The Scarlet Empress (31 page)

“Banzai Maguire!”

Bree sat ramrod straight in her seat. A voice boomed out of her collar. To Ty’s expression of disbelief, she said, “It’s the Voice of Freedom.”

“Who are you with?” it demanded. “Who are you speaking to?”

Ty brought a finger to his lips and shook his head.

She nodded. “Thank you for shutting down the prison. How the heck did you do that?”

“As much as I’d like the credit, I didn’t do it. Someone hacked into the system. Impossible, and yet it happened.”

“Someone else is helping us?”

“The Trojan Horse, too, was thought to be a gift.”

“Good point,” Ty muttered, his eyes on the sky ahead.

“Now tell me where you are, Banzai.” The Voice of Freedom sounded almost panicky.

“We’re—”

Ty’s hand landed on hers and squeezed. He shook his head.

Why?
She mouthed the word.

He typed on the cockpit keyboard:
If we trust the wrong person now, it’s all over.

But it’s the Voice of Freedom,
she typed back.

We
think
it is.

Bree stared straight ahead. Ty was right. They couldn’t risk trusting an unknown. And even if it was the real Voice of Freedom, she/he/it had gotten her into one mess after another. The Voice’s intentions were good—the best—but its execution left a lot to be desired. “I left a motivated crowd behind in New Washington,” she replied. “They’re gathering now, organizing. Without an Interweb for communication, the process will be slower, but it’ll happen. You can handle that, okay? Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll contact you when I get there.”

“Get where? You left before my plans for your protection were fully realized.”

You snooze, you lose.
“Listen, I can’t trust too many people right now. I’m sure you understand.”

The tense silence told her that the Voice did indeed understand, but was royally pissed off.

“I’ll call, okay?” Bree promised.

But the Voice of Freedom, it seemed, had already hung up.

Less than four hours later they touched down on the helijet pad at Ty’s family ranch in Montana. The trip had been inexplicably easy, uneventful. No other aircraft had come up on their wing; no radar had tracked them. They’d heard nothing on the radios directed at them. Ty was certain it meant that forces loyal to his father would be waiting for them, but when they arrived at the ranch it was deserted.

“Don’t question good fortune,” he told Bree, ushering her inside. The house smelled familiar, a little like cinnamon, a little like pine. There was no time to waste on a tour. That would come later . . . if it ever did.

He led Bree downstairs to the basement. “This is the command center. It’s dedicated to security.”

“There’s enough gear and gadgets in here to supply a small country’s military.”

“My father wanted to be prepared in the event Beauchamp ousted him from office. No one can get into this place once I throw up the shields. Not even my father himself—unless he calls in an air strike, which he won’t. He loves the place too much.” Ty’s fingers danced over the huge rectangular monitor, typing in codes. “My father made me memorize the security commands when I
was a boy, in case he was incapacitated and needed me to

shut out the world—or, more accurately, the UCE.”

He wiped his hands. “Done. Now I’ll show you around.”

His tour ended some time later at the bedroom he’d occupied as a child. Bree stepped through the door, gazing with the softest of smiles at the model airplanes dangling from his ceiling. He’d told her so many stories about this room, and now she’d arrived; Banzai Maguire was here in his bedroom. A frisson of wonder went through him. “It seems surreal to me that you’re here,” he said quietly.

“Me, too.” She thought for a moment. “Hey, do you still have that book—the one where you saw my biography?”

He reached for a thick text and pulled it from his bookshelf. “This is how I first learned of you.” He flipped to a dog-eared, much-read page and handed her the military textbook.

“That’s me. . . .” Bree’s eyes glittered with sudden moisture as she gazed at the small photo of her dressed in an air force flight suit and posed in front of an F-16. “This is the picture that led to everything.”

“A revolution.”

She brought her hand to his cheek. “And more.”

“Believe it or not, my father gave me this book. See what came of it? We will never give our children books.”

She laughed. “Not if they’re going to go through what we have.”

Their smiles faded simultaneously. They’d been through a lot, and it wasn’t over yet.

“Come here, Sleeping Beauty.” Ty pulled her close and
pressed his lips to the side of her throat. “I want to make love to you so badly, Bree, I can taste it—can taste
you
. . . . ” He bit her earlobe, and she gave a tiny yelp.

“Almost every single time we’ve gone to bed together, someone’s tried to kill us. Do you know that?”

He lifted his head. “No one can get in here.”

“Your father can’t override what we’ve done?”

“Once the codes are input into the main computer, it locks out all overrides. My father designed it that way.”

That seemed to appease her.

For about a second.

“I’m not getting into bed, or in the shower, or doing anything until I know that every window, every door, every air vent, every gopher hole is locked!”

He couldn’t blame her. The two times they’d shared a real bed had ended in disaster—once with their near murders, the second with their capture. Affecting a gallant attitude in the finest tradition of knights in shining armor, he took her hand and proceeded to lead the symbolic leader of a world-class rebellion on an inspection of every window, every door, every air vent, and every gopher hole on the ranch.

They ended their search in the kitchen, a large room with panoramic views of the mountains yet cozy in the tradition of ranch homes. “We haven’t checked the pantry yet,” Ty told Bree.

She leaned back against a nearby counter and smoothed her hair away from her face. “Well, we looked in every other nook and cranny, let’s do it.”

Ty lifted a finger and beckoned. “You do it.”

Casting him a confused glance, she pushed away from the counter and walked through the door he’d opened.

She took in the sight of the sealed compartments holding food and other perishables and shrugged. “Well, we won’t starve.”

She started to walk out, but he stopped her. “I figured you’d smell it. But the containers are more airtight than I thought.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Smell what?”

He grinned as he threw open the first of several bins holding a treasure trove of—

“Junk food,” Bree breathed. “Be still my heart. Chocolate . . . and chips . . . and—look at all this stuff!”

Ty tore open a candy bar and broke off a piece, handing it to Bree. “I don’t know what brands you know, but plan on digging through it all until you find some favorites.”

“My hand’s shaking,” she joked, bringing the candy to her nose first to inhale the aroma and then tasting it as if she wanted to savor the experience. “Mmm . . .” She closed her eyes as she chewed.

It aroused Ty, watching her delight in the candy the way he wanted to take his enjoyment with her body. Even with the world in chaos and the entire UCE military looking for them, here in this temporary refuge, he’d make sure their lovemaking progressed at the same leisurely pace as Bree’s snacking. He’d waited so long for her—for this. He’d be damned if he was going to rush the experience.

Ty rested his hands on her hips and kissed the side of her throat. “Want more?” Her skin was hot, damp, and tasted like her.

“Mmm,” she murmured again, this time at the feel of his mouth. “What other candy do you have?”

His chuckle was low and deep. “Why don’t you come with me, little girl, and find out for yourself?” Taking her head in his hands, he kissed her.

“No one tried to kill us,” Bree said later as she snuggled next to Ty in bed. Empty bags of chips and candy littered the night tables.

He gathered her close, grinning. “You damn near did, though.”

Dressed in bathrobes, they cuddled in the big feather bed in the ranch’s master suite—in Ax Armstrong’s bed, Bree thought, unable to wrap her mind around the absurdity of it all.

The Interweb remained down. On the entertainment monitors was local news: sporadic, pieced-together rebel broadcasts that popped up and were quickly taken down in favor of UCE-run propaganda. “Rebel forces following the Voice of Freedom’s urging are gathering in huge numbers at the sight of the old capital.” The man who read the news resembled a bus driver more than a carefully coiffed anchorman. “Minutemen, local militia, and continental army regulars, contact your local leaders for further instructions. . . .”

A new image appeared, overriding the guy reading the news. It was Beauchamp, the UCE president. He sat behind a desk in what Bree recognized as the Unity Office.

“I hate that man. . . .” Bree clutched her robe to her chest as if she could contain the thundering beats of her heart. Ty rubbed her back.

“Greetings, my fellow colonists. I come to you with a plea for help in our darkest hour. There are those among
us who would bring our great nation to its knees, forsaking peace for irresponsible violence. Have confidence that your leaders have the situation under control. Troops are being sent to reinforce the blockade around an uprising at the old capital.”

“They set up a blockade,” Bree said with dismay. She closed her eyes. “I don’t know if I’m ready to hear that lives have been lost because of what I’ve set in motion.”

Ty gathered her close. “Death before tyrrany,” he reminded her.

“We need to join them, Ty—to join them at the capital. We can’t stay here where it’s safe.”

“I know. . . .” He kissed the top of her head. “We’ll have tonight. Tomorrow we’ll return.”

“I ask you tonight to remain in your homes,” Beauchamp went on. “For your safety and those around you, observe the curfew at all times. All attempts at movement into the old capital will be seen as hostile. Supreme Commander Armstrong is standing by with the full power of our ground forces to quell the aggression.”

“If my father moves his army in, it’ll be a bloodbath,” Ty said grimly. “We need to get other nations involved in this. The Euro-African consortium.”

“Better yet, the Kingdom of Asia. They’re the true power.”

“Run by a man who won’t lift a pinkie finger to do anything past his own borders, who hates the UCE as much as the UCE hates him.”

“I know the last time I saw him I zapped him with a neuron fryer. I don’t expect him to be friendly to someone who escaped him and was hostile. But,” she sighed, “if only Kyber would agree to help. Think of what
France’s participation did for the colonists in the American Revolution.”

“That would place Prince Kyber in the role of Lafayette,” Ty said dryly.

“It’s not
that
far-fetched.” God knew this revolution needed a Lafayette, the young Frenchman who left behind a comfortable life as a noble to fight for Gen. George Washington. “I know what you think of him, but Kyber’s a good man—under all that ego. He has principles.”

“Only as they relate directly to his personal well being.”

Bree shook her head. “He’d do it. I know he would, given the right motivation.” She had no idea what that motivation might be, but she sure as hell hoped it found him before time ran out.

The eyes blinked. The lungs breathed. The heart beat. It was a nervous system on autopilot, Kyber thought, watching his father from where he sat next to the emperor’s bed.

Coma or not, it sounds to me like he’s still leading this kingdom.

Cam’s words had angered him. Then, as the night wore on, tossing and turning alone in his enormous bed, he had found that her words began to haunt him. It had reached a point where it was impossible to stay away. He had to come here to find out the truth.

Say anything you want about borders and isolation and hundred-year-old wars, but I think the real emperor lives in a back wing of this palace.

Kyber turned his hands over in a rare gesture of helplessness. “I need your advice, Father.”

The room was silent but for the gentle breaths of the comatose emperor.

“The world is knocking at our door. Do I answer? Or do I leave it closed?”

Something urged Kyber’s gaze to the night table. On it, the empress had arranged the items his father had most cared about in life: a gold pistol, assorted holophoto images, an egg-sized emerald . . . and an ancient-looking book with pages edged in gold. Curious, Kyber drew it onto his lap, opening it. A Bible. His father had been a practicing Catholic, and so discovering the Bible didn’t surprise him. What did was what he found on the bookmarked page: Luke 12:47–48. “ ‘From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required, and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded,’ ” he murmured. They were nearly the exact words Cam had recited only hours before.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes. Responsibility. Duty. It had been important to his father; that, he knew. And all Kyber had done was flee it.
When your father became incapacitated and it all came crashing down around you, you weren’t ready for it.

Was he now?

He knew the answer to the question he’d never dared ask. He knew because of how he’d lived his life since becoming acting emperor. His father would never recover. Kyber had avoided marriage because he wasn’t ready to become full-fledged emperor. To have an empress of his own would solidify his taking of the throne. The throne he hadn’t wanted. Yet.

Kyber fell to his knees at the bedside, his hand clasping his father’s cool, frail one. “I have failed you not in my actions but in my inaction. I was a boy who wasn’t ready to become a man. I’ve been humiliated into seeing this,
Father. Shamed into taking responsibility. This means accepting not only my role as ruling monarch in your place, but taking our kingdom’s rightful place in the world.” He was careful to use a tone of respect. “We’ve grown too comfortable behind the walls of isolation. Comfort breeds complacency. While life has stayed relatively stable in our land, the world has changed. Instead of ignoring it, why not have a hand in fixing it? Responsibility means accepting my role—and our country’s role—in world affairs. And that I vow to do.” As well as accepting responsibility in all the other areas of his life as a man.