The Crown Jewels

by Walter Jon Williams

  He hung up and felt a rare sensation of surprise and anticipation. Nichole had always been one of his favorites. Though his vanity was not such as to think he would make an instant conquest, still he was pleased that out of all the men Nichole had met on Peleng, she had chosen to spend her few free hours with him. And the element of intrigue added, frankly, a touch of the bizarre. At the very least this was going to make an interesting story back home.

  He decided to ask his vid to check its memory for the broadcasts it had received about Nichole’s visit to Peleng. Maybe he’d be able to remember some of the best lines and compliment her on them.

  *

  Someone was home. The cold-field around the Scholder/ Navarre place was down and this allowed Khotvinn to sneak right up to the windows without setting off alarms. A copper-skinned human stood in his atrium, trying on a series of shirts and jackets with the help of a robot, preening himself in the mirror while keeping one eye on the vid, which featured a blond woman talking about methane life-forms. Khotvinn couldn’t be certain, but he thought the human was alone. No Jensen. Well— he’d get the information somehow,

  Khotvinn opened a door— it wasn’t locked— and slipped into the house. He padded down the short hallway that led to the atrium. “Unfortunately,” the blond woman was saying, “few people speak methanite.”

  Khotvinn flicked on his Ronnie Romper hologram, drew his sword, then charged into the room, roaring. A single sweep of the sword sliced the robot in half. Lieutenant Navarre turned, only to be picked up by the neck and slammed against the wall.

  “Where’s Amalia Jensen?” Khotvinn roared. Navarre’s eyes popped. He gave no answer. Khotvinn drove him into the wall again. “Where’s Amalia Jensen?” There was only silence, except from the vid, which was going on about admirable communications at near absolute-zero temperatures. Navarre was turning purple. Khotvinn smashed him into the vid, which went silent.

  “Where?” Slam. “Where?” Slam. “Where?” Slam. Lieutenant Navarre, who was giving no answer for the very good reason that Khotvinn was strangling him, made a gurgling noise and passed out. Khotvinn growled his annoyance, held the dangling lieutenant for a moment, then dropped him. Lieutenant Navarre crumpled to the floor.

  Not one to waste an opportunity, Khotvinn began ransacking the room. There had to be a clue in here somewhere.

  *

  Captain Tartaglia had taken charge so fast that Amalia Jensen had no clear recollection of how it had all come about. It seemed that an instant after Tartaglia had called her, she and Pietro were here, outside Maijstral’s country cottage, with seven armed men that Tartaglia had brought with him from Pompey.

  “This is Wade. In position.”

  Tartaglia smiled. “Acknowledge your transmission.”

  Amalia Jensen looked at him. “What about alarms, sir?”

  “Fast in, fast out. That’s the trick.”

  “What if the object isn’t there?”

  “Maijstral or his crew will be. Once we get them, we can make ’em talk.” He shaded his small eyes. “Got plenty of experience at that. You don’t maintain an empire without learning how to be persuasive.”

  Amalia was startled. “I thought,” she said, “that we weren’t the Empire.”

  Tartaglia was abrupt. “Call it what you will. Point is, we’ve got a lot of alien races that have to be kept in line. Otherwise we won’t stay on top very long. Let ’em know who’s boss, that’s the ticket. Once they know that, we won’t have any trouble.”

  Amalia glanced at Pietro and saw a queasy look on his face, which mirrored the sensation in her own heart. Maijstral had not used her well, but she wasn’t altogether certain that he deserved what Tartaglia seemed ready to do to him.

  “This is Royo. In position.”

  “Right. That’s the last. Prepare to move.”

  Tartaglia turned to Amalia and Pietro. “Just stay out of the line of fire and you’ll be all right. Leave everything up to us.”

  She nodded, secretly thankful. “Fine, sir.”

  “You’ve done your job just bringing us here. I’ll see you get a commendation.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Hologram camouflage blossomed around Tartaglia’s face. “Ready?” He was speaking to his troops. “Let’s move out.”

  Then there was nothing but silent flickering in the air as Tartaglia and his people charged the house, then crashing noises as doors and windows went down before the assault.

  “Amalia,” said Pietro, “I don’t like these people.”

  She looked stolidly toward Maijstral’s house. “I understand,” she said, trying to be strong. This was a necessity. The Constellation’s fate depended on this.

  “We could have bought the damn thing back.” He was silent for a moment. Then, “You know, I kind of liked Maijstral.”

  She gave him a look, and he flushed and looked at his feet. But she knew how he felt.

  Whooping and smashing noises were coming from Maijstral’s house. Amalia heard a robot protest, followed by a final-sounding crash. There weren’t any sounds of battle. She wondered if Maijstral and his friends had been caught with their defenses down.

  Gradually the noises died away. Then there was swift flickering across the grounds, followed by Tartaglia and his party appearing in front of Amalia, disappointment on their faces.

  “No one there,” Tartaglia said. “Artifact One is still at large.”

  Amalia Jensen tried very hard to control her feeling of relief. “They anticipated this,” she said.

  “We’ll find ’em.”

  “They’ll find us.” Pietro surprised everyone by speaking up. “They want to sell us the artifact.”

  “Artifact One, you mean. Right.” Tartaglia nodded. “We’ll find ’em. That’s what I said.” He spoke to his troops. “Better get in our fliers. The police will be coming soon.”

  *

  “Where?” Thud. “Where?” Thud. ‘“Where?” Thud. The man’s name was Calvin. He was very good at his job and took pride in it. Silent, anonymous, efficient, discreet. What else was a security man for the Diadem to be?

  “Where?” Thud. “Where?” Thud. “Where?” Thud.

  Calvin was here to prep Lieutenant Navarre for his visit to Nichole— this visit in particular, with its unusual elements, seemed in need of advance work. But no sooner had he landed on the roof than he heard hoarse Khosali shouting and smashing noises.

  It didn’t sound like the sort of thing in which the Diadem wanted their members mixed up. Calvin got quietly out of his flier, took his emergency kit out of the back, put on his shield and gun. He stepped through an upper door, gazed down off the atrium balcony, and saw Lieutenant Navarre below in the hands of a giant Ronnie Romper, the lieutenant being slammed doll-like into walls and furniture while the puppet snarled his question over and over.

  “Where’s Amalia Jensen?” Slam.

  Calvin didn’t hesitate. He’d seen stranger things in his career. Nor did he waste time wondering who Amalia Jensen might be. The important fact was that if this continued, Nichole’s dinner date was liable to be ruined.

  The security man glanced left and right, saw a dwarf zen tree in a heavy lead planter, and moved to pick it up. He looked over the balcony again, saw Ronnie Romper directly below him, aimed with care, and let the planter fall.

  There was a horrid squelching noise. Ronnie Romper dropped to the carpet. Lieutenant Navarre fell onto a cushion, made a gasping sound, and grabbed his throat.

  “Calvin, sir. Diadem security. Are you injured?” Lieutenant Navarre looked with bulging eyes at the sprawled puppet. “Ronnie Romper?” he asked.

  The security man drew his gun, reached carefully into the hologram, and snapped off the disguise. Khotvinn gazed lifelessly at the ceiling.

  “Don’t you know him, sir?”

  “Never seen him before. He was asking after Am— after someone I know. But I don’t know where she is, and I couldn’t tell him because he kept grabbing me by the throat.
And who he is I have no idea.”

  Calvin examined Khotvinn with care. “He’s dead now. We won’t be able to question him.”

  Lieutenant Navarre’s breathing was returning to normal. He stood and looked down at Khotvinn’s body, then at Calvin. He smoothed his ruffled silks. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m grateful for your intervention.”

  “Just part of the job. sir.”

  “I am in your debt.” An idea came to him. “I’m beginning to wonder,” he said. “Strange things have been happening to me. A robbery, a friend of mine abducted . . . now this. I wonder if this is the person that’s been doing it.” He shrugged. “Best call the police, I suppose.” He reached for the wall service plate.

  Calvin put out a hand. “Sir,” he said, “if you deal with the police now, you’ll be late for your meeting with Nichole.”

  Lieutenant Navarre looked blank. “Yes, I daresay. But it can’t be helped, can it?”

  Calvin was smooth. “Sir, if I might recommend . . . ?”

  “By all means.”

  “The Diadem has an understanding with the local police. I’m certain that, should Nichole ask, the police would be happy to forgo any interviews till a more convenient time.”

  Lieutenant Navarre seemed startled. “You can do that?”

  “I’m positive, sir.”

  Navarre rubbed his back. “I seem to be pretty well bruised.”

  “Fortunately not on the face, sir. I can take you to a doctor and a masseur on the way if you like, sir. But we’d have to leave now.”

  Navarre looked at the sprawled body and hesitated. “Should we leave this behind?”

  “No one will disturb it, I’m sure.”

  The lieutenant seemed to make his mind up. “Very well,” he said, “I’ll do as you advise.”

  Calvin gave a graceful, assenting bow. “Very good, sir.”

  Lieutenant Navarre removed his torn shirt and donned another. He looked at the selection of jackets he’d placed on his couch and paused.

  Calvin spoke up. “If I may suggest, sir?”

  “By all means.”

  “The white mourning jacket. Very suitable.”

  “Thank you, Calvin.” Lieutenant Navarre drew on the jacket. Calvin helped lace him in, checking the jacket for weapons or hidden cameras as he did so.

  “Shall we leave then, Calvin?” “As you like, sir.”

  Lieutenant Navarre picked up his mourning cloak and carried it up the stair. Calvin followed on silent cat feet. Navarre activated the house security systems as he left and stepped out onto the roof.

  “Thank you, Calvin. For everything.”

  Calvin opened the door of the heavy Jefferson-Singh limo. “It was nothing, sir. All in a day’s work.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Countess Anastasia watched on vid as Drake Maijstral stepped out of the Jefferson-Singh flier and into Nichole’s arms. She noticed he was carrying a small bag. “Damn!” Her fist thudded into the arm of her stiff-backed wooden chair. The cigaret she was holding flung ashes onto a six-hundred-year-old carpet. A robot hastened to clean them up.

  “We’ll never get him out of there!” Her High Khosali parsing indicated near-apocalyptic frustration. “He’s probably carrying the Imperial Relic in that bag.”

  Baron Sinn nodded philosophically. “The next move seems to be Maijstral’s, my lady.”

  The Countess ground her teeth. “I like it not. Baron.” Baron Sinn liked it less. This meant he was going to be trapped in this house with an angry, restless Countess for a very long time. Perhaps he should give her a chance to work off her anger.

  “Croquet, my lady?” he suggested, dooming himself to a day of chasing his ball beneath the kibble trees.

  Her answer, tongue lolling, seemed the smile of a fiend.

  *

  Safely in Nichole’s suite with Calvin and his associates on guard, Lieutenant Navarre toggled off the hologram of Drake Maijstral. Nichole laughed and offered her hand. Navarre gallantly sniffed her wrist, ignoring a persistent twinge of his bruised back.

  “You looked very like Maijstral, dressed in mourning,” she said. “I’m pleased to see you. Lieutenant.”

  “The pleasure,” said Navarre, “is all mine.” He was speaking the truth. He was thoroughly gratified to discover that he felt very safe here.

  Maijstral turned off the vid and relaxed in his chair, happy. Nichole knew how to carry off a deception, and her foil, whoever he was, had played his part well, even to the duplicate of the diamond Maijstral wore on his finger.

  *

  A robot rattled past on an errand, making its usual bleeping noises. Maijstral clenched his teeth, then calmed himself. He was learning to hate the robots, but now was not the time for irritation. It was time to put forward his plan.

  *

  Tvi watched the vid with interest. She turned to the robot. “Bring up another bottle of the cabernet. The forty-four, if you please.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Since her flight from the Anastasia residence she’d done fairly well. The first thing was to dump the Dewayne Seven and steal a new Jefferson-Singh Hi-Sport. Since she’d arrived on Peleng, she’d got used to them.

  Then she’d found a place to hide out. It was a comfortable house of twelve rooms, apparently inhabited by a family whose interests took them to Nana for half the year. The household security was ancient and it had been child’s play to reprogram it to treat her as a member of the family.

  Now she’d have to find a way to earn a living. She sipped cabernet and thought about it.

  Stealing seemed like a good idea.

  She smiled. Life on Peleng was looking up.

  *

  “My name is Roman, my lord. At your service.”

  “Count Quik. Yours. Please sit.”

  Roman settled on a padded bench next to the Troxan. “I see you have returned to the methane environment exhibit.”

  “Not got look before properly. Nichole in way with globes. Many many crowdings.”

  “To be sure.”

  “I methane speak,” said the Count.

  Roman was inclined to wonder if he spoke methane in as singular a manner as he seemed to speak everything else, but the Count proceeded to demonstrate, leaning his pumpkin-sized head toward a microphone that remained as a relic of Nichole’s visit. As the Count’s voice pulsed through the supercool environment, the methane creatures blushed a delicate violet and began to cluster gelatinously toward the speakers. At their current rate it would take them about half an hour.

  “Congratulations, my lord,” Roman said. “You seem to have stimulated them admirably.”

  An answering communication moaned from hidden speakers. The Count listened and made his reply.

  “I told them you are with. Interested they were.” His head lolled in a peculiar Troxan manner. “Badly these speakers do. Troxans better makes speakers.”

  “Undoubtedly the best, sir,” Roman said. The Troxan head was such a superb conductor of sound that they tended as a species to be very particular about audio equipment.

  “Tell yourself,” Count Quik suggested. “I tell will then the methane critters.”

  “I am a member of Drake Maijstral’s entourage.”

  “Interesting. Translation problems many indeed. No word for ‘thief' in methane world.”

  “Perhaps a better world than ours, my lord.”

  “But boring-er.”

  “Duller. Yes, my lord. No doubt.”

  The Count chatted with the methane creatures. They groaned in reply. Roman waited for a lapse in the conversation.

  “Mr. Maijstral,” he interjected, “asked me to find you.”

  Count Quik’s deep goggle eyes swiveled to Roman. “Yes? Wherefore, Mr. Roman?”

  “He hopes, sir, that you will consent to do him a service. He realizes this is an unusual request, but he hopes that once you understand the circumstances, you will do him the honor of acting for him in a matter of importance, in brief a matter con
cerning the Fate of the Empire. He hopes that the matter may be resolved quickly and satisfactorily, and in fine to your— and the Empire’s, advantage.”

  Count Quik’s expression did not— in fact could not— change, but it seemed to Roman that his gaze seemed to intensify.

  “You intrigue, Mr. Roman. Please speak on. I am all ears.”

  Roman reflected that, of all the times he had heard that last turn of phrase, this was the only time it might be, quite literally, true.

  *

  General Gerald gazed blearily at the young man on his doorstep. Since waking from his unutterably pleasant, thoroughly violent dreams at the first touch of dawn, he had climbed out of his armor and gone to bed, swearing to get enough sleep this time so that he wouldn’t be caught nodding if Maijstral appeared tonight. The young man’s appearance caught him by surprise. He didn’t have visitors very often. Sometimes he wondered if he intimidated people.

  The General could see the young man through the door without being observed himself. The visitor was dressed formally, but in a bright radical style that pushed at once the bounds of convention and the General’s sense of the harmonic possibilities of color. Cheeky, the General thought, looking at him. Impudent. Needs discipline. Just look at the way his hands are stuck in his pockets, the hi-stick just hanging in his mouth. A tour in the service would do him good.

  A tour in the service was the General’s automatic prescription for many social ills. He opened the door.

  “General Gerald?”

  “Marines.” Automatically. “Retired.”

  “My name is Gregor Norman. I am an associate of Drake Maijstral.”

  Surprise boiled up in General Gerald’s sleepy mind.

  “What’s that to me?” he barked, his voice still on automatic pilot while he wondered what hell Maijstral was playing at. Some attempt to get him out of his house so that it could be rifled?

  “Mr. Maijstral,” Gregor said, “has come across something which may interest you. Something relating, believe it or don’t, to nothing less than the Fate of the Constellation.”