Crown of Empire

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  He checked his ammunition—seventy-nine rounds in the weapon and two spare clips. Okay. Better than nothing.

  “Who is it?” Tira asked.

  “Same as before.” Two shots punctuated Chaney’s answer as the Treasury men commenced firing.

  “We’re pinned down,” he told her. “Pick your targets and don’t give up. I’ve called for help.”

  Tira nodded, and took her pistol from her reticule.

  There was more firing now, and the first indication of a bustle in the sub-basement as well, as the Cernians responded to the sound of gunfire.

  Chaney found what he thought was the most protected place in the stairwell, a few steps down from the upper landing, but on the high side of the switchback from the lower landing. Both the Treasury men and the Cernians would have to expose themselves to get a clear shot at Chaney and Tira. They squatted down against the railing and kept firing.

  There was a heavy thud as at least one of the aliens fell back.

  Chaney hoped he had hit him badly enough to take him out of the fight. If help didn’t come soon, he and Tira had little or no chance to get out. Outnumbered and cut off, eventually they would run out of ammunition. He wondered if he should save two shots, just in case.

  Tira was firing more frequently and with longer bursts, but didn’t seem to have inflicted any serious damage. “They’re still coming,” she whispered to Chaney.

  “Keep shooting. Pick your targets.”

  “Pick my targets,” she said. “Right. I wish I didn’t have such a selection to pick from.” Taking a deep breath, she thought suddenly of the many times her brother had come after her with a water pistol. Her eyes focused, her finger squeezed, and a Treasury guard went down. A new predatory gleam came into her eye and she relaxed, the way a cat does just before springing.

  “Watch out!” she yelled at Chaney. A Cernian poked his head around the switchback.

  Chaney fired; the slug went in through the shoulder and came out south of the ribs. The Cernian collapsed on the switchback, providing a barrier.

  The other Cernians made a run at the bottom of the shaft, forcing both Chaney and Tira to use ammunition keeping them at bay. Chaney was sharply aware that they had no spare clips for the A7mark923.

  “It doesn’t look good,” whispered Tira, needing no denial or confirmation from Chaney.

  “There’re too many of them.” She fired and one of the Treasury men screamed. She kept her aim steady with an effort of will, for she was getting very tired as well as growing queasy at the slaughter above and below her. There had been too much dying for one day.

  From the sub-basement came an ominous clang, as if iron doors were being torn off their hinges. Chaney had to hold back a groan of despair as he heard it, for the Cernians took courage at the sound and once again pressed forward.

  Tira shot another Treasury man.

  Two Cernians surged into the stairwell, moving quickly and efficiently, one giving covering fire to the other as they reached the first three steps.

  Then there was a sharp explosion, and the whole stairwell shuddered. The Cernians froze; above, the Treasury men faltered.

  “What was that?” Tira whispered, the sound echoing unintelligibly through the stairwell.

  “I don’t know,” said Chaney, hating to admit it.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Play it by ear,” he advised, not telling her that he still had two shots reserved for them if they were required.

  The noise in the sub-basement grew louder and then came the sharp report of a Kanovsky 40-09 Antipersonnel riot control gun.

  “What the devil?” said Chaney aloud. He was pretty sure that none of the Cernians were carrying Kanovskys.

  On the floor above the Treasury men moved back to more secure cover.

  The Cernians were fighting again, but no longer with Chaney and Tira. They had turned to face a more formidable opponent.

  Four Kanovskys were filing now, directly into the Cernians. Technically designed to wound rather than kill, the weapons were usually loaded with plastic riot control cartridges. But these guns had a more lethal purpose, and the Cernians paid full measure against their might.

  In a matter of seconds, only five Cernians were still standing, two of them wounded. They held their weapons reversed for surrender, and waited with the dumb amazement of defeat as a detachment of Marines in body armor came into view at the base of the stairwell.

  “Lieutenant Chaney?” called one of the Marines, his voice hollow in the stairwell and body armor.

  “Yes,” said Chaney, lowering his gun.

  “Sorry we didn’t get here earlier,” said the Marine to Chaney; he ignored Tira completely.

  “So are we,” said Chaney with real feeling, and turned to give his hand to Tira. “There are Treasury men above and—”

  “That’s been taken care of,” said the Marine, then coughed. “It would be best if we get moving, Lieutenant. Right now.” He waved his arm to indicate the carnage around them. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” said Chaney as he felt Tira’s hand close around his.

  “Hurry.” The Marine was already moving away.

  Chaney turned to escort Tira down the stairs. “It’s the cavalry. Well, the Marines, anyway.” He offered her his arm.

  Tira’s fingers shook as she tucked the Samtoepoe A7mark923 back into her reticule. “About time.” Her voice shook, too. She took Chaney’s arm with as much dignity and poise as she could muster.

  ###

  They were bundled into a closed unmarked car. Three of the Marines climbed in after them. A Navy officer, a commander, was driving. None of the men had anything to say to Tira, despite her repeated questions.

  Their silence made Tira uncomfortable. She could feel the lack of respect the men had for her.

  “I don’t suppose you know where we’re going?” she whispered to Chaney, not wanting these silent Marines to hear her uncertainty.

  “Well, no,” Chaney admitted as he adjusted himself against the padded seats. “But it’s better than where we were.”

  “For the moment.” It was late in the day and fatigue was catching up with her; it showed in the way she sat and the low level of irritation that possessed her.

  The journey seemed to go on forever. The road narrowed as it climbed into the foothills. Outcroppings of boulders loomed up in the darkness like giants, and the left side of the road fell away into ravines and dry creekbeds.

  “Pretty inhospitable,” said Tira as she peered out the window. “What kind of installation is out in a wilderness like this?” She had not often been out of the city, and when she had been it was to patrolled and groomed recreational lands, not this forbidding section of the continent.

  “A secret one,” said Chaney.

  Tira considered this. “You’re probably right. My father is . . . was always talking about secret installations and bases. He said Admiral Sclerida favored them.” Her expression darkened. “Admiral Sclerida—”

  “Don’t,” warned Chaney with a hitch of his elbow in the direction of the driver. “Who knows who’s playing what game.”

  Tira sighed. “I hate this. No matter who’s at the end of this ride, I’ll be one kind of hostage or another.”

  Chaney answered carefully. “I don’t think that’s likely.” He was trying to soothe his own conscience as well as offer comfort. He had just been following his uncle’s orders. But for the last half-hour it had been dawning on him that no one knew where they were, and that the daughter of the High Secretary—whether Cowper Bouriere was alive or not—was a real prize. Any number of ambitious men might want to get their hands on her.

  The driver had turned on the headlights. Though they were set low and shielded, they offered a little safety on the twisting road. “It won’t be much longer now,” he volunteered to his passengers.

  “Where are we going?” asked Tira.

  The driver said nothing more.

  “Look, if they were go
ing to kill you, they didn’t have to bring you out here,” said Chaney reasonably. “They could have left us to the Cernians and the rest, back at the Palace.” He wanted to feel reassured by these assertions, but found that he could not accept them without question.

  “Unless they were holding out for their own advantage,” said Tira darkly. “There might be something to gain for getting me . . . out of the way.” She glanced down at her reticule, heartened by the knowledge that she still had the Samtoepoe A7mark923 resting inside it, among other necessities of life.

  Chaney nodded in spite of himself. “Yeah. But this is Uncle Ken’s doing. He’s not the kind who would . . . well, he doesn’t exploit his family that way.”

  Tira scowled. “Meaning he might want to make a pawn of me, but not if you’re involved? I hope you’re right.” She went back to staring out the window. They had entered a long canyon, the road now nothing more than a single-lane track along the side of the steep walls.

  “I remember seeing this area on the maps, back at school,” she said. “It’s usually labeled ‘The Barrens.’ I used to wonder what that meant, and why there weren’t any cities here.” She shivered. “Now I know.”

  “It’s pretty forbidding,” said Chaney, remembering the many times he had flown over this landscape during training, thinking it looked beautiful from the air.

  She folded her arms. “I don’t recall learning about any bases out here, except the scientific ones. You don’t suppose we’re going to one of those, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Chaney with a trace of exasperation. I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

  Tira sighed. “I know that,” she said, making the words an apology.

  Without warning, the car entered a tunnel. The driver added a second set of headlights, but that didn’t really cut the gloom out the side window.

  “Where is this?” Tira asked uneasily as they sped on. She could barely make out tiled walls.

  For once the driver answered. “It’s the entrance to the base, Miss Bouriere. We’re almost there.”

  “Wherever there is,” said Chaney, trying to conceal the sudden apprehension that had taken hold of him.

  “Your uncle’s base,” said the driver. “I think we’re expected.”

  Tira stared at Chaney. “What do you think?”

  “I think I hope he’s right about Uncle Ken being here,” said Chaney with feeling.

  The car pulled into a wide bay where a small escort of Navy personnel waited, all in battle dress. As the car stopped the nearest of these men reached forward and opened the door for Chaney and Tira.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant,” he said very politely “And to you, Miss Bouriere.” He indicated the surroundings. “Sorry we had to resort to this, but we had to guarantee your safety.”

  “Thanks,” said Chaney, getting out and holding his hand out for Tira. “We were beginning to wonder.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the Navy officer. “You’ll have questions. Just as we have answers.” He closed the car door and saluted. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll escort you. This is a pretty confusing place until you learn your way around.”

  “And are we going to do that?” Tira inquired sweetly

  Chaney recognized a tone in her voice that the young officer evidently missed. He replied seriously. “It might come to that.”

  “I see,” said Tira, and clutched her reticule more tightly. She did not look at Chaney.

  The officer was right—the base was confusing. As they followed him through the halls, Chaney was quickly disoriented, and decided he would have a great deal of trouble finding his way back to the bay. He suspected that the young officer was making the route as complex as possible. No matter. His AID was in inertial tracking mode and better than a map with arrows.

  “Where are you taking us?” he asked when they had gone some distance in silence.

  “It’s not far now,” said the young officer, and turned the comer into a large hall. At the far end was a platform. On that platform stood a white-haired, straight-backed officer in a formal uniform that lacked rank tabs.

  Chaney stood still as he took this in. Then he raised his voice. “Uncle Ken! Uncle Ken!” He started toward the platform, Tira tagging along behind him.

  The man turned, smiling in welcome. “Yon!” he called. “At last.”

  Chaney was halfway to the platform now. “Thank God you’re all right. It’s been pretty hectic out there.”

  “I can imagine,” said Uncle Ken, and his smile faded.

  “What is it?” Chaney asked, closing the gap between them. “What’s going on?”

  Uncle Ken looked around, indicating with a gesture that this was not the place for such a discussion. He addressed the escort. “Thank you, Bycroft, you may leave now.”

  “As you wish,” said the young officer, saluting briskly before turning his men and exiting from the conference hall quickly.

  “If you two will come with me,” said Uncle Ken thoughtfully, “I think we can explain everything. Demoiselle Bouriere, I know you must be worried for your family.” His sympathy seemed genuine enough, but Tira hung back from Uncle Ken, placing more faith in the man she knew.

  There was a side door and Uncle Ken led them through it while discussing the size of the underground installation. “There’s quite a complex above us, on the surface, but it’s nothing like this.”

  “What is on the surface?” asked Tira.

  “I thought I told you,” said Uncle Ken as they entered yet another short hallway. “There’s a large complex of administrative buildings.”

  “In the middle of the desert?” said Tira.

  “Room is precious, even in this part of the planet,” said Uncle Ken, ushering them into a side room.

  Four Navy men were waiting, and they stepped up to Chaney, confining his arms and taking his pistol.

  “What the devil . . !” Chaney burst out. He struggled, trying to strike out at the four men.

  Uncle Ken shook his head in commiseration. “I’m sorry, my boy, truly sorry. But you’ve gotten too deep in something you should have avoided. You cannot be allowed to interfere.” He started to add something when a loud report filled the room.

  There was a smoking hole in the side of Tira’s reticule, and a much larger, bleeding one at the base of Uncle Ken’s ribs. She stepped aside as Uncle Ken collapsed, and carefully pulled the Samtoepoe A7mark923 into view. “I think,” she said very calmly, “that you had better let him go.”

  Chapter 5

  Jessine blinked. She felt as though her internal clock had been set to zero. But the sounds of battle raged on outside, so she couldn’t have been out long. She leaned against the harness she had fought so vigorously and gave it a grateful pat. She became aware of the bubble of silence within the storm and looked around, hesitantly.

  Broken bodies were flung about the APC. Some of the men were still alive; she could hear their ragged breathing, but she couldn’t tell which ones by looking. So much death, she thought. She stepped gingerly over the bodies, wishing her touch could heal.

  “Madame . . .” It was Lieutenant Varrick, still at his command. “Madame . . . I’ve got to get you safe . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She stepped over to his side, stroked his forehead, smearing her hand with his blood. “I’m safe,” she lied, not knowing why. “Good work, Lieutenant.”

  “Safe . . . Ver will . . .”

  “I’m safe, Lieutenant. Damien will know.”

  Lieutenant Varrick closed his eyes. Jessine didn’t know if he’d believed her.

  She certainly knew better. Varrick’s—or Ver’s—plan had failed. She needed a new one, now. Most of the port side of the ship had been blasted away, giving plenty of room for Jessine to escape, but she hesitated. The battle was still going on and she could see that the whole of the Secretary’s Palace was in an uproar. She needed to make herself less obvious if she were to have a chance of getting away.

  One of the dead soldier
s had a long, loose field poncho over his uniform, a garment of steelcloth, of a color so neutral that it made its wearer hard to see. Reaching down, she pulled and tugged at the poncho, trying to get it off the body. The task was more difficult than she had thought it would be. But the continuing sound of gunfire and explosions kept her at it until she felt the corpse release the garment.

  Another clatter of gunfire sounded just outside the crashed ship, and Jessine froze for an instant. With shaking hands she shrugged out of her designer anorak and slipped on the poncho, hating the smell of death that clung to it. Bending down, she dipped her hand into the dead soldier’s clotting blood. She rubbed her arm with it and smeared a little along her cheekbone. Then she pulled the little Ridly 20-44 from the soldier’s holster and checked the magazine. Bracing herself, she rifled her dead soldier and his companions for spare magazines. Finding four, she tucked them into her belt and lowered the field poncho over it. The gun she kept in her hand.

  In the far side of the quadrangle, a gaggle of Emergency Service personnel were starting to run toward the wrecked ship, a few carrying lifepaks, the others with guns. Gunfire sent up little sprays of paving and dust around them as they ran.

  Emerging from the ship, Jessine stumbled deliberately in order to enhance the illusion she was wounded. She started toward the central pylon of the Secretary’s Palace, the field poncho flapping as she ran. As she had hoped, no one paid much attention to her.

  There should have been an automatic walkway running through the central garden, but it was stopped. Most of the plants had been blasted or trampled and of the three ornamental fountains, only one had a trickle of water coming from its decapitated Nike.

  Jessine ran down the halted walkway. Kitchley’s office was nineteen floors above her in what had once been a diplomatic reception room, but had been pressed into service as office space more than twenty years ago. She decided to head for that.