Crown of Empire

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Wiley strapped in. “Where are we going now?”

  “Somewhere you’ll be safe.”

  They were headed out of the city again. Looking for her precious droppoint, Wiley assumed. He was beginning to have suspicions about this woman.

  After several minutes, they approached a group of buildings. A little shantytown, Wiley saw, built around a factory. Nika landed the aircar in one of the narrow streets. As she hustled him out the starboard hatch, two men slid in the port side.

  “Valet parking,” commented Wiley, looking back over his shoulder. “Very nice.”

  Nika tugged on his arm. She led Wiley toward one of the tumbledown shops. NORF’S BAR AND GRILL read the sign. “Oh, good,” said Wiley. “I was starting to get the munchies.”

  The hostess approached them on tiny cloven hooves. Her slim legs disappeared up under a tight skirt. “Dinner or drinks?” she asked.

  “Both,” replied Wiley.

  “We’re meeting someone,” added Nika. “A party of six, the name is Jones.”

  “Right this way, please.” Wiley watched the hostess as she led them toward the back. Maybe if he hadn’t blown off so many boring political dinners, he’d know what species she was.

  She showed them to a small private dining room. The table was indeed set for six, but no one else was in the room. When the hostess had shut the door behind them, Nika went to the far wall, muttering under her breath.

  “Come on, Wiley,” she called.

  “What about dinner?” he demanded. “I’m hungry.”

  A section of wall slid aside.

  “Later. We have to keep moving.”

  Wiley shook his head and followed her. Would the surprises never end?

  They stepped into a dropshaft, the wall closing as they fell.

  Falling through the dim light of the dropshaft, Wiley tried to count the floors. Not a chance. A long way, he could figure that much out.

  Then Nika grabbed him and they stopped, stepping out to a security station. Behind two panels of glastic, underneath cameras and guns, sat a live human guard. Wiley thought he recognized the black uniform.

  “You’re Kona Tatsu,” he whispered.

  Nika stepped up to the comm panel and pressed her hand against the ID plate. “Yes.” She stepped aside and gestured for Wiley to use the panel.

  He put his hand up to the plate, then turned to look into her face. “Why?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

  A door opened, letting them into the space between the glastic panels. The second door opened only after the first had shut again. Nika pushed at Wiley.

  “The High Secretary is dead,” she said. “The Secretarial Palace is under attack by a number of groups.” She led him down a corridor as she talked. “We hope to be able to keep you safe here, for a while, at least. If we have to, we’ll keep moving you around until it’s over.”

  Wiley nodded. He felt terrible. He’d had too much to drink, too much . . . excitement, certainly too much falling, and still hadn’t had dinner.

  “I don’t guess there’s been a mistake about my father,” he said.

  “No,” said Nika. “No mistake.” She looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

  Wiley looked away from her. He wasn’t sure if he was going to cry but if he was, he didn’t want to do it in front of the Kona Tatsu. Not live agents, anyhow, he amended, thinking of the security cameras that must be around.

  “Come on, let’s get you that dinner,” said Nika.

  They moved through several corridors, turning corners until Wiley was sure they were no longer under the tavern. Finally, they entered a dining room. Wiley was a little startled to see the tablecloths and human waiters.

  “Where are we?”

  “Welcome to the gracious Kona Tatsu Cafe,” said a waiter, leading them to a table.

  “Two specials, Jack,” said Nika. “Getting shot at makes me hungry.”

  “Everything makes you hungry,” said Jack. “Food’ll be right out.” He disappeared behind a folding screen.

  Wiley leaned back in his chair. “So, you’re Kona Tatsu.”

  Nika smiled. “Yup. And you’re the heir to the Secretariat.”

  Wiley drooped. “Thanks.”

  Nika’s smile vanished. “Wiley, you can’t hide. Not from Sclerida, not from Haiken Maru, and certainly not from the Secretariat.”

  “Then what’s this for?” Wiley gestured around him.

  “The time being,” replied Nika. “It’s temporary. Until things settle a little, and we can talk instead of shoot.”

  “Then I’ll have to grow up. Take the damn chair, pick up the reins.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “A prize for the lady in shreds,” said Wiley. Nika gave her rumpled clothing a quick glance, then shrugged.

  “No,” Wiley continued. “I don’t. I don’t understand how any of it works, regardless of how much attention I pay. And I don’t much want to be someone’s puppet, so it doesn’t matter that I’d have a regent.”

  “Is that why you party all the time?” asked Nika.

  Wiley threw up his hands. “What else am I going to do? What am I actually good for?”

  Jack appeared beside their table. “The food will be—”

  “Haiken Maru!”

  Nika and Jack turned; Wiley stared. An injured man had stumbled into the dining room.

  “The safe house is under attack,” he said. “Haiken Maru forces are spreading like ants. Better get him out of here.” He waved at Wiley.

  Nika stood. “Right. Let’s go.”

  Wiley shoved his chair back. “So much for bodily sustenance.”

  “Through the kitchen,” ordered Jack. “Up the tube, aircar on the roof.” He pulled a weapon and headed for the door. Nika grabbed Wiley’s arm and pulled. He followed, running.

  In the kitchen was indeed a lift tube. They jumped in. As they shot past the first few floors, they could hear sirens and yelling.

  Nika took off her belt. “Put this on.” She reached around Wiley and fastened the belt for him. “It’s got my AID. It’ll take care of you.”

  “But you’ll be here,” protested Wiley.

  “Maybe not,” she shot back. “We didn’t expect them to find you here.” She pulled two weapons from some fold in her battered garment as they neared the roof.

  “Look, thanks for . . . your help,” offered Wiley. “Even if . . .”

  Nika looked him in the eyes. “Sorry about dinner.”

  The tube stopped them and she stepped out, both guns blazing. Wiley had a momentary flash: what if there were Kona Tatsu on the roof?

  But there weren’t, only Cernians, and Nika was cut down before him like a paper doll in a shredder.

  “But . . .” Wiley fell to his knees beside her and was jerked to his feet.

  “Come with us,” barked the Cernian. He pulled Wiley toward a waiting APC.

  “Of course.” Wiley wasn’t hungry anymore.

  Chapter 7

  Chaney and Tira stood breathless, listening. The guards were on the floor, bound and gagged. Chaney stared at Uncle Ken’s body.

  “I don’t understand,” he said “Why? What did he want?”

  Tira watched him. His puzzlement made her think: he really didn’t understand. He’d thought his uncle was trustworthy. Loyal.

  But to whom? Tira bit her lip reflectively. She was beginning to trust Yon Chaney, maybe even to like him a bit.

  “We can’t stay,” she said gently. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Not out the way we came in, that’s certain,” said Chaney “There are armed guards, and if that tunnel isn’t mined, I’m a Lakme swamp devil. We can’t get out that way, even if we could get transportation.”

  “So what do we do, then?” Tira asked. “We can’t wait here for them to find us.”

  “No, of course not.” He looked around. “Uncle Ken came from that direction. The chances are there aren’t as many guards that way. It’s supposed to be protected on this side, so
let’s go that way. It’s probably safer.” He claimed another pistol, giving him a total of three.

  He led Tira to the far door. They were lucky; no guards were posted in the back hallway at all.

  As they walked through the corridors, it became clear that they’d left the working installation and were now in a residence. An elaborate private residence, fitted with brocade drapes and tile floors. Along the walls were portraits of famous admirals of the past. One showed Secretary Bouriere and Admiral Sclerida reviewing a fine display of Naval aerobatic aircars and pursuit boats.

  “Where are we?” whispered Tira.

  “The official answer is ‘Naval Logistics Headquarters.’ What it really is is Admiral Sclerida’s private palace,” Chaney answered. The corridor was still empty as he tried the nearest door, one with elaborate carvings over the lintel.

  It gave onto an opulent suite of three rooms, each an astonishing realization of a fantasy. In the first there were more lush tropical plants than Chaney had seen outside of the Secretarial arboretum. Two streams wound through the large room, and brightly colored birds called from the dense foliage. There was a scent of jungle flowers so sweet it was cloying. In the center of this all was a bed draped in gauzy fabric and made up with silkeen sheets. One wall concealed a closet, empty but for plant food.

  “I don’t like the feel of this,” said Tira.

  Chaney was silent. They moved on through the suite.

  The second room was done up in rose-colored plush, containing three divans and two enormous hassocks. Overhead, the ceiling was draped in cinnamon-colored damask so that it appeared to be a tent instead of a room. Brass trays leaned against the wall and the smell of sandalwood was everywhere, rising up in fragrant smoke in braziers. A fountain perfumed the air with the scent of roses and jasmine. It hurt to breathe.

  “No wonder there are aliens and humans who feel left out, who think they’re taken advantage of. This place would convince them completely.” Chaney scowled at the extravagance. “That fabric is off-planet hand-woven, and you won’t get me to believe that the weavers are paid decently. The staff here is probably mostly aliens who answer to a few human supervisors, just like at any rich human’s house. And the aliens probably live in shacks or tiny apartments with five pieces of furniture and a cooker.”

  “It makes you angry,” said Tira.

  “It makes me furious. Governor Windsor is right. The Pact isn’t going to work until all the races are equal and all the planets are represented. If humans keep lording it over everyone else, the Pact will collapse and we’ll be back to wars again.” His eyes held an anger that surprised Tira.

  “It’s been this way for a long time, Yon,” she said softly. “We’re still here.”

  “Just barely. The Pact isn’t thriving, it’s getting by. That isn’t good enough. The aliens are going to get less and less as the humans want more and more. No alliance can survive that. We need equality. Only then can the Pact prosper and thrive.” He stopped suddenly. “Sorry. I didn’t plan to—”

  Several floors above them an alarm shrilled.

  “What do you think?” Tira whispered, moving closer to Chaney. “Is it us?”

  He listened. “No. It has nothing to do with us. That’s a landing warning, I think. Something very large is coming in.”

  The third room was white-and-gilt, with statues of frolicking cherubs. There was a plethora of mirrors, all in elaborate gilt frames. And there was a tremendous bed occupying most of the far end of the room, its canopy supported by twisted pillars and topped with a golden crown.

  “Come on, let’s get moving,” Tira said nervously.

  “We’ve got to at least try to disguise you.” Chaney looked around the room again, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he noticed a closet discreetly hidden behind a cavorting satyr. He rummaged through the clothing there. “Try these.” He handed her a pair of flamboyant red pants. She held them up against her body.

  “Are you serious? I’ll look like a flare!”

  “Put them on,” ordered Chaney. “If they’re looking at the pants, they won’t see you. Besides,” he added, a little bitterly, “whoever looks at a fancy boy’s face anyhow?”

  Tira gave him a sharp look. “Fancy boy?”

  Chaney handed her a black blouse and red vest. “Sclerida doesn’t keep these clothes for himself.”

  “Then . . .”

  “Just get dressed.”

  Tira ducked into the dressing alcove and changed quickly. Her leggings were tight, and the short britches she wore above them were not much looser. There was a long red vest edged in embroidery which she wore over a matching black lace shirt with a wide full collar that concealed the rise of her breasts. The only pair of boots she could find that fit her were ankle-height and golden. The pants had no pockets, but she was able to tuck her reticule into a blousy sleeve and one more weapon, retrieved from the guards, into her waistband under the vest. She stuffed her own clothes into a hamper shaped like an urn and stepped back into the room. “Will it work?”

  “You’ll have to tie your hair back and change your make-up, but I can’t see why anyone would suspect. I won’t let them get close enough to check anything important.” He did his best to laugh, and she dutifully tried to copy him. “What do you think?”

  “I think we’d better get the guns, and then get out of here.” Chaney’s nervousness had returned full force.

  “All right,” said Tira. “It would have been nice to have a bath,” she said wistfully.

  “And a good meal and someone to clean up after,” appended Chaney. “Maybe when all this is over. In the meantime, do something about your hair and face so we can get out of here.”

  She nodded, picked up her reticule, then sought out one of the mirrors. “Make-up?” she inquired as she surveyed the vast array of daubs and powders before her.

  “Fancy boys usually wear stylized cosmetics. Soft mouths, sloe eyes. Tira, surely you’ve seen the look at the Palace.”

  She nodded. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.” She cleaned her face, then selected four tints to use on her skin. She made her eyebrows straighter, her lashes longer, and her mouth rounder. “Is this what you had in mind?”

  Chaney was unnerved at how boyish yet pretty she looked. He rocked back on his heels. “Perfect! No one will notice your face.”

  “Splendid,” responded Tira wryly.

  Chaney blushed. “Of course. I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it. I just wish you could see me when I haven’t been running for my life all day and dressed in a woman’s clothes,” said Tira lightly as she moved toward the door.

  “Uh . . . I guess we should look for an aircar. Remember,” he added, “walk very close to me, and when there are others around, hold my hand.”

  She looked startled. “Is that what’s expected?”

  “Yes.” Chaney joined Tira at the door. He opened it and went out into the hall as if he had every right to be there, signaling at once for Tira to come after him. “We’re going to take the dropshaft up to ground level. Try not to stare. I’m sorry. I’m really not sure what to do anymore. I thought you’d be safe here.”

  “Me, too.” She bit her lip.

  They kept moving. Climbing two sets of marble stairs brought them to a small door that gave out directly onto the landing field.

  “Someone’s landing, someone very important,” said Chaney. He drew Tira close to him, draping his arm over her shoulder. She let him. “You see the tower? They’re doing flag displays.”

  “They did that for my father,” said Tira softly.

  “Don’t think about that now,” said Chaney. “You’ll need to do it later, but not now.”

  She nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I know it’s going to catch up with me. I can feel it waiting to happen.”

  “Hang on a little longer,” Chaney encouraged her. “It’s hard when you lose your father. I know.”

  “You lost yours?” she asked.


  “Yeah. I lost him.” His voice went sharp, then softened again. “When this is over, there’ll be time. I . . . I’ll be there. If you want.”

  She looked up at him. “I want, I think.”

  Kissing her was not part of his strategy, but it was suddenly the only thing worth doing. As he wrapped his arms around her, he felt the weapon tucked into her waistband at the small of her back. For some reason he could not identify, it made him hold her more tightly, and to deepen their kiss.

  She gazed at him as he slowly released her.

  He put one finger to her lips; his feelings were in such disorder that he could not speak. He made himself take her hand and walk a little further.

  They looked out over the airfield. There were a dozen armed aircars hovering over its expanse. Electromagnetic defensive screens shimmered in the early morning light.

  “Assault boats, three of them,” said Chaney, pointing into the distance. “The lead has the Admiral’s flashes on it.” He took her hand again. “Let’s go. If we can get to an aircar we can slip out when the Admiral’s boat comes in.”

  As they came into the landing area, Tira asked, “What about the shields?”

  “They’re down for the landing. We have to get out before they close back up.” He led the way through the corridor, not quite running. They rounded the first corner and found the first bay empty. “Keep going,” he urged Tira as they rushed on.

  In the second bay there was a military aircar, a Sprinter 377, ready and waiting.

  “Get the hatch,” Chaney told Tira. “And get in. Fast.” He scanned the bay.

  The door they’d just come through opened again, and a tall, old man flanked by two enormous Logistics guards stepped forward. He was resplendent in his full dress Admiral’s uniform and he was smiling. “So you’ve come to see my triumphant departure.” The smile widened. “Oh, yes, departure. You thought it was my arrival, didn’t you?”

  “Admiral Sclerida!” said Tira.

  He bowed once. “It’s been a long time, Demoiselle.” He spoke languidly.

  Chaney spun around, his weapon aimed directly at Admiral Sclerida, and knew he could not fire.