Heirs of Empire

He should be dead, and he wasn’t. The display should show only the gray swirls of hyper-space; it was spangled with diamond-chip suns in the velvet immensity of n-space, and Imperial Terra was a rapidly dwindling dot astern.

* * *

Comp Cent watched Israel accelerate clear and noted the faithful discharge of one set of Alpha Priority commands. With that detail out of the way, it could turn to its other imperatives.

Harriet cried out in horror, and Sean cringed as Imperial Terra’s core tap blew, and eighty thousand people vanished in an eye-searing glare.

Chapter Nine

Baroness Nergal curled up on her couch with Fleet Vice Admiral Oliver Weinstein’s head in her lap and popped another grape into his mouth.

“You do realize you’re going to have to earn these grapes, don’t you?” she purred as he swallowed.

“I don’t think of it that way,” he said with a chuckle.

“No? Then how do you think of it, pray tell?”

“The way I see it, I don’t have to do anything. First my superior officer wines and dines me, spoiling me rotten and softening me up so she can have her wicked way with me. And second—”

“And second?” she prompted, poking his ribs as he paused with a grin.

“Why, second, she does have her way with me.”

“You,” she examined her remaining grapes with care, “are a despicable person of weak moral fiber.” He nodded, and she shook her head in sorrow. “I, on the other hand, as a virtuous and upright person, am so shocked by the depths of your decadence that I think—” she paused as she finally found the perfect grape “—I’m going to shove this grape up your left nostril!”

Admiral Weinstein tried to whip upright and dodge, but Admiral Robbins was a clever tactician and tumbled him to the floor in a squirming, tickling heap. Her intended instrument of retribution pulped harmlessly against the tip of his nose, but things were progressing satisfactorily indeed when an urgent tone sounded.

Adrienne stopped dead, head rising in shock as the priority tone repeated, then vaulted to her feet. Weinstein sat up and started to speak, then froze as the tone sounded yet again. His confused expression vanished as the priority of the signal registered, and he rose to his knees.

Adrienne paused only to jerk a robe over her negligee, then answered the call with an impatient implant flick. Gerald Hatcher’s hologram materialized before her, sitting in Mother’s Command Alpha command chair, and his face was grim.

“Sorry to disturb you, Adrienne,” his voice was flat, and her dread grew, “but we may have a serious problem.” He drew a breath and met her eyes squarely. “Algys McNeal’s Thegran sitrep is three hours overdue.”

Robbins went white, and Hatcher continued in that same flat voice.

“We’ve double-checked with Urahan. They hypered out on schedule, and they should’ve reached Thegran five hours ago.”

Adrienne nodded slowly, eyes huge. Many of the Fourth Empire’s system governors had erected defenses in desperate efforts to quarantine their planets against the bio-weapon, but communications had been so chaotic as the Empire died that no one knew what any given governor might have cobbled up. The only way to find out was to go see, and if no one had yet encountered anything capable of standing up to a planetoid, there was always the possibility someone would. That was why all survey ships were required to report by hypercom within two hours of arrival in any unexplored system.

“It might be a hypercom failure,” she suggested, but her own tone told her how little she believed it.

“Anything’s possible,” Hatcher said expressionlessly. The hypercom was massive and complex, but its basic technology had been refined for over six millennia. One might fail once in four or five centuries: certainly no more often. They both knew that, and they stared at one another in sick silence.

“Oh, Jesus, Ger,” she whispered at last.

“I know.”

“Was their hyper field unbalanced when they left Urahan?”

“I don’t know.” Frustration harshened Hatcher’s voice. “They dropped off their passengers and hypered straight out, and none of the reconstruction people had any reason to run a trace on them. All we know is they hit the threshold and kicked over right on the tick.”

“Oh, shit.” The expletive was a prayer, and Adrienne raked fingers through her hair. “I simply can’t believe they could’ve hit anything that could take Terra—not with Algys in command. It has to be a com failure!”

“You mean you hope it is,” Hatcher said, then closed his eyes. “And so do I. But hoping won’t change things if it’s not.” Adrienne nodded unhappily, and he drew a deep breath. “I’m mobilizing BatRon One for search and rescue with Herdan as Flag. Do you want it?”

“Of course I do!” Adrienne began unbelting her robe. Weinstein was already there, holding out her uniform, and she spared him a strained smile. “I’ll be ready by the time my cutter gets here.”

“Thank you,” Hatcher said softly, and Adrienne swallowed.

“Will you—?” she began, and he nodded, face grimmer than ever.

“I’m leaving for the Palace now.”

* * *

Fifteen Asgerd-class planetoids erupted from hyper-space ten light-minutes from the G4 star Thegran. They came out in battle formation, with shields up and enough weapons on-line to destroy an entire solar system. Every sensor was at max, seeking any threat and searching for any lifeboat’s beacon.

But there was nothing to engage … and no beacons.

Adrienne Robbins sat on Emperor Herdan’s command deck, staring into the display, and her eyes burned. Thegran II, once known as Triam, was a sphere of bare rock and lifeless dirt, surrounded by a fraying necklace of near-space satellites and derelicts as dead as Triam herself.

She fought her tears. She’d hoped so hard! But there was no sign of Imperial Terra … or of anything that could have destroyed her. And if a hyper ship failed to reach its destination it never emerged from hyper at all. She drew a deep breath and rubbed her stinging eyes once, angrily, before she looked at her white-faced communications officer.

“Calibrate the hypercom, Commander,” she said in a voice leached of all emotion.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Colin,” Gerald Hatcher said quietly. “God, I’m sorry.”

Colin sat in his study, trying not to weep while Jiltanith pressed her face into his shoulder and her tears soaked his tunic, and Hatcher started to reach out to them, then stopped. His hand hung in midair for a moment while he stared down at it as if at an enemy, then dropped it back into his lap.

“I’d hoped Adrienne would find something. Or that they’d have returned themselves if it was a com failure, but—” He broke off, and his jaw tightened. “It’s my fault. I should never have let them all go in one ship.”

“No.” Colin’s frayed voice quivered despite his effort to hold it steady. He shook his head almost convulsively. “It … it was our idea, Ger. Ours.” He closed his eyes and felt a tear trickle