“Yes, Captain, I am here.” Her voice echoed strangely, traveling directly to his ear as well as through his comm unit. Startled, Tal discovered his sister-in-law was standing almost shoulder to shoulder with his wife.
Snapping off the comm unit, he said, “New target, Princess. Take out the statue.”
“Gladly.” Never before had M’lani targeted an object with such relish.
The cheers echoing across the park as Darroch’s marble incarnation turned to dust were loud enough to reach from the tall buildings on the right to the even taller buildings on the left, travel far out to sea, and penetrate every room in Kraslenka. As Tal stared at the white bits of dust littering the green grass, the hovercycles rolled back onto the landing site, and T’kal made his way to the front.
Tal nodded a welcome, did a quick survey of the rest of his unique attack force: Jagan, B’aela, D’nim, and T’mar were present, their beast no longer needed in the skies above. Next to them, the two Psyclid princesses, Kass and M’lani. Behind them, Rand Kamal, Alric Strang, and bodyguards. Add in the heavily armed guards for Tal, M’lani, and Jagan—including Anton Stagg and Josh Quint—plus T’kal’s pack and the twenty members of the Psyclid freeze team, and Tal figured they were more than ready for the final step.
Wait! Alala. Alala was missing. “Where’s Alala?” Tal snapped.
“Sneaked out with us, Captain,” one of the weres said. “Made straight for the Hercs.”
Tal opened his comm unit. “Drakos, have you seen Alala?”
“Are you just discovering she’s gone, Captain?” Nik Drakos oozed.
“Is she with you?” Tal ground out.
“After accounting for a considerable number of Regs”—Drakos paused for effect—“yes, she is. She has been a great help in subduing the palace which, I am happy to report, is now ready, if you still plan on gracing us with your presence.”
Tal was seldom struck by the urge to kill, but he had to bite his tongue on an order to M’lani to use her Gift of Destruction on one last target. Instead, after a wrenching internal struggle, he raised his right arm and executed the classic signal for “Move out.” Following the three bodyguards on point, rifles at the ready, the four children of King Ryal of Psyclid stepped forward, K’kadi and B’aela on Tal’s left, Kass and M’lani on his right. Together, they mounted the broad white marble steps that led to Kraslenka’s massive front doors, now standing open, Herculon soldiers at rigid attention on each side.
Directly behind the royal family marched Jagan, T’kal, and Rand Kamal, heads high, even the arrogant Sorcerer Prime and attention-shunning were aware they were making history.
Chapter 31
As the leaders of the rebellion mounted the steps between precise rows of Herculon soldiers, their rifles held in front of their faces, barrels pointed to the sky— prickles of alarm ran up Tal’s back. For all the hands shaken and promises made, this was the moment when Fate could stop smiling on the rebels from Blue Moon. When those rifles could snap into firing position . . . leaving only Hercs still standing.
Or would it happen inside? So far, Tal hadn’t seen Alala since she’d charged to the front of the battle line. Perhaps she was to be the Hercs’ instrument—someone trusted enough to get close . . .
Did she hate K’kadi that much? Or simply want Drakos more?
The three guards who were leading the way paused at the open palace doors. At Tal’s nod, they slipped into the yawning great hall inside, automatic weapons at the ready.
In less than two minutes they were back, confirming General Drakos’s assertion that the way was clear. Or as clear as it was going to be. One potential ambush down. How many more to come? Tal—skin crawling yet outwardly stoic, his face showing nothing but determination—led them through the massive double doors. Thank Omnovah he had insisted Kelan, Dayna, and Yuliya stay aboard Astarte . . .
Fyddit! Idiot! Tal repressed a grimace even as his feet continued to march through the entry hall and down a broad corridor. In all these many years he’d never thought . . .
Tal Rigel, the dense! Always so focused on the end result, he had never considered that King Ryal was risking all his children, while the sister and brother of Talryn Rigel, leader of the rebellion, and the children of Rand Kamal were safely tucked out of harm’s way. Or at least with no more risk than Astarte being blown out of the sky by the Reg fleet. At this point, a highly remote possibility.
Yes, he’d sacrificed his father. But that could never balance the deaths of Ryal’s children, of Jagan, T’kal . . .
They were weapons of war. He needed them.
The rebellion needed them.
Face grim, Tal kept moving.
Unlike the formality of the soldiers on the steps, the Herc troops inside the palace were scattered at random along the broad corridor, rifles at the ready, eyes constantly moving, on the alert for remnants of the Emperor’s Guard to pop up at any moment. A risk to move so quickly, Tal conceded, but the whole point was to cut the head off the Empire at its source. Make the change of regime a fait accompli.
It’s done. New voices now give the orders.
Which meant the only place for the final dramatic scene was the throne room. Here, at the heart of the Regulon Empire, power would be exchanged. From here messages would go out to the people of Regular Prime and to twelve conquered star systems: To the Regulon military, a new leader is in command. To Regulon civilians, have no fear. To conquered peoples, free at last.
A dream? Was he only steps from discovering Tal Rigel had soared far beyond the realm of reality? Had he built a house of cards that was about to come tumbling down?
The Herc guards at the entrance to the throne room stomped their feet, saluted with a snap of arms across their chests, clanked their rifle butts against the marble floor, and stepped aside.
So far so good. Tal still felt a target painted on his back, but maybe, just maybe, the Hercs were not without honor.
Looking every inch the conquering hero, Talryn Rigel, former Captain in the Regulon Fleet, strode far enough into the throne room so all his people could make it through the entrance. With a flick of his hand, Tal motioned for them to spread out so each had a good view of the scene before them.
Lining the walls were Herc troops, lethally armed, every one of them looking as if they longed for a signal to massacre the Regs sprawled on the floor in the middle of the vast throne room. The Reg civilians ranged from courtiers and their women, clustered on one side of an open pathway to the throne, to a bevy of the Emperor’s women on the other—some sobbing, some openly terrified, a few cold and defiant. Standing beside Darroch’s wife and the numerous concubines were three Reg officers—two generals and an admiral—and a frail civilian almost as ancient as the Emperor. Lord Reylan Korval, the Prime Minister.
The Hercs, Tal conceded, were nothing if not thorough. They had followed their orders to the letter. The moment they deviated, however . . .
The Psyclid freeze team was standing by.
Tal raised his gaze from the pathetic clusters on the floor. Darroch Rysor Karlmaan von Baalen sat rigid on his ornately carved golden throne, his aged, claw-like hands gripping the armrests on both sides. But there the resemblance to the Emperor of thirteen star systems deviated dramatically from the norm. His long white hair fell in tangles about a face where bruises were already beginning to show purple. His formerly elegant red velvet robe, trimmed in white fur, was askew, torn at top and bottom, a long remnant trailing from the hem onto the dais below the throne.
Though hatred welled, fierce and consuming, Tal winced. This was not the way to treat either an emperor or an old man, no matter what he’d done.
He hanged your father.
He’s head of the Royal House of von Baalen.
He’s the enemy. The man you came for.
So he was.
Tal allowed his gaze to shift to the right of the dais, and there, just where he expected him to be, was General Nikomedes Drakos. Beside him stood Alala. No surprise the
re, but Tal couldn’t help wonder how K’kadi felt—
Is all right.
No secrets from K’kadi Amund.
Waving their bodyguards aside, Tal led his people forward, all the way to the foot of the dais, which was raised only a half meter above the green and white marble floor. “General, Colonel Amund.” Tal nodded, and at long last focused his attention on the man who had ruled Regula Prime for close to eighty years, while expanding his rule to a large portion of the Nebulon Sector.
“Excellency.” A barely visible motion of Tal’s right index finger, held down at his side, and Rand Kamal joined him, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder before the emperor.
“Rigel. Rand.” Darroch’s thin lips barely moved.
“The end has come, old man,” Tal said. “Regula Prime has a new government.”
“For as long as it takes our ships to come home,” the Emperor spat out. “Fools! You are hopelessly outnumbered. You will die as your fathers did. Both of you.”
“I think not,” Tal returned, looking almost amused. “Princess M’lani, can you destroy my Lord von Baalen’s throne without taking him with it?” Tal inclined his head to one side, as if studying the angle. “No-o, that might be asking too much. I don’t want him dead yet. Perhaps the chandelier, the one near the entrance.” Tal waggled a finger at the Herc soldiers standing too close beneath the brightly glowing crystals. “You might wish to move back a bit,” he suggested mildly.
Having seen, or at least heard of, the Psyclids’ remarkable powers, the soldiers were swift to oblige.
“M’lani?” Tal said.
The chandelier, a good meter across and nearly as tall, disintegrated, sending a waterfall of soft clinks that penetrated the soft gasps and sobs of the Emperor’s women as tiny shards of glass hit the marble floor.
“Kass, K’kadi, perhaps Lord von Baalen might enjoy surveying his sobbing women from above.”
Gasps sounded from both Regs and Hercs as Darroch and his throne rose off the dais—up, up, high overhead, beginning a circle of the room. Even the stoic Herc soldiers gaped as the Emperor and the golden throne parted company, the throne returning to a gentle landing, not on the dais but onto the marble floor below. Darroch—arms and legs flailing, face down, mouth open in a silent scream—continued on a second circumnavigation of the room.
Tal nodded to Jagan and B’aela. Shouts, screams, total panic. The Reg civilians lunged for cover as a fire-breathing dragon materialized above their heads. With an almost casual wave of his hand, Tal directed the dragon to swoop lower. Flames shot out past long jagged teeth in its meter-sized maw. With a flick of its tail, the dragon abandoned the panicked civilians and confronted Regula’s soaring emperor, finally forcing him to a hideous, long-drawn scream of terror.
Tal waved his hand; the dragon disappeared. A nod to K’kadi, and Darroch was deposited on his throne, now flat on the floor below the dais.
“Lord von Baalen,” Tal said, “if you can gather your wits enough to look around, you will see that our forces have other kinds of paranormal powers as well.”
Even the Herc soldiers turned pale as ten wolves prowled into the room, forming a circle around the Reg civilians. The lead wolf opened his jaws. In unison, the pack growled. Some Regs fainted, not all of them female; some cried for mercy. The rest cowered, seemingly more terrified of the wolves than of the dragon.
Rand Kamal exchanged a hard look with the mother of his children. Remembered his father swinging from the statue. No, not the right moment to show mercy.
Tal focused a questioning look on the Prime Minister and the three ranking Reg officers. Grimly, they nodded their capitulation.
Tal turned to Rand. “Time for your magic words.” Now . . . his second greatest concern. Would the Reg admiral follow the plan, or would he use his heritage and his silver tongue to preempt a strike by the Hercs? Seizing the government for himself—which Tal knew Rand Kamal had the power to do.
Except T’kal’s wolf would likely do to Kamal what he’d done to General Grigorev.
A comforting thought, though far from what Tal planned. Or wanted.
As Rand mounted the two steps to the dais, Tal glanced at Nik Drakos. Plainly, the Herc general was seething. This part of the plan Tal had not shared with the Hercs. Drakos had, after all, ordered his men to give the Emperor’s nephew a severe beating when he was a prisoner on Hercula. To Nikomedes Drakos, Rand Kamal was a big part of the Reg problem.
Ironic if Drakos turned out to be right.
Which was the reason why Tal had told no one about asking Rand to speak. He was relying on something more than a nebulous hunch—this would not, after all, be Rand Kamal’s first speech at a critical moment—but no one, including Kass, would have approved allowing Rand to be the voice of the rebellion. But if he was wrong, T’kal—backed by his wolves and the freeze team—would have Kamal down in seconds. One Reg admiral was certainly far easier to defeat than the multitude of Herc warriors surrounding them.
Fyd! It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known how many things could go wrong, even now when their goal was in sight. Tal tucked his fears away, concentrating on the man he hoped was his friend.
Slowly, Rand Kamal surveyed the room. From the Herc troops and their automatic weapons to a small contingent of disarmed palace guards. From the Reg civilians on the floor to the wolves now seated on their haunches around them, their golden eyes fixed on the dais. From the proud stances of the rebel victors to the deposed Lord van Baalen slumped on his throne.
“For any who do not know me, I am Rand Kamal, son of our former emperor’s sister Viktoriya. My father was Rogan Kamal, Chief of Regulon National Security. One of the two men we found hanged in front of this palace. The other was retired Admiral of the Fleet Vander Rigel, a Hero of the Empire, and father of Talryn Rigel who has just assumed command of the Regulon Empire.”
Tal’s face, already stoic, turned to stone. Not a sign that a decade of dreams had just come to fruition. Rand was doing it, adding the finishing touch.
At least he thought he was. Tal jerked his attention back to the dais, where Rand had paused to let the whispers fly, let the meaning of his words sink in. The former Reg Rear Admiral exchanged a look with Alric Strang, his lips quirking in an apology. Strang simply stood there, shaking his head.
“At one time—before I joined the rebel cause—,” Rand continued, “I was designated heir to the Regulon throne. A temptation, I admit. But since that time, I have begun a new life far from here—one I do not intend to abandon. Yet for the sake of the good that remains in Regula Prime . . . For the sake of our fathers, not just Rogan Kamal and Vander Rigel but all the fathers and mothers who struggle to hold their heads high, keep their families safe, and do what is right, allow me to tell you how it’s going to be.”
Rand looked down at Tal, held out his hand. Tal drew a deep breath, mounting the steps almost ponderously, feeling the weight of the world descending more heavily with each step he took. When they stood shoulder to shoulder, Rand once again surveyed the room. Silence. Not so much as a stifled sniff or a shuffling foot.
“We are distant cousins, Tal Rigel and I”—a fact no one seeing the two of them together could deny. “Born to rule, if you will. And this is how we plan to do it.” Rand glanced down at Darroch, offered an infinitesimal shake of his head. An acknowledgment of all that had gone before. What was now. What would be. He should hate the old man, but . . .
Time to put the bad behind, take the first tentative steps into the future.
“It will take some time to dismantle the Regulon Empire,” Rand told his rapt audience. “Time to set up new systems of self-government. Time to return pride to conquered planets. As most of you know”—Rand managed a denigrating smile—“I like to talk, so this is a challenge I have offered to take on. My cousin, Talryn Rigel, and his wife, the former Princess Royal of Psyclid, will remain here on Regula Prime, helping our people become more, as they adjust to becoming less.”
A wave of murm
urs ran through the room. At last, a solution. One that humiliated few. One most Regs could live with: Talryn Rigel, the new Emperor, though not for long. Only until Rand Kamal dismantled the Empire. And then . . .
A scream punctuated the whispers. More screams. Pointing fingers. Anguish.
Startled, Tal and Rand looked down. Lord von Baalen was slumped to one side of his throne, his long white hair falling over the golden arm. Piercing his chest, an arrow.
Nik Drakos, seemingly as surprised as Tal and Rand and looking even more grim, held Alala tight, her arms pinned to her sides. Tal ran down the steps, checked the former emperor’s body. Raising his eyes to Rand who had followed him, he shook his head.
With no little incredulity, Tal focused on the defiant woman in Drakos’s arms. “Alala?” If she had shot K’kadi, he would not have been surprised. But Darroch, when matters were settled, the talking nearly done—
Bomb! In throne. At K’kadi’s words, broadcast to everyone, all chatter, cries, whispers ceased. The great room went silent.
A bomb?
But the fate of the Empire was settled.
The fighting over.
A bomb?
Chapter 32
“What?” Tal swung round, gaping at K’kadi.
Big bomb. Blow up . . . K’kadi waved a hand, encompassing the entire room. Darroch going to push button. I tell Alala.
Evidently K’kadi was speaking to everyone because Drakos released her, stepped back, giving a curt nod of approval. A general whoosh of incredulity, followed by relief, swept the room.
“Not a coward,” Rand pronounced. A fitting epitaph for the man who had nearly destroyed the entire rebel leadership with one push of a button.
“Bellan, remove Lord von Baalen,” Tal ordered. “With respect.” Tige Bellan, chief of Tal’s security detail, motioned for Anton Stagg, Josh Quint, and two other guards to step forward.
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