by Chris Bunch
"Are you sure?"
"How could I not be?” the man retorted. “Biggest game in decades, and the privy council itself attends. But I didn't need the usual staff—it was just the six of them. Not even aides or security. So just four people worked the suite that night—me, Mart'nez and Eby behind the bar, Vance runnin’ if they'd wanted anything from the kitchen. They weren't eating that night. Not even the Kraas. Excuse me, but that last thing I said—it won't be in the record, will it?"
Haines reassured him. The man said he would be happy to call that murderer a liar in court. Haines said she doubted that would be necessary—there was already enough evidence. She was merely checking any loose ends.
Then she asked, quite casually, “Must have been quite a thrill, being around that much power."
"I didn't think it would be,” the maitre d’ said. “After all, Lovett's had some parties with important people before. Not one tenth as many as his father, but a few. Even less, now that he's so busy ruling everything. No more'n one or two since—since the Emperor was killed.
"As I said, I thought I was over being impressed. Not true. I wish I weren't so honest, though."
"Why?"
"Oh, if I didn't object to stretchers, I wager I could come up with some snappers about what happened that night, and how maybe one of them asked my advice, or anyway thought I ran the smoothest operation ever.
"But I do—and it didn't. Guess they had something important to talk about. Didn't watch the game much, I saw. And any time any of them wanted a drink, they went over to the serving station themselves.
"At least I got to watch the game on a back-room screen, which surprised me. Usually, big events like this, when Sr. Lovett shows up, I'm so busy running back and forth I have to get it from the vid the next day."
Haines smiled and walked the man out of her office, then went down a few floors to where the poor, harried Sr. Braun had managed to borrow a tiny office, where he was buried in archives, on another empty attempt to prove that Rosemont was no longer among the living.
Sten mused over the information for a moment. “Business. Bloody business. No aides, keep the help in the kitchen. That was the meeting I want."
"Documentation, Sten. No witnesses."
"I'm not sure that's correct. Emphasis—business meeting. They leave ... and probably take their security with them. No cleanup—no ELRJT cleanup. And the suite's not been used much since then.
"Lisa, friend of mine youth. Do you have four beefy men who'll do you a favor—no violence, only minor law-breaking—and never ever talk about it? It's got to be clean—I don't want any backblast on you. If there's a problem, I'll find my own heavy movers."
Haines smiled. “You aren't a cop who gets promoted if you don't have mentors. Rabbis, we call them. Hell if I know why. And when you get rank, you become a rabbi. I could probably get you half a precinct."
"Good. Four men. I'll get some coveralls made up. Lovett Arena needs help. And good, reliable old APEX Company is coming to the rescue. I'll need a medium gravlighter. Also clean."
"Again, easy. I'll get something from the impound yard."
Sten pulled down and consulted a map. “Okay,” he said. “Here's the drill. Two days from now, eight hundred hours, I'll want them—here, at the corner of Imperial and Seventh Avenue. I'll drop them off when we're loaded."
"Two days? Why not now?"
"Because a very dejected Sr. Braun has finished with his investigation and now feels that the Imperial Police were correct. He is returning to his home world to report failure.
"I had two extraction routes. One was if I came out clean, the other if the drakh came down. I'll use the second, since I'll have a bit of a cargo."
"I think I know what you're going after. Why can't the analysis be done here? My techs don't ask questions."
"Lisa, remember what kind of murder we're talking about? Don't trust your people too much. I can't—and won't. And like I said, I'm not willing to leave you holding the bag. Anyway, I'm gone. I've got to look up an old friend."
He gathered his papers quickly.
"Thank you, Lisa."
"Sure. Although I didn't do very much."
"No. You did ... a great deal. Next time around ... I'll buy you and Sam'l, it was, your anniversary dinner."
He kissed her briefly, still wanting more, and was gone.
His schedule would be tight: make sure Braun appeared to board the next liner off Prime, contact the liaison with Wild's smugglers, and get a ship down for its cargo. Assuming the cargo would be there.
* * * *
The manager of Lovett Arena was quite impressed with the polite technician and his crew, especially since there had been—as best he knew—no complaints about the business machines provided in Sr. Lovett's suite.
"I would hope not,” the technician said. “This is strictly routine. Our records show APEX installed the equipment more than five years ago. In a room where people spill drinks, possibly smoke tabac, and food is present? How would we look—what would be left of our reputation—if Sr. Lovett himself tried to use one of our computers and it crashed on him? We are proud of what we represent."
The manager was amazed—pleasantly so. A service company actually servicing, without ten or twelve outraged screams and threats of legal action? Especially since he himself had been unable to find the original contract with APEX.
They stripped the suite bare of anything that went beep or buzz. Sten almost missed the conference table, then realized that it contained a simple computer/viewer suitable for reading, reviewing, or revising documents. But that, and everything else, went onto gravlifts, down into the bowels of Lovett Arena, onto the gravlighter, and then vanished.
It was more than a month before the arena's manager realized that he had been victimized by an exceptionally clever gang of high-tech thieves.
* * * *
The machines were carefully loaded onto one of Wild's ships, sealed against any stray electromagnetic impulse, and transported to Newton.
Technicians went to work. Sten and Alex hovered in the background. They may have been somewhat sophisticated technologically, Kilgour especially, but this was far beyond their level of expertise.
It was almost impossible to erase anything from a computer. If a file were deleted, its backup would still exist. If the backup were deleted, the “imprint” would still be there, at least until something was recorded over it. Even then, restoration could sometimes succeed.
The computers were first. From them came an astonishing, confused burble of various contracts indicating that Lovett and his friends were hardly straight-arrow businessmen. That information was recorded for possible later release to civil courts, after and if the council was toppled. There were no computer phone records.
But that table was it.
Around it, years before, Sullamora had laid down the law to the other conspirators. At that time, he was the only one who had hung himself out to dry—contracting for the murder of the press lord, contracting for Venloe's services. He put it flatly—all of them were to sign a “confession.” It was a card made of indestructible plas. On it was a formal admission of guilt, a preamble to assassination. Kyes had been the first to insert the card into the table's viewer and sign, and the others followed. Each member of the conspiracy received one card, signed by all members.
And a technician found it.
The retrieval was spotty, broken by intermittent images of a smiling older couple—someone's parents, possibly, interminably walking past some nondescript scenery. A homevid?
But it was still there:
* * * *
WE, THE ... PRIVY COUNCIL, AFTER DUE CONSIDER ... COME TO THE ... CONCLUSION ... ETERNAL EMPEROR ... INCREASINGLY AND DANGEROUSLY UNSTABLE ... DETERMINED TO ... FOLLOWING ... TRADITION ... STANDING ... AGAINST TYRANTS ... HISTORICAL RIGHT ... REMOVAL ... AND HEREBY AUTHORIZE ... MOST EXTREME MEASURES ... DESTRUCTION ... TYRANNICIDE ... TO ENSURE FREEDOM...
* * * *
The
document may have been broken, but it was quite obvious. And absolutely untouched at the bottom were the personal marks, the “signatures": Kyes. The Kraas. Tanz Sullamora. Lovett. Malperin.
"I'll probably be able to restore more, sir. There's still some ghosts I haven't ID'd and pulled off the hardware."
Sten was quite happy.
It may have been missing some nonvital screws and springs, but Mahoney—and the Tribunal—had the smoking gun.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
STEN WANTED A little R&R. Badly. He knew he had reason enough to feel brain-, body-and nerve-damaged, but guilt kept whispering in his ear. He ought to be sitting in the back of the courtroom, listening to the careful work of the Tribunal as it moved toward its conclusion.
This was a moment in history. What would he tell his grandchildren? “Yeah, I was around. But was off gettin’ drunk and tryin’ to get laid, so I can't tell you a whole lot."
Kilgour seized the logical high ground. “Clot th’ gran-babes y’ nae hae, an’ likely ne'er sire. Gie y'self off. Thae'll be bloody work't'come. Gore aye up't’ our stockin’ tops."
Mahoney backed him, telling Sten that he did not think there was any likelihood that the Tribunal would want any evidence submitted of the blown murder run on Earth. “Still, Admiral. I'd prefer you were out of town if they start callin’ witnesses. Get going. Enjoy yourself. I'll send if I need you.
"Which will be soon. Not surprisingly, the privy council is planning a response. With moils and toils, they've put together a fleet of their bullyboys. Most loyal, most dedicated, and all that drakh. Translation—those who got their fingers the dirtiest proving their loyalty during the purge.
"When they arrive, we should have a proper welcome. Otho's shaking out a strike element from his ships. He thinks nothing could be finer than to put you on the bridge.” Mahoney laughed. “See how fascinatin’ a career in the military is? One day a police spy, the next an admiral again."
Sten kept to himself his feelings about the military in any configuration, retired to his quarters, and thought about his vacation. Go to some tourist town and troll for company? No, he thought not. Not that he was suffering the pangs of lost love—at least he didn't think so. But no, it didn't feel right.
Cities? Not that, either. He had heard the yammer of the ugly throngs on Prime, and right now any city reminded him of that.
Stop brooding. Hit the fiche. You'll find something that jumps out at you.
He did.
Rock climbing—the hard way.
It was possible to climb anything using artificial aids-climbing thread, piton guns, chocks, jumars. So, of course, the “pure” climbers revolted and climbed with no aids whatsoever.
Sten thought that could be mildly suicidal. He was not that depressed. But there was a bit of appealing madness there.
He picked a climb—a vertical needle deep in one of Newton's wilderness areas—and equipped himself with a minor climbing outfit that included enough artificial aids to be able to belay himself as he climbed. He bought a tent and supplies and cursed when he realized he would have to carry a com and a miniwillygun. Most Wanted, remember, boy.
He found Alex and told him he was off. Kilgour, far, far too busy minding security on the Tribunal, barely had time for a farewell grunt and an arm around the shoulders.
Sten found his rented gravcar—and something else. He had forgotten that the word “solitary” was banned, at least until the present emergency was over and the council safely in their graves or prison cells. Waiting was his seven-Bhor-strong bodyguard and Cind, equipped similarly to Sten. He thought of protesting, but realized he would lose. If not to them then to Kilgour or Mahoney. It was not worth the battle.
But he issued strict orders.
They were to pitch camp separately from his, at least a quarter klick away. He didn't want their company—sorry to be rude—and he certainly did not want them on the rock with him.
"I don't think the council's assassins—if they have any tailing me, which I don't believe—will go boulder-swarming to make the touch."
The Bhor agreed. Cind just nodded.
"Easy order to follow, Admiral,” one Bhor rumbled. “The only record my race has of climbing is when we were chased by streggan."
So Sten's R&R began on a somewhat less than idyllic note. That slightly off-key note continued to sound. The pinnacle was everything it had looked on the vid, punching straight up for almost a thousand meters through the low clouds. It was at the end of a small, rising alpine meadow with its own spring and bone-breakingly cold pond. The meadow was surrounded by the pinnacle's sky-touching big brothers. No one lived in the meadow, except for some small tree-dwelling marsupials, some long-wild bovines, and, Sten thought, a small night-loving predator he never saw.
He pitched his tent, and his bodyguard followed orders, pitching their camp one quarter kilometer, to the exact pace, away, semihidden behind brush on the other side of the pond.
Sten cooked, ate, and went to bed just after dusk. He slept dreamlessly, then rose, collected his climbing pack, and headed for the rock.
For a few hours he lost himself in the rhythm of the climb, the feel of the rock under his palms, and the attention to balance. He wedged a nut into a crack, tied himself off, and dug into his day pack for a snack. He looked up. Not bad. He was almost 250 meters up. Maybe he could spot a bivvy site farther up, do a one-man siege later on, and actually get to the summit before his vacation ended. He had already spotted at least six other fascinating routes he wanted to try.
Then he looked down.
Eight faces looked up at him. His bodyguards were sitting in a semicircle near the base of the pillar, doing their job. Hell. Climbing was not a spectator sport.
He thought of throwing a piton or shouting something. Come on, Sten, he told himself. Aren't you being a little childish? However, he found himself climbing down a couple of hours before he had planned, and the descent was not nearly as mind-absorbing as going up had been.
The next day, he tried another route, this one chosen not just for its interest, but because he did not think there was an observation point for his damnably faithful bodyguards.
They found one anyway. He forced himself to ignore them and climbed on. But his concentration, his ability to lose himself, was ... not shattered. He still reveled in what he was doing. But he was ... aware of other things.
That night, after he had cooked a rather unimaginative, underspiced curry and eaten solo, he found himself sleepless. Across the pond, he could see the low flicker from the Bhor's campsite. They must have found some dry wood and built a tiny fire. He could almost, but not quite, hear voices. Almost, but not quite, hear the crystal chime of a laugh.
Sten swore to himself again. He hunted through his expedition pack and found a bottle. Then he put his boots back on and found his way around the pond to the firelight. There were only four bodyguards around the fire. He tapped the bottle against a tree and stepped forward. Cind and a Bhor came out of the blackness and lowered their weapons.
"What's wrong?” she snapped, eyes sweeping the night.
"Uh ... nothing. I ... just had trouble getting to sleep. I thought ... if I wasn't intruding..."
They welcomed him to their campfire and politely sipped from the bottle of Imperially synthesized “Scotch” Sten had brought along until they could find an excuse to dig out their own supply. Stregg. The Eternal Emperor had once said that stregg was to triple-run moonshine—whatever that meant—as moonshine was to mother's milk.
Regardless, Sten and his bodyguard got royally potted. The quiet alpine meadow was broken by occasional shouts of “by my father's frozen buttocks” and other Bhor toasts. The evening was culminated when three Bhor threw Sten into the pond.
A very juvenile evening, Sten thought confusedly when he woke the next day. Then he hurt too badly to assess the adultness of his situation. He was still in the Bhor camp. His head was pillowed on one Bhor's calf, and
another Bhor was using his stomach for a pillow. Sten realized that he was being attacked by lethal air molecules, smashing into his body everywhere.
Cind and a Bhor walked—lopsidedly—into the camp.
"Wake up, you scrotes,” she snarled. “It's your shift. Oh, Christ, I hurt."
"Hurt quietly then,” Sten whimpered. He found the bottle of Scotch that was still unfinished and chanced a swallow. No. No. His stomach tried to climb the distant pillar. He got to his feet. His soles hurt. “I am going to die."
"Do it quietly, then. Sir. Admiral.” Turnabout was fair and all that.
By rights, Sten should have proven his ability at command and taken everyone for a five-klick run or something equally Admirally-Heroic. He managed to strip off his coveralls and—clot decency—wade into the pond until the freeze told him that the molecules were not attacking. Then he pulled his coveralls back on and decided to eat something.
There was no climbing done that day.
But from that point, the R&R became something very different from Sten's original plans.
One of the Bhor asked about climbing. Sten showed him some of the tricks on a nearby boulder. Cind had already taken a basic climbing course, although the course had specialized in going up the sides of buildings.
And so it went. Climb during the day. Twice he just went for hill-scrambling around the mountain bases nearby. At night, they ate communally. Sten moved his tent into the Bhor campsite.
He spent a lot of time with Cind.
She was easy to talk to. Sten supposed this was some kind of breach of discipline. What discipline? he asked himself. You aren't even an admiral any more—technically. Even if you are, do you want to be? He managed to get Cind to stop calling him by his rank, and even to drop most of the “sir's” with which she salted her speech.
He told her about the factory hellworld he had grown on. He mentioned—briefly—his family. He told her about Alex Kilgour, and the many, many years they had adventured together.
