Vortex (8 page)

"Unfortunately, our beloved Emperor had appointed an ambassador whose talents—I should not think anything less than complimentary, but allow me to say that in two E-years of intense observation I thought Ambassador Nallas's primary talent was lunch."

"What about the cluster's other beings?" Sten asked.

"Merciful clouds, they manage to fit in very well with the humans. First we have the Bogazi. Have you ever seen a livie on the planet Earth?"

"I've been there."

"That is right. I forgot. Think chickens."

"What?" Sten said.

"Mean chickens."

Sten chortled, almost spraying Cind with Scotch.

"I am not even beginning to jest. Fowllike. Large. Two and a half meters tall. Bipedal. Hammer beaks. Beaks lined with teeth. Two arms—hands most capable of weapons use or strangulation. Retractable spurs. Not chicken temperament, however. Except under times of extreme duress, when panic seems to be the correct measure, and they rush back and forth and to and fro, flailing about with all these wonderful evolution-provided weapons.

"They seem to have evolved from an aquatic bird. I understand, however, that in common with chickens their drumsticks are most tasty. We were not, unfortunately, in a position where a little sedate galluspophagism could be accomplished.

"They group like feline carnivores—one male, five or six females. The grouping is called—I am not making this up, either—a coop.

"The male is smaller, weaker, and marsupial—their young are born alive, by the by. Extremely colorful. The females hunt, so they have natural camouflage—not phototropic, such as your quiet assistant, but nearly as effective. They're highly democratic—but you should hear the discussions before a decision is reached. A rookery. You will enjoy them."

Sten
was
enjoying Aretha's descriptions and company. The food came. They ate.

"Sten has given me all the fiche," Cind said, halfway through her sushi inhalation. "What about the fourth set of beings—the Suzdal?"

"You could—I could, at any rate—almost get used to them. Think of a protomammal that evolved. Originally a pack carnivore. Small. A meter and a half to two meters. Six beings to a group. Attractive beings—quite gold in color."

"Why'd you have a problem with them?"

"If I believed in racial memory, which I do not, or if my home planet has fossils of small, pack-hunting carrion eaters, which it does not, I would offer that as an explanation.

"I cannot. Perhaps their language—an incessant yapping—is what is bothersome. For certain what
is
loathsome is their violence. The Suzdal like to kill. A prime social pleasure is turning an animal loose on open terrain and hunting it down. In packs. It would almost seem that
they
have an Ur-memory.

"Whatever it is, the Suzdal fit in perfectly with everyone else in the Altaic Cluster—beings who hate each other, and have hated each other for so long they forget why. But that does not stop them from a little considered genocide whenever possible."

"Wonderful," Sten said. He worded his next question very carefully. "I have heard reports that suggest that the Imperial energy shipments are… being diverted."

"You mean someone is stealing the AM2," Aretha said. "They are. Or rather, the Khaqan is."

"Where's it going?"

"Not sure. I attempted to learn—and found my esteemed ambassadorial leader a stumbling block. Some of it, I think, is going to the Khaqan's cronies within the cluster. Some of it is being outshipped, and the profits used to build his monuments. More is just disappearing."

Aretha finished her dinner and had a final sip of mineral water. "You have no doubt been told of the Khaqan's infatuation with large, ornate structures. But until you see for yourself just how massive an edifice complex he has, you will not believe it."

"I thank you, Aretha. It would seem to me—and this must stay QT—that the most logical way to keep the lid on the Altaic Cluster is to quarantine all four races to their own sectors. At least, kept at arm's length, they can't manage a pogrom a week."

Aretha whinnied laughter. "You were not told."

"I evidently have not been told several things," Sten said.

"Many, many years ago, the Khaqan decided to settle this terrible problem. So he intermingled these beings."

"What?"

"He arbitrarily chose resettlement. A nation of Suzdal, for instance, that rose against him would be moved, once the rising was suppressed. Frequently their new home would be in the middle of Bogazi worlds."

"Oh, drakh," Sten said. He poured himself a drink—straight. He started to drain it, then offered the decanter to Cind. She shook her head.

"Even more amusing," Aretha went on, "the Khaqan formed various militias. Each of a single group of beings."

"That makes no sense," Cind said.

"Oh, but it does. If you use each group of militia only against their traditional enemies, it keeps the anger focused everywhere except on you—the Khaqan. Another advantage is that these militia forces, stationed worlds and light-years away from their native sectors, are not only potential hostages, but keep the home worlds from being able to easily mount a revolution or civil war."

There was a loud crash, what sounded like gunshots from downstairs, and then whooping laughter. Aretha looked longingly at the door to the snug.

Sten smiled. "Thank you, Colonel. I owe you one. Now, if you'd ask Delaney to bring up the bill?"

"Would you permit me to buy you a drink downstairs?"

"I don't think so," Sten said. "I've got an early morning, and the… gentleman I'm seeing might not appreciate his favorite ambassador sporting a mouse."

With a whicker of pleasure, Aretha was out the door and headed down the stairs. In a second, Sten and Cind heard an even louder crash.

"I hope this place has a back door," Cind said.

"It does," Sten said. "Have you ever heard of a spookery that didn't?"

* * *

Sten's tongue caressed down Cind's neck, following the cleavage of the dress. Cind sighed… deep in her throat… near a growl. His hand moved along the inside of her thigh.

Their rented gravsled was on autopilot, holding a westering speed of barely fifty kph, and an altitude of nearly six thousand meters, out of any traffic lanes. Sten had managed to turn on all coil-sensors before the two of them tumbled, locked together, into the wide back.

Sten's hand found her belt buckle and fumbled. Nothing happened. "I feel like a teener," he said.

"You should," Cind murmured. "You tell me all about that enormous Imperial bed—and then hurl me into a rentawreck's backseat like we were flashing pubescents. Serve you right if a cop overflew. I can see it now," she murmured into his ear. "Hero Ambassador Found With Nude Bodyguard."

"But you're not…"

His fingers suddenly became capable.

"Yes, I am," Cind said throatily, as the dress came away and the nipples of her small breasts shone dark in the moonlight.

Their lips came together, tongues moving smoothly as if this were long-rehearsed and never the first time, and then her warmth caught him and drew him down and in for the eternity.

CHAPTER SIX

T
he atmosphere in the Imperial study was autumnal. There was no alk or stregg in sight. Sten felt himself very definitely in the V-ring as he came to the end of his Altaic mission briefing and sped through the last few items. "Coding… SOI… emergency procedures… all that's here in the fiche. We're ready. The
Victory
can lift within three E-days when victuals and ordnance are boarded."

Sten put two copies of his fiche on the Emperor's desk. They were coded and marked for the highest security access. The Emperor ignored them.

"You seem," he said, "to have also done an excellent job of picking your personnel for this mission. Your longtime aide—the heavyworlder. The Bhor. Their commander. Most photogenic. And an excellent way to avoid… foreign entanglements."

Whoever had had the meeting before Sten's must
really
have crapped in the Emp's mess kit. But Sten was used to vile temper from his superiors and paid no mind. "One more thing, sir. Also regarding personnel."

"What else do you want?"

"A skipper for the
Victory
. I think you've arranged it so that I'm going to be very busy on Jochi."

"Is there somebody you want?"

"Fleet Admiral Rohber Mason. He's currently awaiting reassignment here on Prime."

At first the idea had come to Sten as almost a joke. Then, on further consideration, it seemed a better and better idea. Mason might run a tyrannical ship, but the morale of the
Victory's
crew was not especially of concern to Sten. Keeping himself alive was—and Sten knew that Mason the martinet was as capable of that as anyone. Besides, he knew that the admiral would follow orders. He was mildly curious to see whether it would bother Mason to serve under a man he disliked. Probably not—Mason almost certainly had the same feeling for all sentient beings. Sten himself had learned as a Delinq and then a soldier that one did not have to be friends with someone to task with them.

"Mmm. Very well. But you have a habit of wanting my best."

So the Emperor had heard of Sten's prospective Gurkha recruits. "Yessir. And that brings up something else. I've had twenty-seven of your Gurkhas volunteer for this mission."

"And you told them?"

"I told them that if this was in accordance with Imperial policy, they would be welcome. They seemed to feel your approval had been tacitly granted."

The Emperor swung his chair around and stared out the window at the sprawling castle grounds. He said something that Sten could not make out.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Nothing."

Silence. Then the Emperor swung around again. He was smiling. He chuckled once.

"Having a few Nepalese along," he said, "would certainly suggest to the Altaic beings that your mission is taken very seriously—and that you have access to the very highest levels, wouldn't it?"

Sten did not answer.

"Take them," the Eternal Emperor said. "It will do them good. We probably should start a program of rotating the Gurkhas into temporary outside field duties. Give them experience—and keep them from getting stale."

"Yessir."

"I think," the Emperor said, "you have done an excellent job of preparing yourself and your team for this mission. I wish you success… and luck."

He stood and held out a hand. Sten shook it, then came to attention and saluted—even though he was in mufti. Very smartly he about-faced and headed for the exit. No parting glass, he thought absently. But he was more intent on what his mind suggested the Emperor had said, when his back was turned: "So everything changes…"

The Emperor held his ceremonial smile until the doors closed behind him. Then he dropped it. He stood for a long moment looking at the door Sten had gone through before reseating himself and keying the chamberlain to allow the next catastrophe to enter.

Sten stopped at Arundel's Admin Office long enough to have them issue orders transferring Mason to the
Victory
, and to tell the Gurkhas' CO that the volunteers' request had been approved and that they should pack their kit and report aboard the next day. Then he headed for his gravsled in a truly sour mood. Hell. He should have told Lalbahadur Thapa to go sit on one of Nepal's eight-thousand-meter peaks until his pubes froze, and take his twenty-six friends with him.

And having somebody slither around and find out that he and Cind were not sleeping solo—not that they'd kept their building relationship particularly secret—he didn't like that, either.

Sten
knew
that the Emperor had survived as long as he had by keeping his Intelligence the best available. He knew that every retainer in the Imperial household had had at least some intelligence training, and most of them were ex-specialists. And he guessed it made sense to know whether your ambassador plenipotentiary was available, booked, or in area-wide lust.

But he did not like it.

As he went down the broad steps to the parade ground, he automatically touched his forehead, returning the salutes of the posted sentries. Too many goddamned nosy people in this world, he thought resentfully. He suddenly snickered. He guessed spooks never did like it when somebody looked under
their
sheets.

There was another gravsled waiting beside his, a nearly exact duplicate. That was strange… Sten's transport was a sleek, stretched, blazingly white luxury item that reeked official muckety, from its assigned driver and guard—one of Cind's Bhor—to the small ambassadorial flags mounted on each corner of the vehicle, to the phototropic bubble roof. Not uncommon on Prime. But Sten's diplo-yacht was emblazoned with the Imperial crest on a solid red slash on either side of the vehicle's doors.

The other gravsled lacked only ambassadorial markings to be a clone of Sten's. The door came open… and Ian Mahoney stepped out.

Mahoney was ex-head of Mercury Corps, ex-head of Mantis Section, the man who had plucked Sten off the factory world of Vulcan and recruited him into Imperial Service. Mahoney had gone on to command the elite First Imperial Guards Division, then to become overall commander for the final assault on the Tahn. Then, when the Emperor had been killed, Mahoney had begun the drive to destroy his assassins, the privy council.

The Empire regained, Mahoney had been given an assignment much like Sten's: to be one of the Emperor's roving troubleshooters, with ultimate authority.

The task of trying to piece the ravaged Empire back together was enormous. So Sten and Mahoney had only seen each other twice during the intervening years, and even those two occasions had been briefly seized moments.

Mahoney mock-scrutinized Sten's shoulders. "I can't make out the epaulettes," he said. "This time, do I outrank you, or do you kiss my ring?"

Sten laughed, and wondered why he suddenly felt so good. He realized there were very few people he could talk to openly, let alone consider a bit of a mentor, even though he had pulled Mahoney's butt out of a crack as many times as Ian had saved him.