Heirs of Empire fe-3

by David Weber

  The sublight battleship Israel split atmosphere in a long, shallow descent that wrapped her in a shroud of fire. Her crew rode their couches, feeling their ship quiver with the fury of her descent as her bow plating began to glow. Heat sensors soared as the thick battle steel armor burned cherry-red, then yellow, then white. The terrible glow crept back along her hull, the air blazed before her as she battered a column of superheated atmosphere out of her path, and Sean MacIntyre monitored his instruments and tried to stay calm.

  The maneuvering computers waited patiently to engage their carefully written program and stop them dead in the bellow of the drive’s fury. It was going to be a rough ride, but so far everything was nominal, and they’d already picked out an alpine valley hiding place fifteen hundred kilometers from the planet’s largest city. It was going to be fine, he told himself for the thousandth time, and grinned mirthlessly at his own insistence.

  * * *

  High Priest Vroxhan stood on his balcony and watched the night sky burn. His servants had summoned him almost hysterically, and he’d charged out in only his under-robe to see the terrible strand of fire with his own eyes. Now he did see it, and it touched him with ice.

  Shooting stars he had seen before, and wondered why the work of God’s Hands should abandon the glorious firmament for the surface of the world to which the demons’ treachery had banished man, but never had he seen one so huge. No one had, and he watched it blaze above The Temple like the very Finger of God and trembled.

  Could it be—?

  No! God’s Wrath had slain the demons, and he suppressed the blasphemous thought quickly. But not quickly enough. He’d thought it, and if he had, how much more might the ignorant of his flock think the same thing?

  He inhaled sharply as the beautiful, terrifying light vanished beyond the western peaks. Would it land? If so, where? Far beyond the borders of Aris—probably even beyond those of Malagor. In Cherist, then? Or Showmah?

  He shook himself and turned away, hurrying back into the warmth of his apartments from the chill spring night. It couldn’t be the demons, he told himself firmly, and if not they, then it must, indeed, be God’s handiwork, as all the world was. He nodded with fresh assurance. No doubt God had sent it as a sign and reminder of His deliverance, and he must see the truth was spread before the less faith-filled panicked.

  He closed the balcony door and beckoned to a servant. His messages must be ready for the semaphore tower by first light.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Colin MacIntyre paused outside the larger state dining room to watch three harassed humans and a dozen robots sorting the countless bags of old-fashioned mail into paper breastworks. No one noticed him in the doorway, and as he resumed his journey towards the balcony, he made a note to divert still more human staff to reading the letters while he tried to sort out his own feelings.

  Those bags, and the hundreds which had preceded them in the past few days, proved that whatever outrages the Sword of God might wreak and however well-hidden their true enemy might be, his subjects cared. Those letters weren’t just formal, official nothings from heads of state. They came from people all over the Fifth Imperium, expressing their joy—and relief—that their Empress was pregnant.

  Yet his own joy, as ’Tanni’s, was bittersweet. Over two years had passed, but the aching void remained. Perhaps the new children (for the doctors had already confirmed it would be twins once more) would fill that emptiness. He hoped so. But he also hoped he and ’Tanni could resist the need to make them fill it. Sean and Harriet had been special. No one could replace them, and their new children deserved the right to be special in their own ways, not compared, however lovingly, to ghosts.

  The decision to have them hadn’t been easy. It was fraught with grief, a guilty sense of betraying Sean and Harriet in some indefinable way, and fear of fresh loss. His and ’Tanni’s enhancement would give them centuries of fertility, and the temptation to wait was great. Yet they faced the dilemma of all dynasts: the succession must be secured.

  That wasn’t something Lieutenant Commander MacIntyre, USN, had ever worried about, and it hadn’t entered his or ’Tanni’s head when Sean and Harriet were conceived, for it had seemed preposterous that the monarchical government of a long-dead empire might be maintained. But as Tsien Tao-ling had pointed out twenty years past, it was loyalty to the Crown—to Colin MacIntyre’s person—which held humanity together despite its legacy of rivalries, and many years must pass before that primal source of loyalty could be buttressed by others. Colin had been amazed that someone who had been the commander-in-chief of the last Communist power on Earth could make that statement, but Tao-ling had been right. And because he had, Colin and Jiltanith had no option but to think in dynastic terms.

  And perhaps, he mused, as he stepped out onto the balcony and saw his wife dozing in the summer sunlight, that was good. If their hands had been forced, the decision had still proved there was a future … and that they had the courage to love again after love had hurt them so cruelly.

  He smiled and crossed to Jiltanith, bending over her under Bia’s drowsy warmth, and kissed her gently.

  * * *

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Dahak.” Ninhursag scratched her nose and nodded. “We’ve put every senior officer under a microscope—hell, we’re down to lieutenants—and the only bad apples we’ve found are deceased, so it looks like we’ve closed off Mister X’s penetration there.”

  “I must confess I had anticipated neither that his penetration might be so limited,” Dahak replied, “nor that he would dispose of his minions so summarily.”

  “Ummmm.” Ninhursag leaned back and crossed her legs as she contemplated their findings. Dahak was an enormous asset for any security officer. The computer might not yet have developed the ability to “play a hunch,” but he’d achieved total penetration of Bia’s datanets, and he was a devastatingly thorough and acute analyst. He and Ninhursag had started with a top-down threat analysis of every officer outside Colin’s inner circle, then used Dahak’s access to every database in Bia to test their analyses. Where necessary, ONI agents had added on-the-ground investigation to Dahak’s efforts, usually without even realizing what they were doing or why. By now, the computer could tell Admiral MacMahan where every Fleet and Marine officer in the Bia System had been at any given minute in the last fifteen years. Of course, he didn’t have anything like that degree of penetration in the Sol System. Not even the hypercom was capable of real-timing data at that range, and Earth’s datanets were still far more decentralized than Birhat’s. But even with those limitations, his access to the military’s every order and report had allowed him to clear most of Sol’s senior officers, as well.

  “Apparently Mister X takes the adage about dead men telling no tales to heart,” Ninhursag observed now.

  “True. Yet eliminating his agents, however much it may contribute to his security, also deprives him of their future services. That would seem somewhat premature of him—unless he has acquired all the access his plans, whatever they may be, require.”

  “Yeah.” Ninhursag frowned at that unpalatable thought. “Of course, he may have been a bit too smart for his own good. We know about him now, and knowing he doesn’t have a military conduit frees us up a lot.”

  “Yet by the same token, it deprives us of potential access into his own network. We have exhausted all leads available to us, Ninhursag.”

  “Yeah,” she sighed again. “Damn. How I wish I knew what he was after! Just sitting here waiting for him to take another shot doesn’t appeal to me at all. He’s got too good a track record.”

  “Agreed.” Dahak paused, then spoke rather carefully, even for him. “It has occurred to me, however, that our concentration on the military, while logical, may have had the unfortunate consequence of narrowing our vision.”

  “How so?”

  “We have proceeded on the assumption that he himself was of or closely connected to the military, or that the military was in some wise essen
tial to his objectives. If such is not, indeed, the case, may we not have devoted insufficient attention to other areas of vulnerability?”

  “That’s an endemic security concern, Dahak. We have to start someplace where we can establish a ‘clear zone,’ and we’ve got one now—physically, as well as in an investigative sense. We can be fairly confident the entire Bia System is clear, now, so we can assume Colin and ’Tanni are safe from direct physical attack, and knowing the military is clear—now—gives us the resources to mount a counteroffensive of our own. But if Mister X is a civilian—even one in government service somewhere—our chance of finding him’s a lot lower.”

  Dahak made a soft electronic sound of agreement. Entry level positions for civilian politicians and bureaucrats were subject to less intensive background scrutinies, and civilian careers seldom included the periodic security checks military men and women took for granted. When it came to civilians, he and Ninhursag lacked anything remotely approaching Battle Fleet’s central databases, and their ability to vet suspects was enormously reduced.

  “Even worse,” the admiral said after a moment, “Mister X knows what he’s after, and that gives him the initiative. Until we figure out what he wants, we can’t even predict what he’s likely to do. Every security chief in history’s worried about what he may have overlooked.”

  “Granted. I only raise the point because I feel it is important that we maintain our guard against all contingencies to the best of our ability.”

  “Point taken. And that’s precisely why I see more reason than ever to keep this on a need-to-know basis. Especially since we don’t know who in the civil service might have been suborned. Or who’s vulnerable in the same way Vincente Cruz was.”

  “A wise precaution. But may this not create problems when your ONI agents begin operations on Earth? They will inevitably be seen as interlopers, and the decision not to inform even the highest levels of the civilian security forces as to why their presence is necessary will exacerbate that perception. Indeed, it may even lead to a certain degree of institutional obstructionism in what humans call ‘turf wars.’ ”

  “If there are any turf wars, I guarantee they’ll be short. Ultimate responsibility for the Imperium’s security rests right here, in my office. ONI’s the senior service, and if anybody thinks different, I’ll just have to show him the error of his ways, won’t I?”

  Admiral MacMahan’s smile was cold. Which suited Dahak very well indeed.

  * * *

  Lawrence Jefferson’s pleasant expression masked a most unpleasant mood as he and Horus walked together to the Shepard Center mat-trans. Alert bodyguards watched over the Governor, and knowing his own actions had made them inevitable was irritating. Yet he’d had no choice. He’d known having Gus van Gelder killed would almost have to shake the Imperium’s leadership into a fundamental reassessment of its security needs, but it had been essential to unmask Gus’ mole. And, having done so, the only man who knew he’d had access to those briefing notes had to be removed, as well.

  He rather regretted the deaths of Erika, Hans, and Jochaim van Gelder. Gus, of course, would have had to go eventually, but it had offended Jefferson’s innate tidiness to eliminate him so messily. On the other hand, his early removal had worked out far better than Jefferson had dared plan for. A successful conspirator didn’t base long-term strategy on a gift from the gods which made him the person charged with catching himself, but that didn’t make him ungrateful when it was given. And if Horus’ security was better now, it still wasn’t impenetrable … particularly against his own security chief.

  No, Jefferson’s true unhappiness had less to do with defenses which couldn’t, in the end, really matter than with the news from Birhat. The last thing he needed was for the imperial family to produce another heir! He’d already been forced to dispose of one pair, and now he might have to do the whole job over again—especially since Jiltanith had already announced her intention to visit her father on Earth for the birth. Which, he thought disgustedly, was precisely the sort of thing she would do just when he needed her and Colin in the same, neat crosshairs on Birhat.

  Of course, he reminded himself as he and Horus stepped up onto the mat-trans platform, pregnancy wasn’t something whose timing even Imperial bioscience could predict with absolute accuracy. But if the doctors were right, Jiltanith would not give birth, after all, for she—and her unborn children—would die two weeks before she did.

  * * *

  The Planetary Duke of Terra grinned as he and his lieutenant governor entered the conference room. Hector MacMahan—still grim, but no longer an ice-encased stranger—had brought Tinker Bell, and Brashieel had brought his own Narkhana, one of her genetically altered pups.

  Horus watched Narkhana collapse as Tinker Bell leapt upon him and wrestled him to the floor. He rolled on the rug, thrusting back at her with all four feet while their happy growls mingled. For a dog well into her third decade, Tinker Bell was remarkably spry, thanks to her own limited biotechnics, yet she had no conception of the tremendous strength Narkhana was reining in to let her win, nor of just how far her son’s intellect surpassed her own. Even if she’d been able to conceptualize such things, she would never have known, for her children would never tell her, and there was something both hilarious and poignant in watching them revert to utter doggishness in her presence.

  Hector looked up and saw the late arrivals, and a whistle brought Tinker Bell instantly to his side. She flopped down at his feet, panting cheerfully as she prepared to put up with another of the incomprehensible human things her person did. Horus raised a sardonic eyebrow at his grandson, and Hector looked back with a bland innocence he’d forgotten how to assume for far too many months. For all her boisterousness, Tinker Bell was well behaved when Hector chose to remind her to be.

  “Horus, Lawrence. Glad you could make it,” Colin said, standing to shake hands. Horus squeezed back, then opened his arms to his daughter’s embrace and slid into the chair beside Jefferson’s.

  “Now that you’re here,” Colin went on, “let me introduce someone very special. Horus, you’ve already met, but it’s been a while since you’ve seen her. Gentlemen, this is Eve.”

  Horus inclined his head to the slender being on the pad beside Brashieel’s. She was much more delicate than Brashieel, and several centimeters shorter, but her crest was magnificent. Brashieel’s, like that of all male Narhani, was the same gray-green as the rest of his hide; Eve’s was half again as large, proportionally, and shot with glorious color. Now that crest fanned in a graceful expression that conveyed greeting and thanks for his courtesy with an edge of embarrassment at the fuss being made over her, and it was hard for him to remember she wasn’t quite seven years old.

  Jefferson bowed in turn, and Brashieel preened with pride beside her. The Narhani were a hierarchical race, and there’d never been much doubt the first Narhani female would become the bride of the first Narhani nest lord, but it was clear that more than duty and mutual expectation flourished between these two. Horus was glad for them—and not just because Eve represented the culmination of his dead daughter’s greatest project.

  “We’ve got several things on today’s agenda,” Colin announced, “but first things first. Horus, ’Tanni and I want you to make sure the Earth-side news channels are ready for our broadcast.”

  “In truth.” Jiltanith’s smile was almost as lovely as of old. Not quite, but it was getting there, and the knowledge that she was to be a mother again showed. “ ’Twas kindness greater than e’er any mother, be she sovereign lady or no, might expect of so many to wish her unborn babes so well, Father. ’Twill heal our souls to tell them all how greatly their letters have helped to heal our hearts.”

  “That,” Horus said, “will be my very great pleasure.”

  “Thank you,” Colin said warmly, then grinned. “I know the Council’s got to talk about all those little niggling things like taxes, budgets, and engineering projects, but first there’s something really important
. Eve?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Eve’s vocoder had been set to produce a female human voice, and Horus felt a familiar stinging sensation in his eyes when he heard it. At Eve’s own request, the voice was Isis Tudor’s. It was her way of honoring her human “mother’s” memory, and he’d once been afraid it would hurt to hear it. But there was no pain. Only pride.

  The adolescent Narhani woman reached into her belt pouch and withdrew a half-dozen holo plates. She laid one before her with a slender, six-fingered hand, adjusting it with nervous precision, then looked up at the humans seated around the table.

  “As you know,” she said with a formality at odds with her youth, “the Nest of Narhan plans to commemorate the Siege of Earth with a gift to our human friends. We do this for many reasons, including our nest’s desire to express sorrow for the deaths we caused and thanks for all humanity has given us when we might have expected only destruction. Memorials, such as your own Memorial at Shepard Center, are important to us, as well, and it is our hope that this will be the beginning of an Imperial Memorial. One in which our nest shares and which will be completed when the Nest of Aku’Ultan has also been freed.”

  She paused, obviously relieved to have completed her formal statement without errors, and Brashieel’s crest rose even higher in pride.

  “Our gift,” she said more naturally, “is now finished.”

  She pressed a button, and a soft gasp went up as a light sculpture appeared above the plate. It wasn’t in the abstract style human artists were currently enamored of; it was representational, a reproduction of another sculpture worked in finest marble … and it was magnificent.

  A rearing Narhani rose high on his rear hooves to fight the bonds which held him captive. The cruel, galling collar about his neck drew blood as he pitted his frenzied strength against its massive chain, and the humans who looked upon him knew Narhani expressions well enough to read the despair in his eyes and flattened crest, but his teeth were bared in snarling defiance. He was without hope yet unconquered, and the anguish of his captivity wrenched at them.