Jessine avoided the dropshafts. The civilian ones might not be dependable, and she lacked the codes for the military ones. Her husband had never involved his twenty-four-year-old bride in military affairs. No matter. She didn’t want an entrance that wouldn’t allow quick exit. That left the stairs or the old-fashioned freight lifts. She tried to remember where the lifts were.
There was a cross hallway some distance ahead of her, and Jessine slowed down, listening for what she might encounter.
A squad of Treasury fighters came jogging along in loose formation, a sergeant urging them on. He slowed as he caught sight of Jessine. “Trouble, soldier?” he shouted.
Jessine held up her bloody arm. “I need a medic,” she said, hoping that none of his men were medics. “It could be a bacterial.” Bacterial bullets were illegal throughout the Pact, but it was known that there were always a certain number of them around.
“Bacterial?” the sergeant repeated, taking an involuntary step backward.
“Might be,” she said. “Better not get too close.”
“Bacterial. Holy bloody backfire. You need quarantine right away. There’s a medic station back that way.” He nodded his head in the direction he’d come from. “Sorry, soldier.” The sergeant barked a few sharp words to his squad and they moved off briskly.
Jessine at last remembered where the lifts were, and headed directly for them.
She reached them without meeting anyone else. You could tell today was special—the Palace was usually bustling with people, humans and aliens, doing the work of the Pact. Stepping into the freight cage, she pressed the code for Kitchley’s floor. As the door closed, she leaned back against the wall and caught her breath. As the lift rose, it occurred to Jessine that anyone looking for her might think to check Kitchley’s office. It was well known around the Palace that the High Secretary’s Appointments Clerk and the High Secretary’s new wife worked together. She punched the code for the High Secretary’s Retreat, three floors below Kitchley’s. She could take the stairs, and not be a sitting duck when the lift doors opened.
She stepped out into the domed chamber, looking up toward the white-and-gold balconies rising over her. The lavish Daphne ferns threw out their baroque tendrils along the spiraled trellis, their white and silver blossoms scenting the air with a curious mixture of saffron and honey. The one remaining retreat of the original twelve, it had not yet surrendered to the space-hungry beast of bureaucracy. It still had the lush and elaborate grace that the High Secretary was supposed to enjoy. Standing here, among the plants, she could almost forget the battles outside.
The retreat, blue and silver with touches of rosy mauve, was awash with tranquility. It reminded her of Cowper Bouriere, who had been kind to her, and who had not pretended that an arranged marriage was a love match. For that alone, she did love him.
Jessine heard the discreet beep of an alarm, and somewhere beyond the retreat there was the sound of glastic breaking. Her grip on the Ridly tightened a fraction.
Shots crashed above her and the balustrade of one of the balconies shattered.
Jessine moved back, hiding in the rich curl of a huge Daphne fern.
Two minutes went interminably by. Jessine listened but heard nothing more than the continuing beep of the alarm. She couldn’t wait here forever. She had to know if Kitchley had survived, and if she would be safe with him.
But the stairs were monitored, and open besides. She looked up the shaft of the ancient fern. It grew three stories, branching off with broad leaves and thick stems. Some of the heavier branches passed close by balconies. Holstering the Ridly in the waistband of her pants, she began to climb.
She climbed steadily, cautiously, taking care to examine each balcony thoroughly as it came into view.
For an instant she thought of Damien Ver, and was startled at how concerned she was for him. What was he doing? Why had he sent those men for her? Did he really just want her safe, or did he want the Secretariat? Near the top of the fern, Jessine stopped to rest and to reevaluate her position. From here she could see that someone had used railguns on the elaborate ceiling, blasting away the mural of the Creation of the Pact in which all the great heroes sat together in front of a High Secretary who looked a bit like Jessine’s husband.
“Oh, Cowper,” she whispered. “You didn’t deserve this. You weren’t a bad man.” She stared at the painting, fighting back unexpected tears. Did she have any chance at all? Did any of them?
Peering through the foliage, ears straining, Jessine tried to determine if the area was clear. It seemed so, and she crawled out along a branch to the nearest balcony.
Then she heard a voice from a window above her and froze.
“Step out,” came the sharp order from a Security sergeant, his railgun ready for business.
Jessine straightened up. She recognized him. “Good afternoon, Sergeant Mallas,” she said distinctly, glad that her voice did not shake.
“Madame Bouriere,” said Sergeant Mallas, hurriedly lowering his railgun and flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t realize . . . And your arm. Do you need medical attention?” He was two balconies away, but appeared to be considering climbing over the railings and balustrades in order to reach her.
“Step out into the hall,” suggested Jessine, starting there herself.
“No,” said Sergeant Mallas, showing his anxiety again. “It isn’t safe. Stay where you are. I’ll come and escort you.”
She faltered, then made herself nod in approval. “That would be very welcome. Thank you, Sergeant.” She made an effort to straighten her clothing and her hair while the young soldier made his way around to her balcony.
“We were all so worried,” the sergeant said as he came to her side. “No one knows what . . . excuse me, Madame Bouriere.” He dropped to one knee and fired his railgun at a shadow in the hall. The pellets spattered and the shadow retreated.
“Who . . . ?” Jessine asked.
“Who knows? Cernians, Navy, Treasury, Marines, Kona Tatsu?” He made a face to show it was all the same to him. “They’re all out fighting with us. Nobody knows who’s alive and who’s not, or who’s in charge.” He coughed. “I didn’t mean to say anything wrong, Madame Bouriere.”
“Saying it isn’t wrong, Sergeant Mallas. It’s the act of rebellion that’s wrong.” She indicated the hallway. “I want to reach Kitchley’s office. That’s one more level above us.”
The Sergeant shook his head. “I don’t know, Madame. It could be pretty hard getting through the halls. There are too many people who . . . don’t know what’s going on. They’re barricaded in their offices and shooting at anything moving.” He looked at her pistol. “Still, considering—”
Jessine cocked her head. “You mean considering that most of them would recognize me—”
He nodded. “It’s taking a chance. Most of them think you and all the others are dead.”
“I can understand why,” said Jessine, and could not keep herself from adding, “Do you know if anyone else . . .?”
“Got out?” he finished for her. “Sorry, Madame. I don’t know. I’ve heard rumors, but nothing real.” He pressed closer to the open door. “You want to try this?”
“Yes,” she said, knowing it was what she had to do. She had been raised to be the wife of the High Secretary, and that included facing adversity with dignity and fortitude. She stood a little straighter. “Take up First Escort position.”
“If that’s what you want,” said Sergeant Mallas dubiously but without challenging her orders. He moved into the hall.
“Stand up, Sergeant. They are less likely to fire at you if you behave as if you belong here.”
The first checkpoint was unmanned, but the second had Security soldiers in place, all four of them heavily armed.
“You’re cleared to the Appointments Directorate, Madame,” said the unsmiling Security guard. “Treasury Guards are in charge there. You’ll have to deal with them if you’re going beyond there.”
“Than
k you, Monitor,” said Jessine with deliberate hauteur; she had the satisfaction of seeing the Security guards come to attention before she followed Sergeant Mallas through the confusion of the main corridor.
The five makeshift data processing stations which had been set up under the Grand Staircase more than twenty years ago were now filled with Directorate employees all trying to sort and destroy any compromising documents they might have in their records. Dataspools and printed records lay everywhere—on the floor, atop cases and chairs and cabinets—and everyone spoke in whispers, as if they, too, might prove embarrassing to some high official.
Sergeant Mallas kept his eyes moving, watching for the unexpected as he continued at a steady walk toward the next checkpoint.
A cluster of offices toward the first bank of dropshafts had once been storage rooms; they were small and cramped and dark. Clerks were assigned to them on a rotating basis because few could stand the sepulchral environment for long. Sergeant Mallas was starting to say something when the door to the nearest office was flung open and half a dozen soldiers in Navy body armor uniforms piled out, their Kanovskys at the ready
Jessine did not want to find out what kind of ammunition the Kanovskys had. Sergeant Mallas tugged her off her feet and dropped almost on top of her, his gun aimed at the Navy soldiers.
“We can kill you and take her or take her,” said the leader of the Navy soldiers, making a suggestive flick with the barrel of his Kanovsky. “Get out of the way, Security. This isn’t your fight anymore.”
“Whose fight is it?” Jessine demanded, half her body feeling squashed. Her cheek was pressed against the floor and her hip bone hurt.
“Be quiet, Madame,” Sergeant Mallas said to her, remaining very calm.
“Let us have her,” the Navy leader said. “You can go. We don’t want you.”
I’m going to die here, thought Jessine with intense disbelief. They are going to kill Sergeant Mallas and me. I’m twenty-four. They can’t do this. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from screaming in rage.
Sergeant Mallas pressed his release toggle. “I’m ready anytime you are.”
“It’s a damned waste,” sighed the leader, and brought his Kanovsky up.
He never fired it. A group of Treasury Guards stepped out of the dropshaft, their weapons—Bahkoyn 149JZs—already aimed. The TechCaptain in the lead made a motion and his men spread out across the wide section of corridor in front of the dropshafts.
“Holy sweet—” whispered Sergeant Mallas, looking from the Navy soldiers to the Treasury detachment.
Jessine ground her teeth. Either they were going to kill her, in which case she wanted them to get it over with, or they were going to fight each other, in which case she wanted to be on her way. She pushed one arm out from under her and tried to shove herself free of Sergeant Mallas, who moved at once to continue to cover her.
“Madame Bouriere,” said the TechCaptain. “Can we be of service?”
The Navy soldiers were now maneuvering into position to fight the guards. The Kanovskys faced the Bahkoyns; no one fired yet.
“I want to get to Kitchley.”
“He’s injured, Madame Bouriere,” said the TechCaptain, as polite as if they were preparing for a diplomatic reception. “But he is in his office.” He gave his attention to the Navy soldiers. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Uh oh,” whispered Sergeant Mallas, and started to slide backward, dragging Jessine with him.
It was difficult to tell who had fired first: there was silence, and then the hallway rang and buzzed with Kanovsky full-deterrent ammunition and Bahkoyn high-impact shells. The ornamental friezes above the dropshafts splintered and shells gouged long grooves in the floor.
Four Navy soldiers dropped at the first onslaught, three dead and one wounded. The Treasury guards’ repellent-field uniforms managed better, though two men were wounded.
The firing increased and there were screams and howls everywhere, from Navy soldiers, Treasury Guards, clerks, automatic alarm systems. The noise was as frightening as the shells being fired.
“We’re getting out of here,” Sergeant Mallas told Jessine, wriggling back and sideways from the firefight.
The Treasury troops moved toward the Navy unit, clearly holding the advantage. The Navy soldiers retreated back toward the tomblike cubicle offices, taking more time to aim and fire than they had done at first. Behind them at the far end of the hall clerks were screaming and running, many with their arms full of dataspools.
Sergeant Mallas inched his way closer to the dropshafts. “Just one floor up,” he reminded Jessine. “You can do it easy. You slide back, stand up real carefully—you don’t want to pinwheel.”
“What about you?” she asked as she did her best to follow his instructions.
“I’m right behind you.” He kept his railgun in position to fire, watching the guards drive the Navy out of the hall.
Jessine slipped into the dropshaft, steadying herself in the field, taking care to stay balanced and oriented properly. A bullet ricocheted off the floor and struck Sergeant Mallas square in the chest just as he was easing back into the dropshaft. He gave a single grunt, then his railgun dropped from his fingers. He fell sideways, slipping beyond the field’s stability; his corpse began to turn slowly, then moved steadily faster in the dropshaft beside Jessine as she rose to the floor above. She heard shots behind her, but didn’t dare look back as she stepped out. Probably some other faction was attacking the Navy—Sclerida’s men.
Jessine jogged along the corridor and swung around a corner into the Appointments Communications Center. It had been transformed into a command post for the defense of the Secretary’s Palace and was as crowded as the corridor had been. Stopped, she saw that five railguns were aimed at her. Only the sudden shouts of two alien supervisors stopped the clerks manning the guns from firing.
A Magdarite with orange ruff fully extended around his vulpine face, rushed forward, bowing in recognition. “Madame Bouriere. How . . . fortunate to see you.” He seemed confused but determined to behave correctly no matter how strange their circumstances.
Jessine took this as well as she could, but she felt at a marked disadvantage. “I don’t know what’s . . . developed. It’s been so—” She stopped, gesturing her lack of words.
“Untypical,” the Magdarite supplied, doing his best to look calm. “We’re getting the situation in hand now, as you can see.” He bowed to the soldiers and clerks. “It is a great honor to defend you in this difficult hour.”
“It is an honor to be defended by you.” Jessine nodded regally. “Can I get on the other side of these guns now?”
Finally, he led her around the railguns and past a barricade of office furniture. A little giddily, Jessine wondered if double-decker desks were the daily operating standard. “You’ll want to see Kitchley,” assumed the Magdarite.
“Yes, please.”
“Right this way, Madame Bouriere,” the Magdarite said as he started through a maze of cubicles.
“Is Kitchley well?” asked Jessine.
“A little injured, but not severely,” said the Magdarite, letting his ruff deflate a little. “He has been tended to, and should recover completely.” They were nearing Kitchley’s office, and Jessine saw two communication dispatchers now set up as gun emplacements with impressive bits of artillery wired into them. “We are striving to give thorough protection here.”
“Yes, it looks it,” said Jessine, her face set in the ritual half-smile she habitually wore at public functions. She inclined her head to the clerks who recognized her.
“His Remarkableness the Appointment Clerk to the High Secretary,” said the Magdarite, with a court bow.
Kitchley was preoccupied with the displays on the huge wall screen, and so at first did not realize who had come into his large, cramped office. When at last he turned, a great smile wreathed his face. “Madame Bouriere,” he said warmly.
“Kitchley,” she said, a little surprised at the r
elief she felt. She maintained a decent fortitude and merely grasped his wrists as custom dictated. “I was afraid that you’d been harmed when—”
Kitchley shook his head. “They ignored me. They really wanted you. I thought we’d lost you. Come, sit, please. Do you need a medic?” He gestured at her bloody arm.
“No, thank you,” said Jessine politely. She looked around the cramped office area and found a large sealed crate. Carefully removing a stack of papers, she sat down.
Kitchley was at his comm board. “Team X, this is Leader. The subject has returned safely. Please pick up soonest.”
“Team X, will comply. ETA, five minutes,” came the answer.
Jessine stared at Kitchley for a second. “Oh. Your escort.”
Kitchley gave her a reassuring smile. “Yes, Madame. They’ll be here shortly, and we can carry on getting you safely to my house.” His smile disappeared. “We have the preliminary report on the autopsy.”
The word gave the High Secretary’s death a reality that Jessine had been holding off. Tears filled her eyes. “Yes?”
It appears he was poisoned. We are proceeding on the assumption that the assassination may well have been at the instigation of Senator Lomax. He has made it plain enough that he covets the post of High Secretary and is prepared to take steps to secure the position for himself. Therefore, it is not unlikely that he participated in these dreadful events.” He watched the display critically: nine levels below, Cernians and Navy soldiers were locked in combat.
“Why Lomax and not Sclerida?” asked Jessine. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She thought she remembered having this discussion before with Kitchley. She wondered if he knew something she didn’t. “Sclerida’s every bit as ambitious as Lomax and he has half the Navy at his command.”
“Yes, the Admiral is another likely candidate, but Lomax seems to have gained the most in the least time.” He pressed one of his fingers to the center of his forehead, the Daphne equivalent to a frown. “Of course, it’s too soon to be sure. We don’t know what the disposition will be a day from now.”
Crown of Empire Page 5
