Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike

by Doug Dandridge

  The Empress was getting back to her feet, helped up by some of the men nearby. She was cradling her forearm, which was hidden under the sleeve of her dress, but the angle of which foretold a bad break. She turned back to the door and started forward, just before Cornelius grabbed her gently by the shoulders.

  “He wants you in here, your Majesty,” said Cornelius in her ear. “He wouldn’t have thrown you in here like that if he didn’t think it was important to get you under cover.”

  “But, he’s out there,” she said, her voice quivering.

  “He’s a warrior, and he has warriors around him. Let’s get out of this crowd, and I’ll get someone to look at your arm. Just come with me, Jennifer.”

  She nodded and let him pick her up. The Ranger moved into the church, gently pushing past anyone who got in the way. A lot of people were crowded near the exit, many of them military, men and women trying to get out of the church to help their Monarch, and just getting in the way.

  Cornelius looked around, trying to find a quiet place to take the Empress. He found a pew in an alcove that was set aside for small services that was empty and led the way into it, sat her down, and unbuttoned the sleeve that was over her forearm. He glanced for a moment at the statue of the saint, he wasn’t sure which one, looking down on them from the wall of the alcove.

  “That’s a bad break,” he said, looking at the bent forearm.

  “I should make that diagnosis,” she said, wincing as he touched the arm.

  “And what diagnosis would you give,” he said, as he put a pain patch on her neck taken from the small med kit he always kept with him.

  “It’s really fucked,” she said as the pain medication rushed into her system.

  “Not as fucked as it’s going to be,” said a sibilant voice from the entrance of the alcove.

  Cornelius looked up to see a nondescript man standing there, a chemical pistol in his hand pointing at the Ranger. “If you move I will shoot you,” said the man, looking into Cornelius’ eyes. “Then I will shoot her.”

  “And if I don’t move?”

  “Then I shoot her, and leave,” said the, creature.

  For some reason Cornelius didn’t think the man was human. It was just something in the tone of his voice. Like he had tried to mimic a human being, but was not far enough along in the process. A shifter, thought Cornelius, his mind moving into overdrive, his thinking speed tripling. How in the hell did it get in here? He thought he knew how. Guests were scanned for weapons, and given cursory ID when they entered the church. But with hundreds of thousands of people coming through the doors, there wasn’t time to give everyone a complete scan, especially any of the new procedures. How he got the gun in was another matter, and one he would worry about later.

  That’s not right, thought Cornelius, his mind working down several paths at once. If he hasn’t completed his change into someone well known, he never would have gotten through. Then the time for thinking was over.

  The gun shifted, the shifter taking aim at the Empress, and Cornelius made his move.

  The hand that was on the seat, resting on a hymnal, grabbed the book and threw it at the gunman. It sped through the air at high velocity and hit the gunman in the head. Cornelius cursed. He had aimed for the gun, but in the stress of the moment had thrown it too hard, with not enough follow through. The gunman shifted his weapon and shot at Cornelius, also missing through a combination of the Ranger moving too fast, and his vision blurred from being hit in the head by the heavy book.

  Cornelius needed a weapon against something whose capabilities he really couldn’t guess. His pistol was simply ceremonial, it didn’t even have a magazine inserted. Which left him with only…

  Thinking was action, and his right hand grabbed the sword grip on his left side, while his left hand pushed Jennifer down onto the pew. The sword swished out of its scabbard as the gunman aimed and fired again, striking Cornelius in his left shoulder. The impact armor of his uniform stiffened, enough to stop a low velocity round. Not enough to stop the high velocity pellet that came out of the gun. Still, enough to slow it down, so it only ripped through his shoulder like a normal bullet, and not the body destroyer it was made to be.

  The Ranger grunted in pain and brought his sword up, then down, onto the wrist of the creature’s gun hand. The sword was ceremonial as well, with no edge, and came down like a club on the wrist. The creature hissed, and the gun arm dropped, but he retained control of the weapon, and started bringing it back up immediately.

  There was only one thing the Ranger could do. He lunged forward, using the point, which, while still not the duty edge of a real weapon, was enough, with the strength of the Ranger behind it, to push through the throat of the creature, coming to a stop against the spine. The eyes of the creature went wide, its breath rattled, but it still brought its weapon up to aim at the Ranger once again. Cornelius pushed harder, hoping to push through the spinal column and into the cord, but the bone was too tough.

  Maybe I saved the Empress, was the thought of his sped up mental processes as he waited for the round that was going to end his life. The sound that came was not what he was expecting, more like the hissing spit of a mag rail pistol, and the head of the creature exploding in front of him was definitely not what he was expecting.

  A huge figure appeared behind the fallen body of the assassin. A dracocentauroid, holding a huge mag pistol, lips curled back, revealing his carnivore’s teeth.

  “Lord T’lisha,” said Cornelius, recognizing the Imperial Minster of Security. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, young man,” rumbled the large sentient. “It is to my shame that such as this made his way in here in the first place. I could not bear to think that he might have killed my Empress.”

  Cornelius nodded, then sat down, feeling a little light headed from blood loss, his sword sliding out of the shifter’s throat. People were around him in an instant, including several doctors, one to treat him, one to treat the Empress. Cornelius closed his eyes, knowing that everything would be alright.

  * * *

  Sean glared down at the creature that lay dead on the floor, sans head, which was missing thanks to the impact of a fifteen millimeter round from his Minister of Security’s personal weapon. The neck told the story. The man was nothing such. It was a Yugalyth, plain and simple.

  “How in the hell did it get in here?” asked the Monarch, looking at his newly wed spouse, lying on the pew, her arm being put in a soft splint. The bone had been set back into place, after a nanite pain block had been inserted. He felt shame at the thought that he had been the cause of that injury. That it had been sustained through his getting her quickly to safety, before a particle beam reached from the sky and vaporized her entire lovely body, did not matter. He had caused the injury, and in his mind, he was totally at fault.

  “We found where he was hiding,” rumbled Lord T’lisha, a decidedly uncomfortable expression on his long snouted face. “In an opening on the base of that statue over there.” He pointed to the figure of another saint. “A human couldn’t have fit. Not even a Malticoran. But those things can dislocate, and even bend bones.

  We thought we had the church covered. We checked their invitations, which were supposed to be secure, against their prints and surface proteins. And they were scanned for weapons. We scanned the entire building for weapons the day before the ceremony, but somehow that one was sealed in something that spoofed them.”

  Sean looked over at the being that was his head of all security services of the Imperial government. The IIA, IIB, Imperial Constabulary, Marshals, Secret Service. All of the intelligence and security services save those of the military, which still reported their findings to the civilian organizations by law. It’s not really your fault, my friend, he thought, shaking his head, realizing that the being would need to castigate himself for a time. We’ll all learn from this. We thought they would only strike as strategic targets, forgetting that myself and Jennifer are strategic targets. Now, no targe
t is safe, and we will have to change things. Which is a win for them.

  He looked past Jennifer, to the man who kept doing things for him and his Empire. Cornelius lay across the same pew, his jacket and shirt off while a doctor sprayed his wound with nanites. The little robots would go after the bullet in the shoulder, disassembling it in place, then making repairs to the bone and tissues. Saving the Donut was probably his greatest accomplishment, and more important than saving either of us. But this action will always be closest to my heart. I guess a knighthood was not quite a high enough reward. I’ll have to look into whether or not we have a barony vacant on Jewel. Sean smiled a moment at a thought. Or maybe New Detroit.

  “I will have my resignation in the system as soon as I can compose it, your Majesty,” rumbled T’lisha, breaking into Sean’s thoughts.

  “You will do no such thing,” said Sean, looking back at his Security Minister. “You are the only being I want in that position, Lord T’lisha. And you will retain that post. Do you understand me?”

  The great head nodded, and Sean looked back at his bride. The doctor had stood up and nodded to the Monarch, who quickly took the medic’s place by her side.

  “I am so sorry,” he told her, putting his arm gently over her shoulders. “It’s all my fault that you got hurt.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said in a sleepy voice. “You were trying to get me out of the line of fire.”

  “And into the frying pan,” said Sean, shaking his head, feeling the tears beading up in his eyes. He looked at the cast, which was now a hardened piece of plastic, setting her arm and protecting it. Should be good as new in a couple of days, he thought. The physical injury. But what did it do to your sense of security? What did it do to the sense of security for all of my subjects? “As soon as you’re cleared here, we’ll go back to the palace.”

  “And the reception? What about all the people there, expecting us?”

  “I’m not really sure we need to attend,” said Sean, looking back at all the people still gathered in the church, many of them still in shock, changing his mind from his earlier stance. “It would be an insult, having a party over the bodies of those who died here today.”

  “This isn’t just our celebration,” Jennifer said with a sleepy smile. “As soon as I wake up from these drugs, we are going to give them one. A celebration of life, and the continuance of the Empire, despite what these bastards tried to do today.”

  Sean sat there for a moment, not sure what to say, his thoughts a roil. If we do this, some people are going to say that I only care about myself, just another noble of privilege. If I don’t, some will say I am a coward, despite what I have done in the past. There really is no good decision here.

  “Can the Ranger make it to the reception tonight?” he asked the doctor who was working on Cornelius.

  “I’ll answer that one, your Majesty,” said the man in question, craning his neck to look up. “Damned right, I can be there. And I want a dance with the Empress, with your permission, your Majesty.”

  “You deserve one, Baron,” Sean said with a smile.

  “Baron?” blurted Cornelius, trying to sit up and cringing with pain. The doc put his hand on Cornelius’s chest and pushed him down.

  “I’m not sure of what yet, but we’ll think of something.”

  Several hours later Sean and Jennifer danced alone on the wide floor of the civic center, before the ten thousand guests who ate and drank at the tables. And, through the wormhole com system, a hundreds of billions of other citizens across the Core Worlds. Jennifer’s arm was immobilized by her side, and Sean held her carefully as they moved across the floor. A wide smile was on her face, erased every once in a while by a wince. Sean saw her bravery. The Empire did as well, and all thoughts about the suitability of this woman as the co-ruler of the Empire was erased in the minds of reasonable people.

  The dance music stopped, and other people started to make their way onto the floor.

  “I beg your indulgence, Lords and Ladies, Citizens,” said Sean, his voice amplified over the center’s speaker system. “My lady wife has promised a dance to a very special man. The one who saved her life today, and mine as well, through saving hers.”

  The people moved back to the edge of the dance floor, while Cornelius Walborski, in a fresh uniform, walked out onto the floor, his left shoulder stiff and unmoving. He took Jennifer by the hand as the orchestra started in on a slow waltz. They pirouetted around the floor, both obviously injured, both just as obviously determined to complete the dance. A few people started clapping, then more, until the entire crowd was voicing their approval of the courageous Empress, and the man who the news would trumpet as the bravest soldier of the Empire.

  Their dance over, the two repaired to the Emperor’s table, while the other celebrants crowded onto the floor to take advantage of the music, and their drink lowered inhibitions. There would be no more dances for the Empress, despite what tradition called for. The Emperor availed the wishes of some of his ladies, as few as he could get away with, so he could spend the rest of his evening with his love.

  * * *

  “We will crucify them for this,” said Countess Zhee, sitting at one of the noble tables with her husband. “How dare they make a spectacle of themselves after so many people died. This is a disgrace.”

  “You should leave it alone, my dear,” said her husband, technically a count, though she was the titular ruler of her county. “You will just damage your cause even more by attacking him now. Those two can do no wrong with the people, at least at this time.”

  Zhee sat there in silence, unable to respond. Her reason told her that her husband was correct. But her emotions ruled, as they had since she had felt insulted by this same Emperor. I will find a way to destroy him, she thought, taking another sip of champagne.

  Chapter Twenty

  Conquered, we conquer. Plautus

  SECTOR IV SPACE. DECEMBER 15TH, 1001.

  Here we go, thought Captain Maurice von Rittersdorf, watching the tactical holo. James Komorov was well away from enemy sensor range, moving through hyper VII at point nine three light. The electomag field was being pushed to its limit. Rads were still getting through, and people were getting sick. Medical had its hands full making sure everyone got their dose of antirad nanite boosters.

  The plot of the out of range enemy ships was coming from Lisboa, as the hyper VII battle cruiser clawed space to stay within range of the enemy. That enemy was almost out of range, and once they were, they would be lost, their destination unknown.

  And here we were, sweating that they would attack us, wipe us from the face of the Universe, and instead they outrun us. I guess I shouldn’t be too disappointed, since we’re going to survive. But either way, they still get away.

  “Something’s happening,” said Lieutenant Lasardo, looking at his board holo, then back at the main holo. Half of the enemy ships were already off the plot. Some had accelerated well ahead of the force before dropping off the plot. To scout ahead? No one really knew. But they had forged ahead for some purpose.

  “Shit. Just when we thought we were going to get away with this,” said the Helmsman.

  Ten of the enemy ships were decelerating, dropping behind the main force. The deceleration was slow, a gentle thirty gravities. It makes no sense, thought the Captain, watching as a few more enemy ships dropped off the plot to the front. The rest of them are forging on, and these are dropping back. Why? To attack us? Then they should be deceling to hell and gone. To force us to decel and lose the main party? That might make sense.

  “What do you think is going on, von Rittersdorf?” asked the Captain of the Lisboa over the com.

  “I really don’t know, sir,” said von Rittersdorf, shaking his head. “This really doesn’t make any sense. The only thing I can think of is that they are trying to chase us off. But, why wait so long to do that, when they could have tried the same thing at the start of this chase?”

  “Desperation?”

&nb
sp; “And why would they be desperate, sir? They are on the verge of losing us. And they always had the firepower to drop back and kill us if they wanted to.” Just like we feared the whole time we’ve been chasing them. “What are you going to do, sir?”

  “Since I’m not a complete fool, I’m going to start decelerating at a much higher clip, and hope they’re satisfied. I’m…”

  “We have a hyper translation,” called out Lasardo. A trio of icons appeared on the plot, light minutes ahead of the Lisboa. Which meant they were light seconds in hyper VII.

  The com holo to Lisboa went dead, a moment later its plot dropped off the net, along with the two of the new contacts. One continued on, by its acceleration figures a missile.

  “Komorov,” came the call over the com. “We’ve lost contact with Lisboa. Do you have any idea what happened.”

  You saw the same thing I did on the plot, thought von Rittersdorf, knowing that they were feeling the same thing he was, panic. Not quite the same thing, since they’re back in the Supersystem, safe and sound. “They’re gone,” he said quietly into the holo. “The Cacas fired missiles at them from normal space. They’re learning.”

  “Do you know the dispositions of your other ships?”

  “The last destroyer in front of us is still on the plot. We don’t know about the other ships.”

  “Roger that,” said the controller back in the Supersystem.

  We should have all been equipped with wormhole coms for a mission like this, thought the Captain. The only problem was there were not enough to go around. Even with the Donut pumping out thirty a day, they still would never have all they really needed. And the loss of Lisboa meant they had lost two of the wormholes, along with a hyper VII battle cruiser and over three thousand crew.

  “We have three more launches,” yelled Lasardo, panic in his voice. “Target is the Ling,” he continued, referring to the next ship up the line, the only one they still had contact with. Which meant.