by Chris Bunch
The Emperor's face clotted with anger, and he started to rise to his feet. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and sat down again, the anger barely under control. "You're right, Captain. I'm getting ahead of myself." He took another deep breath. "Fine, then. Let me explain.
"This… accident has put all of us in a world of hurt. And if you do believe that it was an accident, then tell me now, because I obviously have the wrong man for the job."
Sten shook his head. "No, sir. I don't think it was an accident."
"Good. Now let me fill you in on the background. And I'm sure I don't have to warn you that not one word I say is to be repeated.
"To begin with, Alain was here to see me."
Sten was surprised. The Eternal Emperor meeting with a terrorist? That was absolutely against Imperial policy. But then Sten remembered who set Imperial policy, and kept his mouth shut.
"He had a proposal—and I'm sure it was a serious one, or I wouldn't have hung myself out like this—to defuse our problems with the Tahn System. Simply put, he wanted to set up a buffer zone, his Fringe Worlds—under my aegis—between the Tahn and the Empire."
"But wouldn't that make him a traitor to his own people?"
The Eternal Emperor gave Sten a grim smile. "One man's traitor is another man's patriot. The way I see it is that it finally got through the thick heads of Alain and his people that they are the ones doing all the bleeding.
"Every time the Tahn act and we retaliate, they're the ones who get it in the neck. And they are also the ones who take all the blame and get nothing in return."
"And so he set up a secret meeting with you?" Sten said, filling in the gaps. "The Tahn found out and short-stopped him."
"Not quite that simple. Yes, he was going to meet with me. Eventually. But first off, there was to be an initial meeting with one of my best diplomatic operatives. A man named Craigwel."
"One of the unidentified bodies in the bar?" Sten guessed.
"Exactly. And he's going to stay unidentified. Officially, that is."
"Any other victims in the bar I should know about?"
There was a long hesitation. And then the emperor shook his head, firmly, no.
"Just worry about Craigwel and Alain. Now, it was supposed to work like this. After exchanging the usual password, Alain and Craigwel were supposed to request Booth C. It had already been reserved for them and secured.
"Alain was then going to lay out his plan, and if he convinced Craigwel of his sincerity, we would have gone to the next step. A personal meeting with me."
"But then the Tahn stepped in," Sten said.
"Maybe. But don't be too sure of that. There are about five sides too many in this thing, each one of them with a reason to prevent any negotiations.
"Perhaps it was the Tahn. Perhaps it was someone from our camp. And who knows—perhaps it was one of Alain's own people. Regardless. That's what I want you to find out."
"But why me, sir? it sounds like a job for a cop. And that I'm not. Clot, I wouldn't even know—"
"No, Captain. This is not a job for the police. It's much too delicate a situation. The police are investigating. And, officially, they will round up a few suspects and those people will be publicly punished."
He leaned closer to Sten to emphasize his next point. "And those people will be scapegoats. I don't even care how guilty they are. Just as long as we have somebody to feed the public lions. Because there is a good chance that what you find out will remain classified for the next hundred years."
He fixed Sten with a cold stare.
"Do I make myself absolutely clear, Captain?"
"Yes, sir." Sten came to his feet. "If that will be all, sir." He snapped a salute.
"Yes, Captain. That's all. For now."
Sten wheeled and was out the door.
Chapter Nine
"Drink up, Cheenas," Dynsman shouted. "It's all on me today." He pounded on the table for the bartender's attention and made motions for six more brimming schooners of narcobeer with synthalk backs. His companions hissed their approval. Dynsman watched in fascination as Usige, his best pal in the group, grabbed a liter jug, unhinged his jaws, and poured down the whole thing without a gasp or even breathing hard. "That's it Usige, old buddy. Drink 'em down and make room for another."
Of course, downing a liter of narcobeer at a gulp was not a great accomplishment for Usige or the others. Their scaled abdomens could swell to almost any proportions, and the only visible signs of inebriation the Psaurus ever displayed was to turn a slightly darker shade of purple.
"I tell you, cheenas, today begins a whole new life for yours truly. I hit it lucky for a change. And I'm gonna keep hittin' that way. I can feel it in my bones."
Usige's grin framed serrated rows of needle-sharp teeth. "I don't want to pry, Dynsman dearest," he hissed, "but you've been flashing a wad of credits around that would even choke one of us." He waved at his yellow-eyed companions. "Your obvious good fortune delights us all. But…"
"You wanna know if I can put you in on it," Dynsman broke in.
"That would be lovely, old fellow. Business, as you no doubt know, has been a touch slow."
"Sorry, pal. This was a one-time number. The kind we all dream of. I pick up the rest of my pay in a couple of hours, and then it's party time for the rest of my life."
Usige tried to hide his disappointment, not an easy task; the skin of a Psaurus glows when the creature is disturbed. Dynsman noticed the change and leaned over to pat his friend's claw.
"Don't clottin' worry. Dynsman never forgets his cheenas. Fact, I might make a business of it, now that I'm comin' into all these credits.
"What the clot, you boys come up with somethin' tasty, need a little financing, you can always hit me up. Low interest rates, and maybe a small cut of the action if the deal's really sweet."
Usige's color returned to normal. There was an idea that appealed to him. Rates for the criminal element in Prime World tended to be not only enormous but also more than painful if payment was delayed.
"That is certainly worth considering, friend. We can discuss it later. Now, meanwhile…" Usige rose to his full two-and-a-half-meter height and snaked out his foot-long orange tongue as a signal to the others to follow.
"Unlike you, we still have to pay the rent."
"Anything nice?"
"Not really. Just a little warehouse B&E."
Dynsman sighed his understanding and watched his friends slither out of the bar, their long tails scraping the floor after them. He checked the time: still a little more than two hours before his meeting. He had been hoping that Usige would keep him company, because he hated waiting alone. He was itching with impatience, and although he didn't realize it yet, a tiny warning bell was still tinkling at the back of his mind.
He ordered up another drink, dumped a credit coin in the newsvid, and began scanning the sports menu. He stifled a yawn as he picked through the sparse offerings. Not much happening so soon after Empire Day—especially if you wanted to get a bet down. Bored, he flipped over to the general news section. Dynsman had less than no interest in anything involving the straight workings of Prime World. But what the clot, maybe something juicy was going on in his profession. He scanned the menu, looking for anything involving crime.
He didn't have to scan far. The Covenanter bombing headline jumped out at him like a holovid. Clot! Clot! Clot! His target had been clotting political! Dynsman automatically gulped down his shot of synthalk and then almost equally as automatically found himself gagging on his own bile. He fought to keep it back.
Steady, man, steady. Gotta clotting think. Gotta clotting—And the first thing he realized was that he was as good as a dead man. No credits would be waiting for him when he met with his contact. Although the payment, he was certain, would be quite final.
He ran over the possibilities. Obviously, he would have to be satisfied with the roll in his pocket. Would it be enough to pay for a hideout? How long would it take before pursuers forgot abou
t him? Dynsman groaned; he knew the answer. It had been set up just as skillfully as Godfrey Alain. There would be no forgetting.
There was only one solution, and the thought frightened him almost as much as the cold-faced man he knew would soon be tracking him. Dynsman had to get off Prime World.
Chapter Ten
Lieutenant Lisa Haines, Homicide Division, wanted to kill someone. At that particular moment, she wasn't particular who it would be, but she wanted the method to be interesting, preferably one that involved parboiling.
And evisceration, she added, as the combat car with the Imperial color-slash on it grounded on the crosswalk.
The man who climbed out wasn't the pompous beribboned bureaucrat she'd expected when her superiors advised that an Imperial liaison officer would be assigned to the case. The man who came toward her was young and slender, and wore only the plain brown livery of the Imperial Household. He appeared to be unarmed.
Sten, on the other hand, was nursing his own attitude. He barely noticed that the woman was about his own age and under different circumstances could have been described as attractive. Sten was flat irked. He still had no idea why the Emperor had picked him for the assignment, since he knew less than nothing about police procedures and murder investigations. He'd spent more of his career on the other side.
From his earliest days Sten had hated cops—the socio-patrolmen on his home world of Vulcan through the various types he'd encountered in Mantis to the military policemen who attempted to keep control on the Intoxication and Intercourse worlds.
"Captain, uh, Sten?"
Two could do that. "Uh, Lieutenant… what was your last name again?"
"Haines."
"Haines."
"I assume you'd like to see the report," Lisa said, and, without waiting for an answer, shoved the plate-projector at him.
Sten tried to pretend that he knew what the various forms and scrawled entries meant, then gave up. "I'd appreciate a briefing."
"No doubt."
Tacunit 7-Y reported an explosion, arrived at scene at 2047, Tacunit commander reported ratcheta-ratcheta, response ratcheta ratcheta, ambulance, no suspects, description, blur.
Sten looked at where the Convenanter had been. The entire baseplate the bar had stood on was enclosed in what appeared to be an enormous airbag. On one side, next to the catwalk, was an airlock.
"Step one," Haines explained, "in any homicide is to seal the scene. We put that bubble around the area, pump all oxygen out, and replace the atmosphere with a neutral gas, if you're interested in details."
"I am interested in details, Lieutenant." Sten began once more with the report. On second reading, it was no more (or less) confusing than any military afteraction report. Sten reread it a third time.
"Would you like a guided tour, Captain? It's messy, by the way."
"If I start to get sick, I'll let you know."
The bubble suits looked a little like close-fitting shallow-water diving dress, except that the lower chest area had a large, external evidence bag and the upper chest area bulged, making the wearer look somewhat like a pouter pigeon. Inside the bulge was a small alloy table where an investigator could put notes, records, etcetera. The suit also had a backpack with air supply and battery plate.
Sten thumbed his suit closed and followed Haines through the airlock into the ruins of the Covenanter. Of course it wasn't the first time Sten had examined a bomb site, but it was the first time he wasn't busy running away from it or expecting another one momentarily. He'd learned, years ago, not to consider that gray, pink, or yellow dangling ropes, snaillike particles, and bas-relief facial bones had once been human. Sten oriented himself. There… there was the door. That low parapet would have been the bar. Along… there… would have been the booths.
Two other cops were inside the bubble, laboriously scraping fire-foam from the floor and walls.
"You're right," Sten said conciliatorily. "A mess."
"Two of them," Haines said bitterly.
"Ah?"
"Captain, I'll—" Haines caught herself, shut off her radio, clicked Sten's off, and touched faceplates. "This is for your information only. This crime scene is so mucked up that we'll be very lucky if we ever get anything on the case."
"You know, Lieutenant," Sten said thoughtfully, "if you'd said that with an open mike I'd have figured you were setting up an alibi. So GA. I'm not sure I track you."
Haines thought that maybe the liaison type wouldn't be quite the pain in the sitter she'd expected. "SOP, Captain, is very explicit. Whatever officer comes on a homicide scene, he is to first take appropriate action—looking for the killer, requesting med, whatever.
"Second, is to notify homicide. At that point, we take charge.
"But that isn't what happened." She waved her arm helplessly.
"That tac unit responded just before 2100 last night. Homicide was not notified for ten hours!"
"Why not?"
"Hell if I know," Lisa said. "But I could guess."
"GA."
"Our tactical squads think they're the best. The Imperial Guards. I guess, since they were first on the scene they wanted it to be their case."
Sten thought back through the report. "Is tac presence normal in this area?"
"Not especially. Not unless there's some kind of disorder, or maybe for security on some classified shipment. Or if the area's high-crime."
"And?"
"The tac sergeant said his squad had been pounding these catwalks for three weeks, and nothing had happened."
Odd. Sten wondered: Since the last two weeks had been the pandemonium before Empire Day, it did seem as if the tac unit was misassigned. However, in Sten's experience cops had always found a way to stay away from where they could get hurt. But the tac squad's assignment could be something to ask about.
"Look at this," Haines continued. "No fire, but the tac sergeant opened up the extinguishers. He and his people went in. Three bodies. Dead dead. And so he and his people spend the next ten hours galumphing around trying to play detective. For instance…"
Lisa pointed down at the flooring. "That size-fourteen hoof is not a clue—it's some tac corporal's brogan right in the middle of that bloodstain."
Sten decided that he still didn't like cops that much and cut her off. "Okay, Lieutenant. We've all got problems. What do you have so far?"
Haines started a court singsong: "We have evidence of a bomb, prior planted. No clue as to detonation method, or explosive. The bomb specialists have not arrived as yet."
"You can hold on them," Sten said dryly. "Maybe I know a little about that."
He'd already spotted the blast striations on what remained of the ceiling. Sten lifted an alloy ladder over to the center of the striations. Sten may have been ignorant of police SOP, but he knew a great deal about things that went boom.
"Lieutenant," Sten said, turning his radio back on, "you want to put a recorder on?"
Haines shrugged—now the Imperial hand-sitter was going to play expert, so let him make an ass of himself. She followed orders.
"The bomb was mounted in the ceiling light fixture. We've got… looks like some bits of circuitry here… the explosive was high-grade, and shaped. The blast went out to the sides, very little damage done to the overhead.
"Your bomb people should be able to figure out whether the bomb was set off on a timer or command-det. But I'd guess it was set off by command."
"We have a team checking the area."
Sten got down off the ladder and reexamined the striations. They occupied almost a full 360 degrees. But not quite. Sten hummed to himself and ran an eyeball azimuth from that area toward the wall.
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Sten went toward the airlock and exited. Outside, he stripped off his suit and walked well away from the bustling techs around the bubble.
Haines removed her suit and joined him. "Are you through playing detective, Captain?"
"I'll explain, Lieutenant Haines. I got stuck with this drakh job an
d I don't know what the hell I'm doing. That sends me into orbit, Lieutenant. Now what lit your stupid fuse?"
Haines glowered at him. "Item: I'm in the same mess you're in. I'm a cop. A very good cop. So I come down here and see what I've got to work with.
"And then I get some—some—"
"Clot?" Sten offered, half smiling. He was starting to like the woman.
"Thank you. Clot, who comes down here, says one thing, and then is going to go back to the palace and get his medal. Let me tell you, Captain, I do not need any of this!"
"You through?"
"For the moment."
"Fine. Let's get some lunch, then, and I'll bring you up to speed."
The restaurant sat very close to Landing Area 17AFO. Except for clear blast shields between the field and the patio area, it was open-air. The place was about half-full of longshoremen, docking clerks, and ship crew. The combination of one man in Imperial livery and one woman who was obviously the heat guaranteed Sten and Haines privacy.
Dining was cafeteria-style. The two took plates of food, paid, and went to the far edge of the dining area. Both of them saw the other reflexively checking for parabolic mike locations, and, for the first time, smiled.
"Before you get started, Captain," Haines said through a mouthful of kimchi and pork, "do you want to talk about that booth?"
Sten chewed, nodded, and pretended innocence.
"Thank you. I'd already spotted that the bomb was directional. Actually, semidirectional. It was intended to garbage the whole joint—except for one booth."
"Good call, Lieutenant."
"First question—the one booth that wasn't destroyed was rigged with every antibugging device I've ever heard of. Is there any explanation, from let us say 'top-level' sources? What was a security setup like that doing in a sleazo bar?"
Sten told her, omitting only Craigwel's identity and position as the Emperor's personal troubleshooter. He also didn't feel that the lieutenant needed to know that Alain was planning a meeting with the Emperor himself. Any meeting with any Imperial official was enough for her to work on, he felt. Sten finished, and changed the subject, eyeing a forkful of kimchi cautiously. "By the way—what is this, anyway?"