Crown of Slaves

by David Weber

  She watched her display, suppressing any sign of impatience, while she waited for Decoy Two to get into position. It wasn't Lara's fault that her group had fallen a bit behind the others, and the ex-Scrag was working hard to make up the differential.

  There!

  "All Tango-Lima-Alpha units, this is Kaja. Standby to execute on my command."

  She waited two more heartbeats, then—

  "All units, execute!"

  * * *

  Zenas Maguire settled deeper into his selected position. There wasn't any such thing as a good position from which to direct the defense of such a complicated tangle of passageways and corridors, so he'd had to select the best one he could find. At least it was more or less centrally located in his area of responsibility.

  Unfortunately, it appeared that the attackers were headed directly for the same position, almost as if they knew that it lay at the center of his dispositions. Which was impossible, of course.

  He watched the imagery from the cameras covering the last hatch between his people and them, and his belly was a hollow, singing void. He'd never expected to face serious combat as one of Manpower's hired guns. That was one reason he'd taken the job. He was tired of getting shot at for the miserly pay of a Silesian Army lieutenant, and making sure that a bunch of slaves didn't get uppity had seemed a beguiling change of pace. Not to mention how much better the money was.

  Well, I guess what goes around, comes around. Whoever these people are, they obviously don't much like Manpower, which means they aren't going to like anyone who works for it, either. So the only way to save my ass is to save Arnold's and Takashi's. The sorry bastards. If they'd done their jobs properly in the first place, none of us would—

  Something clanged behind him. Metal on metal, his mind reported, but what kind of metal? He started to turn towards the sound, and a blur of motion caught at the corner of his eye.

  His attention flicked towards it, and both eyes began to widen in disbelief as he saw the deck-to-ceiling ventilation grate lying on the deck and the Solarian Marine, battle armor in heavy-assault configuration, striding out of the opening.

  Zenas Maguire's eyes never finished widening all the way, and his brain never quite completed the identification of what he saw, because the trigger finger of Corporal Jane Borkai, Company Bravo, Second Battalion, 877th Solarian Marines, closed the circuit on her plasma rifle first. That "rifle" was a cannon in all but name—the sort of weapon only someone in battle armor could carry—and the ravening packet of plasma it sent screaming across the compartment wiped out Maguire, Kawana, six more of Maguire's personnel, eight bulkheads, two blast doors, three main power conduits, a sanitation main, two fire suppression control points . . . and all trace of central command among the defenders.

  Five other ventilation grates were kicked open almost simultaneously, and five other Marines—two of them armed "only" with heavy tribarrels—bounded through the sudden openings and opened fire. They appeared in the midst of Maguire's carefully chosen defensive positions, like demon djinn conjured out of nothingness, and their fire was devastatingly accurate. Maguire's troopers outnumbered their attackers by at least three-to-one, and it didn't matter at all. Not when Ruth had been able to steer Thandi and her Marines into positions of such crushing advantage. Almost half the defenders were killed in the first four seconds of Thandi's attack, and the sudden, totally unexpected savagery was too much for the traumatized survivors. Their stomach for combat died with their commanders, and weapons thudded to the deck amid frantic offers of surrender.

  * * *

  Homer Takashi watched in gray-faced shock as the green icons of friendly units vanished from his display with sudden and terrifying finality. How? How could anyone do that? It was impossible! Unless—?

  The ventilation system! That was the only possible avenue, the only way people in something as bulky as battle armor could have avoided the main corridors. But that was still impossible! For it to work, the attackers would have to have known the internal layout of the space station better than people who'd lived and worked aboard it literally for T-years!

  Not that it mattered. However they'd managed it, they'd also timed it perfectly. Arnold had divided his available strength into four well chosen blocking positions . . . and the attackers had maneuvered into position to take all four of them out simultaneously. In the space of less than ten minutes, effectively every defender, aside from the single platoon Arnold had held out as a tactical reserve, had been eliminated. And even as Takashi watched the illuminated schematic of the station, whole sectors were turning from green to bloody crimson as the invaders fanned out towards the fusion rooms, life-support, the com section . . . and Central Command.

  And then the illuminated schematic disappeared, and Takashi swallowed hard as a beardless face replaced it. He certainly hadn't ordered the display reconfigured for communications, and a cold, numb suspicion of just how the enemy had become so intimately familiar with the internal geography of his space station filled him.

  Not that he had much opportunity to digest the thought. Even as he stared at the screen, the cold-eyed man on it opened his mouth . . . and stuck out his tongue.

  Takashi's breathing stopped. Every voice in the command center fell instantly still. The only sound was the subdued beeping of com channels and emergency alarms. Then the face on the screen spoke.

  "My name," it said, in a voice of liquid helium, "is Jeremy X."

  "Oh my God," someone whimpered into the sudden, ice-cold silence. The galaxy's most notorious terrorist allowed that silence to linger for what seemed a small, deadly eternity. Then his lips moved in a smile which held no slightest trace of humor.

  "Surrender, and you'll live," he said flatly. "Choose not to surrender, and you won't. Personally, I'd prefer for you to take the second option, but it's up to you. And you have precisely ninety seconds to make up your mind."

  Chapter 46

  "CIC confirms the outer platforms' reports, Sir." Commander Blumenthal's quiet voice only seemed loud in the quiet of Gauntlet's command deck. "Three light cruisers, two heavy cruisers, one battlecruiser, and fourteen destroyers."

  "Still nothin' from them, Lieutenant Cheney?" Michael Oversteegen asked calmly.

  "Not a word, Sir," the com officer confirmed.

  "But they're not exactly makin' a secret of their identity, now are they?" Oversteegen murmured rhetorically.

  "You could put it that way, I suppose, Sir," Commander Watson agreed with a slight, sardonic smile.

  The twenty incoming ships hadn't transmitted any messages or challenges—not yet. Except for one. Their com sections might not be saying anything, but they were making absolutely no attempt to hide their approach, and every one of them was squawking the transponder code of the Mesan Space Navy.

  "Now, I wonder just what they could want?" Oversteegen responded to his XO, and several people surprised themselves with chuckles. It was the first time any of them had felt a great deal like chuckling over the last three standard days.

  "Well," the captain continued after a moment, "I suppose that if they're not goin' t' be courteous enough t' open communications, then it's up t' us. Be kind enough t' put me on mike, Lieutenant."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Cheney responded, and tapped a stud at her console. "Live mike, Sir."

  "Unknown vessels," Oversteegen said calmly, "this is Captain Michael Oversteegen, Royal Manticoran Navy, commandin' Her Majesty's Starship Gauntlet. Please identify yourselves and state your purpose and intentions."

  The transmission went out at light speed, and Oversteegen leaned back in his command chair, waiting while it crossed the four light-minutes still lying between the newcomers and Gauntlet. Nine minutes later, a square-jawed, strong-nosed male face appeared on his communications display.

  "Captain Oversteegen," the face's owner said harshly, "I am Commodore Aikawa Navarre, Mesan Space Navy, and I find it difficult to believe that you are not perfectly well aware of the reason for my units' presence in this sy
stem."

  Cold hazel eyes narrowed, and Navarre allowed several seconds of silence to linger. Then he continued.

  "Before Mr. Takashi was forced to surrender his space station to the notorious terrorist Jeremy X, a dispatch boat had already been sent to summon assistance. Fortunately, the boat was still in communications range of the space station at the time of its surrender. Equally fortunately, the system authorities had been informed of the presence of my task group in the vicinity, conducting routine exercises."

  The hazel eyes didn't even flicker at the straight-faced phrase "routine exercises," Oversteegen noticed.

  "Because of that, I was able to respond immediately. And also because of that, Captain Oversteegen, I am quite well informed on what had occurred prior to the dispatch boat's departure. Which means, Captain, that I am aware that the entire 'crisis' in which the supposed 'terrorists' kidnaped a member of your kingdom's royal family, was obviously a pure invention. A carefully engineered deception whose sole purpose was to permit an organization outlawed by every major star nation—including your own—to seize the property of a Mesan corporation and to murder scores of its employees.

  "Not content with that, Captain," Navarre's voice went even colder, "your ship has seen fit to sit here in orbit while those same terrorists carried out systematic, brutal atrocities and the massacre of men, women, and children on the surface of the planet Verdant Vista!"

  Navarre might not have spent any effort on opening communications with Gauntlet, Oversteegen reflected, but he had obviously taken time to download a complete news report from the media ships still covering the story of the liberation of Congo.

  And what a spectacularly bloody story it had become, he thought grimly. Much though it galled him to his soul to admit it, there was more than a faint echo of truth to Navarre's last accusation.

  "Under the circumstances, Captain Oversteegen," the Mesan continued, "and given that you yourself have completely failed in your obvious responsibility to prevent the brutal and savage shedding of innocent blood, I intend to put a stop to it. I would not advise you to further try my patience by attempting to impede me in the performance of my duty."

  "I don't believe you accurately apprehend the circumstances obtainin' on this planet," Oversteegen replied in an equally cold voice. "I give you my solemn word, as a Queen's officer, that not a single 'terrorist'—or anyone else—landed from the space station orbiting the planet Torch—" he emphasized the planet's new name deliberately "—participated in any of the bloodshed you just described. If you so desire, you may check with the officers and news personnel aboard any of the four media vessels which, at my suggestion, were invited t' monitor events aboard the space station following its surrender t' the forces of the Torch Liberation Army."

  "Torch Liberation Army!" Navarre's face twisted in a sneer as he repeated the phrase. "What a respectable name for a pack of cowardly, murderous vermin. I am shocked—no, Captain, sickened—to hear anyone calling himself a naval officer, even of a backwater, neobarb 'star kingdom,' acting as a mouthpiece for the scum of the galaxy. I suppose they expected to be in a position to pay you a handsome bribe for your services after they got done looting Verdant Vista."

  "How fortunate for you, Commodore," Oversteegen said calmly, "that you're in a position t' bandy your accusations from the security of your command deck. I, of course, as a benighted subject of my 'neobarb' monarch, far too uncivilized t' appreciate the splendor of your civilized turn of phrase, might be tempted t' react t' them with unseemly violence. Particularly when they come from a man who chooses to wear the uniform of the single so-called 'navy' which has, for the past nine T-centuries, protected the systematic trade in human bein's. And which, I might take this opportunity t' observe, since you have just so rightly condemned the massacre of women and children on Torch, has connived at and cooperated with the systematic sale, torture, degradation, and casual murder of literally millions of those same human bein's durin' that period. At least, Sir, the uniform of the Queen of Manticore has never been sold t' the service of whoremasters, murderers, pedophiles, sadists, and perverts. I suppose, however, that those of you who choose t' serve in the navy of Mesa feel comfortable amid such company."

  Navarre's face flushed and his square jaw quivered as Oversteegen's cold, cutting words struck home. Then his upper lip drew back.

  "I do, indeed, feel comfortable in the service of my star nation," he said, softly. "And I am looking forward to the opportunity to deal with you and your ship in the fashion you so amply deserve, Captain. In the interest of demonstrating respect for interstellar law, however, I will give you one last opportunity to avoid the consequences of your arrogance and criminal activities in this system. You will release any surviving Mesan citizens in your custody. And you will turn over to me the terrorist butchers responsible for the outrages and murders committed on the surface of Verdant Vista."

  "There are no citizens of Mesa in my custody, Commodore," Oversteegen replied. "All such prisoners are in the custody of the provisional government of the independent planet Torch. And, I repeat, none of the personnel involved in the capture of the space station in orbit around Torch participated in acts of violence against any civilian, regardless of age or gender, on that planet's surface. The actions to which you refer, and which the provisional government deeply regrets and deplores, were committed by the citizens of Torch in the course of liberatin' themselves from the brutality and systematic abuse, starvation, torture, and, yes, murder, of the institution of genetic slavery of which your star nation thinks so highly."

  "Citizens!" Navarre spat. "Rabble! Scum! Cat—!"

  He chopped himself off before the word "cattle" slipped fully out, and Oversteegen smiled thinly. The encrypted communications channel between Gauntlet and Navarre's flagship was theoretically totally secure. Theory, however, had a habit of sometimes coming up short against reality, and Navarre was clearly conscious of the watching—and possibly listening—news ships still camped out in the Congo System. For that matter, he had to realize that Oversteegen was recording the entire exchange, so a certain discretion was undoubtedly called for.

  The Mesan commodore drew a deep breath, then squared his shoulders and glowered at Oversteegen.

  "Very well, Captain," he said icily. "Since you decline to discharge your responsibilities, I will discharge them for you. I suggest that you stand aside, because my task group is about to put an end to the bloodshed and atrocities being committed on Verdant Vista."

  "I regret, Sir," Oversteegen replied, not sounding as if he regretted anything in the least, "that I can't do that. The provisional government of Torch has appealed t' the Star Kingdom of Manticore for protection and assistance in establishin' and maintainin' public order on their planet. As Her Majesty's senior officer in this sector, I have provisionally agreed in her name t' extend that assistance t' the government and citizens of Torch."

  "Stand aside," Navarre grated. "I won't warn you again, Captain. And while I am aware of your somewhat exaggerated reputation, I suggest that you consider the odds carefully. If you attempt to hinder me in the performance of my duty, I will not hesitate to engage and destroy your vessel. Do you really wish to kill your entire crew and risk open war between your star nation and mine over a planet full of outlaws?"

  "Well," Oversteegen said with a cold, hungry smile, "defendin' other people's planets against unprovoked attack by murderous scum seems t' have become something of a tradition for my Queen's Navy over the past few decades. Under the circumstances, I'm sure she'll forgive me for followin' that tradition."

  "Are you totally insane?" Navarre asked in a tone which had become almost conversational. "You have one cruiser, Oversteegen. I have five, plus a battlecruiser and screen. Are you really stupid enough to take on that much tonnage all by yourself?"

  "Oh, not quite all by himself," another voice said coolly, and Navarre stiffened as his com screen split and an officer in the uniform of a captain in the Solarian League Navy suddenly appeare
d upon it beside Michael Oversteegen.

  "Captain Luis Rozsak, SLN," the newcomer said, "and this is my command," he added, as the units of his destroyer flotilla disengaged their stealth systems and brought their impeller wedges to full power in a perfectly synchronized maneuver. Eighteen destroyers and Rozsak's light cruiser flagship suddenly appeared on Navarre's sensors.

  "Who the hell are you?" Navarre demanded, shocked out of his easy assumption of superiority by the abrupt appearance of so many more ships.

  "I am the senior naval officer assigned by the Solarian Navy to the Maya Sector," Rozsak said calmly. "And, as Captain Oversteegen, the Solarian League, in the form of the Maya Sector, has also been appealed to by the provisional government of Torch for assistance and protection."

  "And?" Navarre snarled.

  "And the sector has decided to extend that assistance and protection," Rozsak told him.

  "Barregos has agreed to this lunacy?" Navarre shook his head, his expression incredulous.

  "The actual decision was made by Lieutenant Governor Cassetti," Rozsak said. "The lieutenant governor has initialed a commercial and mutual defense treaty with the provisional government."

  "There is no provisional government!" Navarre half-shouted. "There can't be!" He clenched his fists, obviously fighting for self-control. "The planet is the property of a Mesan corporation."

  "The planet, like any other planet, belongs to its citizens," Roszak corrected. "That, Commodore, has been the official policy of the Solarian League from its inception."

  Navarre stared at him, and Oversteegen was hard pressed not to laugh outright at the Mesan's expression. True, the policy Rozsak had just enunciated—with, Oversteegen noted, a completely straight face—had indeed been the official one of the Solarian League from the beginning. It was also one the Office of Frontier Security had ignored for centuries . . . when it hadn't actively conspired to fold, twist, and mutilate it with the connivance of powerful corporations and business combines.