Read Online The Crown Jewels by Walter Jon Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Walter Jon Williams
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data through his armor and into his optical centers. He scanned them with chill, happy obsession. Maijstral might win— the General was willing to concede that possibility— but he would know he’d been in a fight. Maijstral was going to be in for the battle of his life.
He knew that no thief of Maijstral’s caliber could possibly resist the gauntlet the General had flung in his face. He had threatened Maijstral with death knowing that Maijstral couldn’t possibly pass up that kind of challenge. Hah, Maijstral would think, this old fogey thinks he can tell me what to do. And then Maijstral would decide to teach the old man a lesson and sneak into his house to steal something.
Little did Maijstral know that Gerald was ready for him. He had anticipated his enemy’s reaction and was going to spring an ambush.
It was General Gerald’s misfortune to have spent forty years as a warrior without a war. He had never once been in combat. For decades he had practiced for the inevitable Imperial resurgency, honed his skills, studied enemy tactics, waged endless campaigns for funding and battled the Empire only in simulation and exercises . . . and overnight, it seemed, General Gerald found himself facing retirement without the cowardly Imperial fleet having once shown up for the long-awaited Armageddon. It was more than a patriot could stand.
So now the General waited in his old armor, surrounded by weapons laid out in a semicircle, smiling as he scanned the remotes and felt the suit blowing cool air on his brow. He pictured Maijstral’s entry in his mind, the thief moving in through windows or doors or even through the chimney, unaware that the General had just spent a fortune on detection apparatus and confident that his darksuit would hide him from the avenging ex-marine crouched in the corner. General Gerald would open the conflict with a snare rifle, try to catch the thief in its coils. Maijstral’s darksuit could probably make itself frictionless and thus slip the bonds, after which the thief might well strike out with a chugger or a stunner, which the General’s armor would, of course, repel . . . and then the battle would broaden, higher and higher energies brought into play, disruptors and mappers and spitfires, and then maybe it would even come down to hand-to-hand at the end. General Gerald with his trusty cutlass against Maijstral and his stiletto.
The General pictured his victory, Maijstral prostrate, the General triumphant, the room flaming (what the hell— the house was insured). The first time Maijstral had ever been caught and apprehended, a first-class thief brought down by the General’s foresight and cunning.
Maijstral, the General thought. The Allowed Burglar wasn’t quite the Imperial Admiral of the Fleet, but in the latter’s absence he would just have to do . . .
*
Peleng wasn’t any fun at all.
Sergeant Tvi of His Imperial Majesty’s Secret Dragoons looked at her communications display in speechless despair. The Scholder manse was calling for help. Unmistakably. The Imperial Relic would not be reclaimed tonight.
Tvi’s diaphragm gave a spasm of irritation. She banked her Jefferson-Singh speedster and rose high into the traffic lanes, imitating an ordinary commuter. She glanced over her shoulder at her darksuit and equipment and considered tossing them.
No, she decided. She might yet get a chance to show what she could do.
Sergeant Tvi was, to be blunt, a scapegrace. Her parents had been stodgy Imperial servants, existing in perfect descent from long lines of other Imperial servants, each priding himself on his exemplary dullness. Tvi’s childhood had been a tedious one, full of boredom and fantasy. If she hadn’t had a good imagination she might well have died of ennui. Trapped in one Imperial backwater or another, her horizons limited by the acidic atmosphere of Vanngrian or the endless bleak deserts of Zynzlyp, Tvi had followed the burglar standings, the confidence-racket
He knew that no thief of Maijstral’s caliber could possibly resist the gauntlet the General had flung in his face. He had threatened Maijstral with death knowing that Maijstral couldn’t possibly pass up that kind of challenge. Hah, Maijstral would think, this old fogey thinks he can tell me what to do. And then Maijstral would decide to teach the old man a lesson and sneak into his house to steal something.
Little did Maijstral know that Gerald was ready for him. He had anticipated his enemy’s reaction and was going to spring an ambush.
It was General Gerald’s misfortune to have spent forty years as a warrior without a war. He had never once been in combat. For decades he had practiced for the inevitable Imperial resurgency, honed his skills, studied enemy tactics, waged endless campaigns for funding and battled the Empire only in simulation and exercises . . . and overnight, it seemed, General Gerald found himself facing retirement without the cowardly Imperial fleet having once shown up for the long-awaited Armageddon. It was more than a patriot could stand.
So now the General waited in his old armor, surrounded by weapons laid out in a semicircle, smiling as he scanned the remotes and felt the suit blowing cool air on his brow. He pictured Maijstral’s entry in his mind, the thief moving in through windows or doors or even through the chimney, unaware that the General had just spent a fortune on detection apparatus and confident that his darksuit would hide him from the avenging ex-marine crouched in the corner. General Gerald would open the conflict with a snare rifle, try to catch the thief in its coils. Maijstral’s darksuit could probably make itself frictionless and thus slip the bonds, after which the thief might well strike out with a chugger or a stunner, which the General’s armor would, of course, repel . . . and then the battle would broaden, higher and higher energies brought into play, disruptors and mappers and spitfires, and then maybe it would even come down to hand-to-hand at the end. General Gerald with his trusty cutlass against Maijstral and his stiletto.
The General pictured his victory, Maijstral prostrate, the General triumphant, the room flaming (what the hell— the house was insured). The first time Maijstral had ever been caught and apprehended, a first-class thief brought down by the General’s foresight and cunning.
Maijstral, the General thought. The Allowed Burglar wasn’t quite the Imperial Admiral of the Fleet, but in the latter’s absence he would just have to do . . .
*
Peleng wasn’t any fun at all.
Sergeant Tvi of His Imperial Majesty’s Secret Dragoons looked at her communications display in speechless despair. The Scholder manse was calling for help. Unmistakably. The Imperial Relic would not be reclaimed tonight.
Tvi’s diaphragm gave a spasm of irritation. She banked her Jefferson-Singh speedster and rose high into the traffic lanes, imitating an ordinary commuter. She glanced over her shoulder at her darksuit and equipment and considered tossing them.
No, she decided. She might yet get a chance to show what she could do.
Sergeant Tvi was, to be blunt, a scapegrace. Her parents had been stodgy Imperial servants, existing in perfect descent from long lines of other Imperial servants, each priding himself on his exemplary dullness. Tvi’s childhood had been a tedious one, full of boredom and fantasy. If she hadn’t had a good imagination she might well have died of ennui. Trapped in one Imperial backwater or another, her horizons limited by the acidic atmosphere of Vanngrian or the endless bleak deserts of Zynzlyp, Tvi had followed the burglar standings, the confidence-racket
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