Heirs of Empire

“Yes, they’ll do nicely. But if this one goes sour the consequences are going to be fairly dire, so make sure of your cutouts. Use someone else if there’s any way they could be traced back to us.”

“Of course,” Al-Hana said, and tried almost successfully to hide his surprise. Whatever was on the chips, it was important.

Vincente Cruz parked his rented flyer outside the cabin and inhaled deeply as he popped the hatch. Imperial technology had long since healed the worst scars from the Achuultani bombardment of Earth. Even the temperature was coming back to normal, and the terrible rains following the Siege had produced one beneficial side effect by washing centuries of accumulated pollution out of the atmosphere. The mountain air was crystal clear, and while he knew many of his fellow Bureau of Ships programmers thought he was crazy to spend his vacations on Earth instead of the virgin surface of Birhat, he and Elena had always loved the Cascade Mountains.

He climbed out to unload the groceries, then paused with a frown, wondering why the kids weren’t already here to help carry them in.

“Luis! Consuela!”

There was no response, and he shrugged. Luis had been in raptures over the fishing. No doubt he’d finally talked Consuela into trying it, and Elena had taken the baby and gone along to keep an eye on them.

He gathered up a double armload of groceries—no particular problem to a fully-enhanced set of arms—and climbed the steps to the porch. It was a bit awkward to work the door open, but he managed, and stepped through it, pushing it shut behind him with a toe. He started for the kitchen, then froze.

A man and a woman sat in front of the fireplace, and their faces were concealed by ski masks. He was still staring at them when he grunted in anguish and crashed to the floor. Cascading milk cartons burst like bombs, drenching him, but he hardly noticed. Only one thing could have produced his sudden paralysis: someone had just shot him from behind with a capture field!

He tried desperately to fight, but the police device had locked every implant in his body—even his com had been knocked out. He could neither move nor call for help, and panic filled him. His family! Where was his family?

The man from the fireplace rose and turned him onto his back with a toe, and Vincente stared up into the masked face, too consumed by terror for his family to feel any fear for himself even as the man knelt and pressed the muzzle of an old-fashioned Terran automatic into the base of his throat.

“Good afternoon, Mister Cruz.” The high-pitched voice was unpleasant, but menace made its timbre utterly unimportant. “We have a job for you.”

“W-who are you?” Just getting out those few words against the capture field took all Vincente’s strength. “Where are my—”

“Be quiet!” The voice was a whiplash. The pistol muzzle pressed harder, and Vincente swallowed, more frightened for his family than ever.

“That’s better,” the intruder said. “Your wife and children will be our guests, Mister Cruz, until you do exactly as we tell you.”

Vincente licked his lips. “What do you want?” he asked hoarsely.

“You’re a senior programmer for Imperial Terra,” his captor said, and even through his fear Vincente was stu

“Don’t bother to deny it, Mister Cruz,” the masked man continued. “We know all about you, and what you’re going to do is add this—” he waved a data chip before Vincente’s eyes “—to the ship’s core programs.”

“I-I can’t! It’s impossible! There’s too much security!”

“You have access, and you’re bright enough to find a way. If you don’t—” The man’s shrug was a dagger in Vincente’s heart. He stared into the eyes in the mask slits, and their coldness washed away all hope. This man would kill him as easily as he might a cockroach … and he had Vincente’s family.

“That’s better.” The masked man dropped the chip on his chest and straightened. “We have no desire to hurt women and children, but we’re doing the Lord’s work, and you’ve just become His instrument. Make no mistake; if you fail to do exactly as you’re told, we will kill them. Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Vincente whispered.

“Good. And remember this: we knew where to find you, we know what you do, and we even know what ship you’re working on. Think about that, because it also means we’ll know if you’re stupid enough to tell anyone about this.”

The masked man stepped back, joined by his female companion and a tall, broad-shouldered man with the capture gun. They backed to the door, and he lay helpless, watching them go.

“Just do as you’re told, Mister Cruz, and your family will be returned safe and sound. Disobey, and you’ll never even know where they’re buried.”

The leader nodded to his henchman, and Vincente screamed as the capture field suddenly soared to maximum and hammered him into the darkness.

Chapter Eight

Senior Fleet Captain Algys McNeal sat on his command deck and watched his bridge officers with one eye and the hologram beside him with the other. Physically, Admiral Hatcher was several hundred thousand kilometers away, but fold-space coms let them maintain their conversation without interruptions. Not that Captain McNeal felt overly grateful. Commanding Battle Fleet’s most powerful warship on her maiden cruise was quite enough to worry about; having both heirs to the Crown aboard made it worse, and he did not need the CNO sitting here flapping his jaws while Imperial Terra prepared to get under way!

“ … then take a good look around Thegran,” Hatcher was saying.

“Yes, Sir,” McNeal replied while he watched Midshipman His Imperial Highness Sean MacIntyre ru

“And bring back some green cheese from Triam IV,” Hatcher continued.

“Yes, Sir,” McNeal said automatically, then twitched and jerked both eyes to his superior’s face. Hatcher gri

“Sorry, Sir. I guess I was a bit distracted.”

“Don’t apologize, Algys. I should know better than to crowd you at a time like this.” The admiral shrugged. “Guess I’m a bit excited about your new ship, too. And frustrated at being stuck here in Bia.”

“I understand, Sir. And you’re not really crowding me.”

“The hell I’m not!” Hatcher snorted. “Good luck, Captain.”

“Thank you, Sir.” McNeal tried to hide his relief, but Hatcher’s eyes twinkled as he flipped a casual salute. Then he vanished, and McNeal’s astrogator roused from her neural feeds to look up at him.

“Ship ready to proceed, Sir,” she said crisply.

“Very good, Commander. Take us out of here.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Commander Yu replied.

Birhat’s emerald and sapphire gem began to shrink in the display as they headed out at a conservative thirty percent of light-speed, and Imperial Terra’s officers were too busy to note a brief fold-space transmission. It came from the planetoid Dahak, and it wasn’t addressed to any of them, anyway. Instead it whispered to Terra’s central computer for just an instant, then terminated as unobtrusively as it had begun.

“Well, they’re off,” Hatcher’s hologram told Colin. “They’ll drop off a dozen passage crews at Urahan, then move out to probe the Thegran System.”