by Chris Bunch
The Emperor smiled. "Isn't that what diplomacy is all about? It's either stall or war." He shrugged. "A couple of my high-priced lawyers might disagree, but I've always found 'going to court' cheaper than a war."
He finished his beer and rose. "And I don't think a war with the Tahn will be a little one."
The Eternal Emperor turned to go. Then he stopped and gave Sten one of his most charming grins. "I sure could use a good barely-living guilty party to throw off the sleigh right now."
"How long can you keep stalling?" Sten asked.
"Less and less," the Emperor said. "I want you to grind it until the last minute."
Sten nodded. "I'll find your boy, sir."
"Yeah. You will."
And then the Eternal Emperor picked up his fishing gear and shambled out the door. Sten watched him go. For just a second, he wondered what would happen to young Captain Sten if he failed.
Even if it had been a Mantis operation, the safe-house system Sten, Alex, and Lieutenant Haines had worked out at the Blue Bhor would have been a wondrous thing. Just to begin with, it involved several different departments, a task usually impossible under almost any circumstances. Even cynical Alex was impressed about how well everyone blended in.
To begin with, security was an absolute must. Sten and Alex needed some definite thugs to keep trigger watch on anyone who might show an interest in the old inn.
So they carefully felt out old Mantis Section buddies who were either on I&I or using up sick leave. There were never any snarls from these people. They either smiled and kissed you or smiled and cut your throat.
Next, there were the police/Imperial people. Haines had carefully selected known trustworthy police people.
The way the safe house worked was that the security people patrolled the outside and Haines's group ruled inside, with occasional bursts of temper when Alex or Sten put in their two credits. The talents inside unfortunately guaranteed that everyone was potentially at the other person's neck. They were all mostly cops. But they were all super-specialists. The talents ranged from hackers to real computer techs to archivists to com-line snoopers. All were very bright, trustworthy, and friends of Haines.
One thing Sten had to give them—they were damned good. They were the beings who had tracked down Dynsman and finally located Stynburn.
And the way they had gone about it had been something to behold. In a similar operation, if Mantis had been assigned, the most sophisticated, high-powered computer would have trashed through millions of files in the search. The big problem with Prime World was that anything of even medium industrial power sent out red signals in all directions. Prime World was also the capital of all spydom, including the fortunes that were spent on industrial snooping.
So Liz Collins, the head cop computer tech, had proposed that they supply themselves with fifty or so tiny computers, each with the IQ of a five-year-old. Then she and her aides had strung them all together, resulting in a system as sophisticated as anything on the planet. More important, because of the way they were linked, they could dive in and out of information systems without being detected and usually without leaving a trace. As a side benefit, Liz had set the system up so that it could steal power. A constant monitor/feeder slipped in and out of power sources like a burglar, stealing just enough to keep the entire system operational, but not enough to show up significantly on individual power bills.
Alex also decided that Liz Collins was a woman he might want to get close to. She was slightly taller than he, and was built with all the proper and more than ample curves that Alex liked, plus many rippling muscles. Alex had been in ecstasy when he met her while setting up shop at the Blue Bhor. A gravsled had got itself mired near the riverbank. Before he could respond, Liz had leaned down and, with some crackling of bones, had lifted the sled from the muck then patted it on its now friction-less way. Alex could imagine those shapely, powerful arms around his heavyworlder body. It had been a long time, he realized, since he had felt himself really hugged.
The main readout Collins had set up in the computer linkage system was in the largest room of the Blue Bhor—King Gilly's Suite. Alex walked into the room and tried desperately not to be a beast and to keep his eyes off her muscular apple-shaped behind. Her structure narrowed then, he thought, licking dry lips, to proper lady's proportions before blooming to the most wonderful set of shoulders, and frontal mammary structure. It was the kind of sight that made a Scotsman know what he had under his kilt. She was the most beautiful woman Alex had ever seen.
She turned away from the screen and gave Alex a look that melted his heart, as well as a few other areas. "Could we hold on that drink a bit? I should be getting something from the linkup soon."
Alex would have given her anything in the world. "Nae too thirsty mysel', lass," he cracked. "Now, wha' be we 8' far?"
Liz turned back to the computer, all business again. "We're running two main search patterns right now. The first is the most difficult."
"Zaarah Wahrid?"
"Stynburn's last words. And so far they don't mean a thing anyplace we're checking. And I mean anyplace. We've gone through a couple of thousand languages. Every encyclopedia. Religious tracts. All of it."
"Could it be—"
"Don't even bother. We're covering all possibilities. Trouble is, 'all possibilities' means a hell of a lot of time, even with this setup." She smiled fondly at the main terminal of her elaborate computer linkup system.
Alex warmed, wishing he were the computer. "Lass," he said, "dinna y' think it's aboot time y' rested y'r wee mind wi' a bit ae th' hops?"
He leaned casually on the table supporting the computer readout screen, carefully keeping himself from encircling her rounded waist. Liz smiled over her shoulder at him, and Alex thought it lit up the room. His heart always thumped on her rare smile, and he beamed a cherub grin from his own round, red face.
"I think we're coming in on something now," she said.
Alex peered at the words and figures bubbling up on the screen. He had to free his mind for the high-speed scrolling, and then he had it.
"Appears you have the late Doc Stynburn in th' crosshairs."
Liz nodded enthusiastically. Alex loved her even more when she was on the hunt.
"Do we! Look at this. He set up about a half dozen cutout corporations. Based in frontier banking planets. Each time he took a new job or consultancy, he ran it through one of the corporations."
"A wee tax scam," Alex said.
"You got it. Foolproof one, as well. Leave it to a doctor."
He cleared his throat loudly, bringing himself back to some sort of reality. "An' th' second search," he said. "Stynburn, Ah's'pose?"
Liz nodded. "That's killing time for opposite reasons. Instead of too much, we've got too little. The guy knew every Mercury Corps trick in the book."
"Then you thought of the corporate cutout business," Alex said admiringly.
Liz blushed. "I thought it was a small stroke of genius."
Alex could barely keep himself from patting her. What if she took it wrong? Or right? Or… He tried to pull his mind away from the swirl of figures on the screen. He cleared his throat again. "Anything else, lass?"
Liz handed him a thin sheaf of printout. "I'm not sure, but since I picked these up my cop brain's been sneezing."
Alex scanned them—very dry police-jargonese reports of four deaths. All had two things in common: They were accidental, bizarrely so; and they had all occurred within the vicinity of the palace. Alex rechecked the first death: Female victim. High blood alcohol. Strangled on own vomit. Slight bruise on throat. He buzzed past the name to the woman's history. Deserter from the Praetorian Guard. Alex felt a small mental tingle. He quickly thumbed through the other reports and the answer glared up at him. "You were right, lass, police officer tha' y' be."
Then he showed her the common thread.
"Every swinging Richard is a former government," Collins realized. "Ex-clerk. Ex-tech. Ex-museum security. And all
with—"
"—palace connections," Alex finished for her.
Liz slumped into her chair and gave a long exasperating sigh. "Murder. Murder, murder, murder. Aw clot."
Then, just as deep depression was about to fog the entire room, the vid-screen began blinking red. Liz leaped to her feet and studied the screen. After thousands of computer hours, the first major break in the case was staring her in the face. They had finally broken through Stynburn's elaborate corporate cutouts.
"Sweet Laird," Alex whispered. "Th' clot worked for Kai Hakone."
Chapter Thirty-Four
"I have never seen one of these before," Kai Hakone said. "May I examine it more closely?"
Sten handed him the Imperial Service card. The Imperial emblem on the card, keyed to Sten's own pore and pulse pattern, blinked as Hakone took it, held it for a moment, then passed it back to Sten.
"Actually, Captain, while I've no idea what you need, your appearance is fortunate."
"Ah?"
Hakone was about to explain, but his words were cut by the loud whine of a ship lifting on Yukawa drive barely half a kilometer overhead.
Hakone's mansion was located on the largest hill overlooking Soward, Prime World's biggest port. It had been built as an off-voyage hobby by the captain of a tramp freighter, who intended it to be his retirement home.
That trader's retirement never came about, since he made the tactical error of offering play-pretty beads to a primitive culture more interested in sharp-pointed and deadly objects. But since most people, let alone those who could afford the price of a Prime World mansion, weren't fascinated with the sound and bustle of a spaceport, Hakone had been able to lease the sprawling house cheaply. Since then, he'd finished the interior and added his own concepts, which included the hemispherical battle chamber in its rear.
The Yukawa-drive cut off, and, in the utter silence of AM2 drive, the ship disappeared. "I like to hear what I write about," Hakone half explained as he led Sten into the house. "Is it too early for a tod, Captain?"
"The sun's up, isn't it?"
Hakone smiled and led Sten through the large reception area, the even larger living room, and into his own den.
Hakone's "den"—office and writing area—was styled after an Old Earth library, with innovations. Vid-tapes, reports, even bound antique books lined the twenty-meter-high walls. The center of the room was a long, flat table. But from there, the resemblance to eighteenth-century Earth was gone, since the table was lined with computer terminals, and the laddered access to the shelves was automated.
At one end of the room was Hakone's bar, and it extended across the width. Sten scanned the bottles as Hakone motioned for him to make his choice.
"You happen to have any, uh, Scotch?"
Hakone was up to it. "You have adopted the Emperor's tastes!" he said, reaching down a bottle and pouring two half-full glasses of the liquor.
Sten touched the glass to his lips, then lowered it. Hakone, too, had barely drunk. "You said fortunate, Sr. Hakone?"
"Yes. I was planning to contact you, Captain." Hakone waved Sten toward a wide couch nearby. "Did you happen to see my masque? The one which was performed prior to Empire Day?"
"Sorry, I was on duty."
"From what the critics say, perhaps you were lucky. At any rate, I now find myself between projects. And then I discovered something most fascinating. Are you aware that no one has ever done a history of the Imperial palace?"
Sten pretended ignorance, shook his head, and sipped.
"Not only the building, but the people who are assigned to it," Hakone went on, with what seemed to be a writer's enthusiasm.
"An interesting idea."
"I thought so. As did my publisher. Especially if the tape deals with the people who are assigned to it. I want to tell a history of people, not of stone and technocracy."
Sten waited.
"As you know," Hakone continued, "I am primarily a military historian. I have, frankly, my own sources. So when I conceptualized this project, the first thing I began investigating was the people assigned to that palace.
"That is, by the way, why I made such a point of wanting to meet you at Marr and Senn's party. You are a peculiar man, Captain Sten."
Sten looked solemnly interested.
"Are you aware that you are the youngest man ever assigned to head the Imperial bodyguard?"
"Admiral Ledoh told me that."
"That interests me. Which is why I availed myself of your military record. Wondering, quite frankly, why you had been chosen."
Sten didn't bother smiling—he knew that his phony file was intrusion-proof. Only Mantis headquarters, the Emperor himself, and General Ian Mahoney knew what Sten's real military history was.
"You have a perfect record. No demerits at OCS. Commissioned on such-and-so a date, all qualifications reports rated excellent, all commanding officers recommending you most highly, the appropriate number of hero-moves for the appropriate awards."
"Some people are lucky."
"If I may be honest, Captain, perhaps too lucky."
Sten finished his drink.
"Captain Sten, what would you say if I told you I suspected your whole military background was a tissue?"
"If I were not on Imperial business, Sr. Hakone, and depending on the circumstances, I would either buy you a drink or a nose transplant."
"I did not mean to be insulting, Captain. I am merely suggesting that you have been assigned to your present post because of previous performance in either Mercury Corps or Mantis Section."
Sten pretended stupidity. "Mercury Corps? Sorry, Hakone. I was never in Intelligence, and I've never heard of Mantis."
"The response I expected. And I appear to have offended. Change the subject. What brings you here?"
Hakone replenished the drinks.
"You once employed a Dr. Hars Stynburn," Sten said, trying the sudden-shock approach. Hakone reacted, indeed, but quite obviously, sending the top of the liquor decanter spinning to the floor.
"Clot! What's the imbecile done now?"
"Now? Sr. Hakone, I must advise you that this conversation is being recorded. You have a right to counsel, legal advice, and medico-watch to ensure you are not under any influence, physical or pharmacological."
"Thank you for the warning, Captain. But I don't need that. Dr. Hars Stynburn did indeed work for me. For a period of four months—Prime months. At the end of that time I discharged him, without, I might add, benefit of recommendation."
"Continue, Sr. Hakone."
"My household normally consists of between fifty and three hundred individuals. I find it convenient to employ an in-house medico. That was one reason I initially employed Dr. Stynburn."
"One reason?"
"The second reason was that he was, like myself, a veteran. He served in the Mueller Wars, the battle of Saragossa."
"As did you."
"Ah, you've scanned my tapes."
"On précis. Why did you dismiss him?"
"Because… not because he was inefficient or incompetent. He was an extremely good doctor. But because he was a man locked into the past."
"Would you explain?"
"All he wished to talk about was his time in the service. And about how he felt he had been betrayed."
"Betrayed?"
"You're aware he was cashiered from the service? Well, he felt that he was fulfilling the exact requirements of the Empire, and that he was used as a Judas goat after those requirements were fulfilled."
"The Empire generally doesn't practice genocide, Sr. Hakone."
"Stynburn believed it did. At any rate, his obsession became nerve-wracking to me. And so I found it easier to release him at the expiration of his initial contract."
Sten was about to ask another question, then broke off. Hakone's eyes were hooded.
"Locked into the past, I said, didn't I?" Hakone drained his drink. "That must sound odd to you, Captain, since you've reviewed my tapes. Don't I sound the same way?"
"I'm not a historian, Seigneur."
"What do you think of war, Captain?"
Sten's first answer—blatant stupidity—was something he somehow felt Hakone didn't want to hear. He held his silence.
"Someone once wrote," Hakone went on, "that war is the axle life revolves around. I think that is the truth. And for some of us, one war is that axle. For Dr. Stynburn—and to be honest, Captain, for myself—that was Saragossa."
"As I said, I'm not a historian."
Hakone picked up the two glasses, fielded the decanter from the bar, and started toward a nearby door.
"I could tell you, Captain. But I'd rather show you." And he led Sten through the door, into his battle chamber.
The Mueller Wars, fought almost a century before Sten's birth, were a classic proof of Sten's definition of war. The Mueller Cluster had been settled too quickly and was too far from the Empire. The result was a lack of Imperial support, improperly defined and supplied trade routes, and arrant ignorance on the part of the Imperial bureaucracy administering those worlds.
And then war, war by the various worlds, fighting under a banner that might have been headed "Anything but the damned Empire." By the time the Emperor realized that the Mueller Cluster was a snowball rolling downhill, it was too late for any response except the Guard.
But Imperial overexpansion had reached into the military as well. The battles that were fought were, for the most part, on the wrong ground, with the wrong opponent, and at the wrong time.
The Emperor still, when he began feeling self-confident, had only to scroll his own private log of the Mueller Wars to deflate himself to the proper level of humanity. Of all the disasters, before the Mueller Cluster was battered into semi-quiescence, the worst was Saragossa.
Saragossa should never have been invaded. Its isolationist culture should have been ignored until the Saragossans asked to rejoin the Empire. Instead a full Grand Fleet and the Seventh Guards Division were committed. The invasion should have been easy, since it involved landing on a single world, which had only a few low-tech satellite worlds for support.
Instead the operation became a nightmare.
