Chelsea Qiunn Yarbro - Crown of Empire

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Tira Bouriere leaped upright in bed as her eld-

erly cousin Helga burst in from her own small

room of the suite, shouting, "He's dead! Your

sainted father is dead, child!"

Behind Helga, the holovision the old woman had

been watching still cast its faint light over the room.

The royal suites on two of the four penthouse

towers around the quadrangle had visual access

to most of the High Secretary's palace. Other

women her age might have spent their free time

in gossip, but Helga considered her station —

companion and chaperone to the High Secre-

tary's eighteen-year-old daughter — put her

above that. Instead, she spied on the goings and

comings, the talk and the actions, of all those liv-

ing in the sprawling warren of the palace, seat of

government and home to the elite of the Pact

which ruled four thousand worlds.

Tira pushed her way through the gauze that

wrapped her bed like a cloud. "Helga, what's

happened?" she asked. She'd heard the words,

but there was no sense to them.

Helga flopped onto a loveseat, hyperventilat-

ing. Cousin by convenience, the connection was

too diffuse to be recognized — except that the

office of High Secretary drew to it relations the

way honey draws flies. Even Helga's Bouriere

surname came from her maternal line, and that

three generations ago.

"Helga!" Tira repeated.

Helga stared at her from the loveseat. "Your

sainted father," she repeated in a whisper. The

utter despair in the old woman's eyes and voice

penetrated to Tira's understanding where the

words themselves had not.

"Oh, no. Not my father." For a moment hys-

teria threatened to overwhelm Tira's normal

good sense. Then, as if a relay had switched in

her brain, she became efficient, doing almost by

rote the things she had been taught since she was

a child. When she was young, the drills for this

eventuality had been a game. She had enjoyed

out-thinking the evil rebels who strove to endan-

ger the High Secretary. It would have been

comforting to make herself believe it was still a

game. But this time she knew she would not be

permitted to ask for time out.

She resisted her first impulse, to go to the win-

dow, knowing that could expose her to discovery

and attack. She moved quickly to the inner wall

of the reception room. Against the wall was a

massive Neo-Empire Revivalist writing table,

with thin, spiral legs atop traditional crocodile

feet, all in gold. The writing surface was a vast

expanse of malachite, edged in beveled gold

work. Seating herself, Tira toggled two hidden

levers in the table. The green surface lifted up

and back, revealing Tira's internal security holo-

gram station.

On the loveseat Cousin Helga was fanning

herself with an infopak, heedless of the damage

she might be inflicting on the contents of the

tamper-sensitive device. She had unfastened the

silver-net fichu around her neck and given it to

one of the three servobots who tended to the

needs of Tira's visitors.

At her desk, Tira was trying the fourth of

twelve sets of codes that might show her what

was happening in her father's apartments. Nor-

mally it didn't matter that his quarters were two

towers away from her, accessible only by a maze

of corridors. "It's wrong," she muttered, her

attractive face marked by worry and the first real

touches of fear. She tried another, yet higher,

security code. Nothing. Again. More blankness.

After running through all dozen combinations

she was forced to admit that there was a black-

out on her father's apartments. With growing

apprehension, she tried to reach her brother s

suite, with the same results. Again she refrained

from presenting herself at the window, turned

and tilted one of the three vanity mirrors so that

she could watch the outside in its depths.

"Oh, how distressing it all is," said Cousin

Helga, at last putting the infopak down. "Just

when I dunk I can bear to remember it — "

"Contain yourself. Cousin," Tira snapped, "Go

begin emergency evacuation procedures. At

once."

"Naturally. Sony. I should have started imme-

diately I reached here." The old lady stumbled to

her feet. "You'll think I've gone foolish on you.

And at such a time."

"Impossible, Cousin Helga," said Tira more

kindly, abandoning her search. It wouldn't do to

totally demoralize her sole ally of the moment.

Two alarms, one shrill and weepy, the other

aggressive, went off at once.

Helga shrieked and bolted for the living room

of the suite. From Helga's own room, which no

one but she should have been able to enter from

the corridor, stamped a squad of armed soldiers

in brown uniforms, with Treasury collar flashes.

Tira rose to her feet, indignation warring with

fear. As she did so, she pressed the toggle that

summoned her own guards, waiting in the corri-

dor. "What are you doing here?"

The man who seemed to be in charge

remained motionless as the others fanned out to

cover the room. "You must come with us," he

said flatly, seemingly indifferent to her response.

Tira wanted to stomp hard on his foot and

pound the heel of her hand into his nose. But

there was something so disinterested, so lethal

about the man, that she suspected he would not

prove the easy victim her guard-instructors

were.

"Now," said the man.

Tira remained frozen.

Suddenly, the tableau was interrupted when

the door at die other end of the reception cham-

ber burst open, and a young lieutenant

appeared, a squad of twenty jostling in behind

him.

The Treasury men did not wait for the new

arrivals to get organized. Instantly the chamber

was filled with deadly spangles as accelerated

glass beads exploded into walls and malachite

and flesh.

Tira, true to her own training, found herself

crouched beneath her desk, totally helpless, as

others battled to decide her fate. Totally help-

less? Perhaps not. For her twelfth birthday her

father had had installed a fabulously expensive

fantasy simulator in her desk. It had been all the

rage with her crowd for weeks. One stealthy

hand reached up to the keypad set in the mala-

chite.

From the various holographic panels and baf-

fles there sprang forth a steady profusion of

monsters. The first was a quite nasty basilisk, jag-

ged spears flashing from his eyes. Then a trio of

harpies, each with meat dripping from her tal-

ons. A streamlined snail with several leech-like

heads undulated along the polished stone floor

leaving a very believable trail of slime. A were-

jaguar, still human enough to be recognizable,

leaped and growled and spat, threatening every-

one with daggered hands.

Not being idiots, the soldiers recognized holo-

graphic fantasy monsters when they saw them —

but not before drill-honed reflexes had spewed

beads in all the wrong places. The new arrivals, a

little more distant from the fantasy threat, took

their opportunity.

The sound crescendoed as the glass battered

everything in the room. A gorgeous authentic

snow-wood was chewed to sawdust by the cross-

fire. Many of Tira's other carefully collected

objets d'art were shattered and added their col-

lapse to the cacophony.

Phantoms battled and thundered and rol-

licked as men fought and died real deaths.

Almost safe beneath her armored desk, Tira was

aghast at all the blood, steam rising from it as it

welled and gouted like lava out of fallen men.

Where it fell, bits of glass mixed with it, like a mon-

strous sparkling wine. She lay with debris pressing

against her cheek, and her hands were starting to

feel crusty where the blood was dotting around her

fingers. She didn't think any of it was her own.

"I've got to get out of here," she said to the air.

"I've got to."

As if mocking her plea, a gryphon capered by,

wings spread and talons extended, lion-legs and

haunches huge with muscles; its image was

penetrated by a lieutenant of her guards, trying

to reach her. An injured Treasury soldier was

struggling to rise, lost traction on the gore be-

neath his feet and fell heavily, cutting his hands

on the bits of broken glass as he struck the floor

and dropped his weapon. The guard lieutenant

set his pistol and fired.

"Demoiselle, we must leave now!" In the sud-

den silence of momentary victory, the lieutenant

spoke with an urgency underlined by his grip on

her arm. "Come. Hurry,"

Only now aware that the battle was really over.

Tira did as she was bid, absently dismissing with

a flick of her hand the capering apparitions —

who instantly ceased to obscure a scene of mun-

dane carnage. Of the Treasury men, only two

seemed hkely to survive. One was whimpering

steadily, his hands cupped over a foaming, suck-

ing hole in his chest. The other was very pale,

huddled in on himself.

"Martyrs of the Guard," whispered Tira, who

had only seen incidents like this in entertain-

ments. She put her hand to her throat and felt

the speed other pulse, fast and light. The smell

began to overwhelm her senses....

"Come on," urged Lieutenant Chaney —

identified by his helmet and breast clips.

Tira focused on him. "Where?"

"Away from here," said Chaney. "They'll be

back for you." He lowered his head. "Look.

Demoiselle, you don't have to listen to anything I

say. We both know that. But if you don't get out

of here in pretty short order, you're going to be

in trouble."

"Right," she said heavily. "Trouble." She shiv-

ered once, quite violently, then brought herself

back under control. "Then let's go."

"All right. Demoiselle." He took her by the

arm again. "So you won't stumble. You don't

have grippers on your soles and I do."

"Very sensible," she said, glancing around the

corpse-strewn room. Of Cousin Helga there was

no sign. Tira decided she would have to ask later,

when they were safe. At least she was not one of

the ruined bodies on the floor.

The lieutenant led her to the main door, mut-

tering to himself all the way. It took Tira several

steps to realize he was talking to his AID. Almost

all military had those personal communicating

devices. No doubt he was relaying information to

his superior- At the door, he leaned through cau-

tiously, then pulled her along by the wrist. She

jerked her hand away from him and he turned to

glare at her.

She stared back. He might have just saved her

life but she was still the High Secretary's daugh-

ter. He nodded, took his hand off her and led the

way between two shattered pier mirrors into a

space that seemed much wider than it ought to

be. 'What— ?"

"Emergency hologram. It makes the exit look

about three inches wide, doesn't it?" He chuck-

led. "Come on. There's ..." He paused and

stepped back between die mirrors.

Even though the secret exit was only a few

steps from her suite Tira had had no idea it

existed. It was that kind of palace. Through the

hologram distortion, Tira could see what the

lieutenant was doing: he had reached back to the

nearest fallen Treasury soldier and was prying

the dead hand from around the pistol. As he

ducked back into the exit, he handed it to her.

"Here, this is a Samtoepoe A7mark923, capable

ofsemi or fully automatic fire with a dip capacity

of 150 rounds. Don't use it unless you have to.

Sometimes the A7mark923s jam. They cycle too

fast."

"You took it—"

He did not permit her to finish. "I took it from

someone who was prepared to use it on you.

Remember that, if you start getting sentimental

about the Treasury soldiers. They invaded. They

don't deserve your concern." He waved her

toward a protected dropshaft. "Military-only," he

informed her, indicating the masking. "They're

going to shut these down pretty quickly."

"You're right." said Tira, resolutely slipping the

pistol Chaney had given her into her reticule.

Til keep that in mind."

They stepped into the dropshaft.

"I can't believe you still have your reticule."

Tira ignored his comment. "I suppose you

know what you're doing."

"I suppose I do, too, but I'm not real sure

quite yet."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're all so cocky and above-it-all, it's a won-

der the High Secretary can see far enough down

to sign his name to his documents."

Tira regarded Lieutenant Chaney with petu-

lance. "How can you talk about my father that

way?"

"Because I don't know him? Because I don't

understand him? Come on. Does anyone know

him?" asked Chaney.

"Yes, because you don't know him, or under-

stand him. You don't know what he goes through

every day for... Well, people don't"

"No, they don't. And for all I know, the

Empire really couldn't function without him.

That's what they all say. Nobody sees it, but they

believe it. And they see how splendidly the High

Secretary lives, and how splendidly he enter-

tains, and how those in favor advance more

swiftly than those who are not in favor."

Tira said nothing for a short while. "The assas-

sins weren't rebels, not the kind you hear about

on the news," she said a short while later.

"Jessine wants the right and the power. You

know the kind of man Ver is, and what shes like.

They're ambitious. They enjoy palace coups."

She shifted her position as much as her harness

would let her. "Jessine. I hope she's stopped. I

want her stopped right now." Her determination

wilted. "My father. My brother. She got them

both." She averted her face and began to weep.

"Twenty-four, thats all she is. And she got them

both."

For a little while, Chaney left her alone. He

was never very good with crying women.

Chapter 2

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摘要：

TiraBouriereleapeduprightinbedashereld-erlycousinHelgaburstinfromherownsmallroomofthesuite,shouting,"He'sdead!Yoursaintedfatherisdead,child!"BehindHelga,theholovisiontheoldwomanhadbeenwatchingstillcastitsfaintlightovertheroom.Theroyalsuitesontwoofthefourpenthousetowersaroundthequadranglehadvisualacc...

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