Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  “Ask, please,” Denat said. “I’m going crazy here.”

  “Well, we’re moving.” Roger pulled out a strand of hair, then tucked it behind his ear. “We can get an abort message to Julian, if it reaches him in time. But for all practical purposes, the die is cast.”

  “Second thoughts?” Despreaux asked. They were in Roger’s quarters eating a quiet meal, just the two of them.

  “Some,” he admitted. “You don’t know how good the ‘government-in-exile’ plan’s looked to me from time to time.”

  “Oh, I think I do. But it was never really an option, was it?”

  “No, not really.” Roger sighed. “I just hate putting everyone in harm’s way, again. When does it end?”

  “I don’t know.” Despreaux shrugged. “When we win?”

  “If we capture Mother, and New Madrid,” he never called New Madrid “father,” “and Adoula. Maybe everything will hold together. Oh, and capture the replicator, too. And if Helmut can checkmate Home Fleet. And if none of Adoula’s cabal grabs a portion of the Navy and flees back to the Sagittarius Sector. If, if, if.”

  “You need to stop fretting about it,” Despreaux said, and then smiled crookedly at the look he gave her. “I know—I know! Easier to say than to do. That doesn’t keep it from being good advice.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “But there’s not much point giving someone advice you know he can’t follow.”

  “True. So let’s at least worry about something we might be able to do something about. Any news on the freighter?”

  “Sreeetoth said maybe two more days,” Roger replied with a shrug of his own. “They didn’t have one that was quite right in-system. It’s coming from Seranos. Everything else is ready to go, so all we can do is wait.”

  “Whatever will we do with the time?” Despreaux smiled again, not at all crookedly.

  None of the crew recruited for the freighter were aware of the true identities of their passengers. They’d been recruited in spaceport bars around the Seranos System, one of the fringe systems of the Alphane Alliance which bordered on Raiden-Winterhowe, and they knew something was fishy. Nobody, no matter how rich and eccentric, charters a freighter, picks up a crew, and loads the freighter with barbarians, live animals of particularly nasty dispositions, and food that can’t possibly recoup the cost of the voyage for reasons that weren’t “fishy.” But the crew, most of whom had some questionable moments tucked away in their own backgrounds, assumed it was a standard illegal venture. Smuggling, probably, although smuggling what was a question. But they knew they were getting paid smuggler’s wages, and that was good enough for them.

  It was twelve days to the edge of Imperial space, and their first stop was Customs in the Carsta System, Baron Sandhurt’s region.

  They intended to stop only long enough to clear customs, but it was a nerve-wracking time. This was “insertion,” the most dangerous moment of any covert operation. Anything could go wrong. The Mardukans were all briefed with their cover stories. The Earther had hired them to go to Old Earth to work in restaurants. Some of them were soldiers from their home world, yes; but wars were getting short, which was leaving them unemployed, and unemployable. Some of them were cooks, yes. Would you like to try some roast atul?

  Roger waited at the docking port as the shuttle came alongside, standing with his hands folded behind him and his feet shoulder width apart. Not entirely calm; total calm would have been a dead giveaway. Everyone was always uncomfortable at customs. You never knew when something could go wrong—some crewman with contraband, a change in some obscure regulation that meant a portion of your cargo impounded.

  Beach appeared much calmer, as befitted her role. She was only a hired hand, right? Of course she was, and she’d been through customs repeatedly. And if anything was amiss, well, it wasn’t her money, was it? The worst that could happen was a black mark against her and, well, that had happened before, hadn’t it? She’d still be a captain on some vessel or another. It was just customs.

  The airlock’s inner hatch slid aside to reveal a medium-height young man with brown hair and slight epicanthic folds to his eyes. He wore a skin-tight environment suit and carried his helmet under his arm.

  “Lieutenant Weller?” Roger said, holding out his hand. “Augustus Chung. I’m the charterer for the ship. And this is Captain Beach, her skipper.”

  Weller was followed by four more customs inspectors—about right for a ship this size. Most of them were older than Weller, seasoned customs inspectors, but not ones who were ever going to be promoted to high rank. Like Weller, they racked their helmets on the bulkhead, then stood waiting.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chung,” Weller said.

  “Ship’s documents,” Beach said, extending a pad. “And identity documents on all the passengers and crew. Some of the passengers are . . . a little irregular. Mardukans. They’ve got IDs from the planetary governor’s office, but . . . well, Mardukans don’t have birth certificates, you know?”

  “I understand,” Weller said, taking the pad and transferring the data to his own. “I’ll look this over while my team does its survey.”

  “I’ve detailed crew to show you around,” Beach said, gesturing to the group behind her. It consisted of Macek, Mark St. John, Corporal Bebi, and Despreaux. “Go for it,” she continued, looking at Weller’s assistants. “I’ll be available by com if you need me, but where I’ll be is down in Engineering.” She transferred her glance to Roger. “I’m going to make sure the damned TD capacitors aren’t overheating this time, Mr. Chung.”

  She nodded to the customs party generally, then walked briskly away, and Weller looked up from the data on his pad to cock his head at Roger.

  “Trouble with your ship, sir?”

  “Just old,” Roger replied. “Chartering any tunnel drive ship’s bloody expensive, pardon my Chinee. There’s little enough margin in this business at all.”

  “Restaurants?” Weller said, looking back down at the data displayed on his pad. “Most of this appears to be foodstuffs and live cargo.”

  “It was all checked for contamination,” Roger said hurriedly. “There’s not much on Marduk that’s infectious and transferable. But, yes, I’m starting a restaurant on Old Earth—authentic Mardukan food. Should do well, if it catches on; it’s quite tasty. But you know how things are. And the capitalization is horrible. To be successful in the restaurant business, you have to be capitalized for at least eighteen months, so—”

  “I’m sure,” Weller said, nodding. “Bit of an interesting group of passengers, Mr. Chung. A rather . . . diverse group.”

  “I’ve been in the brokering business for years,” “Chung” said. “Like my investors, the people I picked to assist me in this venture are friends I’ve made over the years. It may look like a bit of a pickup crew, but they’re not. Good people. The best.”

  “I can see what your captain meant about the Mardukans.” Weller was frowning at the data entries on the Mardukans.

  “They’re all citizens of the Empire,” Roger pointed out. “That’s one of the points I’ve kept in mind—free passage between planets, and all that. No requirement for work visas, among other things.”

  “It all looks right,” Weller said, holstering his pad. “I’ll just go tag along with my inspectors.”

  “If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to your duties. I need to catch up on my paperwork,” Roger said.

  “Just one more thing,” Weller said, taking a device from the left side of his utility belt. “Gene scan. Got to confirm you’re who you say you are,” he added, smiling thinly.

  “Not a problem,” Roger replied, and held out his hand with an appearance of assurance he didn’t quite feel. They’d tested the bod-mods using Alphane devices, but this was the moment of truth. If the scanner picked up who he really was . . .

  Weller ran the device over the back of his hand, then looked at the readout.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chung,” the lieutenant said. “I’ll just
get on with my work.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’re cleared,” Beach said as she came into the office.

  “Good,” Roger replied, then sighed. “This is nerve-wracking.”

  “Yes, it is,” Beach agreed with a grin. “Covert ops are bloody nerve-wracking. I don’t know why I don’t give it up, but for now, things are looking good. A day more to charge, and we’re on our way to Sol.”

  “Three weeks?” Roger asked.

  “Just about—twenty and a half days.”

  “Time, time, time . . .” Roger muttered. “Ask me for anything but time.”

  “That damned inspector!” Despreaux groused.

  “Problems?” Roger asked. As far as he’d been able to determine, the only trouble the inspectors had found was one of the pickup crew who’d had a stash of illegal drugs. The crewman had been escorted off the ship, and a small fine had been paid.

  “No, he just kept trying to pinch my butt,” Despreaux said angrily. “And asking me to reach up and get things from overhead bins.”

  “Oh.” Roger smiled.

  “It’s not funny,” Despreaux said, glaring at him exasperatedly. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t have enjoyed it if it’d been your butt, either! And I kept expecting him to say something like: ‘Aha! You are the notorious Nimashet Despreaux, known companion of the dangerous Prince Roger MacClintock!’”

  “I really doubt they’d put it like that, but I know what you mean.”

  “And I’m worried about Julian.”

  “So am I.”

  “If I never see another pocking ship, it be too soon,” Poertena muttered as they stepped off the shuttle.

  “Sorry to hear you feel that way, Poertena,” Julian replied, “since with any luck, we’ll see a few more. And try like hell not to talk, okay? Your damned passport says you’re from Armagh, and that is not an Armaghan accent.”

  “How do we find this guy?” Denat asked. “I don’t see anything that looks like a Navy shuttle.”

  Halliwell II was a temperate but arid world, right on the edge of Imperial space, near the border with Raiden-Winterhowe. Raiden had tried to “annex” it twice, once since the Halliwell System had joined the Empire. It was an associate world, a nonvoting member of the Empire, with a low population which consisted mostly of miners and scattered farmers.

  Sogotown, the capital of Halliwell II and the administrative center for the surrounding Halliwell Cluster, boasted a rather mixed architecture. The majority of the buildings, including the row of godowns around the spaceport, were low rammed-earth structures, but there were a few multistory buildings near the center of town. The entire modest city was placed on the banks of one of the main continent’s few navigable rivers, and the newly arrived visitors could see barges being offloaded along the riverfront.

  Several ships were scattered around the spaceport—mostly large cargo shuttles, but including a few air-cargo ships, and even one large lighter-than-air ship. None of them had Imperial Navy markings.

  “They might be using civilian shuttles,” Julian said, “but it’s more likely they’re not here right now. We’ll ask around. Come on, we’ll try the bars.”

  Entry was informal. They’d asked about a customs inspector, but the shack where he should have been was empty. Julian left a data chip with their information on the desk, and then they walked into town.

  The main road into town was stabilized earth, a hard surface that was cracked and rutted by wheeled traffic. There were a few electric-powered ground cars around, but much of the traffic (what of it there was) seemed to be tractor, horse, and even ox-drawn carts. It was midday, and hot (by human standards; Denat and Sena had their environment suits cranked considerably higher), and most of the population seemed to be sheltering indoors.

  They walked through the godowns ringing the port and past a couple of hock-shops, then stopped outside the first bar they came to. Its garish neon sign advertised Koun beer and featured a badly done picture of a horse’s head.

  The memory-plastic door dilated as Julian walked up to it. The interior was dim, but he could see four or five men slouched around the bar, and the room smelled of smoke, stale beer, and urine. A corner jukebox played a whining song about whiskey, women, and why they didn’t go well together.

  “God,” Julian whispered. “I’m home.”

  Denat pulled the membrane mask off his face and looked around, sniffing the air.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Guess some things are universal.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Sena said dryly, true-hands flicking in a body language gesture which expressed semiamused distaste. “And among them are the fact that males are all little boys at heart. Spoiled little boys. Try not to get falling down drunk, Denat.”

  “You just talk that way because you love me,” Denat told her with a deep chuckle, then looked back at Julian. “First round’s on you.”

  “Speaking of universal,” Julian muttered, but he led the way to the bar.

  The drinkers were all male, all of them rather old, with the weathered faces and hands of men who’d worked outside most of their lives and now had nothing better to do than to be drinking whiskey in the early morning. The bartender was a woman, younger than the drinkers, but not by much, with a look that said she’d been rode hard and put up wet and was going to keep right on riding. Blonde hair, probably from a bottle, with gray and dark brown at the roots. A face that had been pretty once, but a nice smile and a quizzical look at the Mardukans.

  “What you drinkin’?” she asked, stepping over from where she’d been talking with the regulars.

  “What’s on tap?” Julian asked, looking around for a menu. All that decorated the room were signs for beer and whiskey and a few pinups with dart holes in them.

  “Koun, Chika, and Alojzy,” the woman recited. “I’ve got Koun, Chika, Alojzy, Zedin, and Jairntorn in bulbs. And if you’re a limp-wrist wine drinker, there’s red, white, and violet. Whiskey you can see for yourself,” she added, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the racked bulbs and plastic bottles. Most of them were pretty low-cost whiskey, but one caught Julian’s eye.

  “Two double shots of MacManus, and a full highball,” he said, then glanced at Sena and raised an eyebrow. She flicked one hand in a gesture of assent, and he smiled. “Make that two highballs. And then, two glasses of Koun, and a pitcher.”

  “You know your whiskey, son,” the woman said approvingly. “But those highballs’re gonna cost you.”

  “I’ll live,” Julian told her.

  “Who’re your big friends?” the bartender asked when she came back with the drinks.

  “Denat and Sena. They’re Mardukan.”

  “Scummies?” The woman’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one. Well, I guess you get all kinds. Long way from home, though.”

  “Yes, it is,” Denat said in broken Imperial. He picked up one of the highballs and passed the second to Sena. Then both of them clinked glasses with Julian and Poertena. “Death to the Kranolta!” He tossed off the drink. “Ahhhh,” he gargled. “Smooooth.”

  Sena sipped more sedately, then twisted both false-hands in a complicated gesture of pleasure.

  “It actually is,” she said in Marshadan, looking across at Julian. “Amazing. I hadn’t expected such a discerning palette out of you, Julian.”

  “Smart ass,” the Marine retorted in the same language, and she gave the coughing grunt of a Mardukan chuckle.

  “What’d he say?” the barkeep asked, glancing back and forth between Sena and Julian.

  “He was just observing that you should be glad Denat’s past his heat, or there’d be blood on the walls,” Julian said with a chuckle, grinning at both Mardukans. He took a more judicious sip of his own drink, and had to admit that it was smooth. “God, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a MacManus.”

  “What are you doing in this godforsaken place?” she asked.

  “Looking for a lovely bartender,” Julian said with a smile
. “And I got lucky.”

  “Heard it,” the woman said, but she smiled back.

  “Actually, we’ve been traveling,” Julian replied. “Bit of this here and that there. Picked up Denat and Sena on Marduk, when I had a bit of a problem and they helped me out with it. I heard the Navy’s been landing here, and that they’ve got some civilian crews in their service squadrons. I’ve got a clean discharge, and so does Magee here,” he said, gesturing to Poertena. “Looking to see if there’s any work.”

  “Doubt it.” The woman shook her head. “Only thing that lands is cargo shuttles. They pick up supplies and take off again. Sometimes, the crews come in for a drink, but they don’t stay long. And they’re the only ones who land. Others’ve asked about work, but they’re not hiring. You know what they’re doing, right?”

  “No,” Julian said.

  “They’re waiting to see who wins in Imperial City. Seems there’s a chunk of Parliament that’s really gotten ugly about what’s happening with the Empress.”

  “What is happening?” Poertena asked, with only the slightest trace of an accent.

  “Yeah, the news is saying everything’s peachy,” Julian noted.

  “Yeah, well, they would, wouldn’t they?” The bartender shook her head.

  “Only one seeing the Empress these days is that snake’s asshole Adoula,” one of the regulars said, sliding down a stool. “Won’t even let the Prime Minister in to see her. They say they’ve toombied her. She’s not in control anymore.”

  “Shit,” Julian said, shaking his head. “Bastards. Calling Adoula a snake’s asshole’s insulting to snakes.”

  “Yeah, but he’s got the power, don’t he?” the regular replied. “Got the Navy on his side. Most of it, anyway. And he’s got friends in the Lords, and all.”