bay. “Oh my God!”

  “Nav, evasive action,” ordered Varrick. “Comm, I don’t suppose they’re hailing us.”

  The hail came direct from a loudspeaker. “Troop carrier. Troop carrier. This is your order to surrender. Repeat, this is your order to surrender. You are outmanned and outgunned. Surrender now and no harm will come to you. All we want is the Lady Jessine.”

  “If we let her go, Ver will take us apart a joint at a time,” muttered Varrick He glanced back at Jessine. “Demoiselle, strap in. This might get bouncy.”

  “So how about that safety, Lieutenant?” said Jessine, strapping back into her couch.

  “We’re doing what we can, Madame,” said Varrick.

  “Troop carrier, surrender. You have thirty seconds to surrender.” The frigate’s hailer was impossibly loud, and the soldiers made faces at this order.

  “Men,” said the lieutenant. “Ready short-range weapons. Be ready to fire at any angle, any time. Go for their stabilizers and power ducts. Helm, where’s that evasive action? Get moving.”

  The APC swung onto its side and slipped away from the frigate, running almost parallel to the fortieth-floor windows of the Palace.

  The frigate came around in an arc, not as agile as the troop carrier, but more lethal. Its first shot hit the APC’s navigational complex, and the rear of the craft began to yaw.

  “Frigging bastards!” snarled Lieutenant Varrick. As he watched, the frigate came around again. The APC was still swinging from the last attack.

  Jessine closed her eyes, then opened them again immediately. There was nothing she wanted to look at, but she didn’t want to look at nothing. Her hands gripped the arms of the acceleration couch. It would take so little for the troop carrier to spin out of control and plummet into the quad below.

  “All troops!” shouted Varrick as the frigate approached. “Fire at will!”

  The frigate closed. Its guns fired in series, and one side of the troop carrier tore off and fell away, burning. The scream of wounded metal couldn’t mask the cries of falling men. Huge sections of metal and plastic sailed away like kites on the wind. Two pieces struck the windows of the Secretary’s Palace, adding the brilliance of shattered glass to the debris.

  The APC swung wildly, half its fans reduced to scrap metal. The vehicle dropped sickeningly fast despite the red-lined efforts of the remaining ducts. The navigator and helmsmen swore continuously as they fought for control of the ship, trying to ease it into the quad. Jessine braced in crash position and tried to relax her muscles.

  Will I know when we hit? she wondered. Or will there just be nothing? She hoped it would be nothing, but in this buffered fall there might still be a chance of landing without killing damage.

  Then Jessine saw the second APC swoop up past them, guns coming around to take on the frigate. Seconds later, she heard an enormous explosion, then felt the shock. We’ve hit ground, she thought. But they were still falling. The noise continued, accompanied by debris falling on her APC from above. Then they did hit, and Jessine blacked out.

  Chapter 3

  It had turned into an outdoor party, with most of the cocky young aristocrats taking to their aircars for a little sport with the groundlings. Up until the time that the game had been suggested, Wiley Bouriere, the High Secretary’s son, was pretty bored, but now he felt excitement and the thrill of the hunt. He had not gone out after groundlings for several months—he had been forbidden by his father, a restriction he found more than normally irksome.

  “Let’s go to Undertown,” yelled Caroly Rhodi, who knew more about this sport than most of them. “They’ve got shanties and trailers over there. And aliens. There’s lots we can do.”

  His suggestion was greeted by cheers from everyone but the bodyguards. These exchanged silent, condemning looks.

  “Undertown!” the others called out, racing toward their aircars. “Let’s do Undertown!”

  Garen McModor caught his lower lip between his teeth. Being bodyguard to Wiley Bouriere was awkward enough at the best of times, for the High Secretary’s son resented the constant observation and often did his best to elude his security staff. But when he took off on strange quirks, McModor’s job became truly perilous. Pa
rties like this one, that could turn ugly in a pulse-beat, were McModor’s least favorite of Wiley’s pastimes. He signaled Wiley, wanting him to reconsider.

  Wiley studiously ignored him, listening with exaggerated interest to what Caroly had to say. He knew already that McModor did not approve of these romps and he was not about to listen to another recitation of the danger he might be courting. “We can fill up bottles with paint and fuel. That would make it more interesting,” he suggested to Caroly.

  “And guns. Let’s take our guns,” added Caroly, and turned to address the others. “We’re going to Undertown,” he announced grandly. “We’ll use our aircars, yours and mine, Wiley, and Maytag’s. We can all fit in three, can’t we? No, we’ll need a fourth. I know! Thistlewaite!” exclaimed Caroly, pointing to a gangly youth in a luminous skinsuit. “You have that spiffy Hovermaster tonight, don’t you? Wiley and I will lead. You can follow us.” He laughed wildly, and made a very rude gesture to his bodyguard. “Security can bring up the rear.” This suggestion was in fact an order, which all of them understood. “I haven’t been to Undertown for months and months,” said Bentess Hull, flinging her mane of fashionably green hair about her shoulders, imitating the women in the vidis. “I miss it.”

  “They probably miss us, too,” called out one half-drunk wag. Everyone laughed, except the bodyguards.

  “Then let’s get going,” Caroly ordered, and set the example by gathering up glastic bottles and throwing them in a large sack.

  “Better check your ammunition, too,” warned Lolana Palomare, the hard look in her sandy-brown eyes making her smile unbelievable. “If we’re taking pistols.”