Crisis Of Empire - Crown Of Empire Part 5

"So how about that safety. Lieutenant?" said Jessine, strapping back into her couch.

"We're doing what we can, Madame," said Varrick.

"Troop carrier, surrender. You have thirty sec- onds to surrender." The frigate's hailer was impossibly loud, and the soldiers made faces at this order.

"Men," said the lieutenant "Ready short- range weapons. Be ready to fire at any angle, any time. Go for their stabilizers and power ducts.

Helm, where's that evasive action? Get moving."

The APC swung onto its side and slipped away from the frigate, running almost parallel to the fortieth-floor windows of the Palace.

Tlie frigate came around in an arc, not as a^le as die troop carrier, but more lethal. Its first shot hit the APC's navigational complex, and the rear of the craft began to yaw.

"Frigging b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" snarled Lieutenant Var- rick. As he watched, the frigate came around

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Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

again. The APC was still swinging from the last

attack.

Jessine closed her eyes, then opened them

again immediately. There was nothing she wanted to look at, but she didn't want to look at nothing. Her hands gripped the arms of the acceleration couch. It would take so little for the troop carrier to spin out of control and plummet

into the quad below.

"All troops!" shouted Varrick as the frigate

approached. "Fire at will!"

The frigate closed. Its guns fired in series, and one side of the troop carrier tore off and fell away, burning. The scream of wounded metal couldn't mask the cries of falling men. Huge sec- tions of metal and plastic sailed away like kites on the wind. Two pieces struck the windows of the Secretary's Palace, adding the brilliance of shat- tered gla.s.s to the debris.

The APC swung wildly, half its fans reduced to sc.r.a.p metal. The vehicle dropped sickeningly fast despite the red-lined efforts of the remain- ing ducts. The navigator and helmsmen swore continuously as they fought for control of the s.h.i.+p, trying to ease it into the quad. Jessine braced in crash position and tried to relax her

muscles.

Will I know when we hit? she wondered. Or

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will there just be nothing? She hoped it would be nothing, but in this buffered fall there might still be a chance of landing without killing damage.

Then Jessine saw the second APC swoop up past them, guns coming around to take on the frigate. Seconds later, she heard an enormous ex- plosion, then felt the shock. We've hit ground, she thought. But they were still falling. The noise continued, accompanied by debris falling on her APC from above. Then they did hit, and Jessine blacked out.

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Chapter 3.

It had turned into an outdoor party, with most of the c.o.c.ky young aristocrats taking to their air- cars for a little sport with the groundlings. Up until the time that the game had been suggested, Wiley Bouriere, the High Secretary's son, was pretty bored, but now he felt excitement and die thrill of the hunt. He had not gone out after

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groundlings for several months - he had been forbidden by his father, a restriction he found more than normally irksome.

"Lets go to Undertown," yelled Caroly Rhodi, who knew more about this sport than most of them. "They've got shanties and trailers over there. And aliens. There's lots we can do."

His suggestion was greeted by cheers from everyone but the bodyguards. These exchanged silent, condemning looks.

"Undertown!" the others called out, racing toward their air-cars. "Let's do Undertown!"

Garen McModor caught his lower lip between his teeth. Being bodyguard to Wiley Bouriere was awkward enough at the best of times, for the High Secretary's son resented the constant observation and often did his best to elude his security staff. But when he took off on strange quirks, McModor's job became truly perilous. Parties like this one, that could turn ugly in a pulse-beat, were McModor's least favorite of Wiley's pastimes. He signaled Wiley, wanting him to reconsider.

Wiley studiously ignored him, listening with exaggerated interest to what Caroly had to say.

He knew already that McModor did not approve of these romps and he was not about to listen to another recitation of the danger he might be courting. "We can fill up bottles with paint, and

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fuel. That would make it more interesting," he suggested to Caroly.

"And guns. Lets take our guns," added Caroly, and turned to address the others. "We're going to Undertown," he announced grandly. "We'll use our aircars, yours and mine, Wiley, and Maytags. We can all fit in three, can't we? No, we'll need a fourth. I knowl 'niisdewaite!" exdaimed Caroly, pointing to a gangly youth in a luminous skmsuit. "You have that sniffy Hovel-master tonight, don't you? Wiley and I will lead. You can follow us." He laughed wildly, and made a very rude gesture to his bodyguard.

"Security can bring up the rear." This suggestion was in fact an order, which all of them understood.

"I haven't been to Undertown for months and months," said Bentess Hull, flinging her mane of fas.h.i.+onably green hair about her shoulders, imi- tating the women in the vidis, "I miss it."

'They probably miss us, too," called out one half-drunk wag. Everyone laughed, except the

bodyguards.

"Then let's get going," Caroly ordered, and set the example by gathering up glastic bottles and throwing them in a large sack.

"Better check your ammunition, too," warned Lolana Palomare, the hard look in her sandy- brown eyes making her smile unbelievable. "If we're taking pistols."

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"You're right," said Wiley, wondering if Lolana would aim to miss the way the rest of them did.

And so the party became an interactive air tour of Undertown, where aliens and humans without jobs lived. Making up the group: four sports cars, high-priced; thirteen aristocratic teenagers, just plain high; and five patrol chop- pers, with nine bodyguards, highly stressed.

Wiley Bourieres aircar was a very s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s Radeo 434 hyperlift with auxiliary stabilizers, the fastest and most maneuverable aircar available anywhere, and the envy of most of his friends.