by David Weber
“That’s it. And don’t go around trying to recruit my boys and girls. We’ve discussed this—in much more secure facilities than you have here. We’re out of this little dynastic squabble.”
“It’s going to end up as more than a dynastic squabble,” Roger ground out.
“Prove it,” Catrone scoffed.
“Not if you’re not with us.” Roger wiped his lips and stood. “It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Catrone.”
“It was . . . interesting meeting you, Mr. Chung.” Catrone rose and held out his hand. “Good luck in your new business. I hope it prospers.”
When treason prospers, then none dare call it treason, Roger thought. I wonder if that was an intentional quote.
He shook Catrone’s hand and left the table.
“Where’s Mr. Chung?” Shelia asked when they got back to the table.
“He had some business to take care of,” Tomcat replied, looking at “Shara.” “I told him I hope it prospers.”
“Just that?” Despreaux asked incredulously.
“Just that,” Catrone said. “Time to leave, Sheila.”
“Yes,” Despreaux said. “Maybe it is. Sheila,” she said, turning to Ms. Catrone, “this has been lovely. I hope we meet again.”
“Well, we’ll be back for supper tomorrow,” Sheila said.
“Maybe,” Catrone qualified.
“The basik was wonderful,” Sheila said, glancing at her husband. “But it’s been a long day. We’ll be going.”
Catrone nodded to the blonde hostess as they were leaving.
“Hell send, Mistress,” he said.
“Heaven go with you, Mr. Catrone,” the hostess replied, her nostrils flaring.
“What was that all about?” Sheila asked as they waited for the airtaxi.
“Don’t ask,” Tomcat answered. “We’re in Indian country until we get home.”
Tomcat didn’t do anything that night except fool around with his wife a bit, courtesy of the bottle of champagne from the management. The all-expenses-paid trip he’d “won” had them in a very nice suite. Suites had not been high on his list of previous accommodations, and this one was really classy, more like a two-story apartment on the top floor of the hotel. He could see Imperial Park and a corner of the Palace from it, and when Sheila was asleep, he stood by the unlighted window for a while, looking at the place where he’d lived for almost three decades. He could see a few of the guards near the night entrances. Adoula’s bully-boys—not real Empress’ Own. And sure as hell not guarding the Empress, except against her friends.
The next day, their third in the city, they took in the Imperial Museums. Plural. It was a pain in the ass, but he’d married Sheila, his third wife, after he left the Service, and she’d never been to the Capital. They’d met while he was buying horses, shortly after he got out. He’d grown up on a farm, in an area in the central plains that was now chockablock with houses. He’d wanted to go back to a farm, but the only land he could afford was in Central Asia. So after gathering a small string, he’d set up the Farm. And along the way, he’d picked up another wife.
This one was a keeper, though. Not much to look at, compared to his first wife, especially, but a real keeper. As they walked through the Art Museum, with Sheila gawking at the ancient paintings and sculpture, he looked over at her and thought of what failure would mean. To her, not to him. He’d put it on the line too many times, for far less reason, to worry about himself. But if everything went down, they weren’t going to target just him.
That evening, they ate in a small restaurant in the hotel. He made the excuse that they didn’t have time to go over to Marduk house, not if they were going to make it to the opera.
They dressed for the evening, a classically simple black low-cut suit for her, and one of those damned brocaded court-monkey suits for him. The management had arranged the aircar for them, and everything was laid on. He added a stylish evening pouch to his ensemble, mentally swearing at the aforementioned monkey suit with its high collar and purple chemise.
As the second intermission was ending, he took Sheila’s arm when they headed back to the box.
“Honey, I can’t take much more of this,” he said. “You stay. You like it. I’m going to go for a walk.”
“Okay.” She frowned. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” he grinned.
Once out of the Opera House, with its ornate façade, he turned down the street and headed for one of the nearby multilevel malls. It was still open, still doing a fair business, and he wandered through, poking into a couple of clothing stores and one outdoor equipment store. Then he saw what he was looking for, and followed a gentleman down a corridor to the bathrooms.
The bathroom, thankfully, was deserted except for them. The guy headed over to the urinal, and Tomcat palmed an injector, stepped up behind him, and laid the air gun against the base of his neck.
The target dropped without a word, and Tomcat grabbed him under the shoulders, muttering at his weight, and dragged him into one of the stalls. He quickly stripped off his monkey suit and started pulling things out of the evening pouch.
There was a light, thin jumpsuit with dialable coloration. He set it to the same shade as the garments the target had been wearing. The target had also worn a floppy beret and a jacket, and Tomcat took those, as well as his pad and spare credit chips. He squirted alcohol on the target’s shirt, then extracted the facial prosthetic from the pouch and slipped it on. It didn’t look like the target, but anyone looking for Thomas Catrone wouldn’t recognize him. There were thin gloves, as well, ones that disappeared into the flesh but would camouflage DNA and fingerprints.
He turned the pouch inside-out, so that it looked like a normal butt-pack, and stuck it up under the jacket for concealment, since the target hadn’t been wearing one. Satisfied, he made one more sweep to ensure the site was clean, then stepped out of the bathroom. On the way out, he dumped the monkey suit into the incinerator chute. In one way, it was a damned shame—the thing had cost an arm and a leg. On the other hand, he was glad to see it gone.
He spotted the tail as soon as he left the dead-end corridor—a young male, Caucasian, with a holo jacket and a nose ring. The shadow paid no attention to the blond man in the jacket, his beret pulled down stylishly over one eye. The tail appeared to be enjoying a coffee and reading his pad, standing at the edge of the store with one leg propped up against the storefront.
Catrone walked on down the mall, slowly, strolling and shopping, searching for a certain look. He found it not far from a store which sold lingerie. Most women avoid eye contact with men they don’t know; this young lady was smiling faintly at most of the passing men between glances at the pad she held in her lap.
“Hi, there,” Catrone said, sitting down next to her. “You look like a woman who enjoys a good time. Whatever are you doing sitting around this boring old mall?”
“Looking for you,” the girl said, smiling and turning off her pad.
“Well, I’m just a little busy at the moment. But if you’d like to really help me out in a little practical joke, I’d appreciate it.”
“How much would you appreciate it?” the hooker asked sharply.
“Two hundred credits worth,” Tomcat replied.
“Well, in that case . . .”
“My friend is waiting for me, but . . . I had another offer. I don’t want him to feel dumped or anything, so . . . why don’t you go take my place for a while?”
“I take it he goes both ways?”
“Very,” Tomcat replied. “Dark hair, light skin, standing outside the Timson Emporium reading a pad and drinking coffee. Show him a really good time,” he finished, handing her two hundred-credit chips.
“A lot of money for a practical joke,” the hooker said, taking the chips.
“Call it avoiding the end of a wonderful relationship,” Tomcat replied. “He can’t know it was from me, understand?”
“Not a problem,” the woman said. “And, you know
, if you’re ever in the mood for company . . .”
“Not my type.” Tomcat sighed. “You’re a lovely girl, but . . .”
“I understand.” She stood up. “Light skin, dark hair, standing in front of the Emporium.”
“Wearing a holo jacket. Drinking coffee—Blue Galaxy-coffee bulb.”
“Got it.”
The target was taking a long damned time on the toilet. Too long. Long enough that Gao Ikpeme was getting worried. But Catrone was wearing a damned evening suit; there was no way Ikpeme could have missed seeing that come out of the can.
He slid one leg down and lifted the other to rest it—then damned near jumped out of his own skin as a tongue flickered into his ear.
“Hi, handsome,” a sultry voice said.
He whipped around and found himself face-to-face with a pretty well set up redhead. Keeping in fashion, she wore damned near nothing—a halter top and a miniskirt so low on her hips and so high cut that it was more of a thin band of fabric to cover her pubic hair and butt.
“Look,” the redhead said, leaning into him and quivering, “I just took some Joy, and I’m, you know, really horny. And you are just my type. I don’t care if it’s in one of the restrooms, or in a changing stall, or right here on the damned floor—I just want you.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” Gao said, trying to keep an eye on the corridor door and failing. “I’m meeting somebody, you know?”
“Bring her along,” the woman said, breathing hard. “Hell, we’ll be done by the time she gets here. Or he. I don’t care. I want you now!”
“I said—”
“I want you, I want you, I want you,” the woman crooned, sliding around in front of him and up and down, her belly pressing against the world’s worst erection. “And you want me.”
“Geez, buddy, get a room,” one of the shoppers said in passing. “There’re kids here, okay?”
“Quit this!” Gao hissed. “I can’t go with you right now!”
“Fine!” The woman raised one leg up along his body and rocked up and down. “I’ll just . . . I’ll just . . .” she panted hoarsely.
“Oh, Christ!” Gao grabbed her by the arm, darted into the store, and managed to find a more or less deserted aisle for what turned out to take about six seconds.
“Oh, that was good,” the girl said, pulling her panties back into place and licking her lips. She ran her hands up and down his jacket and smiled. “We need to get together again and spend a little more time together.”
“Yeah,” Gao gasped, rearranging his clothes. “Christ! I’ve got to get back out there!”
“Later,” the hooker said, waving fingers at him as he practically ran to the front of the store. There. She didn’t even have to feel bad about the two hundred credits. Quickest trick she’d ever turned, too.
Gao looked up and down the mall corridors, but the target was nowhere in sight. He could have come out while he was off-post, but . . . Damn. Nothing for it.
Gao walked across the mall and down the corridor into the bathroom. There was nobody in sight inside. Feet in one of the stalls, though.
He pushed on the door, which slid open. There was a drunk sprawled all over the toilet; it wasn’t the target.
Oh, shit.
He walked back out into the main passageway, hoping that maybe the target had just stepped into a store or something. But, no, there was nobody in sight.
He frowned for a moment, then shrugged and pulled out his pad. He keyed a combination, and shook his head at the person who appeared on the screen.
“Lost him.”
Catrone tapped at his pad as if scrolling something and leaned into his earbug.
“I dunno, he went into the can. I watched it the whole time . . . No, I don’t think it was a deliberate slip, I just lost him . . . Yeah, okay. I’ll try to pick him up at the hotel.”
Catrone consulted a directory, but the number the tail had called was unlisted. He could countertail him, and see what turned up, but that was probably useless. He’d have at least a couple of cutouts. Besides, Thomas Catrone had things to do.
Tomcat walked to a landing stage and caught an airtaxi across town. The taxi was driven by a maniac who seemed to be high on something. At least he cackled occasionally as they slid under and over slower cars. Finally, the cab reached Catrone’s destination—a randomly chosen intersection. He paid in chips, some of them from the unfortunate citizen in the mall bathroom, and walked two blocks to a public access terminal.
He keyed the terminal for personal ads, and then placed one.
“WGM seeks SBrGM for fun lovin and serious crack romp. Thermi. [email protected].”
He did a quick check and confirmed that there were no identical ads on that site.
“Please pay three credits,” the terminal requested, and he slid in three credit chips.
“Your ad in Imperial Singles Daily is confirmed. Thank you for using Adoula Info Terminals.”
“Yeah,” Catrone muttered. “What a treat.”
He took the public grav-tube back to the hotel and sat by the window, watching the city go by. Even at this time of night, all the air-lanes were full, with idiots like that taxi driver weaving up and down and in and out of the lanes. The tubecars moved between the lanes, drawing their power from inductive current and surrounded by clear glassteel tubes, rounding the buildings three hundred meters in the air. You could see into windows, those that weren’t polarized or curtained. People sitting down to a late dinner. People watching holovid. A couple arguing. Millions of people stacked in boxes, and the boxes stretching to the horizon. What would they think if they knew he was going past, with what was in his head? Did they care that Adoula was in control of the Throne? Did they want the Empress restored? Or were they so checked out that they didn’t even know who the Empress was?
He thought about something someone had told him one time. Something like most men aren’t good for anything but turning food into shit. But the Empire wasn’t the Empress, it was all those people turning food into shit. They had a stake, whether they knew it or not. So what would they think? Anyone who tried to rescue Alexandra was risking a kinetic strike on the Palace, but just the civil disorder which would follow a successful countercoup would make all of those millions of lives about him a living hell. Air-lanes jammed, tubes grounded, traffic control shut down . . .
He got out of the tube at a station a few blocks from the hotel and let himself in the back way. He’d dumped all the remaining credits from the target, along with the jacket and beret, in a public incinerator chute.
Sheila was sitting up in bed watching a holomovie when he walked into the suite. She raised one eyebrow at the way he was dressed, but he shook his head and took off the clothes. They, too, went into the incinerator. It was a room incinerator, moreover. This was a classy place that probably normally had staff-pukes and their bosses staying in its suites. It was as secure as anything he was going to find, and there probably wasn’t anything incriminating on the clothes, anyway. But better safe than sorry.
He climbed into bed with his wife and laid an arm over her shoulder.
“How was the opera?”
“Great.”
“I don’t see how anything can be great that’s all in a foreign language.”
“That’s because you’re a barbarian.”
“Once a barbarian, always a barbarian,” Tomcat Catrone replied. “Always.”
“Catrone was as clear as he could be that he won’t help,” Roger said. “And that the senior members of the Association aren’t going to help, either. They’re sitting this one out.”
“That is so totally . . . bogus,” Kosutic said angrily.
They’d come to the warehouse to “check on resupply.” The restaurant was doing even better than Roger had hoped, almost to the point of worry. Even an interstellar freighter could carry only so much Mardukan food, and they were running through it nearly twenty-five percent faster than he’d anticipated. If he sent a ship back, no
w, for more goods, it might get back in time, but he doubted it. Fortunately, the Mardukans and their beasts could eat terrestrial food, and he’d been substituting that for the last few days. It didn’t have all the essential nutrients they needed, though. The Mardukans were suddenly on the reverse side of what the Marines had faced on Marduk, but without Marine nanites which could convert some materials to essential vitamins.
It wasn’t exactly what he would have called a “good” situation under any circumstances, but at least it gave them a convenient excuse to use the secure rooms in the underground bunker.
“The good news is that the first of our ‘machine tools’ have arrived from our friends,” Rastar said. He was handling the warehouse and restaurant while Honal worked on another project.
“Good,” Roger said. “Where?”
Rastar led them out of the meeting room and down a series of corridors to a storeroom which was stacked with large—some of them very large—plasteel boxes. Rastar keyed a code into the pad on one of them and opened it up, revealing a suit of powered armor plated in ChromSten.
“Now is when we need Julian and Poertena,” Despreaux observed unhappily.
“These’re Alphane suits,” Roger pointed out, coming over to examine the armor carefully. “They’d be as much a mystery to Julian as they are to us. But we’re going to have to get them fitted anyway.”
“And they came through on the rest of it, too,” Rastar said, making a Mardukan hand gesture which indicated amusement. He opened up one of the larger boxes and waved both left hands.
“Damn,” Roger breathed. “They did.”
This suit was much larger than the human-sized one in the first box, with four arms and a high helmet to accommodate a Mardukan’s horns. The upper portion had even been formed to resemble horns.
“And this.” Rastar opened up another long, narrow box.
“What in the hell is that?” Krindi Fain asked, looking down at the weapon nestled in the box.
“It’s a hovertank plasma cannon,” Despreaux said in an awed tone. “Cruisers carry them as antifighter weapons.”