Fortress of Lies mda-8

by J. Steven York

  “Still, I think that New Canton’s Prefect ordered the attempt with little planning, and on his own authority. It was a crime of opportunity. House Liao would have never ordered such a clumsy attempt. Perhaps, uncertain of his position with Liao, the Prefect thought he could curry some favor by delivering the Duke’s head to them.” He grinned. “Imagine the Prefect’s surprise if he’d succeeded, went to them with his prize, and they looked at him and asked, ‘You killed who ?’”

  A rumble emanated from the structure of the Rex, like a first peal of distant thunder. Something in the guts of the great ship was stirring to life.

  “All hands,” Captain Clancy’s voice echoed from dozens of hidden speakers, “stand by for boost. One-G acceleration in twenty seconds from… mark.”

  “Well,” said Paxton, as he pushed himself down the wall so his feet were against the deck, “I guess the commander is off, and we’re on our way to Azha.”

  She nodded, accepting his hand so he could pull her down against the deck. “It’ll be a distraction at least. I’ve been on the downlink most of the last day, while waiting for you to arrive, but there’s still a lot to arrange before we reach the planet. Time to do some shopping.”

  It was a six-day round-trip from the jump point to Azha and back, and Aaron wished to maximize their short stay on the planet. For his plans to go forward, a great deal of material would have to be secured and placed aboard Tyrannos Rex. as well as a virtual battalion of craftsmen who would begin installing it immediately, continuing the process during the voyage.

  It would have been far more reasonable, and less expensive, to do all the work in port, but at this point Aaron had far more money than time.

  There were certain matters that could only be handled while the ship was grounded, and for that Azha was well suited. The abandoned Capellan supply depot at the capital city of Casella had been equipped with excellent ship-service facilities, which had been converted for civilian use.

  The Tyrannos Rex would need structural modifications that could not be handled in space, and she would need to be repainted.

  Aaron had secured a team of the best available shipwrights and craftsmen for the modifications. As for the paint, a huge hangar there housed a system that once had applied protective hull coatings to freighters. It had been converted to a computer-controlled ship-painting system. The company that operated it boasted they could apply a custom paint job, even a complex design, to the largest vessel in less than a day.

  Aaron was going to put that to the test.

  Until then, the best thing most of the occupants of Tyrannos Rex could do was get out of the way.

  A limousine arrived at the apron below the ship shortly after landing, and picked up Aaron and his entourage. Though the car came with a driver, Ulysses Paxton insisted on taking the wheel. The original driver handled opening doors, loading bags, and navigating. They were soon on an elevated expressway, headed into the capital.

  The landscape was low and dry. Wide valleys covered with sagebrush, dry grass and cactus were surrounded by low hills. Low, umbrella-shaped trees with purplish leaves, probably native to the planet, were scattered among the sage.

  Small herds of long-necked mammals on thick, stumplike legs—each adult bigger than the limousine—fed on the purple trees. They were no species Aaron had ever seen, and were probably indigenous. Flocks of strange four-winged birds, pale blue and as tall as a man, flew overhead in swooping circles, or walked among the herds, looking for some mysterious food source.

  To the southwest, they could see the skyline of the city—a central core of metal-and-glass towers dwarfed by a handful of massive arcologies. Beyond the city, a shimmering field of silver near the horizon marked the beginning of the southern ocean.

  Aaron rubbed the leather seat cushions. They were exceptionally soft and beautiful. He leaned forward and tapped the intercom to the forward compartment, where the driver navigated while Ulysses drove. “Driver, what are these seat covers made of?”

  “Tunna-beasts, those big things you saw grazing near the highway a ways back. They’re not much good for eating, but the hides make the best leather in The Republic.”

  Aaron turned to Deena. “We’ll need some of this. This car is nice, too. See if it’s available in an armored model, and if so, buy two.”

  Deena crossed her long legs and looked at him. “Any particular color, Lord Governor?”

  “I’m partial to green,” he said, “or perhaps gray. One of each would be good, I suppose.”

  “Indeed,” she said, taking a few notes on a pad in her lap.

  He pushed the intercom button again. “Driver, I’m told that the Chipley Arms is the finest hotel in town. Is that so?”

  “Well, my Lord, I haven’t stayed there myself, mind you, but I’ve heard nothing but good reports from my passengers, and the travel guides give it the highest ratings. I also hear that they have the finest French-Chinese chef on the planet, perhaps even the whole Prefecture.”

  Aaron smiled knowingly. “I’m glad to hear that. I’m looking forward to sampling his cuisine.”

  The car wound its way past the arcologies and into the core of the city, through wide canyons of concrete and steel.

  The Chipley Arms was a fifteen-story tower of white marble on top of a low hill, with a view of the water. Ornate trim and carved scrollwork covering the building gave it the look of a cake decorated with white frosting. A portico supported by Corinthian columns marked the entrance.

  As they pulled into the drive, uniformed doormen dashed out to meet them. A red carpet was rolled out to the limousine. He was getting a good feeling about the hotel.

  A slender man with thinning hair, a pointed nose, and a thin moustache met them at the door. He pressed his white-gloved fingertips together in front of him and bowed slightly at the waist. “Duke Sandoval. I am Charles Pinckard, the manager. Let me welcome you to the Chipley Arms. I can’t tell you what an honor it is to have such a special guest in our hotel.”

  “My arrangements have been taken care of?”

  “Indeed, my Lord, though it is unusual to have a guest reserve the entire hotel.”

  “I won’t be using all of it, of course. Your best suites are on the top three floors?”

  “Yes, and of course I’ll be showing you our Emperor’s Suite on the top floor. I hope it meets with your approval.”

  The manager led them to an ornate brass express elevator, which he operated with a key attached to a watch chain on his jacket. It whisked them to the top floor, and directly into the suite. “A private elevator is one of the features of the suite. There are three bedrooms with baths, plus a parlor, drawing room, library and formal dining room. Our kitchen is at your disposal around the clock.”

  Aaron admired the furniture. The legs were all gracefully curved, and elaborate scrollwork was deeply carved into the wood. The upholstery was done in plush burgundy velour striped with gold thread. Rich tapestries woven with stylized scenes of the desert and sea hung on the walls. Marble sculptures stood on illuminated pedestals, and mirrors in elaborate gilded frames hung on the walls. Huge carpets, woven in the same style as the tapestries, covered the marble floor.

  It was a splendid space—comfortable and impeccably decorated.

  He turned back to the manager. “Is there a freight elevator?”

  The manager nodded. “Just down the hall, through the common spaces.”

  “Good. Some of my men should be waiting in your lobby by now. Please have them brought up through that elevator.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The manager raised his hand to his cheek and spoke briefly into the tiny transmitter strapped to his wrist. “Will there be anything else?”

  “This will be fine. I’ll take it. I’ll take it all. Now, is your second-best suite on this floor as well?”

  The manager looked puzzled. “Yes, just down the hall.”

  “Good. I’ll be staying there. Show me, please.”

  The manager stepped to an inlaid set
of double doors and swung them open to the corridor outside. He hesitated and turned. “But, my Lord, I thought this suite was satisfactory?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s perfect. That’s why the men are coming here.”

  Just then, an elevator at the end of the hall opened, and a full load of large, rough-looking men stepped out. An observant person might have recognized them from Captain Clancy’s crew. They looked completely out of place in the elegant surroundings.

  They marched up to Aaron. A bald man with a nose that appeared to have been repeatedly broken seemed to be the leader. He looked at the open doors. “Is this the place, Duke?”

  Aaron nodded. “Strip it—carefully; I don’t want anything broken or scratched—and take it all back to the ship.”

  The manager’s eyes widened. “Strip it? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m taking the suite, Mr. Pinckard, or rather, all its contents. I’ll pay for full replacement of course, plus a generous overhead, and we’ll compensate you for loss of use while the room is being redecorated.”

  The manager’s jaw hung open. “Redecorate. But—This is impossible. These are all antiques, some dating back to the Star League.”

  “Which is exactly why I’m taking them. These aren’t the sort of furnishings one purchases off a showroom floor. The quickest way to furnish a luxury suite is to find one that’s already furnished, and remove its contents to the new suite.”

  The manager just couldn’t seem to wrap his head around what Aaron was saying. “Move the suite?”

  Two men positioned themselves on either end of a couch, bent down, and lifted it onto their muscular shoulders. The manager watched in horror as they carried it down the hall to the waiting elevator.

  Aaron waved his hand in front of the man. “The second-best suite in the hotel?”

  “Yes,” said the manager, seemingly grateful for some task he could relate to. “This way.”

  Three more men walked by, one with a lamp, one with a rolled-up tapestry over his shoulder, and a third carrying a statue wrapped in a blanket.

  The manager opened another set of doors. “This is the suite. Um—Will you be stripping it, too?”

  “I’ll be staying here for a few days while my ship is being refitted. Put my valet and bodyguard on this floor as well. The floor below will remain vacant as a noise buffer.” He had a sudden inspiration. This was a fine opportunity to gain the individual loyalty of Clancy’s crew. “Oh, and the gentlemen who are hauling this furniture, they’ll need first-class rooms on the lower floors. There will be another forty-five or so coming from the ship as well. They should all have rooms. I’ll be taking care of their meals, bar tabs, and room service. And of course I’ll pay for the damage.”

  The manager paled. “Damage?”

  The Duke ignored the question, turning to Deena. “Call the ship. Tell Clancy that anyone who can get shore leave is welcome, including him.”

  “That won’t happen, my Lord. He loves that ship.”

  “I agree, but ask him anyway.”

  “Damage?” The manager worried over the word like a dog with a bone.

  Deena glanced at him and shrugged. “They’re sailors on leave. There will be damage.”

  The manager nodded his head sadly. “Of course.”

  “I understand,” said Aaron, “that you have a very fine chef.”

  The manager brightened a little. “He is, if I may say so my Lord, exceptional. Chefs have come from throughout the Sphere to study his techniques.”

  “That’s good,” said Aaron, looking out through the suite doors as a massive dining table was carried past, “because I’ll be taking him with me as well.”

  The manager’s mouth hung open. He blinked. Blinked again. “But of course,” said the manager, “but of course.”

  Aaron relaxed on the balcony outside his suite, feet propped on an ottoman, a fresh batch of company reports on his computer pad, a cold drink made from some sort of fresh-squeezed cactus juice in his hand. His view extended down a strip of parkland through the heart of the old city, to a dockside amusement complex that seemed to operate all day and most of the night.

  He’d spent almost an hour the previous evening looking down at its colorful lights and spinning rides. Everything—even the boats that cruised the harbor—seemed to be outlined in strings and lines of colored lights. He’d even sent for a pair of binoculars, so he could watch the people from behind the ferro-glass canopy that protected him from snipers.

  Part of him wanted to be down there, too. Walking the boardwalks, peering into the shops, smelling the spicy intoxicants wafting from every food stall and vendor cart. Oh, to be a fledgling cadet, feeling powerful in his new uniform, a beautiful and deeply impressed young lady holding his hand, seeing those spinning lights reflected in her eyes.

  He pushed the thoughts away. Such things were for overgrown children, not for men of title and power. Those days were gone. They would not come his way again. He tried to work, and suddenly found himself unable to concentrate.

  He took his feet off the ottoman and climbed out of his deeply padded wicker chair. He stood next to the railing, looking out, reaching up to put his fingertips against the cold glass. He was a long way from forty, but could he be feeling old?

  Or perhaps just alone. There were aspects of life that were passing him by in the rush to power.

  There were women, of course. Companions, flings, but his requirements for anything beyond that were very strict. He would not be merely choosing a wife, but a duchess, and perhaps something more than that. There was the matter of heirs as well. There was far more to consider than his own pleasures and whims.

  He sighed. Perhaps it was merely his current project or his close brush with death that had put such thoughts in his mind—some kind of primitive nesting instinct calling to the modern man.

  The phone on the table next to his ’puter chimed, rescuing him from his melancholy.

  He tapped theANSWER button, and Captain Clancy’s holographic image floated above the phone. “Okay, Duck. I put up with you shanghaiing my crew, messing up my cargo bays, and painting my ship like a spaceport whore, but you got welders down there cutting a hole in my hull.”

  “Technically, they’re notching into the corner of the number one bay door.”

  “You’re putting a hole in the part that keeps the outsides out, and the insides in. Same thing, Duck.”

  “Trust me, Captain, I’m as concerned about that as anyone.” He chuckled. “I’m one of the insides that needs to stay in. The armor surrounding the opening will be four times as thick as the hull surrounding it, and there will be four armor-plated pressure doors. It’s a hole in your hull, but an exceptionally well-protected hole.”

  “Yeah, well, you should have consulted me.”

  “I would have, if there’d been time. The shipwrights are literally working without blueprints, with two structural engineers on-site designing things as they go.”

  “I reckon you must trust these engineers of yours quite a bit.”

  “They’re both Republic Navy veterans. They’ve spent fifty years between them putting battle-damaged ships back together, under fire and in the worst of conditions. I’m certain our ‘hole’ will be just fine.”

  Clancy nodded, and the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch up almost imperceptibly. “Well then, I guess you got it covered.” The almost-smile abruptly ended. “But next time you tell me first. This is a ship, not your blasted summer house.

  “I don’t even know what all this mess you’re putting on my ship weighs. When we lift, I’m going to have to give her full throttle, base my weight calculations on our acceleration, then redo all my center-of-gravity adjustments and orbital calculations on the fly. It won’t be no picnic, I tell you.”

  Aaron grinned. “Your reputation says, Captain, that for you it is a picnic. Kind of like making an emergency takeoff under fire, with no notice, and with fifty tons of unexpected ’Mech aboard.”

  “Well, yeah, I gu
ess it’s kind of like that.”

  “Which reminds me. We don’t have time right now, but I want to upgrade the armor on that entire bay door, and possibly the interior bulkheads as well. Maybe at the next nondiplomatic port of call.”

  The French doors opened, and Deena stepped out onto the deck. She placed a new stack of papers on the table next to his ’puter, then stood patiently to see if he needed anything else from her.

  “Maybe,” said Clancy. “I’ll say this for you, Duck. You keep me amused. Been laughing my ass off watching my boys hauling in this sissified furniture of yours. It’s gonna look even funnier floating around in free fall.”

  “The style is called recoco—”

  “Rococo,” Deena corrected.

  “Rococo,” he continued, “and it will all be bolted to the floor.”

  Clancy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So, for half the voyage it’ll just be something to bang your head on. Coulda pointed you at a place’ll sell you any kind of folding furniture you want. Quality stuff, too.”

  “I’m sure. And it would look like quality storable furniture too. Listen, Captain Clancy, it’s not like I’m trying to install this on your bridge. You did say that what I did in the cargo bay was my business. Is that arrangement still true?”

  “Yeah, well, ’cept for that hole in the hull. But I still gots the captain’s prerogative to make fun of foolishness when I see it.

  “Well, I’m gonna go keep an eye on those welders of yours. Clancy out.”

  The display blanked, and Aaron turned to Deena. “You’re giving me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That skeptical, ‘I can’t tell him what I really think because he’s the Duke’ look. I do value your opinions, you know. What is it?”

  “He’s right about how absurdly impractical this furniture will be on a DropShip. Not to mention the carpets, the tapestries, the paintings, the art, the gourmet chef.”

  “Chef Bellwood served on the liner Ian Cameron. He’s an accomplished zero-gravity chef as well.”