The Oncoming Storm (28 page)

Taking the rifle, she checked it quickly. It was an unfamiliar design, but the principles were almost identical to weapons she’d used at Piker’s Peak. She held it in one hand, then searched the insurgent with the other. He was also carrying a small pistol and several clips of ammunition. Kat picked them up and cursed. Her dress didn’t have any pockets for storing bullets. She tore off his mask and used it as a makeshift carry.

She stepped over to the door, listened carefully, then stuck her head outside. There was no one in the corridor as far as she could tell, but she could hear the sound of loud protests in the distance. She wondered, absently, just where the admiral had gone before deciding it didn’t matter. If the insurgents had any sense, they’d make damn sure they didn’t kill him. His replacement could hardly be any less competent. Gritting her teeth, she advanced out of the room, trying desperately to remember the way back to the aircars. Perhaps it would be better to slip out of the door and move round in the gardens . . .

An insurgent was guarding the door. Kat cursed under her breath as she yanked her head back, then tried to think of something else she could do. Of course the insurgents would be guarding all the exits and entrances . . . she turned and headed towards the stairs. If the admiral was even remotely competent, there would be a spare communications suite in his bedroom, automatically linked into the fleet command network. It was a gamble, but she couldn’t think of anything better. She knew she couldn’t singlehandedly beat however many insurgents there were.

She froze as she reached the stairs, then ducked into the shadows as she heard people—several people—moving towards her. Three of them were insurgents, she realized as they came into view, but the others were maids and manservants. They weren’t prisoners either, she noted, unsurprised. Clearly, the insurgents had been plotting the operation for quite some time. Local labor was cheaper than importing servants from Tyre—and besides, the locals couldn’t demand better treatment under Commonwealth Law. As long as they seemed trustworthy, she knew, they would be hired.

The thought made her shiver as the insurgents walked past and vanished into the distance. How many local men and women were working at the spaceport? Or in the government complexes scattered all over the planet? Hell, the prostitutes alone probably heard enough pillow talk to keep the insurgents informed of everything that happened on the planet before it hit the media. The only thing preventing a general uprising, she knew, was 7th Fleet and the orbital defenses.

But the Theocracy’s attack would deal with them.

She felt a stab of pity for the brain-dead men and women who had attended the admiral’s party, then made her way up the stairs as soon as the insurgents were out of sight. The building was eerily quiet—she couldn’t help wondering just what the insurgents intended to do with their prisoners—but she pushed the thought aside as she reached the top of the stairs and turned right, down the corridor. A noise caught her ear and she froze, then looked into one of the larger rooms. A number of men and women lay on the ground, their hands bound behind their backs. It took her a moment to realize that they had to be the servants who had remained loyal—or at least hadn’t been part of the insurgency from the start. She briefly considered freeing them, then dismissed the idea. There was no way to know if they could be trusted.

No loyal retainers here, she thought morbidly. Her bloodline had entire families serving as retainers, almost part of the Falcone family itself. Most of their children tended to start their lives as playmates for the aristocratic kids, then become servants as they grew older. But it simply wasn’t possible to build such an edifice on Cadiz. No one can be trusted completely.

Kat took one last glimpse at them, then strode onwards. Her implants kept blinking up warning messages—the house nodes were flickering on and off, suggesting that their software was trying to overcome a viral attack—but she’d already downloaded and saved a copy of the mansion’s floor plans. The admiral’s bedroom was at the end of the corridor, through a large wooden door. She stopped dead as she heard someone speaking ahead of her, then peeked through the door. Two insurgents were ransacking the room, hunting for something the admiral might have concealed in his bedroom. They turned and stared at her, then reached for their weapons. Kat shot the first one instinctively, then swung her weapon to target the second insurgent. He threw himself at her too late. She shot him, then jumped to one side.

His body hit the floor, already dead.

She fought down the urge to throw up as she checked the body. She knew she’d taken life before, but it had always been at a distance. She’d never seen any of the men and women who had died under her fire. Now . . . she swallowed hard, then looked round the chamber. The admiral hadn’t stinted on his personal quarters. Everything was designed for comfort, particularly the bed. It was large enough for five or six people to sleep comfortably. She kept staring round until she located a solid wooden cupboard and then pulled it open. For once, Morrison had followed regulations. He’d installed a full communications system in his quarters.

Kat let out a sigh of relief, then reached for the controls, inputting her access codes. There was no point in calling the local government, not now. God alone knew what else might be going on. She needed to call her ship.

“This is the captain,” she said as soon as the channel was open. “We have a situation.”

Captain Patrick James Davidson knew, without false modesty, that he wouldn’t rise any higher than command of a company of Marines. Fortunately, he didn’t want to rise any higher. He would be happy with his company of Marines and a chance to test himself against the best and brightest the enemy had to offer. In a way, he’d even mourned when the Theocratic commandos hadn’t tried to break out of the hull before they’d been handed over to local authorities on Cadiz. He’d been sure they would have tested his men to the utmost.

He pushed the thought aside as the shuttle raced through the atmosphere towards the admiral’s mansion. The report had been precise and to the point; the captain was stranded inside the mansion, while the building was occupied by an unknown number of insurgents with unknown objectives. Judging from the situation, Davidson rather suspected their objective was to blow the mansion and escape, leaving the occupation government with a black eye and a great deal of embarrassment. But the attackers couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

“Prepare to jump,” he ordered. He’d brought two platoons with him, both wearing light combat armor. The remainder of the company would remain in reserve until they were called forward. Thankfully, the local authorities hadn’t tried to interfere with his mission planning. They’d been caught flat-footed by the attack. “Now!”

He was first out of the shuttle, plummeting down towards the building. It was impossible to tell if the insurgents knew they were coming or not; they didn’t seem to have any active sensors operating near the mansion, but they might well have agents somewhere within the planetary air traffic control. No ground fire rose up to meet the marines as they fell, their antigravity units arresting the group’s descent bare seconds before they would have hit the rooftop. Davidson tore open the hatch with his armored hands, then jumped down into the building. There was no sign of any enemy forces.

WARNING, his suit buzzed. COMBAT JAMMING ENABLED.

Patrick nodded, then dismissed the alert as he led the way forward. Being deprived of microscopic spies was irritating, but hardly a surprise. His suit picked up the sounds of someone shooting in the distance, perhaps Kat. He put on a boost of speed, hastily comparing his current location to the mansion’s floor plans. The captain had said she was hiding in the admiral’s bedroom. As he rounded the corner, he saw she was under attack.

He threw himself forward, landing among the terrorists before they knew he was there. At such close range, there was no way he could miss, certainly not with his inbuilt stunner. He knocked them all out rapidly and then muttered orders to the rest of his platoon. The terrorists might have the remainder of the guests under guard, but stun grenades would knock out everyone—hostages and insurgents alike. It might be the only way to prevent them from blowing up the building, taking everyone inside with it.

“Captain,” he called, “the corridor is clear.”

It had been odd seeing Captain Falcone again after their relationship. They’d parted on good terms—he was too realistic to think they had a chance of staying together forever—but part of him had been tempted to try to restart their relationship when they’d found themselves assigned to the same ship once again. But he’d known it wasn’t a good idea . . . Now, he found himself staring at her as she inched out of the room, weapon in hand. Her dress was torn, one of her legs was badly bruised . . . and he thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

“Captain, are you all right?” The voder would ensure that no one heard the tremor in his voice.

“Yes, thank you,” Kat said. Her eyes were shining despite the situation. And the dress. “Status report?”

Davidson checked his HUD. “We’re advancing on the hostages now,” he said. “We don’t have time to waste.”

The captain nodded. “And the admiral?”

“Unknown,” Patrick said. “With your permission . . .”

“Good luck,” the captain said. “Try to take some of the insurgents alive, if possible.”

“Yes, Captain,” Patrick said. “We will try.”

Kat sat back in the corridor, feeling her body shaking with a combination of relief and fear—and frustration that she couldn’t do anything but wait. Davidson didn’t need her getting in the way, nor could he spare anyone to stay with her. She kept the rifle on her lap and waited, listening carefully to the sound of stunners and grenades echoing through the vast building. It was nearly forty minutes before the jamming cut out and her implants started to work normally again, reporting the sudden arrival of a small army of soldiers from the spaceport.

“Captain,” Davidson said, “we have shuttles inbound from the ship. Do you want to return to Lightning?”

“I want to know what happened to the admiral,” Kat said. “And his son. What happened to his son?”

She watched as the stunned guests were carried out of the building for transport back to the spaceport, where they would recover in the hospital. Behind them, soldiers moved among the insurgents, flexi-cuffing and then searching them before marking them down for transport to the nearest holding cell.

“That was surprisingly easy,” Davidson observed. “They didn’t even have the building rigged to explode by the time we attacked them.”

Kat gave him a sharp look. The insurgents had clearly spent months laying the groundwork for the assault, an assault that had only managed to kill a handful of officers and bureaucrats before it failed spectacularly. They’d had a stroke of bad luck—the attackers had probably assumed she would be captured with the rest of the commanding officers—but it was still odd. The more she thought about it, the more she realized something was badly wrong.

“Maybe they were trying to embarrass the admiral,” she said slowly. The insurgency had to know that someone more competent would be sent to replace Morrison if he died. “Or just to embarrass the occupation government itself.”

“Could be,” Davidson agreed. “Men and women can be replaced, Captain. A reputation cannot be repaired so quickly.”

Kat nodded. No doubt Admiral Morrison would have incentive to minimize the scale of his failure.

“This wasn’t the commandoes,” Davidson added. “They’re still in the spaceport.”

Kat ground her teeth, then looked up sharply as the admiral appeared and made his way over to face her. “Admiral,” she said coolly, “where the hell were you?”

“The hero of the hour,” Morrison said. He completely ignored her question. “I believe the press wants to meet you.”

“I have to see the doctor,” Kat said quickly. She leaned forward. “Admiral, where were you?”

“The panic room,” the admiral said. He looked embarrassed. “My staff shoved me inside as soon as the attack began.”

Kat’s eyes narrowed. “And you couldn’t call for help from there?”