The Court of a Thousand Suns, page 25
* * * *
“Ah, lad,” Alex mused. “Th’ remind me ae m’ ancestor.”
Though it appeared to be a tramp steamer that had far more owners than semiannual, the ship was really a Mantis Q-ship, an intelligence ship mounting as much power as an Imperial destroyer and far better electronics. In addition to the normal four-men crew, Sten, Alex, and forty Gurkhas were crammed into it.
Before he punched the panic button that had alerted the fleet, Sten had prepositioned several remote satellites outside NG 467H, satellites that hopefully would report the drive-flare of any ship headed in his general direction. Then he’d sent the distress signal, knowing that the satellite originally intended to field the tight beam from the palace would respond and communicate with the fleet itself, even though the ships were inside NG 467H’s interference blanket.
“I did not know, Sergeant Major Yeti, you were aware of just who your ancestors were,” Naik Gunju Lama said in seeming innocence.
Kilgour sneered at him. “Frae off’cers Ah hae t’take drakh like tha’, but no frae a wee private who hae to gie back to Katmandu to have his pubes pulled.
“As ae was sayin’t, Captain. One ae m’ancestors went on th’ dole, an’ —”
“What the hell’s a dole?” Sten asked. There’d been no signals from his remotes, and so they had time to kill. Listening to another of Kilgour’s absurd stories seemed as good a way to pass the time as anything.
“A wee fruit, shaped like a pineapple. Now dinna be interruptin’ me, lad. So it’s necessary tha’ m’ ancestor sees a quack, to certify he’s nae able to ply his trade.
“The doc looks a’ m’ ancestor, one Alex Selkirk Kilgour, an’ blanches. ‘Lad,’ he says. ‘Y’ be missin’t parts!’
“M’ ancestor says, ‘Aye.’
“‘Why’d y’ nae hae transplants?’
“‘It was nae possible,’ Selkirk explains. ‘Y’ see, till recent, Ah was a pirate.’
“The doc thinkit tha’ makit sense, an proceeds wi’ th’ exam. Whae he’s done, he says, ‘Sir, y’be’t healthy aye a MacDonald.’
“‘Exceptin’ tha’ missin’t parts.’
“So Selkirk, he explainit: ‘Y’see’t tha’ missin’t leg? Wi’ the peg? Ah was boardin’t a richun’s yacht, an’ th’ lock door caught me.’
“Th’ medico listen’t, mos’ fascinated.
“‘The hook?’ Selkirk gie on, ‘Tha’ be from’t ae laser blast. Took m’ paw off clean’t ae whistle.’
“‘An’ the eye?’ the doc asks.
“Selkirk, e’ fingers th’ patch. ‘Th’ eye? Tha’s frae seagull crap.’
“Th’ wee surgeon’s a’ puzzled an’ all.
“‘Seagull crap?’
“‘Aye. Ah was in th’ dockyard, starin’t up ae a crane, an a gull go’t o’er an’ deposits in me eye.’
“‘But how can seagull crap . . . ‘
“‘Ah, doctor, y’see, Ah’d only had the hook twa days.’”
Sten sought for the proper response and then found it. “Clottin’ Romans!” And then he focused his attention back on the warning screens.
* * * *
The San Jacinto, keeping itself sunward of the tumbling tramp freighter, matched orbits with the pinwheeling ship and nudged closer. Then a volunteer officer, his suit visor at maximum opacity, jetted a line across to one of the Montebello’s tie-down pads. Then the destroyer’s winches, at their lowest gearing, drew the two ships together.
Lavonne had assumed that the Montebello’s lock system would not match his, in spite of Imperial design regulations, so he had the accordion tube ready. It inflated and spread out, fitting and sealing over the Montebello’s lock.
Lavonne, an officer who believed in leading from the front, was suited and waiting inside the San Jacinto’s lock. Behind him twenty sailors were suited up. The lock, one passageway, and a room were set up for the anticipated burnt crewmembers of the Montebello.
“Ten kilos, sir.”
“All hands, seal suits.” He, his twenty sailors, and the rest of the crew of the ship snapped their faceplates closed.
“Open the outer lock.”
“Outer lock door opening, sir.”
Air whooshed from the lock chamber into the accordion tube as the atmospheric pressures equalized. Lavonne grabbed the line running down the center of the tube and hand-over-handed to the Montebello’s lock.
He keyed it open, then he and his chief medical officer stepped inside. Lavonne punched the emergency code that allowed both lock doors to open simultaneously, and waited as atmosphere reequalized. He was braced for almost anything — null-atmosphere with exploded bodies; fire-blackened men and women; mutiny; chaos. Almost anything.
What he saw was three men. All wore Imperial uniforms. The slender man in front had the rank tabs of a captain in the Imperial Guard. All three men had willyguns aimed at his chest.
Lavonne gaped, but before he could recover, the captain said, “Imperial Service, Commander. I am commandeering your ship!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE MEETING ROOM was a hush of diplomats. It was packed with the Tahn contingent and the Emperor’s aides. In the far corner of the room the Emperor himself huddled in conference with Lord Kirghiz and Tanz Sullamora. Underlings on both sides were waiting for the final word. Was there to be an agreement or were they about to go to war?
If they had been inside the Emperor’s head when the Tahn delegation arrived for the final meeting, there would have been no question. He had noted that everyone, from the lowest-ranking Tahn lord to Lord Kirghiz himself, was dressed in formal uniform. They were decked out in emerald green cloaks, red tunics, and green trousers. The tunics were covered with a rainbow of ribbons and dangling medals.
The Eternal Emperor covered a smile when he saw them; people put on their best for a party, not a declaration of war. He himself was dressed in his most simple uniform: It was a rich, light gray. And he wore only one decoration: his rank as head of state — a small gold button with the letters AM2 over a background of the null-element’s atomic structure. The Eternal Emperor had pointed out to Mahoney once that the way to stand out in a crowd of gold braid was to upstage with simplicity. “When you’re the ultimate boss,” he once observed, “you don’t have to announce it.”
The Emperor rose to his feet and extended a hand to Kirghiz. “Then we’re agreed?”
Lord Kirghiz fought to maintain a dignified face. But he couldn’t help his smile of victory. “Agreed.”
“Then let’s leave the details to our staffs,” the Emperor said. “We can dot our i’s and cross our t’s on a mutually beneficial date.
“Now, I have taken the liberty of anticipating our peaceful solution to the late difficulties. Gentlemen. Ladies. If I may invite you to a small dinner of appreciation.”
He waved his hand and huge doors hissed open behind him. The Tahn craned their necks to see a richness of food and drink yawning out behind the Emperor. There were loud cheers, much laughter, and the Eternal Emperor led his guests into the banquet room.
The banquet was the highlight of Marr and Senn’s long career. They had spared nothing to lay out one of the most exotic official dinners in Imperial history.
To begin with, they had been faced with the task of making the enormous ship’s banquet hall feel cozy. So they’d ordered the bulkheads moved in, and then draped them in soft colors to warm the atmosphere. The tables were artfully placed so that no one felt cut off from the main attraction, the Emperor and Kirghiz, who were seated across from one another at the head table. They had also gutted the lighting system and installed indirect illumination that picked out the gleam of silver and polish of plate and highlighted the appetizing dishes being served.
The greatest miracle was the food itself. Naturally, since the Emperor was the host, the menu consisted of Tahn dishes, offering condiments and spices that the caterers knew would compliment and entice the Tahn palate.
As for service, they went one step further. The ultimate in luxury was to be served by a person, rather than a machine or even a high-priced waiter bot. Therefore, Marr and Senn had pressed the Praetorian Guards into service. Behind each diner was a Guardsman in full dress who, at the slightest gesture, would pour wine, change a dish, or sweep something out of the way.
The man most pleased with the arrangement was Admiral Ledoh. He couldn’t have planned it better himself. He picked up his wine goblet and took a small sip. He had to admit that Marr and Senn were a very talented pair. It was unfortunate that their greatest banquet was to be their last.
Ledoh glanced over to Colonel Fohlee, who was seated at the far end of the table. Ledoh raised his glass to Fohlee in a silent toast. Fohlee returned the salute.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
IN A TIME WHEN subspace communication was nearly perfect, the ship-to-ship wire-line was as archaic as a speaking tube. But not off NG 467H. And so the bot jetted out toward the Normandie on peroxide rockets, trailing wire behind.
Its circuitry may have been thirty years old and out of use, but it still told the bot to home . . . home there . . . on that ring of sensitive metal . . . closing . . . Reverse . . . Jets . . . and the com-line clicked home and the line was open to the Normandie.
“This is Dr. Shapiro,” came the voice from the Normandie. “How many casualties do you have?”
“This is Commander Lavonne. Thirty-five. My med officer says twelve are critical, third-degree flash burns, unstable. All others second- or third-degree burns, semi-stable.”
“Stand-by.”
Half-moon clamps slid out from the Normandie, locked onto the San Jacinto and pulled the two ships’ cargo doors into proximity mating, and the doors opened.
Sten’s forty Gurkhas spilled out into the Normandie’s hold firing. Each carried not only his kukris and willygun, but a stungun hung on a retracting combat sling around his neck.
Sten’s orders had been simple: 1. anyone you see is to be taken out; 2. if they are unarmed, stun them — if they are armed or violent, kill them; 3. find the Emperor and secure him; 4. no one, emphasis no one, is to approach the Emperor under any circumstances — anyone, no matter what explanation or rank, who tries is to be killed.
Gurkhas being Gurkhas, and appreciating simple orders, every person in the hold was down and unconscious in five seconds. Even the “talker,” linked to the Normandie’s command center, had no time to report that the ship was being attacked.
* * * *
On command, as if it were a drill, Corporal Luc Kesare stepped forward with a napkin-covered platter. Kirghiz turned and smiled, awaiting the new dish, as Kesare’s left hand retained the platter and his dagger-holding right shot out, the blade going through Kirghiz’s smiling mouth, through his palate, and into his brain.
And so the slaughter started . . .
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
THE COLUMN OF GURKHAS, Sten at its head, was doubling silently through the crew quarters central corridor when the ship’s PA system blared: “All hands . . . the banquet room . . . Somebody . . . they’re trying to kill the Emperor —” The voice stopped and confused sounds chaosed for a moment before the system went dead.
Crewmen stumbled out into the corridor and went down as the Gurkhas stunned them.
At a lift tube Sten raised a hand and the forty men were motionless. He issued orders sending half his men, under Havildar-Major Harkaman Limby, up through officers’ territory with orders to secure the Normandie’s com center and control room. The other twenty followed Sten toward the banquet room.
The huge main doors to the banquet room were yawning open when Sten and Alex sprinted up. Sounds of fighting raged somewhere deep inside the room. At Sten’s signal, Alex and the Gurkhas cautiously edged their way inside.
The work of art that Marr and Senn had created was gone. Tables were overturned and smoking. The room was ankle-deep in smashed plates and smeared food. Horribly mutilated corpses grinned up at the Gurkhas.
Sten and the others crept through a long, twisting aisle of gore. It was hard for them to keep their footing in the nightmare mess. Sten noted the many dead Praetorians and Tahn. Sprinkled here and there were the bodies of Gurkhas who had died fighting for their Emperor.
Alex viewed the massacre, his eyes hard and cold. “Aye,” he said. “Tha be ae betrayal worthy a’ th’ Campbells.”
Sten noted with relief that the Emperor’s body was not among the carnage.
Just past the end of the head table was a circle of perhaps fifteen Praetorian traitors, all dead, and all with gaping wounds. In the center of the circle was a Gurkha who had been shot through the throat. Sten recognized him as Jemedar Kulbir. He had died on his oath to protect the Eternal Emperor.
“Yon lies a hero, lad,” Alex whispered reverently.
Before Sten could answer, a sudden blaze of fire erupted from a corridor off the banquet area.
“Go!” Sten shouted, and they hurdled the remaining bodies and charged across the room.
As they turned the corner, they found a squad of Praetorians mopping up the last of a three-man team of Gurkhas. Sten had just enough time to see Subadar-Major Limbu draw his kukri and suicide-charge the knot of men. Two Praetorians died before they even had time to open fire, and then Limbu fell.
Sten’s Gurkhas sprayed the Praetorians from behind.
In a blink, fifteen more were dead, and Sten’s people were sprinting past on the trail of the Emperor.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
THE EMPEROR BOOTED Tanz Sullamora’s chubby body down the companionway, then turned, willygun in hand, and went down the ladder after him. As his feet went off the risers onto the handrails, braking his sliding descent, part of his mind was mildly amused that his body still remembered how to move in an emergency.
The Emperor hit the gun-deck plates and threw himself to one side as an AM2 round exploded where he should have been standing. Four rounds went back up the companionway before the Praetorian’s chest exploded. The Emperor kept his finger twitching on the trigger, and hosed the gunblast across the top of the companionway. The antimatter rounds ripped the top of the ladder away, and the Emperor shoulder-blocked it down.
“That’ll give ‘em a minute, figuring how to get down,” he said.
The Emperor took half of that minute considering his position. When the Praetorian had killed Kirghiz, the Emperor had frozen momentarily. A tiny segment of his mind snarled at him: Maybe it’s time to get in a couple of bar brawls and get the moves back.
The Gurkhas had saved his life during that blur of death, as short brown men swarmed the central table. Naik Thaman Gurung had wrapped the Emperor in his arms and brought him to the floor, taking a willygun blast in his own body. Subadar-Major Chittahang Limbu had a willygun on full auto, spraying rounds into the banquet room.
The Emperor had rolled out from under Thaman’s corpse, grabbed the Gurkhas weapon, and put his troops into motion. Find a barricade, he kept thinking, as his group fought their way toward the exit. The Emperor might have chosen to retreat toward his own quarters, but the ex-engineer part of his mind propelled him toward the ship’s stern, toward the Normandie’s engine spaces.
He realized the handful of Gurkhas under Subadar-Major Limbu, who set up the rear guard, could only hold for a few moments. But those few moments would give him a start toward the engine room. Once there, the Emperor knew, he could run any number of assassins round and round into oblivion.
The Emperor surveyed the gun deck. Except for the missile launchers, gun racks, and gun positions studding the passage that curled from near the ship’s nose back to end before the fuel/engine areas, the Norrnandie’s gun deck would have looked like any conventional liner’s promenade deck. Not here, he decided. This isn’t a place for even a moment’s stand.
Ledoh was already waiting at the next hatchway that led down toward the kitchen areas.
The Emperor motioned, and his men moved. He was mildly startled to realize that he had only Sullamora, Ledoh, and two Gurkhas left.
And even more surprised when he caught himself enjoying what was going on.
* * * *
Sten, Alex, and the Gurkhas dropped down to the gun deck through an overhead shell hoist. Fifty meters away a knot of Praetorians was crowding a down-passage.
Twenty of them — and Sten’s eyes registered that one of the Praetorians had seen him and was shouting an alarm.
As Sten went down, his hand slapped a red switch on the wall. The switch read LOAD.
A Goblin missile sitting on the overhead of the gun deck slid smoothly down track toward a launcher on the far side of the Praetorians.
The system could launch one missile per launcher every six seconds, so the missile moved very, very rapidly down the loading track, approaching a speed of nearly 60 kilometers per hour when it intersected the Praetorians. One thousand kilos of steel contacting a few hundred kilos of flesh at that speed produces casualties.
By Kilgour’s count five Praetorians were down before the remaining fifteen found shelter behind launchers, gun tubes, and such, and opened up.
“Ah hae quite enow a’ this drakh,” he muttered and took action.
The Normandie’s armament was intended not only for deep space but also for planetary action. Of course atmospheric weapons such as chain guns were normally mag-locked in place behind the sealed ports they fired through. An assortment of weapons was racked on the bulkhead, but all were intended for firing from a mount, and — of course — out-ship. One of those devices was a flare projector which, under normal circumstances, took four men to wrestle to the firing port.
Sergeant Major Alex Kilgour, heavy-worlder, was not normal under any circumstances. He had the projector off the wall, loaded, aimed, and the firing switch keyed before anyone could react.
The flare burst down the long corridor, hit the far bulkhead, ricocheted, and . . . flared.
A signal flare that is intended to be seen for about half a light-second makes quite an explosion when it goes off in a ten-meter-by-ten-meter passageway. The Gurkhas and Sten had barely enough time to flatten ahead of the oncoming fireball before the Normandie’s automatic extinguishing system yeeked and dumped several tons of retardant on what it perceived as a fire.
