Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) (70 page)

He came woozily back to reality, shaken by the blast. Somehow Alex was lying beside him.

His friend stood up slowly and dusted himself off. Sounds of sirens wailed in the distance. Alex helped Sten to his feet. ‘Ah mu’ talk to y’, lad,’ the Scotsman said, ‘aboot th’ nasty habit y’ hae a’ nearly killin’ us.’

The grounds around Hakone’s mansion looked like a military base as uniformed men loaded weaponry into gravsleds, boarded, and the sleds sidled around, like so many dogs ready for a nap, into combat formation.

The uniformed men were not ex-soldiers, since they were still carried on the roles of the Imperial military. They were deserters from the Praetorians who had been seduced or subverted into disappearing and used for long months for the conspiracy’s dirty jobs.

They were gleefully back in uniform, and in motion. After all those years Hakone should have been delighted; it was finally happening!

But, like most things in life, it was happening at the wrong time. Even though Haines and Collins had thought every link to
Zaarah Wahrid
had been cut, one alarm link had remained. When the ship exploded, Hakone knew immediately.

Kai Hakone, not unsane, prided himself on his ability to instantly scope a situation.
Zaarah Wahrid
, both the computer files and the ship itself, were gone. He was under orders from the conspiracy’s coordinator to wait until a certain signal was received from the
Normandie
before he moved. But things had changed, and he had no way to consult the coordinator, then aboard the
Normandie
.

Hakone took command responsibility and put his people into motion. After all, the Emperor’s death was a certainty, and the worst thing that might happen was that his people might have to hold in place for a limited amount of time.

Hakone forced himself into cheeriness – he’d long recognized a tendency to brood – and bounded down the steps as his own personal combat car slid up to them and grounded.

‘You know the route, Sergeant.’

‘Damn well better after all these years,’ the grizzled ex-Praetorian said. The car lifted off. The assembled gravsleds followed, tucking themselves into an assault diamond as the sleds hissed over the port of Soward.

The pilot checked his proximity screen and radar, then grunted to himself in satisfaction. He touched controls, and the crane-mounted pilot’s chair swung back and around from the banked array and deposited him at ground level. He unbuckled, and then decided his honor deserved a display. As he stood, his fingers brushed a control that turned the huge main screen to visual.

Light-years away from the pulsar was a glare, visually and on all instruments. The Tahn pilot heard a murmur of discomfort from the lords standing before him, then he blanked the screen and bowed. ‘Our coordinates are those ordered. We have the Imperial ships onscreen, and rendezvous is expected within ten ship-hours.’

Lord Kirghiz returned the pilot’s bow before he and the other leaders of the Tahn system solemnly filed out of the control room.

The pulsar – NG 467H in the star catalogs – was the third option given to the Emperor by the Tahn for the meeting. It had been the only one approved. The Emperor realized that the pulsar insured total radio silence from all parties. So unless an ambush was already set – and the Empire had more than enough confidence in the superiority of Imperial sensors to eliminate that possiblity – no surprises would await, beyond whatever the Tahn dignitaries might want.

Also the Emperor had a hole card. Imperial science being a notch ahead of the Tahn, the Emperor had a complex com-line out, all the way to the palace. The Emperor was desperately hoping that the line would be used during the summit. Not by him, but by Sten. If Sten managed to produce the main conspirator who had inadvertently caused Alain’s death, negotiations would proceed far more smoothly.

The
Normandie
and its flanking ships had picked up the incoming Tahn fleet hours before. An Imperial supersecret was responsible for that. Not only was the fuel AM
₂
solely controlled by the Emperor, but before it was sold the fuel was ‘coded.’ Only Imperial ships ran pure fuel. All others ran modified AM
₂
. Imperial scoutships could pick up and identify at many light-years’ distance the existence and rough identity of any non-Imperial ship.

On the screens, the Tahn ships pushed a violet haze behind them as they moved toward the rendezvous.

The Emperor shut down the monitor screen in his quarters, looked at Ledoh, and took several deep breaths. ‘And so now it begins.’

‘Are y’ finished, wee Sten,’ Alex inquired gently. Sten coughed and straightened from the commode. Too quickly his guts spasmed and he heaved again.

‘Advice, lad,’ Kilgour went on. ‘When y’ feel a wee furry ring comin’t up on y’, swallow fast, since it’s y’r bung.’

Sten recovered. Everything seemed stable. He rinsed his mouth at the sink then glared at Kilgour. ‘Your sympathies are gonna be remembered, Sergeant Major. On your next fitness report.’

He wobbled into the large central room of the Blue Bhor, then dropped into the nearest chair as the world swam about him again.

Across the room Haines looked at him in concern, as did Rykor, her thick, whiskered face staring over the top of her tank.

‘Bein’t brainscanned is aye no a pleasure. Ah know y’ll nae be wishin’ naught.’ Alex poured drinks for Collins, Haines, and himself and extended the jug toward Rykor, who shook her head.

‘What did we get?’ Sten managed. Less than two hours after the
Zaarah Wahrid
had blown, Sten had reluctantly put himself under Rykor’s brainscan – as, earlier, he had done for Dynsman.

‘We have a complete list,’ Rykor began, ‘of all conspirators.’

Sten groaned in relief.

‘I amend that. We have a list of all sub-conspirators.’

Haines swore. ‘The little guys. Who’s at the top?’

‘We already know that,’ Sten said. He was very, very tired. ‘Kai Hakone.’

Rykor whuffled through her whiskers. Somehow she’d gotten the idea that the salt-spray might be taken as an expression of condolence. ‘You are incorrect.’

Alex broke the silence. ‘Clottin’ Romans!’

Sten suddenly felt much better – or much worse. He fielded the decanter and poured about three shots straight down. His stomach immediately came back up on him, and Sten let his brain concentrate on not being sick for a moment.

Haines muttered and stared at her carefully drawn conspiracy chart.

‘There was a link from the ship directly to the palace, just as there was a feeler into your files, Lieutenant,’ Rykor went on. ‘Unfortunately the palace end was not an information link, as you thought. It was a command input terrninal.’

Sten started to blurt something, then caught himself. ‘Rykor, logic control.’

‘As you wish.’

Sten forced his mind to reason clearly. ‘If Rykor’s right, then our “inside man” is actually the one we’ve got to take before we can nail all these little guys.’

‘Correct.’

‘And we have zed clues at present. Therefore, we need to snatch Hakone and drain him.’

‘Error,’ Rykor said. ‘There is one possible clue. Also, since Hakone is near the top, should we not assume that any attempt on Hakone would immediately send all our conspirators to flight, leaving the dry rot still in place within the palace?’

‘Correction,’ Sten said, and then reacted. ‘Rykor what’s the clue, dammit?’

‘The computer bomb.’

‘Gades,’ Sten remembered, pronouncing it as it appeared flashing on the
Zaarah Wahrid
’s screen.

‘Try the same word with the accent on the first syllable,’ Rykor went on. Haines, Collins, and Alex were puzzling – and Sten was the only one who knew that Hakone, when he was describing the battle of Saragossa to him, had used the name.

Rykor allowed herself the pleasure of submerging while Sten reacted, but she surfaced and continued before Sten could explain. ‘Second point. The conspirators are entirely too – cute, I believe was the word you used. They insisted on giving meaningful names to their scurryings.

‘Third. Somehow, the battle of Saragossa links all these beings together.’

‘Collins,’ Sten barked. ‘The name is Gades. He was some kind of admiral at Saragossa. I want his file. Everything. Hell, is the clot alive? Is this the clown we’re looking for?’

Collins was headed for the nearest terminal.

‘Watch the references, Sergeant,’ Haines said, going after her. ‘The file might be booby-trapped.’

Since his stomach wasn’t actively coming up on him anymore, Sten felt he deserved another drink.

Alex went to Rykor’s tank and looked properly respectful. ‘Lass, since y’ no drinkit, Ah dinnae ken wha’ y’ should have as ae reward. Perhaps a wee fish?’

Rykor heaved, flippers coming out of the tank and smashing down, salt water cascading over the room. For a moment Sten thought she was in convulsions.

‘Sergeant Kilgour!’ Rykor finally managed as the waves subsided, ‘and for all these years I felt you humans lacked humor. You are a good man.’

‘Alex,’ Sten crooned as he walked over and draped an arm around his sergeant. ‘At last we’ve found someone who understands your jokes.

‘Your next assignment will be as a walrus.’

Unfortunately Sten’s hopeful easy solution was not to be.

Admiral Rob Gades was very, very dead, by his own hand, three years after being relieved by an Imperial court after the debacle at Saragossa.

Despite testimony that Gades’s order for retreat had salvaged a full third of the invading force, the Imperial Navy was in no more mood than was the Empire itself to listen to a loser’s explanations. Though the testimony was enough to keep the man from being stripped of his rank and awards and sentenced to a penal battalion, it was insufficient to keep him on active service.

He’d used his retirement money to purchase a small planetoid in a frontier system and outfit it rather luxuriously. Then he’d disappeared. The mail ship that toured the planetoids three times a year had discovered the body, six months after Gades had put his parade sword against his chest and leaned forward.

The Saragossa episode was his only black mark. He had been one of the youngest officers to reach flag rank, even allowing for the service-expansion the Mueller Wars had brought.

Son of an Imperial Navy officer … superior records in crèche … admitted to a service academy at the minimum allowable age … fourth in his graduating class … commissioned and served on tac-ships, fleet destroyers, aide to a prominent admiral, exec officer on a cruiser, commander of a destroyer flotilla, Command and General
Staff school, military liaison on three important diplomatic missions, commander of a newly commissioned battleship, and then flag rank.

‘Th’ lad hae luck, until th’ last min,’ Alex considered.

Sten nodded.

Rykor
tsk
ed. Given the otarine structure of her head it came out more like a Bronx cheer, but the proper intention was obvious.

‘You two disappoint me. Mahoney told me that you’ – Rykor was about to say Mantis soldiers, but reconsidered, unsure whether Haines and Collins knew. – ‘people don’t believe in luck.’

Sten looked at Alex.

‘We’re missing something.’

‘Aye. The wee crab-eater hae somethin’. Gie her th’ moment a’ triumph.’

Rykor savored it a minute before continuing. ‘Who recommended Gades to that exclusive military school? Who suggested to a certain admiral that Lieutenant Gades would make an excellent aide? Who boarded him for the flotilla command? Who got him those – I think you would use the phrase “fat” – diplomatic assignments? …

‘One person – and one person only.’

Sten scrolled Gades’ record and read the signatures at the bottom of those glowing recommendations and requests.

‘Oh Lord,’ he whispered softly.

The rank and even the signature changed over the years. But the name was the same. Mik Ledoh. Imperial Chamberlain and the man closest to the Emperor!

‘And now we know who is at the peak of the conspiracy, do we not?’

‘But why Ledoh? What in blazes did he have to do with Gades?’

Rykor flipped her own computer terminal open.
ORDER: COMPARE LEDOH AND GADES, ALL CATEGORIES. REPORT ALL SIMILARITIES.

And eventually the computer found it.

In the gene pattern …

Regicide sometimes springs from very small beginnings – small, at least, to those not immediately involved. Philip of Macedon died because he chose public instead of nonobjectionable private sodomy; Charles I could possibly have saved his head if he’d been more polite to a few small business people; Trotsky could have been less vitriolic in his writings; Mao III of the Pan-Asian Empire might have survived longer had he not preferred the daughters of his high-ranking officials for bedmates. And so forth.

Admiral Mik Ledoh’s attempt to kill the Eternal Emperor was
rooted in equally minuscule events. Ledoh’s first assignment in logistics was as supply officer on a remote Imperial Navy Base.

The base sat outside even what were then the Empire’s frontier worlds. Though a long way from nowhere, the base was positioned on an idyllic planet, a world of tropical islands, sun, and very easy living. Since the base’s function was merely to support patrol units, dependents were encouraged to join wives or husbands on that assignment.

Understaffed, the patrols and patrol-support missions were long. A probe ship would be out for four months or more before returning to duty. Compensation was provided by an equivalent time on leave.

There was not much for those soldiers and sailors assigned to this tropic world, beyond fueling and maintaining the probe fleet. Bored men and women can find wondrous ways of getting into trouble. Ledoh, a handsome lieutenant, found one of the classics – falling in love with the wife of a superior officer.

The woman was an odd mixture of thrill-seeker, romantic, and realist. Two months into their affair, one week before her husband returned from long patrol and subsequent transfer, she told Ledoh that she had chosen to become pregnant. While the young officer gaped, she listed her other decisions – she would have the child; she loved Ledoh and would always remember him; under no circumstances would she leave her upward-bound husband for a young supply officer.

First real love affairs are always gut-churners. But that woman managed to make the memories even worse for Ledoh. He never saw her again, but he managed to keep track of her – and his son.

The woman’s husband burnt out young, and became just another alky probe-ship cowboy. Ledoh had hopes that … but she never left the man. The best that Ledoh could do was to shepherd his son’s career. He was delighted to find that, from an early age, the boy wanted to follow in his ‘father’s’ footsteps. Ledoh made the necessary recommendations.

When Rob Gades graduated from his military academy, a very proud Mik Ledoh watched from the audience. But he was never able to approach Gades, even later in the man’s career.

Someday, he promised himself. Someday there’ll be a way I can explain.

Someday, he felt, was shortly after Gades was promoted to admiral.

But the Mueller Wars happened, and Ledoh found himself organizing and leading the Crais System landings. He succeeded brilliantly – unlike his son, who was relieved of command after Saragossa.

Ledoh protested the board’s decision, but uselessly. At that point he wanted to go to his son and tell him what would happen – that sooner or later sanity would return.

But he couldn’t find the words.

Before he did, his son died, a suicide.

Two weeks after hearing of the death, Ledoh applied for retirement, to the shock of the Imperial Navy. Since the Crais landings were one of the few bright spots of the Mueller Wars, there was an excellent possibility that Mik Ledoh was in the running for Grand Admiral.

The conspiracy might even then have been avoided if anyone had known of Ledoh’s ties to Gades. But Mik Ledoh hewed close to the old and stupid military adage: ‘Never explain, never complain.’

Men who have spent most of their lives in company do not handle the solitude of retirement well, and Ledoh was no different. Retirement only gave him the chance to brood at leisure, and brooding led him to the conclusion that the reason for his son’s death, the reason for the deterioration he had come to see in the Empire since the Mueller Wars, and the reason for his own unhappiness was the Eternal Emperor himself.

Kai Hakone’s sixth vid-tape, built around the premise that Admiral Rob Gades had been a true hero and a scapegoat, provided the spark.

The rest, from his use of the old-boy’s network to return from retirement for a position in the Imperial household to his subversion of bright Colonel Fohlee to his friendship with Hakone to the building of the conspiracy’s octopus-links made perfect sense.

Or would have, if any historian had been permitted to dig into what happened that year on Prime World.

Instead, two policemen, two soldiers, and one walrus-like psychologist sat in a room over a rural pub, staring at two displays on a computer screen: father and son.

In an age when limb transplants were as commonplace as transfusions, and a medico needed to know the proper factors to prevent rejection, gene patterns were automatically recorded for any member of the Imperial military, just as blood type had been recorded a thousand years before.

Sten finally got to his feet, blanked the screen, considered a drink, and regretfully decided against it.

‘Orders group,’ he said. ‘Haines, I want a full strike force available. Kai Hakone is to be secured immediately. Imperial warrant.

When you have him in custody, all other conspirators on Rykor’s list are to be taken and held incommunicado.

‘Sergeant Kilgour.’

‘Sir!’

‘We’re to the palace.’

And Sten and Alex were in motion, headed for the only com-link to the Emperor.