Crown of Empire

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Jessine stared at the display. “No, we don’t.”

  “If it is Lomax,” said Kitchley, “then he will have to shore up his claim quickly. That would require that he ally himself with you or your stepdaughter.”

  “You mean marry me or Tira,” said Jessine more bluntly. “A statement of endorsement wouldn’t be enough for him.” A shudder of distaste rippled through her. “He would need something more . . . binding.”

  In the momentary lull of their conversation, the voice of a soldier could be heard: “Unit 44, to 6 North, unit 44, go to 6 North. Reinforce against Cernian invaders.”

  “Unit 44, roger, wilco.”

  Kitchley regarded Jessine. “Yes, marriage, to you or Tira.” He hesitated. “Or he could dispose of Wiley and claim his position. And then there is the Haiken Maru. They have influence enough to make the lad a puppet; Wiley is not prepared to resist such pressures.”

  Dispose of? Jessine looked sharply at Kitchley. Had Cowper’s death caused this callousness, or had it always been there?

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” she said slowly. “Even if he were popular, he isn’t very strong-willed.” She reviewed what she knew of her husband’s wild son. He was popular, sometimes even quite charming, but his cronies took joy in antagonizing the alien population. He just hadn’t exhibited very good judgment. “He couldn’t hold the Secretariat on his own.” She looked at the display. “Where is Wiley? Have you found him?”

  “No, we haven’t,” admitted Kitchley, his embarrassment obvious. “We are assuming that is an indication he is still alive, somewhere.”

  “Will they keep looking for him?” asked Jessine as they moved.

  “Of course,” replied Kitchley. “He is the heir.”

  “Lomax or Sclerida, there isn’t much to choose between them for Wiley,” said Jessine slowly.

  “I fear not,” said Kitchley. “I haven’t located Admiral Sclerida, either. A man of his great abilities—”

  “And ruthlessness,” added Jessine.

  “Yes, ruthlessness, certainly,” said Kitchley. “Sclerida may lack Senatorial status, but he had the good sense to marry a Chaney, which improves his lot and makes his children serious candidates for the High Secretariat.” He tapped his fingers on the armrest. “Despite the scandal, his children might well be his access to the office he seeks. With Chaney prestige—his brother-in-law still supports him—who knows what he might achieve.”

  Jessine nodded. “He’s been putting pressure on the High Secretary for some time now, wanting to arrange a marriage between his son, Dov, and Tira. It would be perfect for his plans. Cowper and I discussed it . . .” Her voice trailed off. Cowper had wanted her perspective since she was so close to Tira’s age. Jessine tried to remember if she’d really considered Tira’s feelings during those talks.

  “I’m going to miss him,” she said to Kitchley. “He was a very decent man. He treated me well and he did his job the best he knew how.”

  “I had great esteem for him,” said Kitchley. For the next several seconds he concentrated on a pitched confrontation in the lower storage depths. A group of Marines was attempting to cart off large canisters of some unknown substance while Treasury soldiers pinned them down. “If the Admiral should ever persuade Tira to marry Dov Sclerida, it could lead to a number of unpleasant developments.”

  “There we agree,” said Jessine with feeling. “But I doubt Tira would see it that way.” She pointed out the North Reception lobby monitor, which showed a disordered group of Security soldiers had just broken through a Cernian barricade.

  Kitchley used his palace communications override to warn all the combatants that if they did not evacuate the area, explosives concealed in the floor would be triggered, killing all in the lobby. As he watched the soldiers scatter in all directions, he said, “There is no change of heart there.”

  “No,” said Jessine heavily. “She still calls me harlot. She refuses to believe that her father isn’t . . . wasn’t jealous, that our marriage was a diplomatic convenience. And once she found out about Damien Ver, well . . .”

  “She’s not a foolish girl, generally,” said Kitchley, doing his best to be reassuring. “In time she will come to understand—”

  “I doubt it,” said Jessine, feeling strangely desolate. “Given what has happened. Her father is a martyr, and I’m sure Tira assumes I was the one who betrayed him.”

  Kitchley’s attention returned to the monitors. As he had warned, he picked up a small trigger unit and pressed it into action: on the display one of the holograms showed an eruption of stone and glastic as a dozen uniformed bodies were hurled from the landing arms outside the Ambassadorial entrance.

  “Good!” Jessine approved as she watched the display.

  “Necessary,” corrected Kitchley. “If I were not loyal to the Pact, I would not be able to send men to their deaths in this way. We must have a true succession, or the Pact will become meaningless, and everything that we have struggled so hard to achieve will be lost.”

  Jessine regarded him in surprise. “I didn’t . . . you’ve never said you were a . . . a patriot before.”

  “Because I am an alien, you expect me to despise the Pact? Why? Before the Pact there were more abuses and they were worse. With the Pact there is a little hope that the time will come when the abuses will end. For that I am willing to do battle.” He stopped suddenly. “That is why I am determined to do everything in my power to protect the succession.”

  Jessine tilted her seat back, stared at the ceiling a moment before closing her eyes.

  “None of us could hold the Secretariat,” she said. “Not Wiley, not me, not Tira. And yet any one of us could take it for one of these mad factions.”

  “It’s Wiley’s seat, Madame. We must find a way for him to hold it. Perhaps the Kona Tatsu . . .”

  Jessine gave him a look. “We must find him first. And the Kona Tatsu . . . I don’t know any more what the Kona Tatsu wants.” She squeezed her eyes tight. Was it the Kona Tatsu or Damien Ver who had sent those APCs? Or had Varrick lied and it was someone else altogether?

  “Let me be certain I have the players straight,” said Jessine. “The Haiken Maru want Lomax in the seat, as Wiley’s puppeteer—maybe his regent. Sclerida wants the seat for himself, but hasn’t got a prayer for that, or of becoming regent, not after that scandal—did he really think his wife would let his boyfriends live in her house?

  “So Sclerida would need to . . . dispose . . . of Wiley and marry Dov to me or Tira. Blech.” Jessine didn’t like young Sclerida—he was shallow, egotistical and stupid to boot.

  “You could be regent for Wiley, Madame,” offered Kitchley. “And Sclerida could marry you to Dov and gain the seat that way.”

  “No, he couldn’t marry me to Dov,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t marry Dov Sclerida.”

  Kitchley protested. “But, Madame, to protect the succession . . .”

  “The succession cannot be protected, Kitchley,” said Jessine sharply. “Wiley is not fit to rule, regardless of regent or advisors. If he takes the Secretariat, the Pact will take another step down towards death.”

  “If he doesn’t, the Pact will die immediately,” shot back Kitchley.

  “Then we’re doomed, aren’t we?” Jessine leaned her seat back again. “Because I don’t think that Sclerida or Lomax could run the Pact for anything but their own benefit.”

  They were both silent for a moment.

  “There is Governor Merikur.”

  “Who?” asked Jessine.

  “The governor of Harmony Cluster,” replied Kitchley. “Well, governor pro tern. He was Admiral Merikur until the Kona Tatsu assassinated Governor Windsor. I believe he’s on his way to Earth with a fleet of cluster command ships.”

  “Oh, splendid,” muttered Jessine. “Another hand in the pot. And who does Governor Merikur intend to marry? Me, Tira or Wiley?”

  “I’m not sure he knows that the High Secretary is dead,” replied Kitchley thoughtfully. “He’s be
en en route for a few weeks now.”

  Jessine’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he after then?”

  Kitchley raised his eyebrow. “With a cluster command fleet? I understand he’s already taken over Apex Cluster.”

  “Rebellion? Before the Secretary died? How ambitious!”

  “Begun by Governor Windsor, Madame. That would be why the Kona Tatsu killed him.”

  “How curious,” murmured Jessine. “A man without a corporation. I mean, Lomax is run by the Haiken Maru, and Sclerida has Naval Logistics . . . what did Windsor have? Or who had him?”

  Jessine moved restlessly through the crowded room toward Kitchley’s displays. “The way you handle things, I have to be glad we’re on the same side. You’re an expert tactician.”

  “Oh, no,” said Kitchley with modesty. “It would not be a life for me, fighting and plotting. I will do what is necessary to protect the Pact, but I could not make a career out of aggression. You will find that many of the aliens working here feel as I do.” He paused, watching the fire from a Kanovsky 40-09 tear the hell out of one of the statues outside the Ambassadorial reception salons. “I will be grateful when this is over. It is not a thing I relish.”

  “No, of course you don’t,” said Jessine at once. “I wonder when we’ll get a report on Wiley’s whereabouts.”

  “I don’t know,” said Kitchley. “When things are a bit calmer, I will press my inquiries.”

  “And Tira?” As always, Jessine had a complex reaction to her stepdaughter. “Do you know where she is? In spite of everything, I hope she’s all right.”

  “We haven’t found her anywhere in the Palace,” Kitchley said. “She must have escaped.”

  “To where?” asked Jessine hopelessly. “With whom?”

  “I don’t know,” Kitchley confessed. “We haven’t a full picture of what is happening within the Palace, let alone anywhere else. I cannot tell you, not even with these display screens, who exactly is defending the Palace or whether the defenders are losing. It will take time before we know the whole of the damage here.”

  “How long do you expect that will take?” Jessine asked.

  “It depends,” Kitchley said. “If there are more waves of assault, it will take a great deal of time. If there are no more waves of assault, then we must determine which group has been able to secure what area, and only then will we have some notion of who is losing and who is winning.”

  Knowing it showed more weakness than she wanted to admit, Jessine asked one more question. “And Damien Ver?

  Kitchley made a gesture of apology. “He is wearing his blank. We can’t find him unless he removes it.”

  “Or unless he dies,” said Jessine. “We’re not winning, are we?” she asked as she stared at the displays in Kitchley's makeshift headquarters.

  “Not yet,” said Kitchley. “But neither are we losing.”

  “Not yet,” amended Jessine.

  Kitchley turned to Jessine, his slanted tiger’s eyes sharp. “Before the escort arrives, I must ask you an impolite question.”

  “Yes?” Jessine said.

  “Where does Damien Ver stand in this? Have you made him promises?” The last was said gently but it was still an accusation.

  Jessine colored. “Not the kind you’re implying,” she told him in sudden anger. “He has never said or done anything that led me to believe that he had other ambitions.”

  “I ask because,” Kitchley persisted, “it would be possible for him to find a husband for you, one of excellent birth who would be willing to let Ver rule through him, one who would accept the same terms that Cowper Bouriere did in his marriage to you, and that would serve his purpose very well. He is used to working out of sight. With your support, Ver would be able to lead the Pact.”

  “It’s not like that,” said Jessine, denying her own doubts. One of the reasons she was so attracted to Ver was that he was a man of purpose and determination: but what if his determination was greater than he had admitted to her?

  “It is not that he is not capable,” Kitchley said, “but it would not be accepted, not at this time. If the governors were being more reasonable, I would advise just such an arrangement, but in these times, more visible solutions are necessary.”

  This was more than she could handle. “How can you say this to me?” Jessine demanded. “You know me, Kitchley. You and I have been friends. I trust you.”

  “And I you, but if there are questions, I must be prepared to answer them,” Kitchley said reasonably. He gave Jessine one last, long stare. “You are telling me the truth, aren’t you? This isn’t the work of the Kona Tatsu and Damien Ver?”

  “If it is, he has betrayed all of us.” She said it coldly, but it struck the deeper and more painfully for that.

  There was a disturbance outside the barrier and the Magdarite bustled into Kitchley’s space.

  “The escort has arrived, Your Remarkableness.”

  “Excellent.” Kitchley gestured Jessine to leave the cubicle before him. They passed the railgun emplacements and joined a squad of well-armed Daphneans. They hurried through the corridors to the staircase, heading for the roof.

  Jessine frowned at Kitchley. “Is there a communication center at your compound in Horizon Park?”

  “Of course, and a staff to tend to it. You will not be cut off from the world just because you are protected.” He put his long, narrow hand on her shoulder again. “Rest assured, you will be all right.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Kitchley indicated the aircar. “Come. I have done everything I can here. We must continue our efforts at Horizon Park.”

  “Then we will,” said Ereley, the leader of the escort, starting toward the aircar where the other Daphneans waited.

  Kitchley hesitated. “I will be with you directly. Climb aboard, Ereley. There’s a message I have to send to your friend, Madame, if he can receive it. He will want to know where you are.”

  “Yes, Madame,” said Ereley. “Let me help you get aboard.”

  “All right,” said Jessine, glancing back toward Kitchley “Hurry up.”

  “Of course, Madame,” came the muffled reply.

  Ereley was aboard and the aircar throbbed into life. He looked around at the men with him, then nodded to the driver. “We’re ready.”

  Jessine, who was just buckling herself into the harness, stared over at him. “Wait! I see Kitchley coming.”

  “So he is,” said Ereley. And with that, he swung his Kanovsky around and blasted Kitchley with a burst of metal-piercing shots. Kitchley staggered, then appeared to drop into pieces, his lower body almost entirely severed from the upper. Bright orange Daphnean blood fountained into the consoles and communications equipment.

  If it had been possible, Jessine would have risen. But the harness held her down and the aircar was already starting to move through the concealed port, the sounds of its engines covering her rising screams.

  Chapter 6

  They dropped out of the night like wounded owls and jolted into the ground. Wiley, more dazed than Nika, fell flat on his back. The world was wobbling. It was different from his usual post-party wobble, and he didn’t like it. Especially since the post had cut the party so short.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Nika said as she gathered the chute together and looked around for a place to hide it.

  “I like it here,” mumbled Wiley. “It’s so . . . so . . . it’s flat. It’s not moving.” His head ached, his back ached, his ankles ached. In fact, there was no part of him that wasn’t sore in some way. He groaned as he sat up. “So what’s going on, anyway?”

  “It’s complicated,” she said. “We have to get out of here. They could be looking for us.”

  Wiley sighed as he stared at the empty street. “All right. Where do we go now?”

  “We need transportation. Look around for something that has good speed and handling. I don’t want to blunder around up there.” She stretched a little, then regarded him with exaggerated patience. “W
ell? Do you think you can manage to get up now?”

  Wiley pushed himself to his feet. He felt slightly dizzy. Functional, though, if someone else did the thinking.

  “You look awful,” said Nika. “Let’s get going. We need an aircar, now.”

  Wiley shrugged and fell in beside her, though it was an effort to match her long, steady stride. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”

  She glanced at him. “You’re going to have to learn to be more assertive than that if you intend to run the Pact.”

  They had gone some distance when Wiley spotted a Kahna Starcruiser. It was driven by a stern-faced man with military bearing whose passenger was a Zambretic merchant in full regalia.

  “Pretty. Should I stick out my thumb?” Wiley asked. Nika murmured something he couldn’t hear.

  In a moment, the Starcruiser had come to a halt before them. The chauffeur was punching uselessly at his controls and his passenger was blue with indignation.

  Nika stepped up to the car as the door opened. “Out,” she said. The chauffeur looked at her, then at his passenger. A weapon appeared in the woman’s hand. “Now,” she added. The chauffeur rose from his seat. The merchant began to bluster. Nika raised her weapon hand and Wiley stepped forward hastily.

  “Please,” he said. “I realize this is a great inconvenience, but there has been an emergency, and I am required at the Palace at once. I regret that we must deprive you of the aircar, but you may reclaim it at the Palace in the next twenty-four hours. You will be compensated for our use and any disadvantage this causes you.”

  The chauffeur clearly recognized Wiley. He turned to the owner of the aircar. “He’s right, sir. We must cooperate. But you will be rewarded for your service.”

  “We do not permit such abuses on Zambra,” said the merchant. He got down from the aircar in a huff and refused to be impressed by the diplomatic thanks Wiley extended to him before climbing into the Starcruiser.

  “So what official business are we on, anyway? Who are you?” Wiley’s head hurt.

  “At the moment, I’m your bodyguard. Strap in.”