“I don’t need to say anything. You explain it all very well.” He folded his arms as he stared down at the latest display. This one was sharper and steadier than the one before. “I think the Protectorate Office has kicked in. And about time, too.”
Tira looked shocked. “The Protectorate? I thought they must have gone to the Navy.”
“Not the Protectorate. That’s the whole idea. I’ve been trying to find out what the rest of the Navy is up to,” Chaney said. “I haven’t got very far. It looks as if the Admiral has been trying to put a lock on everything that might compromise him.” The steadiness of his features was belied by the sound of his voice, which was husky with fury.
“Chaney—” she began.
“He is!” he burst out. “He’s doing everything he can to protect himself. And that isn’t the end of it. He’s casting about for those he can suborn. He wants to keep power even if he loses his title and his ships.” He took three long uneven breaths. “He’s a dangerous man.”
Tira made a gesture of sympathy, saying, “It’s nothing you can change.”
“No, I can’t,” he muttered angrily. He shoved at the display controls. “From what I can make out, all the rest of the Navy has turned itself over to the Earth Protectorate Office, but the Logistics Garrison continues loyal.” He stared at the holograph. “That is the word I want, is it? Loyal?”
“What have they done,” asked Tira, unwilling to be forced to defend Admiral Sclerida to defend his son’s pride, “in regard to the Protectorate?”
“The Logistics Garrison, do you mean? They’ve attacked the Protectorate at every opportunity.” He flipped through four displays in quick succession: in each of them Logistics Garrison Navy craft were battling with Protectorate ships.
“Oh, dear,” said Tira, shocked at the destruction being rained on the Protectorate ships.
“I’ve found clips and files that show most of the other Navy ships out beyond the space stations. We have about a dozen of the huge Bases on the far side of the moon. For the time being, Naval personnel are being escorted there until there is some resolution to this impasse.” He keyed in the codes.
In three-second clips, the newest information was displayed on the holograph.
“How can you keep it all straight?” Tira asked as she turned away. “I can’t do it the way you do.”
“I’m trained for it, and I have a strong left-brain development.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice as he spoke and he addressed her with far less deference than he might have the day before. “From what I can tell, the trouble with the military is mostly over. I think the Haiken Maru has lost too much to recover their position, so we shouldn’t have to shoot any more Cernians for a while. I don’t know what the Kona Tatsu is up to, but I’m beginning to think that maybe all those rumors—the ones we always laughed about?—that they were in charge of the Protectorate, those rumors just might have been right.”
“You mean they haven’t been trying to stop the Protectorate?” asked Tira in some shock.
“Not that I can discover, no,” admitted Chaney with a puzzled frown.
Tira nodded. “You know,” she said as a frown line moved up her forehead between her brows, “that could mean Damien Ver is the . . . I don’t know what?”
“It makes me wonder,” said Chaney. “For the Protectorate to move as quickly as it did to restore order probably means there was help inside the military . . . and since,” he went on with greater confidence, “we suspect that the Kona Tatsu has agents in every military service, couldn’t it follow that it was Ver who put them into motion when everything was blackest?”
“But why?” Tira asked. “He can’t be doing this for love of my stepmother and he knows his birth isn’t good enough to advance him any higher than he’s risen already.”
Chaney nodded, his heart somber. “But together—what if they’re in this together? She can’t make him High Secretary, but if they were married, it could be that his position would be strong enough for him to gain Senatorial approval to a fait accompli.”
“And because he’s Kona Tatsu, he might have secrets on the Senators that would strengthen his position? Is that what you mean?” She turned her back on the console where a dozen gunboats were transferring Protectorate officers to the navy craft.
“It’s a possibility,” he admitted. “I don’t know how likely it is.”
“Because you don’t want to talk about things you might not like?” she challenged. “How well do you think I like them?” Her arms were folded now and her pretty features showed more strength of character than attractiveness. “You’re thinking about the need for a diplomatic marriage, aren’t you?”
“Well, there are several that could be possible,” he hedged, unaware until then at how keen her understanding was. His face felt hot and he was afraid—correctly—that he was blushing. “Your stepmother, of course, and possibly your brother. It could be that—”
“And me. You mustn’t forget me.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her work smock. “I haven’t forgotten me.”
As they talked the holographic display continued to cycle through. It showed two Navy gunboats under heavy attack from a dozen Protectorate skirmishers and a brace of mobile observation platforms. The Navy was being taken in tow by the Protectorate. This gave way to a Marine engineering station where a flotilla of three dreadnoughts with actual ocean-going service ships for support were supervising the change of command from Marine to Protectorate.
“Attention. Priority announcement incoming. Imperial recognition code required,” announced the console.
“Imperial recognition code?” Chaney asked.
Tira hesitated, then placed her hand on the genescan plate.
“Word has just reached Protectorate Central Control,” said the machine voice, “that Governor Windsor of Harmony Cluster is dead. Repeat: Governor Windsor is dead. We will report as more information is confirmed.”
“Governor Windsor is dead,” whispered Tira, for the first time beginning to smile with pleasure. “Oh, dear.”
“Oh, dear?” Chaney echoed.
“It isn’t correct to be pleased by the misfortunes of others, of course, but with Governor Windsor out of the picture, the succession has to go to my brother. I wouldn’t mind if it were Jessine. The thing is, it wouldn’t be me.” She pressed her hands together.
Chaney lost happiness even as she gained it. “Really? It’s possible, I suppose.” He looked at her. “But they didn’t say anything about Anson Merikur. If he is still bringing his forces here to carry out Governor Windsor’s policies, what could happen? Either we would have to ratify full and equal status for all members of intelligent species or Windsor’s break-away planets continue to sow dissension through the Pact.” He scowled.
“I thought you agreed with Governor Windsor,” said Tira uncertainly.
“I do. I don’t think the Pact has a prayer without granting equality to all intelligent species everywhere. But I think that the Pact needs time to be persuaded to agree. Give immediate rights across the board and there could be a back-lash before the new status quo gets into place; in five years there could be . . . I don’t know, guerrillas in the streets, worse turmoil than there is even now.”
“That could be difficult,” she said, sounding remarkably composed. “But if there was a marriage—finish the rest of it.” She swung around and put the console displays on hold. “You think they might reach an agreement with Merikur by arranging a marriage for Jessine or me. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I hope it won’t happen,” he said, revealing much more of his true feelings than he had intended.
“So do I,” she said. “Because I won’t agree to it. No!” she went on sharply when he made a half-hearted effort to protest. “No. You don’t know what it’s like, to be told all your life that all you’re good for is adding a little oomph to the signatures on documents, that you have to be prepared to be auctioned off to the planet group with the best trade agre
ements. Well, I do. And I will have no part of it. I am not going to turn into a martyr like my mother, or a manipulator like Jessine, or a nobody flumfluxis like Cousin Helga.”
In the last few seconds, the room where they stood seemed to have shrunk. Chaney stared at her, feeling as if he had dived too deeply and was running out of air. He forced himself to speak. He could not bring himself to touch her. “What will you do?”
“Whatever I do, it’s my business, my business only.” She made it very easy for him to kiss her. “The front rooms are terrible,” she said a short time later, breathing a little unsteadily herself, “but let me show you the guest room. Come,” Tira said, leading him by the hand into the guest bedroom beside the entrance corridor. She locked doors between them and the living room, then turned to Chaney.
“But . . . Helga?” he said. He couldn’t believe this was happening.
“She’ll sleep, I think,” Tira said. “Anyway, I left the console on in the living room. I don’t think it will distract us.”
She began to open the fastenings of her clothing.
“No,” he said as he watched her. “Not at all.”
Chapter 15
As Wiley continued, he found himself growing faint. He’d completely lost track of time, but he knew he was exhausted and hungry. And still feeling the effects of the last party. He found it harder to focus on the direction and speed of the aircar.
“Home,” he muttered. “Home is where the . . . is where the food is . . .”
He spotted what he thought must be the Palace landing pad and aimed for it. As he brought the car into a descent, the world unfocused. His head dropped forward.
When he awoke several seconds later, the aircar had crashed to the ground. He turned his head, suddenly too tired to lift it.
He saw a knee by his face, and then he felt the cold barrel of a lightweight pistol pressed at the base of his skull. He remained very still. “Do you mind?” he said tentatively. “That thing’s cold.”
“My stars!” gasped a voice. “It’s Lord Wiley! Milord,” said the man kneeling beside him, and withdrew the Meinhauser. “We thought you were dead.”
Wiley finally focused on the man’s uniform: Secretarial Guard. Wonder of wonders.
“So did I,” he said, and started to struggle to his feet.
“Wiley Bouriere,” said the corporal in charge of the squad. Awe touched her voice. “We were told all your family were—”
“Dead?” said Wiley and saw the corporal wince.
“It was what we were told,” she said. “It was in all the reports.”
“Well, they lied,” said Wiley. He finally pushed himself to his feet. “Is there anything to eat around here? I’m starving.”
“Yes, there’s food in your apartments,” said another Guard, a fair-haired youngster named Garring. “When the assault came and we couldn’t reach you, we decided we’d better dig in and wait.”
“Even when you were told I died?” Wiley asked.
“Well, we were told, sir, but we hadn’t seen . . . well, a body,” said the corporal.
Wiley looked at the five Guards surrounding him. They were little older than he was, and unaccustomed to taking the initiative. “Good work,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. Now, how about that food?”
The corporal opened her mouth to reply and was cut off by one of her men.
“Look!”
A fully armed destroyer with Logistics flashes was coming in low from the northeast. Its passage stirred up little tornadoes. Arrears in the vicinity were all but knocked out of the air by its turbulence. Laser cannon and plasma batteries decorated the hull.
It came nearer, blotting out the view of most of the city. The destroyer was a quarter the size of the Palace grounds. Suddenly all the klaxons, sirens, bells, and whistles of the Palace came to life. The noise was overwhelming.
Wiley crouched down, hands over his ears. He could see the others had done the same.
The noise grew louder as the Navy craft crossed over the Palace wall and continued inexorably forward. Then someone high in the top of the southwest tower turned a laser cannon on the Logistics vessel.
Garring was shouting something but Wiley couldn’t hear him over the noise.
A second laser cannon—this one somewhere on the grounds—opened on the Logistics ship.
The little group on the platform flattened and tried to cling to the surface as huge winds buffeted them, burning.
Wiley tugged at the corporal’s sleeve. When she looked up, he gestured toward the nearest entrance. “We’d better get inside,” he yelled.
Another blast was fired from the ground station, but the huge ship’s shields held against the laser cannon. Then another combatant entered the fray, a high-altitude Protectorate surveillance platform. It directed its plasma guns at the destroyer. The platform was designed to bring down armed and shielded spacecraft; a single destroyer was no opposition to its deadly strength.
Wiley tore his gaze from the battle and tugged the corporal’s sleeve again. This time she got it, and the group began to crawl toward shelter.
The destroyer was almost on top of them, perhaps seeking to use the Palace for protection, an additional shield to the ones it already possessed.
A missile hissed from the Protectorate platform. But the destroyers shields held and the mushrooming fire scorched and blackened the upper floors of the Secretarial Palace.
Wiley felt his hair singe and tasted burning at the back of his mouth. He was slightly dazed. His eyes did not focus quite perfectly and he had to resist the urge to simply collapse where he was. I wonder if I have a concussion? he thought in some remote part of his brain.
The advance to safety was halted for the moment.
Another missile overshot the destroyer and struck a parking and storage building. The spectacular explosion that followed reduced it all to a few broken walls, like a broken child’s toy.
A sound, deceptively soft; a deep crinkling sound, as if someone far away had dropped a gigantic chain onto steel, ricocheted along the battered Palace walls.
Then the destroyer, almost directly overhead, shivered a bit, wriggling like a sleeper about to wake. Half a dozen of the turrets came loose and the enormous weapons dangled, two breaking away entirely.
Three lifeboats streaked away from the destroyer, which shook itself again. It drew in on itself, and then opened in a blaze that ballooned upward, suffused with gaudy colors and harlequin patches of black. Twisted metal shapes like lethal party favors began to fall.
Wiley buried his head in his elbow and hoped that if anything landed on him it would kill him quickly.
Ground fire from the hidden lasers brought down two of the lifeboats in blazing wreckage.
But the third lifeboat skittered and bobbed on the ferocious currents of air and miraculously came to rest at the far end of the landing pad. All the lifeboat’s guns were trained on the Guards and Wiley.
“There’s trouble,” warned Garring, speaking loudly against the fading roar of the explosions. “Real trouble.”
“Good guess,” said Wiley. He looked around. A good part of a cargo hatch, now warped and charred, had fallen from the destroyer and landed not more than twenty paces away. It wasn’t the door to inside, but it was better than an open platform.
He nudged the corporal and pointed.
The corporal glanced at the wreckage, then back at the lifeboat. She nodded. “I think we can make it, if we move fast.”
“Let’s do it,” said Wiley, preparing to run.
There were a number of men piling out of the lifeboat, all in Navy Logistics uniforms. They had their weapons at the ready and were forming into three lines.
Wiley and his Guards lit out for the wrecked cargo hatch, finding little purchase on the soot slick surface. They stumbled into the metal just as the Navy troops opened fire.
Hunched down behind the tortured metal, Wiley flinched as another volley of shells left pockmarks in the section of hatch. He gla
nced at Garring, noticing that the man seemed very calm, taking time to check his ammunition before selecting a place where he could fire.
“There!” shouted one of the Guards, pointing toward the door they were seeking.
Peering around the end of the section of metal, Wiley could just see men in Navy Logistics uniforms piling into the corridor beyond, a number of Cernians with them.
They have to be Admiral Sclerida’s men,” said the corporal. “Who else could get this far? The Protectorate has stopped most of Logistics; these have to be the holdouts. They couldn’t have reached that destroyer without Admiral Sclerida’s help.”
“We better be ready to fight,” said Garring. “We have a sworn duty to uphold.” He smiled at Wiley. “Better get flat, sir. In case.”
“No,” said Wiley. It was one thing for the child he had been to pretend to be a target, with all his personal Guards lying on top of him to keep him from getting killed. It was something else now. Death was real now. And enough was enough.
“Better do it now,” said the corporal. “Sir.”
“Bouriere!” came Admiral Sclerida’s voice, magnified by the lifeboat’s speakers. “Give yourself up. Come out. Surrender. Or we will open fire.”
Wiley stared at the men and women huddled behind the hatch with him. “I can’t be a party to this,” he said. “I can’t let you sacrifice yourselves.”
“Sorry, sir,” said one of the Guards. “We took our oaths long ago.” He smiled a little. “We knew what we might have to do.”
“You don’t have to get killed,” said Wiley in desperation.
“Not unless it protects you,” said Garring.
“Surrender, Wiley. You know it’s the right thing to do!” Admiral Sclerida urged.
“I don’t want you—” Wiley protested to the Guard.
“Better get flat, sir,” said the corporal again, ignoring him. “They’re about to make a rush from the hallway. And those Cernians look like they’re in a bad mood.”
“Listen to me!” Wiley ordered through tight teeth.
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