by Chris Bunch
"Th’ Guard'll nae honor that."
"The Guard's changed. Some of them won't. But some of them will. And how many systems think the universe'd be better without us stealin’ their chickens, gold, and daughters? Too clottin’ many.
"We are not going to wait this time. We are not going to try to turn invisible or hide.
"Your Tribunal's a damn slender reed, Sten. But it's the only one we can see in this clottin’ swamp that's risin’ up on us.
"So there'll be feasts an’ speeches an’ debates an’ prob'ly a clottin’ knifin’ or two. Don't mean drakh. You'll end with us swearin’ eternal fealty. Or anyway until the privy council's dead meat or you happen to leave the barn unguarded.
"Enough of that.” Ida forced herself into cheerfulness. “So I'm takin’ this clottin’ tub on a recruitin’ drive, eh? You housebroke yet?"
"Nae, lass. Tis nae healthy. Drink i’ one end, piddle oot th’ stern. Keeps th’ system on-line."
"You'll fit right in,” she said. “Fill the glasses, Admiral. Damn, but I like that! Clottin’ gadje Admiral for a barkeep!"
Sten poured. “Don't mind bartending at all, Ida. By the way, two sets of thanks. First for taking care of our money ... now this."
Ida and Alex drained their glasses. Sten just sipped at his. Ida frowned. “I can't stay long,” he explained. “I've got my own little trip to take."
"And where, Admiral, does it say in the clottin’ regs you can't travel with a crawlin’ hangover?"
Sten considered. No, it didn't. And so, yes, he did.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
STEN LANDED ON Prime World with two covers: a livid scar and an Impossible Quest. The scar was a benign parasite, surgically transplanted onto his face. Nearly two centimeters wide, zigzagging artistically from his scalp line to the corner of his eye and down to his chin, it was part of the “Great Lorenzo” dicta: The best disguise is the simplest, and one that won't blow off in a strong wind. Anyone looking at Sten would see only the horrible scar, no matter how carefully he instructed his mind to be polite. Sten had used versions of the gimmick before, from a alk-ridden nose to partial baldness to a simple, completely shaven head. It worked—almost all the time, at least.
Sten's main concern was that when he extracted from Prime, the parasite might have decided it had found a home everlasting. Kilgour reassured him.
"Dinna fash, lad. I’ thae happens, we'll score y’ a wee eyepatch an’ y’ kin join th’ pirates."
The Impossible Quest was equally simple. Truth: At the close of the Tahn wars one David Rosemont had appeared on Prime. A flashy, loud-talking, loud-living entrepreneur, he announced his newest business-converting Imperial spacecraft, particularly the tiny, evil tacships, into luxury yachts. Regardless of the inherent absurdity of the premise, Rosemont prospered. For a minute and a half.
Prime's Fraud Squad had taken an interest in Rosemont—his company, yet to produce a single yacht that anyone could find, looked very much like a con game. And then Rosemont vanished, leaving bare bank accounts and a warehouse with three tacships inside. All of that was true.
The harried but friendly—and badly scarred—man appeared on Prime.
False: His name was Elijah Braun. Sten/Braun was credentialed as a private investigator, working for a law firm located on a faraway world between Lost and Nowhere. Rosemont had an heir, who wanted whatever estate existed. Braun knew that the man had not been declared legally dead yet, but the heir was convinced that Rosemont was a victim of foul play, rather than a con who had skated with the swag. Braun was convinced that the heir, already rich, was drug-addled. But a case was a case. Besides, he prattled to the official issuing him his sixty-day visa, it would give him a chance to see Prime, the center of everything and the universe's Most Glamorous World.
"You've seen too many livies, Sr. Braun. Or else you're a history buff. Prime ain't what it was, and it's getting less like it every day."
The official glanced hastily over his shoulder to make sure that his innocent statement had gone unheard. But Sten filed that glance. Unsurprisingly, the privy council's internal security was in full.
Sten noted them everywhere: street cleaners who ignored litter but noted passersby; inept waiters with big ears; clerks who never clerked but listened; block wardens; concierges who asked questions far beyond what was normal. All precautions by the privy council against a largely nonexistent threat. And they were expensive precautions—the council was spending money for all those informers, money it simply did not have.
Sten marveled once again at the odd tendency all too many beings had to want to spy on their neighbor for any reason whatsoever.
None of them thought beyond the moment of what would surely happen when—not if—the privy council fell. Sten remembered the riots on Heath near the end of the Tahn wars. Not only had the mob ripped anyone in uniform apart, but they had revenged themselves on the Tahn's amateur Gestapo in the process.
Not that Sten felt sorry for them. He just wanted his cover to stay intact long enough for him to get in, find what he was looking for, and go home.
He did, however, take a precaution. The current powers did not know everything. Mahoney had told him of a few, very secure, disused safe houses on Prime that might still exist. One at least did. Sten armed himself with a secondary set of false documents that were stashed there.
He then proceeded in his role as Braun. He found an inexpensive hotel, found the landlord of that warehouse, and taped the three hulks inside. He interviewed investors and acquaintances of the vanished Rosemont. He went to the Fraud Squad. They gave him access to their files, and a Visitor's ID.
Braun, over a period of days, professed first bewilderment and then suspicion. He was starting to believe that the heir might be right. Rosemont had not vanished. Something had happened to the man. He did have some less-than-palatable acquaintances on the back-alley side of town. Murder, maybe. Suicide? Rosemont, Braun said, had appeared very depressed before he vanished, then turned suddenly cheerful. “He found his back door,” suggested a bunco expert, but he gave Braun the names of some friends in Homicide.
Then, timidly, he asked permission to speak to the chief of Homicide. “Y're crackers, an’ you're wastin’ your—an’ her—time. But she's got a policy. Talks to anybody, no matter how loony."
Braun said he was aware that Chief Haines was very busy, especially in these troubled times. So he had prepared a summary of his investigation, complete with a list of questions he would like to ask. He clipped a copy of his Visitor's ID to the fiche, and it went forward.
Sten felt like drakh. He was preparing to use—and possibly jeopardize—a friend and former lover.
He had often wondered about their affair. In one way, it had been the only “normal” relationship Sten had experienced. But in another, they had been lovers by circumstance, co-investigating a conspiracy. And their affair had never really ended—Sten had gone off to fight a war, been captured, escaped, and returned to combat. Haines had been drafted into Military Intelligence, and somehow they had never reconnected. He had thought, sometimes, before the privy council made him outlaw, of dropping a line to her, just to see ... see what, Sten? If there's still a there there?
Probably, he thought, Kilgour was right. Both of them were getting “morally corrupted"—and getting too moral to soldier successfully in the dirty midnight wars they had grown up in.
Don't get too moral, he prodded himself. Honest spies get trusting and dead. Join the Purity League when this is over if you wish.
He had sent the fiche in to Haines hoping to avoid heart attack city. He hoped she would figure out his intent.
It took two days before he was summoned to her office. The temperature could have frozen a nova.
"Sr. Braun,” Haines said. “I've gone through your fiche, and your questions. Reviewed our own files. Everything my department has suggests you are on a dead end."
"I might well be,” Sten said. “
May I record?"
Without waiting for an answer, he put a battered taper—at least its exterior was battered—on her desk and turned it on. Then motioned to her to keep talking.
Haines frowned but continued telling Braun why thinking Rosemont's disappearance was anything other than what it appeared was a blind alley.
Sten had enough. He touched another button on the taper. “Your bug is suppressed. It's getting fed synthesized chatter."
Haines came around the desk, almost into an embrace, then stopped herself. “I'm married now,” she said very softly. “Happily.” That was softer still.
Another world of might-have-been vanished. “I'm ... glad for you,” Sten said.
Haines managed a smile. “I'm sorry. I must say I've thought about ... things. As they were. And ... sorry. At least I can try to lie as well as you do, and let's say that I think of our time together as a lovely moment in the past. Emphasis past."
"Yeah. That's best. I guess, anyway. But who wrote that dialogue? Sounds like a livie."
"Best I could manage. Right off the top. Now,” Haines said, trying to be businesslike. “I'd like to be flattered and think you're here to—more livie dialogue—relight the flame. In spite of your being one of the Ten Most Wanted in the Empire. But I think I know better. Dammit."
She turned away for a moment. “That scar?” she asked without turning back.
"Makeup."
"Thank God.” She turned back. “Now I'll get angry. I'm getting used."
"Yes."
"First I wondered if I was getting set up. Then I changed my mind."
"Thanks for that much, anyway. But I need help. You were the best contact."
"Sure. Good old Haines. We were pretty good in the sack, so let's see if she'll roll again, just for old times’ sake? Let me ask you ... If I wasn't involved, and you were, would you have gone so far as to pull moonlight on the mattress?"
"I know you're pissed, Lisa. But that's a little—” He broke off, letting it go.
Haines took several deep breaths. “Oh, hell. You're right. But I'm not going to make a career of apology."
And she was in his arms. For a long moment.
"It was pretty good, wasn't it?” she asked.
Sten said yes and kissed her again. Finally, she broke away.
"But I wasn't lying. Sam'l is a wonderful man. Probably, to be honest, a little bit more the kind of person I should be with. Not some rogue with a dagger in his arm and murder in his heart. So ... let's try it as friends. Never tried to be friends with somebody I was in—involved with before. So maybe I can learn something."
Part of Sten wanted to cry. “Sure, Lisa. Friends."
Haines started acting like a cop again. “First, how clean are you?"
"Clean. For at least a few more weeks."
"I gathered,” Haines said, tapping the fiche, “that you're running a mission. Your ex-boss have anything to do with it? I thought so. Against the council?"
Sten nodded once more.
"One question—and you'd best not be lying to me. Last time around, after we policed up everyone involved with the late Kai Hakone, there were some bodies in alleys. By Imperial Order. What I'd done is collaborate in a murder conspiracy. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it any better now.
"So if there's what I've heard you call ‘wet work,’ or ‘personal contact’ at the end of this ... don't even ask me."
"No. This is for the Tribunal."
Haines goggled. “Son of a bitch,” she said slowly. Of course, in spite of the privy council's blackout, she had heard the Tribunal's announcement of its intent to sit in judgment on the council. “I'm thinking. Yeah. The whole thing—your idea?"
"It was."
"Son of a bitch once more,” she said. “I said I wouldn't apologize. But I do. For the last time."
She grinned. “You know ... maybe in another hundred, hundred and fifty years, if you spend some time in a seminary, you might actually be permitted to join the human race.
"Okay. What do you need?"
* * * *
Another misunderstanding had been corrected by Alex Kilgour before he left on his recruiting drive. Oddly enough it had minor echoes of what Sten was realizing and saying to Lisa Haines.
Kilgour had informed Sten's bodyguard that for the moment they were no longer needed on their special assignment. They were reassigned to general court security.
Cind had requested an interview with her temporary commanding officer. The first question she had asked Alex was why the change? Had they done something wrong?
"First strike, on y', soldier. Security is security. Y dinnae need't'know. Sten's got bi'ness ae his own."
"Request reassignment, sir."
"Ae what? Pers'nal backup f'r him?"
"Something like that."
Kilgour growled. “Th’ firs’ an’ only time Ah got in-volv'd wi’ a task, m’ Mantis topkick took m’ back ae th’ barracks. She wailed upon m’ melon an’ informed me Ah'd best learn't'be a professional ae m’ task or go back't’ sheep-shaggin'.
"She wae right.
"An’ should do th’ same't’ you.
"But Ah'm sophisticated, noo. I c'd gie th’ order—'So'jer, soldier!'—'n hae done wi’ it.
"But Ah'll gie reasons. So gie your head oot ae y'r gonads or where e'er it's lurkin't, an’ listen close.
"One, y'r bosses know whae they're doin't. Second, y're complete wrong f'r whae th’ boss is doin't. An’ dinnae yammer ae me aboot th’ longarm an’ how y'been studyin't intell'gence. Ah knoo all ae thae already.
"You're wrong f'r th’ run because y're too ... strik-in'. You dinnae e'er, e'er, e'er want to be notable i’ y'r task is snoopin't ae poopin't. An’ y're a so'jer. So'jerin’ is a diff'rent discipline thae spookin't.
"But thae's as may be. Last—an’ best—reason, y're too clottin’ young. Y'believe in things. Y'dinnae ken th’ depths ae depravity i’ th’ spirit. Unless y’ grew up bein’ nattered ae by Calvinists, ae Ah did. A spook must hae one thing runnin’ throo his mind ae all times: Trust nae soul, an’ always, always think th’ worst ae most selfish ae any an’ all.
"A hard an’ evil lesson. One y','t'be honest, w'd be best not learnin't.
"Gie y'self back't’ th’ duties assigned, noo. Ah'll wager thae'll be more'n enow blood't’ come. Y'll hae chances't’ distinguish y'self ae th’ eyes ae y'r superiors or e'en the boss, i’ thae's your fancy.
"Dismissed."
Kilgour sighed when she had left. Christ on a pogo stick, he thought. He was starting to sound like a fatherly command sergeant major. Gettin’ old, Kilgour. Gettin’ old...
* * * *
At first Sten thought going to Prime was nothing more than an ego-damaging, high-hazard bust. He was looking for three things: any more information on the murder-for-hire of the press lord Volmer than Haines had been able to give Mahoney; a paper trail for that first—question mark—meeting of the conspirators on Earth; and whether or not there had been another meeting before Chapelle was put in motion. Plus, as a secondary goal, whether there was anything more on the Chapelle/Control/Sullamora link than was known, in spite of Mahoney's proclamation that it was relatively unimportant.
Thus far, he had done a very good job of getting zeroes. No, Haines had nothing more on Volmer or the “suicide” of the assassin. She frankly admitted that she had not worked the case any further—it was clearly political. These days people had been known to vanish when they started asking uncomfortable questions about politics. She added, however, that she did not think there was anything to collect, at least not until the privy council was deposed and, it was to be hoped, indicted.
Zero One.
As for anything about that meeting on Earth, Sten found a complete vacuum. As far as he could tell, there had been no contact between members of the council before they somehow, telepathically, sensed it was time to gather at Sullamora's lodge. At least that was all that was in the open archives and what governmental archives Haines had been ab
le to gingerly pry at. Kilgour had been right—the privy council had been smart enough to destroy or classify whatever memoranda had passed between them but not smart enough to make substitutes. Interesting. Ordinarily that would have been enough for Sten, as an intelligence professional, to take action on. But as an officer of the law, he was trying hard to stay somewhere close to its limits and requirements.
Zero Two.
As for his side quest—he found a mansion that had been rented shortly before Chapelle vanished by a retired colonel general named Suvorov. From some kind of Pioneer Division or Battalion or whatever they called those military things, the estate agent told him. Suvorov was right—the estate agent remembered his dress and credit rating clearly. Solidly built, he thought. Oh yes. A scar on his neck. Don't remember which side. Might I inquire why you're asking, Sr. Braun? Proof that the father my client is looking for is not this man. Thank you for your time.
Big clottin’ deal. A smooth operator who used the haunts of the rich to launch his operation. They knew that already. Name—false. Build? Who knew? The scar? Probably as phony as the one Sten was wearing.
Slightly More Than Zero Three. But not much.
The second meeting? He could find no trace of any final parley among the privy council before the assassination other than in their official chambers. He did not think they were dumb enough to plan the death of the Emperor in what they must think to be certainly bugged offices. And were they so skilled that they could set up a conspiracy that ran of itself? Nobody, including Sten, was that good. But where was the evidence?
Zero Four. So far.
Sten wanted Haines to be single, the sky-floating houseboat over the forest to still be there, two bottles of champagne, and the vid disconnected. Oh, yeah. A little general peace without paranoia or goons would go nicely.
He contented himself with one solitary short beer and an equally solitary brood.
He glimmered an idea. But it would, he thought, be in plain view. If the privy council were as paranoid as he thought them to be, he could be strolling into a trap. One set not specifically for Sten, but for anyone with the curiosity of a not particularly bright cat.
