A war just started, he thought. And all hell is about to break loose.
A dull explosion rocked the chamber. Peter swallowed, hard. “What was that?”
“Someone trying to break in,” Duke Rudbek said. “I daresay Parliamentary Security is under attack.”
Peter’s bodyguard hurried into the chamber. “Your Grace, armed troops arrived at the main entrance and opened fire!”
Duke Rudbek looked up, sharply. “Who fired first?”
“I don’t know,” the bodyguard said. “But there’s a battle going on outside!”
Peter stood. “Where do we go?”
“You have to get to the shelters,” the bodyguard told him. Peter wished, suddenly, that he knew the man’s name. “This way, please.”
“We have to evacuate the building,” Duke Rudbek said. “Or take one of the tunnels.”
Peter shot a questioning look at the bodyguard. “We can’t guarantee your safety,” the bodyguard said. “The building is surrounded, so going into the streets is a seriously bad idea; I don’t dare take the risk. And the local airspace isn’t safe. There are reports of gunmen with portable HVMs in the area.”
“Then we go down,” Peter said. Other bodyguards were flowing into the chamber, some grabbing their principals and half carrying them out without waiting for debate. “I . . .”
He stopped as he saw the scene in front of him. Hampshire was lying on the ground . . . bruised, battered, bloody, and apparently dead. Other wounded or dead MPs and lords lay next to him, looking as if they’d been trampled by a herd of wild animals. The speaker was sitting on his chair, staring blankly at the carnage. Blood stained the floor, mocking everything they’d hoped to achieve. They’d hoped for a peaceful resolution, but civil war had broken out.
Shooting echoed in the distance, followed by another explosion. Peter’s bodyguard grabbed his arm and yanked him through the door, hurrying towards the drop-shafts. The alarms were growing louder, a howling dirge for democracy and civilization. Peter felt sick as they dived into the drop-shaft, wondering, a second too late, if the power would fail. But it held up long enough for them to land at the bottom safely. Duke Rudbek and his bodyguards followed a moment later.
The king wanted to capture us, Peter thought. The army was riddled with the aristocracy’s spies, which meant the men attacking the Houses of Parliament had to be the king’s household guards, loyal to him personally. And that means . . .
He forced himself to think as he was pushed into a secure chamber. The king’s household guard was normally limited to a couple of thousand men but had expanded, of course, during the war. It had been one of the issues Parliament had meant to address, before the growing crisis drowned it out. The horse had definitely bolted on that one. And yet, it wasn’t entirely bad news. The king probably didn’t have the manpower to secure all his potential targets. He’d have problems if he wanted to seize the mansions, or the industrial nodes, or the ground-based Planetary Defense Centers.
But if he takes command of the high orbitals, he can force everyone else to surrender, Peter thought. The ground-based defenses would need time to react and, by the time they realized how serious things had become, they could be smashed flat. And then what? Does he think he can rule the Commonwealth?
The bodyguard slammed the armored door shut, then sat down at a terminal and started to tap commands into the system. A series of images popped up in front of him: a live feed from the security sensors, a handful of news broadcasts, even a couple of emergency services and military channels. Peter glanced at his datapad, but it was still dead. The datalinks that should have been permanently open were closed.
“This terminal is linked into the city’s physical infrastructure,” the bodyguard said by way of explanation. “The jamming field doesn’t affect it.”
Duke Rudbek coughed. “So . . . what’s going on outside?”
“A great deal of shouting and screaming,” the bodyguard said. “Everyone seems to have something to say.”
Peter leaned forward. “Are we in any immediate danger?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” the bodyguard said. “But unless we get reinforcements, this building will fall very quickly.”
And then we die, Peter thought. The king had definitely staked everything on one final throw of the dice. We die and get condemned as traitors, while Hadrian continues with his plan.
“Get me a link to the nearest garrison,” Duke Rudbek ordered. “I need to speak to the CO.”
The hour ticked by slowly. Peter linked his datapad to the terminal, alternately sending messages to his clients and trying to get a grip on what was happening. The news reports appeared to have been written in advance—they all claimed that traitorous elements in Parliament were resisting arrest—but the independent reporters were pointing out that matters were nowhere near so cut-and-dried. It was a nightmare. There were reports of an attempt to assassinate the king, gunfights on the planetary defense battlestations and even Home Fleet . . . reports that constantly contradicted themselves. He couldn’t tell who was winning, if anyone was winning.
“Troops are on the way to lift the siege,” Duke Rudbek said finally. “Parliament will be saved.”
Unless the king decides to blow it up, Peter thought. The shelter was heavily protected but couldn’t stand up to a kinetic strike. Or a penetrator warhead. Was the king desperate enough to deploy one? And what would happen if he did? Peter wondered, bitterly, what had happened to the other aristocrats. Their bodyguards would have gotten them to the other shelters, wouldn’t they? They might be dead already.
“There are also reports of
