Crown of Empire

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Tira nodded.

  “Here we go.” He eased the door open, wide enough to allow him to slide out and provide room enough for Tira to take up a position beside him. He moved smoothly, knowing that the soldiers were more likely to react to an abrupt movement than a graceful one.

  He braced himself against the wall and lifted the Meinhauser. He had a clip with sixty rounds and a second with another sixty. That ought to make a dent in the Navy men. He pulled the trigger.

  The disruption was dramatic and immediate. Those soldiers who could turned and began firing in Chaney’s direction, but more of them fell, yelling with pain as bullets smashed tibias and fibulas and patellas and femurs. The body armor that protected their torsos could not save their legs.

  Tira aimed for those who were firing back, deliberately setting about disabling them as quickly as possible.

  The floor was growing slick with blood still hot enough to steam.

  Chaney swore as a shot grazed his arm.

  Several of the Logistics soldiers were already retreating, dragging their injured comrades with them, unwilling to try to fight in such close quarters for so little gain.

  “We’ll be back!” one of the men shouted as he reached the ruin of the main door. “And you won’t get out of here.”

  Tira, who had been concealed behind the half-open door, made her way around it, next to Chaney, her reticule dangling from her belt, her Meinhauser clutched in her hand. “He means it.”

  “Yep,” said Chaney, trying to find a way to stop his arm from bleeding.

  “What can we do?” She looked around the room as if hoping for reinforcements. “I guess we could get into the closet with Cousin Helga,” she said, thinking aloud.

  “We have to realize they’re not going to be stupid twice,” said Chaney, cursing as the blood ran off his arm and began making a puddle on the floor. “They know this place is hard to crack, and they’ll come prepared.”

  Tira nodded in irritation, then clicked her tongue as she realized how badly he was hurt. “There’s tissue cement in the first-aid kit in Cousin Helga’s room,” she said decisively and walked up to the closed door. She bent down and pressed one of the sections of parquetry, clearing the genescan.

  The door swung open, revealing Cousin Helga’s bedroom. Where Tira’s room was rich silkeen and tapestries, Cousin Helga’s was all lace and chintz. A plethora of doilies littered every available surface and the two vanity mirrors were held in place by burnished gold cupids.

  Helga came bustling out of the closet, a Ridly pistol in her shaking hands. “You can’t—” she began, then realized who she was talking to. She dropped the pistol and rushed to Tira’s side. “Oh, my dear, thank goodness you’re all right. I was so frightened. The noise alone was enough to make one crazed.” She looked from Tira to Chaney then back again. “Gracious, what are you doing in those masks?”

  “The Logistics men are going to be back,” said Chaney. “You can bet on it.”

  “But surely—” Helga protested, and then her expression changed. “You mean it still isn’t over?”

  “Not yet,” said Tira grimly. “I need the first-aid kit, Cousin Helga. Will you fetch it for me? And bring an air pack for yourself. They might try using gas on us next time, or there could be a fire. Let’s get ready to hold them off.”

  “The double brace still works,” said Cousin Helga as she turned to get the first-aid kit from the closet. “I didn’t have time to put it in place, but we can do it now.”

  “Good,” said Tira, slamming the door closed and coding in the command for the eight steel bars within the door to lock them in. There was a satisfying thunk as the bars slid into place and were anchored. “The first-aid kit?”

  “Right here,” trilled Cousin Helga as she offered it as if it were a tray of sweet meats. “But I don’t see—” And then she caught sight of Chaney’s arm. “Oh gracious!” The kit slid from her nerveless fingers as she tottered toward her bed, one hand to her brow.

  Tira picked up the kit and set to work tending to Chaney’s wound. She spoke to Cousin Helga as she worked. “Don’t let this bother you,” she said, feeling a little queasy herself.

  “How did they know where to come?” Cousin Helga wailed.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Chaney. “I’m afraid I did it. I think they traced my AID code when I used the communications console. It’s what I’d expect Sclerida to do. It makes sense.”

  “Yes,” said Tira grimly. “It makes sense.”

  “That means he knows you’re here, Tira,” Chaney added. He touched Tira’s face with his good hand. “I’m sorry.”

  She did her best to smile. “I know.”

  “I should have thought—” he began.

  There was a sound from the warning beacon near the door.

  “They’re coming back,” said Cousin Helga, reaching for the airpack and putting her mask into place. She gathered up the first-aid kit, half a dozen pillows, Tira’s discarded reticule, and her antique jewelry box and shoved them all into the closet. “They’ll be protected in there,” she announced.

  Chaney and Tira were already shoving furniture around to increase their protection. The bed was upended and leaned against the door, two of the settees were turned on their sides to provide cover for the three of them.

  “It’ll take heavy fire to get through the door,” said Tira.

  “We’d better be ready for it, anyway,” said Chaney. “They know what they’re up against.”

  “Not quite. The bars weren’t in place before,” said Tira, wanting to be more hopeful.

  “No. But they may anticipate something of the sort,” said Chaney thoughtfully as he set about reloading his Meinhauser. “I would.”

  “How much warning will we have?” Cousin Helga asked with a quiver in her voice. “I’m not sure I’m up to all this disturbance.”

  “Who knows?” said Chaney. “I don’t think they intend to kill us. Or not Tira, anyway. That’s something.” He had taken his position behind one of the settees and was trying to find the least uncomfortable position for his arm.

  “Do you think they’ll use—” She broke off. “Gas?”

  “That’s it,” said Chaney, adjusting the flow of oxygen to his mask. “Be careful. Don’t take off the goggles, don’t rub anything, don’t scratch your skin if it itches.”

  Tira was already rolling down her sleeves and reaching for something to put over her hair. She had been drilled throughout her youth for just such an eventuality and now went about her preparations with rote-learned skills.

  Cousin Helga dragged her most elaborate negligee off its hanger and wrapped herself in its vast filmy folds of georgine and lace, all the while whispering imprecations at the attacking troops. “Imagine, storming the private quarters of the High Secretary’s family. There’s no excuse for it, none.”

  The gas grew thicker, and even with the masks in place and the oxygen flow on full, the rotten-eggs-and-seaweed stench was almost overwhelming. Everything in the bedroom was covered with a fine, acrid mist of unwholesome greyish-green.

  “Come out with your hands up. You will not be harmed. Come out with your hands up.” This was not the voice they had heard earlier, but a deeper one, more used to command. “Give yourselves up.”

  “How dare they!” fumed Cousin Helga.

  “Tira Bouriere. Yon Chaney. Come out.” The voice was growing impatient. “If you don’t come out, we’ll come in and get you.”

  Tira looked over at Cousin Helga. “Get in the closet,” she ordered the old lady. “They don’t know you’re in here. You heard them. They didn’t call your name. Get in the closet.”

  “But whatever for?” demanded Cousin Helga.

  “In case they break through. We need someone who can . . . rescue us, if it comes to that.” Tira glanced at Chaney and saw him nod.

  “Come out before we open fire. We warn you, we have two laser cannon trained on that door. We will f
ire on a count of ten.”

  Cousin Helga hesitated. “How can I—”

  “If you don’t hide in the closet, we won’t have a chance,” said Chaney very seriously.

  “One.”

  “Oh, if you really think . . .” said Cousin Helga, torn between dismay and relief. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good.” Tira all but pushed her through the door, pressing it closed as soon as Cousin Helga pulled the last of her lacy garment inside.

  “Two.”

  “Better get ready,” said Chaney.

  Tira threw him a kiss before she slipped down behind the smaller settee and swung her Meinhauser up, leveling it at the door.

  “Three.”

  “They’ll probably just blow it up,” said Chaney. “They don’t want to cause too much damage. And they can get in more—”

  “Four.”

  “—easily if there isn’t too much damage.” He checked his ammunition for the third time, and for the third time swore at how inadequate his supply was.

  “Five.”

  Tira wanted to yell in defiance, to recite the numbers faster so that they would get the fight going. She was tired of waiting. She made sure her goggles were firmly in position.

  “Six.”

  “We’re going to get out of this, Tira. We’ll be fine,” said Chaney, not believing a word of it.

  “Seven.”

  Chaney had a sudden thought—would Admiral Sclerida actually order his death? Would he let his men kill his son? At that moment he would not have liked to wager on it.

  “Eight.”

  “Get on with it,” muttered Tira, realizing that the Navy man wanted to irritate her; that recognition made her more irritated than before.

  “Nine.”

  Chaney’s hands tightened on his weapon. He prepared to fight.

  Ten was announced by a nerve-shattering explosion that shredded the door and sent sections of it flying through the room, smashing the mirrors and wrecking the bed. Chaney’s settee was hit by a huge chunk of metal that broke its frame and left one end sagging and shapeless.

  No sooner had all the metal landed than a squad of Navy soldiers with Logistics flashes appeared in the doorway, spraying the room with high-velocity bullets.

  Chaney slipped to the end of the settee and started to pick off the soldiers in the front of the squad, taking care not to waste shots trying to penetrate the body armor protecting their torsos. He aimed instead for the head or the legs, firing steadily and deliberately.

  Tira was equally cautious in her shooting, and she succeeded in taking out half a dozen of the Navy soldiers before she became a target and once again retreated behind her settee, prepared to change clips.

  There were fifteen men lying in and near the doorway, only two of them still moving. Chaney’s next round took out a soldier who landed on top of another dead man. More high-velocity fire kept Chaney and Tira behind their protective settees and played havoc with the decorations of the room.

  “You hogmaulers!” Tira shouted, unheard over the gunfire. “We just got this room cleaned up again!” She fired three times and hit two men, one of whom flopped forward, twitching. The other staggered back against his comrades, knocking one of them over as he strove to stay erect.

  Then the fire was silenced and the Logistics soldiers moved back from the door.

  “Form ranks!” shouted an officer, and the straggling soldiers did their best to comply.

  “What in—” Chaney whispered as he watched the soldiers fall back.

  In the next instant his question was answered. From the entrance to the suite came a terrible, familiar voice. “Yon. Tira. This is Admiral Sclerida. I am coming forward. Put down your weapons. My men will not fire on you.” The Admiral’s footsteps were strangely shuffling and uneven.

  Tira remained in her hidden position as a sudden, cold apprehension went over her. She wished she had somewhere to run.

  “We are going to work this out,” Admiral Sclerida informed them, coming still closer. “You’ll see.”

  And indeed they did, for Admiral Sclerida appeared in the doorway to Cousin Helga’s bedroom with Wiley held in front of him as a shield, the muzzle of the Admiral’s custom Campriani 56-007 firmly pressed to the young man’s temple.

  Chapter 18

  The aircar jolted into the broken paving with front-crushing force.

  “Are you alive?” asked Ver as he unfastened his harness.

  “I think so,” said Jessine unsteadily. She managed to pry her fingers loose and then unfastened her harness. “Yes, I’m too badly bruised to be dead. I hope you like purple and yellow.”

  Ver stifled a grin. “On you, my love, any color.” He made his way to the hatch and opened it. Another aircar, with Protectorate flashes, was descending.

  The other aircar landed and half a dozen Protectorate men hurried out, all with their arms holstered. The man in the lead hurried over to Ver.

  “Lieutenant Nkomo, Citizen Ver,” he said with a brisk salute and an apologetic air. “Sorry we had to bring you down like this.”

  “No more than I am,” said Ver drily.

  “The trouble is,” the young man went on, undaunted by Ver’s imposing manner, “we have a very bad situation here. It developed very fast, and we’re still trying to get solid information on it. You know how hard that can be.”

  Ver was curious now. “What is the situation, Lieutenant Nkomo?”

  “We had to bring you down,” said Lieutenant Nkomo, including Jessine in his explanation. “Logistics forces have shot down everything approaching the Palace for the last half-hour.

  “We have reason to believe that there is a group of Logistics men in the Palace. Our best guess is that Admiral Sclerida is there with them.”

  “Sounds like a tempting target,” said Ver.

  “Trouble is the scanners also show that Tira and Wiley Bouriere are in the Palace as well. They may be hostages.” Lieutenant Nkomo scowled. “We’ve—the Protectorate Office—ringed the entire Palace, but we’re not authorized to use heavy weapons against the Palace. We can’t put the High Secretary in danger.”

  “The High Secretary is dead,” said Jessine.

  “The High Secretary Wiley,” Lieutenant Nkomo said. “Sorry, Madame Bouriere.”

  Jessine nodded. “Poor Wiley,” she said.

  “I understand,” said Ver. “Where is your Situation Command set up, Lieutenant?”

  “Not far,” said Nkomo. “I can take you there at once.”

  “Good,” said Ver. “Do it.”

  The Protectorate Office had taken over the Ministry of Horticulture and Agribusiness outside the walls and the Appointments Division inside the Palace.

  “Can you get us inside?” Ver asked as he and Jessine got into the Lieutenant’s aircar.

  “Inside the Palace, sir?” asked Nkomo as the aircar rose.

  “Yes.” Ver fastened his harness as the aircar banked steeply and shot down the street toward the wide boulevard that would lead to the Ministry of Horticulture and Agribusiness.

  “I don’t see how, sir,” Nkomo answered. “The Admiral’s forces—”

  Ver reached over and took Jessine’s hand. “If I can get inside the walls, all the way to the Palace, do you think you can get me to the Appointments Division?”

  Lieutenant Nkomo thought carefully. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  They set down in the central quadrangle of the Ministry of Horticulture and Agribusiness a few minutes later and were at once surrounded by a squad of Protectorate officers in body armor.

  As soon as the squads captain—Harbinger, by his tags—recognized Ver, he ordered the men to form an honor guard.

  “Lieutenant,” said Ver over his shoulder to Nkomo, “please come with us.”

  The main reception hall had been cleared of its vast collection of potted and tubbed plants. In their places a number of hastily assembled holographic displays were being monitored by Protectorate officers and Kona Tatsu men in black, working
openly for once side by side.

  “This is the most recent materiel we have,” said Captain Harbinger, directing Ver to the largest of the displays. “The contact is in Tira Bouriere’s suite.”

  Ver settled down to watch the playback of Admiral Sclerida’s arrival.

  The figures in the holograph were no larger than rats, and they waited like intangible dolls to be put into motion again.

  Jessine found a place near the window, and realized that there were Protectorate marksmen on the roof. She looked toward Lieutenant Nkomo. “You’re using snipers?”

  For an answer he tried to move her away. “You don’t want to make yourself a target. Logistics has marksmen, too.” As he spoke, a Logistics man patrolling the balcony on the forty-fourth floor of the Palace lurched and crumpled as a Protectorate marksman found his target.

  “Point taken,” said Jessine, moving. “How many have you got so far?”

  “Thirty-one of them. They’ve killed nineteen of ours,” said Nkomo.

  There was a flurry of activity as the holographic console reran the incidents in Tira’s apartments.

  “How long ago did this happen?” Ver asked as the replay began.

  “Four minutes, thirteen seconds,” said the Protectorate technician seated at the machine.

  Admiral Sclerida appeared, his Campriani clapped to Wiley’s head. “We are going to work this out. You’ll see.”

  Tira shrank back, her eyes enormous with horror.

  “Let me explain,” said Admiral Sclerida at his most genial. “Unless one or the other of you is willing to kill me and—well, High Secretary Wiley Bouriere—you’ll have to accept me as the victor. In spite of the setbacks we have encountered, I have prevailed, wouldn’t you say?”

  No one answered him.

  “Well, think it over a short while. It may take some getting used to.” He achieved a wolfish smile. “Don’t assume I won’t kill this boy. I’ve done worse to get this prize and I won’t let him stop me.”

  “Stop it!” Tira said sharply.

  Wiley, who looked very pale and worn, and whose hair and clothes were matted with drying blood, spoke up. “Don’t give in. It’s all for nothing if you do.”