Heirs of Empire

him invaluable as Jefferson’s senior field man and cutout, but Bergren was even more important. That lowly officer was the key, for he was a greedy young man with expensive habits. How Battle Fleet had ever let him into uniform, much less placed him in such a sensitive position, passed Jefferson’s understanding, but he supposed even the best screening processes had to fail occasionally. He himself had stumbled upon Bergren almost by accident, and he’d taken pains to conceal Bergren’s … indiscretions, for thanks to Lieutenant Bergren, Admiral Ninhursag MacMahan had just over five months to do whatever she was doing before she died.

* * *

Senior Fleet Captain Antonio Tattiaglia looked up in surprise, trowel in hand and his newest rose bush half-planted, as Brigadier Hofstader entered his atrium. Hofstader was a small, severe woman, always immaculate in her black-and-silver Marine uniform, and this hasty intrusion was most unlike her.

“Yes, Erika?”

“Sorry to bother you, Sir, but something’s come up.”

Tattiaglia hid a sigh. Hofstader had commanded Lancelot’s Marines for over a year, and she still sounded as if she were on a parade ground. The woman was almost oppressively competent, but he couldn’t warm to her.

“What is it?”

“I believe we’ve just detected a Sword of God strike force en route to its target, Sir,” she said crisply, and he forgot all about her manner.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, Sir. The scanner tech of the watch—Scan Tech Bateman—decided to run an atmospheric-target tracking exercise, in the course of which she detected three commercial conveyors with inoperable transponders executing a nape-of-the-earth approach to the Shenandoah Power Reception Facility.”

Hofstader had her expression well in hand, but excitement was burning through her professionalism for the first time since he’d known her.

“Have you alerted Earth Security?” he demanded, already trotting towards the transit shaft.

“No, Sir. Fleet Captain Reynaud informed ONI.” She moved briskly at his side, and her smile was cold. “ONI has requested that we investigate.”

“Hot damn,” Tattiaglia whispered. They stepped into the shaft and it hurled them towards Lancelot’s bridge. “Do we have something in position?”

“Sir, I alerted my ready duty platoon as soon as Bateman reported the conveyors. They’ll enter atmosphere in approximately—” she paused to consult her internal chronometer “—seventy-eight seconds.”

“Good work, Brigadier. Very good work!” The shaft deposited them outside the planetoid’s bridge, and Tattiaglia rubbed his mental hands in glee as he raced for the command hatch.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Captain Tattiaglia arrived on his bridge just as Hofstader’s assault shuttle entered atmosphere at eleven times the speed of sound. A corner of the command deck display altered silently, showing them what the shuttle pilot was seeing, and the captain dropped into his command couch with hungry eyes.

* * *

“Listen up, people,” Lieutenant Prescott said as his shuttle hurtled downward. “We don’t know these’re terrorists, so we ground, watch ’em, and get ready to move if they are, but nobody does squat unless I say so. Got it?” A chorus of assents came back. “Good. Now, if they are bad guys, ONI wants prisoners. We take some of ’em alive if we can—everybody got that?”

The fresh affirmatives were a bit disappointed, but he had other things to worry about as the shuttle grounded to disgorge his Marines, then swooshed back into the heavens in stealth to give air support if it was needed. Prescott didn’t even watch it go; he was already maneuvering his troops into the hastily chosen positions he’d selected on the way in.

* * *

Three big conveyors ghosted to a landing in a patch of woods, and forty heavily armed people filed out with military precision. The raiders moved quietly towards the floodlit grounds of the Shenandoah Valley Power Receptor, then split, diverging towards two different security gates.

The commander of one attack party studied a passive scanner as he neared the perimeter fence, hunting security systems their briefing might have missed, then stiffened. He whirled, and his jaw dropped as his eyes confirmed his instrument’s findings.

* * *

Well, they sure as hell aren’t picnickers, Prescott thought as his armor scanners confirmed the intruders’ heavy load of weapons, and— Oh shit! So much for surprise!

“Take ’em!”

* * *

The terrorist leader saw the armored shapes and tried to scream a warning, but a burst of fire splattered him across his troops halfway through the first syllable.

His followers gaped at the Marines, but they had weapons of their own and two of them were fully enhanced, and a Marine blew apart as the night exploded in a vicious firefight. An energy gun killed a second trooper, the whiplash of grav gun darts crackled everywhere, and a third Marine went down—wounded, not dead— but the Marines had combat armor, and the terrorists didn’t.

Forty-one seconds after the first shot, three Marines were dead and five were wounded; none of the four terrorist survivors was unhurt.

Prescott waved his medics towards the casualties, then turned as the parked conveyors screamed upwards. They were still climbing frantically when Lancelot’s assault shuttle blew them apart from stealth.

Funny, I could’ve sworn I told Owens to challenge ’em before she shot. Prescott ran back over his conversation with his pilot. Oops, guess not.

* * *

“Friend,” Fleet Lieutenant Esther Steinberg said, “I don’t really care whether you talk to me or not. We’ve got three of your buddies, too, and one of you is going to tell me what I want to know.”

“Never!” The young man cuffed to the chair under the lie detector looked far less defiant than he tried to sound. “None of us have anything to say to servants of the Anti-Christ!”

You’re talking too much, friend. Got a little case of nerves here, do we? Good. Sweat, you bastard!

“Think not?” She crossed her arms. “Let me explain something. We caught you in the act, and you killed three Fleet Marines. Know what that means?” Her prisoner stared at her, sullen eyes frightened, and she smiled. “That means there’s not gonna be any fooling around. You’re gonna be tried and convicted so fast your head swims.” The young man swallowed audibly. “I don’t imagine your mama and papa’ll be real pleased to see their itty-bitty son shot—and they will, ’cause every data channel’s gonna carry it live. I’d guess you’ve seen one or two people catch it with grav guns, haven’t you? Kinda messy, isn’t it? I figure a half second burst ought to just about saw you in two, friend. Think your folks’ll like that?”