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 Gurkha's 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.