The abnormalities of str.., p.7
The Court of a Thousand Suns, page 7
The walls of the room were covered with her portrait, a legacy, Sten had learned, from the man who had proceeded him. Naik Rai, Sten’s batman, had assured him that the previous CO had been an excellent Captain of the Guard. Maybe so, but he sure was a lousy painter — almost as lousy as his taste in women. At least, that’s what Sten had thought at first, when he had stared at the murals crowding his walls. After the first week living with the lady, he had ordered her image removed — blasted off, if necessary. But then she began to haunt him, and he had countermanded the order — he wasn’t sure why. And then it came to him: The man must have really loved the woman, no matter how homely.
The records proved it: The captain had been every bit as hardworking, dedicated, and professional as any being before him. Although older than Sten, he had been assured of a long and promising career. Instead, he had pulled every string possible to win a lateral transfer into a deadend job on some frontier post. And, just before he left, he had married the woman in the picture. The Emperor had given the bride away. In his gut, Sten knew what had happened. In the few months he had been there, Sten had realized that his particular post was for a bachelor, or someone who cared very little about spouse and family. There just weren’t enough hours in the day to do the job properly. And the good captain had realized that enough to throw it all away for the homely lady in the pictures.
Sten thought he had been a very wise man.
Once you got past the murals, the rest of Sten’s room dissolved into a bachelor officer’s dilemma: a jungle of items both personal and work-related. It wasn’t that Sten didn’t know where everything was; his was a carefully ordered mind that heaped things into their proper mounds. The trouble was, mounds kept sliding into one another, a bit like his current interests. His professional studies, for example, blended into a gnawing hunger for history — anyone’s history, it didn’t matter. And, along with that, the obvious technical tracts a fortieth-century military being might need, as well as Sten’s Vulcan-born tech-related curiosity. Also, since leaving Vulcan, he had become an avid reader of almost everything in general.
Two particular things in the room illustrated the personal and professional crush: filling up one corner was a many-layered map of the castle, the surrounding buildings, and the castle grounds. Each hinged section was at least two meters high, and showed a two-dimensional view of every alley and cranny and drawing room of the entire structure. Sten had traced the sectional map down in a dusty archive after his first month on the job, when he realized that the sheer size of the castle and its grounds made it impossible for him to ever see it all on foot. And without personal, detailed knowledge of every Imperial centimeter of the area, he would not be able to perform his primary function — which was to keep the Emperor safe.
Crammed a few meters away from the map was the other major feature in Sten’s current life. Sitting on a fold-up field table was a very expensive miniholoprocessor. It was the biggest expense in Sten’s life, not even counting the thousands of hours of time invested in the tiny box lying next to it.
The little box contained Sten’s hobby — Model building: not ordinary glue-gun models set into paste-metal dioramas but complete, working and living holographic displays ranging from simple ancient engines to tiny factories manned by their workers. Each was contained on a tiny card, jammed with complex computer equations.
Sten was then building a replica of a logging mill. He had imprinted, byte by byte, everything that theoretically made the mill work, including the workers, their job functions, their tools, and the spare parts. Also programmed were other details, such as the wear-factor on a belt drive, the drunken behavior of the head mechanic, etc. When the card slid into the holoprocessor it projected a full-color holographic display of the mill at work. Occasionally, if Sten didn’t have his voila moves down, a worker would stumble, or a log would jam, and the whole edifice would tumble apart into a blaze of colored dots.
Sten glanced at the model box guiltily. He hadn’t worked on it more than a few hours since he started the job. And, no, there wasn’t time now — he had to get to work.
He palmed the video display and the news menu crawled across the screen . . . terrorist dies in spaceport bar EXPLOSION.
Sten thumbed up the story and quickly scanned the details of the Covenanter tragedy. There wasn’t much to it at the moment, except for the fact that Godfrey Alain, a high-ranking Fringe World revolutionary, had died in an accident at some seedy bar near the spaceport. It was believed that a few others had also died, but their names had not yet been released. Mostly the article talked about what was not known — like what Alain was doing on Prime World, especially in a bar like the Covenanter.
Sten yawned at the story. He had little or no interest in the fate of terrorists. In fact, he had marked paid to many terrorist careers in his time. Clot Godfrey Alain, as far as he was concerned. He noticed, however, that there were as yet no official statements on Alain’s presence.
The only thing he was sure of was that the press had it wrong about the explosion being an “accident.” Terrorists do not die accidentally. Sten idly wondered if someone in Mantis Section had sent Alain on to meet his revolutionary maker.
Sten yawned again and began to scroll on just as he got the call.
The Eternal Emperor wanted him. Immediately, if not sooner.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ETERNAL EMPEROR was an entirely different person from the man Sten had drunk with. He looked many years older, the flesh on his face was sagging, and pouches had appeared beneath his eyes. His complexion was gray underneath the perfect tan. More importantly, the man Sten was observing was stern and grim, with hatred burning just beneath the surface. Sten stirred uneasily in his seat, goose-bumps on the back of his neck. Something was frightening there, and although Sten hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on, he hoped to hell it didn’t involve a transgression on his part. Sten would not have liked to be the being the Emperor was fixing his attention on at the moment.
“You’ve read this,” the Emperor said coldly, sliding a printout across his desk.
Sten glanced at the fax. It was an update on the death of Godfrey Alain. Puzzled, Sten scanned it, noting that although there were a few more details, they involved mostly color, with few hard facts. “Yes, sir,” he said after a moment.
“Are you familiar with this man’s background?”
“Not really, sir. Just that he’s a terrorist and that he’s been a thorn in our side for some time.”
The Emperor snorted. “You’ll need to know a lot more than that. But no matter. I’ve given you clearance for his files. You can go over them after we’ve talked.
“I want the people responsible,” the Emperor snapped. “And I want every single swinging Richard of them standing before me, not tomorrow or the next day, but yesterday. And I want them delivered in a nice neat package. And no loose ends. Do you understand me, Captain? No loose ends.”
Sten started to nod automatically. Then he stopped himself — no, he didn’t understand. And his survival instinct told him he’d better not pretend otherwise. “Excuse me, sir,” he finally said, “but I do not understand. Perhaps I’m missing something, but what does Godfrey Alain have to do with the captain of your guard?”
The Emperor’s face clotted with anger, and he started to rise to his feet. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and sat down again, the anger barely under control. “You’re right, Captain. I’m getting ahead of myself.”
He took another deep breath. “Fine, then. Let me explain.
“This . . . accident has put all of us in a world of hurt. And if you do believe that it was an accident, then tell me now, because I obviously have the wrong man for the job.”
Sten shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t think it was an accident.”
“Good. Now let me fill you in on the background. And I’m sure I don’t have to warn you that not one word I say is to be repeated.
“To begin with, Alain was here to see me.”
Sten was surprised. The Eternal Emperor meeting with a terrorist? That was absolutely against Imperial policy. But then Sten remembered who set Imperial policy, and kept his mouth shut.
“He had a proposal — and I’m sure it was a serious one, or I wouldn’t have hung myself out like this — to defuse our problems with the Tahn System. Simply put, he wanted to set up a buffer zone, his Fringe Worlds — under my aegis — between the Tahn and the Empire.”
“But wouldn’t that make him a traitor to his own people?”
The Eternal Emperor gave Sten a grim smile. “One man’s traitor is another man’s patriot. The way I see it is that it finally got through the thick heads of Alain and his people that they are the ones doing all the bleeding.
“Every time the Tahn act and we retaliate, they’re the ones who get it in the neck. And they are also the ones who take all the blame and get nothing in return.”
“And so he set up a secret meeting with you?” Sten said, filling in the gaps. “The Tahn found out and short-stopped him.”
“Not quite that simple. Yes, he was going to meet with me. Eventually. But first off, there was to be an initial meeting with one of my best diplomatic operatives. A man named Craigwel.”
“One of the unidentified bodies in the bar?” Sten guessed.
“Exactly. And he’s going to stay unidentified. Officially, that is.”
“Any other victims in the bar I should know about?”
There was a long hesitation. And then the emperor shook his head, firmly, no.
“Just worry about Craigwel and Alain. Now, it was supposed to work like this. After exchanging the usual password, Alain and Craigwel were supposed to request Booth C. It had already been reserved for them and secured.
“Alain was then going to lay out his plan, and if he convinced Craigwel of his sincerity, we would have gone to the next step. A personal meeting with me.”
“But then the Tahn stepped in,” Sten said.
“Maybe. But don’t be too sure of that. There are about five sides too many in this thing, each one of them with a reason to prevent any negotiations.
“Perhaps it was the Tahn. Perhaps it was someone from our camp. And who knows — perhaps it was one of Alain’s own people. Regardless. That’s what I want you to find out.”
“But why me, sir? It sounds like a job for a cop. And that I’m not. Clot, I wouldn’t even know —”
“No, Captain. This is not a job for the police. It’s much too delicate a situation. The police are investigating. And, officially, they will round up a few suspects and those people will be publicly punished.”
He leaned closer to Sten to emphasize his next point. “And those people will be scapegoats. I don’t even care how guilty they are. Just as long as we have somebody to feed the public lions. Because there is a good chance that what you find out will remain classified for the next hundred years.”
He fixed Sten with a cold stare.
“Do I make myself absolutely clear, Captain?”
“Yes, sir.” Sten came to his feet.
“If that will be all, sir.” He snapped a salute.
“Yes, Captain. That’s all. For now.”
Sten wheeled and was out the door.
CHAPTER NINE
“DRINK UP, CHEENAS,” Dynsman shouted. “It’s all on me today.”
He pounded on the table for the bartender’s attention and made motions for six more brimming schooners of narcobeer with synthalk backs. His companions hissed their approval. Dynsman watched in fascination as Usige, his best pal in the group, grabbed a liter jug, unhinged his jaws, and poured down the whole thing without a gasp or even breathing hard.
“That’s it Usige, old buddy. Drink ‘em down and make room for another.”
Of course, downing a liter of narcobeer at a gulp was not a great accomplishment for Usige or the others. Their scaled abdomens could swell to almost any proportions, and the only visible signs of inebriation the Psaurus ever displayed was to turn a slightly darker shade of purple.
“I tell you, cheenas, today begins a whole new life for yours truly. I hit it lucky for a change. And I’m gonna keep hittin’ that way. I can feel it in my bones.”
Usige’s grin framed serrated rows of needle-sharp teeth. “I don’t want to pry, Dynsman dearest,” he hissed, “but you’ve been flashing a wad of credits around that would even choke one of us.” He waved at his yellow-eyed companions. “Your obvious good fortune delights us all. But . . .”
“You wanna know if I can put you in on it,” Dynsman broke in.
“That would be lovely, old fellow. Business, as you no doubt know, has been a touch slow.”
“Sorry, pal. This was a one-time number. The kind we all dream of. I pick up the rest of my pay in a couple of hours, and then it’s party time for the rest of my life.”
Usige tried to hide his disappointment, not an easy task; the skin of a Psaurus glows when the creature is disturbed. Dynsman noticed the change and leaned over to pat his friend’s claw.
“Don’t clottin’ worry. Dynsman never forgets his cheenas. Fact, I might make a business of it, now that I’m comin’ into all these credits.
“What the clot, you boys come up with somethin’ tasty, need a little financing, you can always hit me up. Low interest rates, and maybe a small cut of the action if the deal’s really sweet.”
Usige’s color returned to normal. There was an idea that appealed to him. Rates for the criminal element in Prime World tended to be not only enormous but also more than painful if payment was delayed.
“That is certainly worth considering, friend. We can discuss it later. Now, meanwhile . . .” Usige rose to his full two-and-a-half-meter height and snaked out his foot-long orange tongue as a signal to the others to follow.
“Unlike you, we still have to pay the rent.”
“Anything nice?”
“Not really. Just a little warehouse B&E.”
Dynsman sighed his understanding and watched his friends slither out of the bar, their long tails scraping the floor after them. He checked the time: still a little more than two hours before his meeting. He had been hoping that Usige would keep him company, because he hated waiting alone. He was itching with impatience, and although he didn’t realize it yet, a tiny warning bell was still tinkling at the back of his mind.
He ordered up another drink, dumped a credit coin in the newsvid, and began scanning the sports menu. He stifled a yawn as he picked through the sparse offerings. Not much happening so soon after Empire Day — especially if you wanted to get a bet down. Bored, he flipped over to the general news section. Dynsman had less than no interest in anything involving the straight workings of Prime World. But what the clot, maybe something juicy was going on in his profession. He scanned the menu, looking for anything involving crime.
He didn’t have to scan far. The Covenanter bombing headline jumped out at him like a holovid. Clot! Clot! Clot! His target had been clotting political! Dynsman automatically gulped down his shot of synthalk and then almost equally as automatically found himself gagging on his own bile. He fought to keep it back.
Steady, man, steady. Gotta clotting think. Gotta clotting — And the first thing he realized was that he was as good as a dead man. No credits would be waiting for him when he met with his contact. Although the payment, he was certain, would be quite final.
He ran over the possibilities. Obviously, he would have to be satisfied with the roll in his pocket. Would it be enough to pay for a hideout? How long would it take before pursuers forgot about him? Dynsman groaned; he knew the answer. He had been set up just as skillfully as Godfrey Alain. There would be no forgetting.
There was only one solution, and the thought frightened him almost as much as the cold-faced man he knew would soon be tracking him. Dynsman had to get off Prime World.
CHAPTER TEN
LIEUTENANT LISA HAINES, Homicide Division, wanted to kill someone. At that particular moment, she wasn’t particular who it would be, but she wanted the method to be interesting, preferably one that involved parboiling.
And evisceration, she added, as the combat car with the Imperial color-slash on it grounded on the crosswalk.
The man who climbed out wasn’t the pompous beribboned bureaucrat she’d expected when her superiors advised that an Imperial liaison officer would be assigned to the case. The man who came toward her was young and slender, and wore only the plain brown livery of the Imperial Household. He appeared to be unarmed.
Sten, on the other hand, was nursing his own attitude. He barely noticed that the woman was about his own age and under different circumstances could have been described as attractive. Sten was flat irked. He still had no idea why the Emperor had picked him for the assignment, since he knew less than nothing about police procedures and murder investigations. He’d spent more of his career on the other side.
From his earliest days Sten had hated cops — the socio-patrolmen on his home world of Vulcan through the various types he’d encountered in Mantis to the military policemen who attempted to keep control on the Intoxication and Intercourse worlds.
“Captain, uh, Sten?”
Two could do that. “Uh, Lieutenant . . . what was your last name again?”
“Haines.”
“Haines.”
“I assume you’d like to see the report,” Lisa said, and, without waiting for an answer, shoved the plate-projector at him.
Sten tried to pretend that he knew what the various forms and scrawled entries meant, then gave up. “I’d appreciate a briefing.”
“No doubt.”
Tacunit 7-Y reported an explosion, arrived at scene at 2047, Tacunit commander reported ratcheta-ratcheta, response ratcheta ratcheta, ambulance, no suspects, description, blur.
Sten looked at where the Covenanter had been. The entire baseplate the bar had stood on was enclosed in what appeared to be an enormous airbag. On one side, next to the catwalk, was an airlock.
