by Chris Bunch
It seemed, however, the only and last option.
* * * *
From first appearances, Hawkthorne had changed very little since Sten and Alex had gone there under deep cover to hire mercenaries for what they called “The Great Talamein Beatup.” It still was fairly anarchic—any planet that specialized as a hiring hall for soldiers-for-hire had to have a fairly lax government where the ultimate law was laid down by whoever had the heaviest weapons.
But the mercenaries on Hawkthorne looking for a contract were different from the psychopaths, crooks, opportunists, and would-be kingmakers before.
The Tahn War had changed everything.
Any war produced, in its aftermath, mercenaries. They came from the losing armies, from suddenly stateless soldiers, from the ranks of war criminals, from the bored who wanted to continue experiencing that one insane moment of pure life that was combat, and from those who just could not go back to the farm. Generally they were highly professional. But as peace went on, there was a deterioration in quality. Some got killed, some found their kingdom beyond the clouds, some grew up and realized that that moment of life was surrounded by death, and others drifted on to more stable situations that required only the occasional use of violence.
That had been Hawkthorne before.
The Tahn wars created a new horde of professionals. And the necessary economic cutbacks of peacetime, plus the hamwitted policies of the privy council, had made them potential mercenaries.
Admirals would sign on as ship executive officers. Guard generals would cheerfully command a battalion or even a company. Sergeant majors would wear the blank sleeve of a private without complaining—at least for the moment.
Alex could pick and choose. He did.
Sten dreamed of ten thousand “officers of the court” and hoped for five thousand. Alex could have gotten one hundred thousand. He could afford to be generous.
Money? Nae problem. If the Tribunal failed to start the fall of the privy council, how much was left in the coffers would be completely unimportant once everyone involved bought a fast ticket out of town.
Fuel for combat ships? Kilgour had a “train” full.
He could have enlisted some with a full meal and the promise of regular rations to come.
For some, there was even a more subtle offer, made quietly and in person: If the privy council were toppled, the Imperial military would need restructuring. The corrupt, the incompetent, or those who had bloodied their hands in the purge would be removed. Some kind of military would be—had to be—retained. Alex said that frankly he had no idea what it would be. He let the thought dangle.
He stood at the ramp of Ida's flagship and looked down at his army.
From up there, one could see the threadbare uniforms or the shabby termination-of-service civvies some others wore. One could not see the gaunt, hungry faces.
From there, the lines of soldiery and their ships behind them were as rigidly in formation as any Guards unit on formal inspection.
Put ‘em in propit dress, he said to himself. Gie ‘em a banner to follow, an’ lead ‘em to a war wi’ paper bullets. Thae's happiness.
Kilgour's ... Killers? Cheap. Kubs? Stupid. Klique? Clack. Kilgour's Keeks? Nae. Jus’ a few of ‘em were ex-intelligence. Ah. Kilgour's Kilted Kvetchers.
He gave the orders and watched proudly as “his” army, who would never know it, boarded ship for liftoff.
Frae a mo', Ah wae a gen'ral. An’ did y'a like it?
He suddenly had a vision of those soldiers at their fate. Dead slowly or quickly. Bodies shredded beyond reconstruction. Blinded. Crippled. Insane.
Then another vision: He saw all those soldiers wearing a motley of civvies. Bankers, farmers, wives, workmen, tourists in the streets, factories, homes, and pubs of the vast estates Laird Kilgour owned but somehow never got around to asserting his total authority over, back on Edinburgh.
Better. Far better.
Answers y'r wee question, doesn't it, now, he thought. And he ordered the officer of the watch to seal ship and prepare for lift.
* * * *
No one in the Cult of the Eternal Emperor knew exactly how they heard. But suddenly, in a thousand thousand meeting halls on an equal number of worlds, everyone knew.
They had been given a great honor.
One of the privy council had become a fertile ground for the True Belief. Not only a ruler, but the being most reputed to be the most intelligent.
Now he had vanished. No explanation was given by anyone. It was not as if Kyes had regularly appeared in vids of the council—But now it was if he had never existed.
The explanation was simple.
The Mighty Kyes had seen the light. As a reward, he had been taken, in corpore, to commune with the Holy Spheres, just as the Emperor had.
Kyes, they knew, would not return, any more than the handful of saints who had achieved equal reward. None of them were, after all, the Emperor himself.
This was an event. Kyes would be numbered among the Blessed. But more importantly, the believers could sense something else: The time was coming. The Emperor would return soon.
They readied themselves. For what, they did not know. They did not even know if their services would be called for.
But—and let it be so, let us each have a chance to serve, they prayed—they were ready.
* * * *
"Your pardon."
It was not an apology for intrusion, but a command. Sten looked up at the librarian.
A less likely one he had never seen. Not that librarians fell into physical archetypes. But it was the uncommon one who had a flushed tan from a life mostly spent outside, on foot patrol. Nor did many of them have scarred and callused knuckles. And none wore hard-toed, cushion-soled boots, let alone that telltale sag and wear on the belt that came from a holstered gun.
"Yah?” Sten said.
"You're readin’ about the council, right?"
"So? It ‘gin th’ law? Some kinda new law passed since I got up this morn?” Sten slurred.
The man did not answer. “Please could I see your ID?” Again, a command.
Sten took the ID from his pocket and passed it to the man looming over his terminal. It was not Braun's ID, but the standard, generic phony he had scored from Mahoney's safehouse. According to the card, Sten was a caretaker, hired to mind the closed consulate of a frontier world.
"Janitor, eh?” The security goon passed the card back. “Jus’ readin’ about th’ Lords outa curiosity?"
The Lords. New term.
"Nawp,” Sten said. “M'kid wanted to know how th’ world worked. Shamed m'self not knowin'. Thought I'd better read up some. Got, well, laid off las’ week. So got some time while I'm lookin’ f'r a new slot. T'rble, lookin’ stupid front a y'r own son."
The man grunted and walked back to the front of the library.
Sten swore bitterly. Very nice indeed when a being could end up in the slammer for going to a library and going through public records. Just a hell of a good government. Be glad you're nonexistent, son of mine, he thought.
Sten had figured the council just might be paranoid enough to put a trace in the libraries. He had found a shop specializing in actor's supplies and purchased the best pancake makeup available. The clerk had glanced at Sten's scar, winced, and not asked any questions. Sten pretended to be embarrassed by having to buy the makeup and also said he was an amateur actor, and he could use a fake mustache in the production he was in. The pitying clerk went along with the pretense and sold him one.
Scar covered, mustache in place—Sten tried to keep from whuffling it as if he were Rykor, or touching it to see if it had come unglued yet—he entered the library.
He was glad he had taken precautions—he had spotted the phony librarian immediately.
Staying with the cheap cover, he had started the search at PRIVY COUNCIL—FUNCTIONS AND DUTIES, beginning when they ascended to total power and staying clear, for the moment, of the time frame he was interested in. Scrolling
through the flackery and propaganda wasted a full morning. Then he chanced PRIVY COUNCIL—HISTORY (FROM FORMATION TO PRESENT).
That, evidently, was where the security indicator alarm had been hidden.
He scrolled on, glancing every now and then at the front desk. The goon seemed satisfied.
HISTORY ... hmm. NG.
Okay. What next?
PRIVY COUNCIL, PICS. ANY PERIOD.
Endless head and shoulders for thumbnails. Group photos at ceremonies. All very official. Very few, Sten noted, of the Kraas. Maybe they knew what they looked like. Almost nothing on Kyes.
Got any other—whoops!
Sten back-scrolled, hoping he had seen what he thought he had.
I have you, he thought fiercely staring at the screen, which showed all five of the councilors hurrying into the entrance of some kind of hall. They were surrounded by security. The pic was rather poorly framed, and Sten saw, in the corner, a cop headed for the camera, an angry look on his face.
So somebody had shot a picture—looked as if he was either a free-lancer or a citizen—of the bastards. The cop was headed for him to try to grab the pic. Good thing the photog was wearing’ track shoes or was bigger'n the cop, Sten thought.
Now. What was it? He read the caption.
Some kind of sporting event. Gravball? Whatever that was. Sten had about as much interest in athletics as he did in watching rocks grow. He had suffered through the obligatory games in the service, rationalizing them as part of the necessary physical conditioning. This was the Rangers against something called the Blues. Teams. The Blues were offworld, the Rangers from Prime. Big match—a hundred thousand people, including privy council to watch...
Game played at Lovett Arena. Oh clottin’ really.
Sten did not know how many of the privy council were sports freaks. Not that it mattered. This was the only occasion he had been able to find, both in the library and in Haines's records, where the council had assembled on more or less neutral ground to “enjoy” a nonwork-related event.
He noted the date and shut down.
"Clottin’ impossible to understand, this politics,” he confided to the librarian. “Grab a bite, an’ spend the rest of the day readin’ sports. Pick up a few coins bettin’ at th’ bar."
The thug grunted. He didn't care.
Sten could have found a secure com and checked with Haines. He thought it better not to. He probably should have just pulled out and let Haines's police fingers do the rest of the walking. But he was finally on to something. Damned if he was going to let somebody else find the gold from his lead.
He did not eat a midday meal, however. He kept the library's entrance under watch, just in case the goon was really looking for brownie points. Nothing.
He came back, deliberately belched in the goon's direction, and went to his terminal.
SPORTS. RANGERS, HISTORY.
Nothing. He jumped ahead to the date of that big match. Blues undefeated three years ... Rangers won ... big riots as usual. Nothing. At least nothing he could see that tied the event to any councilman.
He was getting closer.
Lovett Arena.
He was sweaty-palmed. Another tracer, and that goon might not listen to any explanations. How do you winkle in? Try ... and his fingers touched the keyboard, AMPHITHEATERS. CURRENT.
He was not watching the screen; he kept his eye on the security man across the huge chamber. The man did not move.
No ... no ... damn, but these people on Prime have got a lot of sports palaces. Lovett Arena.
History?
Try it. Built by Lovett's grandsire ... equipped for every kind of sport conceivable, land, water, or aerial. Lions vs. Christians, Sten wondered. PICS.
He looked at picture after picture, ignoring whatever was in the foreground and what was happening. He was looking at the arena itself.
Clot. If those bastards were going to conspire ... no. Everything was too open. But wait a minute—that was interesting, entire entry:
* * * *
BEHIND THE CHEERS:
How a Stadium Keeps You Fed,
Warm, Safe, and Entertained.
* * * *
Clottin’ poor title. Parking ... underground ... security offices ... my.
So Lovett's grandfather built himself a private suite, did he? Clottin’ awful-looking. Why would anybody hang the heads of dead animals on a wall? Let alone those paintings. But what a wonderful place for a conspiracy to meet. The big game as cover ... bigwigs like sports, especially if they get private seats ... privacy.
Sten had proof—enough for him—that there had been a final meeting before Chapelle was put into play. How could he get backup, enough to take to the Tribunal? Mucketies needed servants when they played. Were there bartenders who had been around that night? Joygirls? Boys? Maybe barkeeps. But not sex toys—not even the Kraas would be that careless.
What else? He punched out of SPORTS, and took a chance on WHO'S WHO. He keyed in LOVETT.
His attention was fixed on the screen. Usual plaudits. Educational bg ... interests ... entered family banking empire on death of mother ... Hmm. No entry ... even in this jerk-off log of him being a sports loon.
Sten's concentration was broken as the library's door banged closed. Damn!
Three uniformed cops entered.
Sten crouched away from the terminal and down an aisle with stacked fiche on either side to a door.
It was locked. His fingers went into a fob pocket and came out with a small tool. Seconds later, the door was unlocked.
He went through the door and relocked it behind him. He heard a shout from the reading room.
Sten, even as he looked for an exit, blinked. This was one hell of a library. Huge vaulted ceiling. Row after row after row of stored fiche, vids, and even books.
He heard fumbling at the door and shouts to get the key. A body thudded against the door.
Sten's fingers curled, and his knife dropped from its sheath inside his forearm into his hand. He ran down into the stacks, loping easily like a tiger looking for an ambush site.
The cops, the security tech in front, got the door open and came into the chamber.
They saw nothing except a couple of robots filing material. They heard nothing. The security man whispered orders: Spread out. Search the whole room.
The cops started to obey perfunctorily. Clot, there they were, wasting time because some clottin’ piece of drakh counterspook sees shadows on the wall and wanted them to bust the cops of some private puke. Then the reaction hit them. Maybe private puke—but one who could somehow go through a locked door.
"We'll stay together."
Two of them took out their guns. The third had a truncheon ready.'
"You first, hero."
A tiny, lethal-looking projectile gun appeared in the secret policeman's hand.
They went into the tiger's jungle.
Suddenly a tall case teetered and crashed sideways. The teeter gave one cop and the security thug time to flat-dive out of the way. The other two were caught by the heavy case and its cascading contents. The first case brought a second one across from it slamming down. They floundered and shouted. Somebody fired a round that whined up into the library's ceiling and ricocheted wildly.
There was a scuffle as the “tiger's” pads moved him away, deeper into the stacks. The two went on, leaving their trapped partners to work their own way free.
One of the trapped cops was wedging his way through a snowstorm of papers, his leg still caught under the case, when he heard a quiet thunk ... and the whiny scratch of somebody trying to take his last breath through a crushed windpipe.
Then there was a sliver of death at his throat. “Scream,” Sten ordered. “Real loud."
The cop followed orders.
The scream was still echoing as Sten slit the man's throat, came up, and darted into another row.
The security goon and the surviving policeman ran up. They had a second for a shocked gape at the two corpses a
nd the gouts of blood before shock turned into horror and a metal-bound folio discused in from nowhere, smashing into the cop's forehead. He collapsed bonelessly.
The security man went for the door, backing ... whirling ... trying to keep from screeching in horror and running into what he knew would be the tiger's final trap.
A fiche clattered on the floor. He spun—nothing. Then he whirled back, gun hand out. Sten stepped in behind him. The goon went limp as Sten severed his spinal cord. He let the body fall. Two flops and it was a corpse.
Now Sten had all the time in the world.
He found an exit and, nearby, an employee's washroom. He swabbed solvent, and the mustache came off into the disposal; and the makeup was scrubbed clean.
Then he went out the door.
Police gravsleds were howling toward the library. Sten trotted down an alley, then slowed. He strolled onward, glancing curiously as the official units whined past.
Just another citizen of Prime.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER THIRTY
"JOHN STUART MILL, this is New River Central Control. We have you on-screen. Do you wish landing instructions?"
Mahoney's pilot keyed a mike. “New River Control, this is the Mill. Negative on that. Landing permission established at Private Port November Alpha Uniform. Will switch frequencies. Over."
"This is New River. I have your fiche on-screen. Switch to UHF 223.7 for contact with November Alpha Uniform. November Alpha will provide locator only, no control personnel at port. New River Control, clear."
The pilot swiveled his chair. “Five minutes, sir."
Mahoney nodded and keyed the intercom mike to the crew compartment. His ship was a barely camouflaged covert insert craft, renamed for the moment after an old Earth economist. Mahoney thought it a nice addition to the cover he was using.
The screen lit and showed ten beings, armed and wearing Mantis Team tropo-camouflage uniforms. All of them were not only ex-Mantis but soldiers Mahoney had used for missions back when he commanded Mercury Corps.
"We'll be down in about five, Ellen,” he told the burly ex-noncom in the compartment.