Empress of Outer Space by Chandler A. Bertram

Author:Chandler, A. Bertram [Chandler, A. Bertram]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781473215016
Google: 4iBACwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B0007HJTSK
Publisher: Ace Books
Published: 1965-12-17T05:00:00+00:00

XIV

“De Richelieu!” demanded the King. “What is this?”

“The fulfillment of the prophesy,” replied the Chancellor, adding, as an afterthought, “Your Majesty.”

“Prophesy? What prophesy?”

“That in our time of need the Golden Lady and the Lord Benjamin would come from the stars to render us aid.”

“So you listen to the rabble, and you rouse the rabble, and you dress up two mountebanks in tawdry costumes and pay them to lead a rebellion against my authority…”

“Did I hear you call me a mountebank?” asked the Empress with dangerous calm.

“Yes. You and that little rat of a fellow with you.”

Trafford laughed. It was impossible for him to take this pompous monarch seriously. But the Empress was not amused. She bounded forward and with one hand grasped the King by the collar of his robe, bunching the rich material so that he began to choke and splutter. With the same hand she lifted him clear of the ground, held him there, kicking and struggling and strangling.

There were angry cries from the courtiers and swords flashed from their scabbards. Trafford grinned viciously as his thumb depressed the firing stud of the laser pistol—and the would-be swordsmen were staring stupidly at useless hilts from which dripped gobbets of molten steel.

“What would you, Milord?” demanded de Richelieu sardonically, looking up at the impotent, dangling King. “What would you?”

“Let me down!” croaked the unhappy monarch. “Please, please let me down!”

Contemptuously the Empress unclenched her fist, released him. He fell heavily, sprawling on the flagstones. His absurd little crown was jolted off his head, rolled slowly away from him. Nobody made a move to pick it up. On an impulse Trafford whipped out his automatic, loosed off four shots in quick succession. The crown, battered beyond recognition, was driven skittering across the courtyard by the impact of the heavy slugs. Then, when the Commander saw the King’s face, he was sorry for what he had done—but there was no way to apologize or to make amends.

A tall man in military finery stepped forward. He grinned wryly beneath his sweeping moustache as he extended the hilt of his sword towards the Empress by what little remained of the blade. He said, “Milady, we all know of the prophesy—but we thought that it was no more than a fairy tale to comfort the little ones. But we see, now, that it is more than a fairy tale. Here is my sword, Milady.”

“Then you are with us, General Porthos?” asked the Chancellor.

“No, M’sieur le Due. Not with you. You I know too well. When the Golden Lady and the Lord Benjamin dropped down from the stars you tried to use them in your plot to overthrow the monarchy and to seize power for yourself. I will follow the Golden Lady to the Gates of Smersh, and beyond, but for you I have only contempt.”

While he was speaking the King had scrambled to his feet. “Arrest them!” he cried. “Arrest them, Porthos! Throw them in the dungeons!”

“Ho, guards!” shouted the General. “To me!”

Men appeared

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