The Warlord Page 8

  The aerobatic maneuvering reminded Luke of long ago, when his formations of four F-35s would rejoin to close fingertip formation after coming off a bombing range. During the maneuver, each pilot executed the multiple tasks of de-arming the bombing system, resetting navigation and radio systems, all while speeding at their flight leader with an overtaking speed of hundreds of miles an hour. Only in this case, with Phantom spacecraft, the speeds were unimaginable. Luke always felt it was a miracle, both then and now, that no one ran into each other.

  In short order, the Alliance warships were once again a cohesive unit. The entire battle had taken less than twenty minutes.

  “How many got away?” Grant asked.

  “I estimate forty-two vessels escaped,” Valentine responded. “Their flight vector indicates the Haiyanas system was their likely destination.”

  Not ideal as an operational security matter, Luke thought. Still, no sense giving out more information than necessary. “Yulae, I want a communications blackout on this system. No messages in or out. I don’t want to tip our hand any more than necessary.”

  “Understood.”

  The planetary approach control officials were still displayed on Valentine’s communications screen. Their astonished faces reflected varying degrees of outrage and disbelief. They didn’t even speak until one of them reached toward the screen and abruptly ended the call.

  “Well,” Luke said to Grant. “I guess it’s time to get dressed up for a visit to the palace.”

  Chapter Four – Suneuon

  Dracci’s palace was much more opulent than its equivalent on Japurnam Five. It reminded Luke of Versailles in France. A massive center hall built with gold colored stone, was flanked by parliament-like buildings spreading out on either side. Acre upon acre of sculptured gardens and fountains, provided aesthetic if slightly overwrought surroundings. Beyond the palace lay a wide expanse of carefully manicured lawns.

  Directly in front of the magnificent center of government was a tiled plaza the size of a football field. The tiles formed a geometric grid that reminded Luke of a brain puzzle in the Times. Royal visitors reached the front doors by climbing broad steps that rivaled the most impressive Luke had ever seen.

  “Nice place,” he mumbled to himself. “The maintenance must be murder, though.”

  “What did you say?” Grant asked.

  “Nothing. Look at that big front lawn. See if you can squeeze in our twenty phantoms right there. I don’t care if they mess up the grounds a little. In fact, that might add some emphasis to our arrival.”

  Grant nodded. “It’ll be tight, but doable. Valentine, when the escort ships land, have our ground troops disembark and form up near the steps. All other ships maintain an air patrol over the palace. I want everyone in the palace to think judgement day has arrived.”

  “Acknowledged,” Valentine replied.

  “Ready?” Grant asked Luke.

  “Let’s get the show on the road.”

  “Start landing now,” Grant ordered Valentine.

  As the Phantoms touched down, soldiers clad in flashy red and gold battle dress uniforms spilled from the cargo bays and ran at double-time toward the palace entrance. To a local observer, the soldiers looked like elaborately decorated killing machines.

  Luke approved of the new uniforms, especially how comfortable they were. The inner lining was like Egyptian cotton while the outer layer was an impenetrable fabric that far exceeded any Aramid fibers he had seen on Earth. Nothing could get through the clothing’s exceptionally bullet-proof weave. For an extra layer of defense, each soldier had a combat version of the personal protection field strapped to their belt.

  The soldiers carried holstered handguns. Rather than a heavy hundred-twenty-four grain slug, the pistols fired small flechettes. The tiny darts had a penetration capability greater than a Heckler & Koch VP40. That was because the gravity driven firing chamber delivered a recoilless round at a muzzle velocity of fifteen-thousand feet-per-second.

  Riley Stevens, the weapon’s inventor, had actually modified the design so it would kick just a little to keep troops from using the weapon like a firehose. As it was, the standard load was five hundred rounds.

  Their primary weapon, however, resembled a long-barrel rifle. In addition to the deadly flechettes, the firearm also produced an adjustable beam capable of either blocking incoming fire or being narrowed to a pinpoint that could penetrate the armor plating of a warship. For good measure, an eighteen-inch bayonet tipped each one.

  The combat helmets were a communication marvel, keeping troops in constant contact with their squad leaders, right up the chain of command. If necessary, the officer controlling the engagement could talk directly to an individual soldier.

  Today’s engagement would be managed by the senior ground force commander based on Luke’s strategic objectives. Once the ground troops were in position near the steps Luke checked in with Yulae. “Is the king ready to welcome me?”

  “Unfortunately not, Your Majesty. He has retreated to his private chambers with fifty-eight members of his palace guard.”

  “What about the ministers?”

  “Seventeen of the hundred and thirty are waiting in the throne room.”

  Luke grinned evilly. “I guess that means no banquet.”

  Grant shook his head. “This place is thick with treason.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Luke said. “A few more hours, it will be all cleaned out. Yulae, inform the ministers if they are not in the throne room in ten minutes they will be labeled as traitors to the throne and their property seized. After you tell them, cut communication.”

  “It will be done, Sire,” Yulae replied.

  Luke continued. “And Valentine, have our ground commander send a platoon to retrieve the king. Yulae can tell you where he’s hiding. Lethal force is authorized, but do not harm the king. I need him alive and well in the throne room.”

  “Acknowledged. Should Yulae order King Dracci’s Palace Guard to stand down?”

  “Will they do that?” Luke asked. The notion hadn’t occurred to him.

  “Unknown.”

  “It’s worth a shot. Give it a try.” He left the viewing window and headed toward the cargo bay. “Take us down, Grant.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  In the cargo bay, another thirty ground troops were standing at attention. Their battle dress style differing only in colors of white and purple. Luke sighed internally, Lenny had insisted on taking charge of costume design for today’s operation. The man was a frustrated fashionista.

  Luke’s battle dress was similar to his guards, but augmented with a few extra ruffles. And strapped to his thigh, in place of the regulation handgun, Luke wore a third generation Colt 45 revolver. He liked the heft and stopping power, but for today the more important characteristic was that it made a big noise. He wasn’t planning on using it, but if it became necessary, he wanted to make a statement.

  The cargo door opened, facing the wide steps to the main palace. Luke walked down the boarding ramp with guards flanking him on both sides. Before he got two feet from the boarding ramp, a high-energy slug smacked against his personal protection field. The bullet-proof material under his robes absorbed most of the sting from the impact. Rather than knocking him flat, the force was more like a sharp elbow in an elevator.

  Grant’s voice sounded in his helmet. “We have the source. Returning fire.”

  To Luke’s left, an airborne Phantom fired at the rooftop corner of the palace wing. That section of the building erupted in a cloud of dust.

  “Target destroyed,” Grant announced.

  Luke did not slow down. He proceeded up the steps toward two massive carved oak doors. His personal escort maintained their close position, but the rest of his ground force raced ahead.

  Predictably, the doors were locked and barred. Fifty of the soldiers stepped back and leveled their rifles at the door. With a crash, the doors were blown inward, off their hinges. Luke continued forward at his same measu
red pace.

  Inside the palace, the entry chamber could have easily served as a ballroom. Arched ceilings overhead were adorned with gilt-edged murals and walls were lined with heroic statuary.

  Standing in the center of the entryway, against the backdrop of indulgent decadence, was an old man, his features weathered with age. He blocked access to another set of ornate doors that almost reached the ceiling.

  The soldiers rushed forward and surrounded him, threatening him with the bayonet tips of their combat rifles. The man was as stiff and immovable as though he were cast in bronze.

  “Who is that?” Luke asked aloud.

  Yulae’s voice sounded in Luke’s helmet. “You would classify him as the sergeant-at-arms. His duty is to maintain order in the throne room and escort visiting dignitaries into the presence of the king.

  Luke looked at the elderly gentleman, standing so firm and proud against the heavily armed soldiers and burst out laughing. “What’s the man’s name?”

  “His name is Druid,” Yulae replied.

  “Seriously? Well, he looks the part. What do I call him?”

  “He is normally addressed as Palace Chief Druid.”

  “Tell our troops to stand down,” Luke said.

  The soldiers took up protective positions throughout the hall while Luke marched forward. When he was fifteen feet away, the Palace Chief executed a lavish bow, ending on one knee.

  “Your Majesty,” Druid wheezed. “Welcome to the Hall of Heroes.”

  A smile crept across Luke’s face. “Thank you, Palace Chief Druid. I understand King Dracci is not available.”

  “He is not, Your Majesty. But I am sure even now he is hastening to greet you.”

  Luke nodded. “I can pretty much guarantee it, Chief. Mind if we go in and wait?”

  The Palace Chief backed toward the doors and then by some sleight of hand, they swung open wide. He entered the throne room quickly and announced in a deep booming voice, “His Royal Majesty, King Like-us.”

  “Close enough,” Luke muttered to himself. “Yulae, can you help him with that pronunciation?”

  “No, sire. The Palace Chief does not have an implant.”

  Luke recalled Katrina’s briefing that King Dracci did not share such life-saving technology with the commoners. “Get him one, pronto.”

  Luke continued his march into the throne room. It was slightly larger than the entry way, and decorated even more ornately. Inside, thirty ministers clustered together in small groups. The seventeen officials who had initially shown up as ordered were easy to spot, they were wearing their official robes. The rest were in various stages of undress and looked scared to death.

  Luke’s guards marched at his side while he traversed the room and mounted a wide elevated dais where he plopped down on an amply cushioned throne. A hundred of the ground troops lined both sides of the chamber, their weapons at the ready.

  After all the noise of their entry, with boots stomping on marble floors, and doors being blown into splinters, it was suddenly deathly quiet. The minister’s whispering came to a stop and they fearfully looked back and forth between each other and Luke’s soldiers.

  Periodically another minister or two would hurry into the room from unseen side doors. Several of the stragglers backed out quickly, seeing the armed guards, unwilling to face alone whatever fate was in store. Moments later they would re-enter with one or two colleagues.

  From somewhere in the main palace, dim shouts and screams echoed through the corridors, unsettling indications that King Dracci was still resisting.

  “Yulae,” Luke said. “Have someone bring in a chair and set it in front of me.”

  “At once, Your Majesty.” Yulae’s voice in the throne room was an ominous sound, deep and booming. In some distant past, one of Dracci’s predecessors, or maybe Dracci himself, had done a fabulous job on the room’s speaker system. No doubt intended to instill fear in the attendees.

  Two attendants ran in carrying a dining chair. The placed it on the main floor at the base of the dais. They nervously adjusted its position, moving the chair left and right, and forward and backward, until it was directly in front of the throne. Luke smiled to himself at their meticulous corrections, wondering what protocol they were trying to accommodate. Without once looking in his direction, they raced out as quickly as possible.

  A scuffling noise behind the throne heralded the arrival of the king. A dozen of Luke’s soldiers entered through an unseen door, dragging the once regal being known as King Dracci.

  He was a pitiable figure. His clothing was in disarray, his face was red from exertion and a smudge of blood stained one of his elbows. Bet that hurt, Luke thought to himself. Funny bones were no joke, not even for a king. He set the thought aside and put on a fierce expression.

  “Remove those robes!” Luke shouted at the guards. “He doesn’t deserve to wear them. And put him in that chair.”

  The soldiers applied themselves diligently and within seconds Dracci wore only a thin pair of white long johns and a ridiculously embroidered camisole. The guards thrust him into the chair and he sat shivering, looking around the throne room. It was a wretched sight.

  Luke glared at the man who had conspired to kidnap his wife. It was not going to end well for the once powerful king. No one in the great hall spoke and Luke let the silence grow. It filled the room until it became oppressive. Three of the ministers could not take the pressure and collapsed onto the floor, one of them face first; his breaking teeth made a harsh cracking sound.

  “Yulae!” Luke barked after two long minutes.

  “Your Majesty,” the AI responded deeply.

  “Who am I?”

  Luke waited while the planetary AI recited Luke’s long pedigree.

  “I didn’t hear you,” Luke growled. “Say it again, louder.”

  Again, the AI recited who Luke was, this time adding a bit more detail about his long-running battle with the Bakkui.

  “Once more!” Luke shouted. “Make sure these people understand.”

  This time the walls fairly shook to the AI’s recitation. When the narrative stopped, the silence was all the heavier.

  After another minute, Luke stood up from his throne and remarked in a perfectly normal voice, “Thank you, Yulae.” With his hands on his hips, Luke paced back and forth atop the dais, glaring daggers at the ministers. Finally, one of them took the hint.

  “God save Your Majesty!” the man cried and flung himself prostrate on the floor. “Forgive me, Warlord,” He repeated the refrain with similar words over and over. Like dominoes, everyone else in the room followed suit.

  Luke stood silent while protestations of loyalty cascaded across the dais like the falls over Niagara. He was in no rush to tamp them down as he normally would. This time, it would do well to let their precarious situation soak into the consciousness of those present. Eventually, after a full fifteen minutes of wailing and lamentations, one of the ministers peeked from the floor and seeing no wrath befalling him, rose carefully to his feet, still proclaiming loyalty. One by one, the rest followed.

  All but Dracci. He sat in his lonely chair, slumped in defeat. Clearly, he understood that no amount of policy reversal would save him from the terrible fate that awaited. After a few moments of renewed silence, he began to sit straighter as though stiffening his resolve. It was time to put that to a stop.

  “Yulae.” Luke growled.

  “Your Majesty.”

  “Is Dracci guilty of treason against our throne?” Luke’s words cut through Dracci’s last spark of resistance.

  Everyone in the room held their breath at the worst possible question being asked about anyone.

  “Yes,” came Yulae’s damming answer.

  “Explain,” Luke ordered.

  In his Grim Reaper voice, Yulae began a detailed narration of Dracci’s offenses against the Nobility and the First Family. King Dracci had ordered raids against Second Family planets, had engaged in slavery, had launched raids against First Family pl
anets, had murdered citizens of those planets, had engaged in thievery and selling of raided goods with other royal families and had partnered with King Haejeog of the Sixth Family.

  “And was he,” Luke growled. “Was he involved in the abduction of my queen?”

  A hush of disbelief fell on the crowd.

  “I do not know,” Yulae replied.

  Luke stepped off the dais and approached the miserable Dracci. “You were, weren’t you?” he gritted between clenched teeth. “You kidnapped Queen Annabelle, didn’t you? Didn’t you!” Luke roared, his voice shaking with rage.

  “It wasn’t me,” Dracci gibbered. “I had no choice.”

  “Tell me!” Luke spat, grabbing Dracci by his preposterous camisole, twisting it so the straps began to choke off his breathing.

  “I can’t,” Dracci whined. “You don’t understand.”

  Luke pulled the Colt 45 from his holster and put the muzzle against Dracci’s kneecap. “I understand perfectly!” he shouted. “But I don’t think you have any idea how much pain you will suffer if you don’t tell me everything. Right now!”

  “But…but…”

  Luke pulled the trigger. The boom of the old fashioned, gunpowder round echoed through the throne room, drowned out only by the screaming pain of the astonished monarch. Hysterical cries from the assembled ministers were almost as loud. This kind of treatment had never been seen, much less imagined, against their royal sovereign.

  Grant’s voice intruded into Luke’s helmet, relayed by Valentine. “Jesus, Luke! You can’t do that for crying out loud!”

  Luke ignored the protestations of his subordinate. “Tell me where she is!” Luke shouted in Dracci’s face.

  “I don’t know!” he cried, tears and snot running down his face. His words could barely be understood through his cries of pain. “We gave her to the others. King Haejeog made a deal. For their protection, we could raid planets as long as we brought back a royal. It had to be First Family.”