by Chris Bunch
Sten held out his hands. Indeed, he was standing, obviously unarmed, against the far wall. The guard eyed him through the freshly drilled peephole, then unbolted and opened the door. He was three steps inside, his backups flanking him, when the two-meters-high image of the gurion rose from the holoprocessor and walked toward the guards.
The reaction was instant—the guards' guns came up, blasting reflexively and tearing hell out of the ceiling.
Sten's reaction was equally fast: He flat-rolled, hit, half rose over the self-destructing holoprocessor, his knife lanced before him, and then buried it in the chest of the lead guard.
Sten used the inertia of the guard to stop himself, and the knife came out, splashing blood across the room, through the rapidly fading gurion. And Sten was pivoting, his left, knuckled hand smashing sideways, well inside the second guard's rifle reach, into the man's temple, while his right arm launched the knife into—and through—guard number three. Cartilage and bone cracked and broke in guard number two, and Sten recovered into attack position before any of the three corpses slumped to the floor.
Wasting no time in self-congratulation, Sten catted down the corridor, heading for the palace's catacombs.
Kilgour, too, was trying moves.
"Clottin' Romans," he bellowed down the corridor, "y'r mither did it wi' sheep. Wi' goats! Wi' dogs! Clottin' hell, wi' Campbells!" No response came from the guards outside the cell.
He stepped back from the window and looked apologetically at the 120 Gurkhas sharing the huge holding cell with him.
"Tha' dinnae ken."
Kilgour's plan, for want of a weaker word, was to somehow anger the guards so much they'd come into the cell to bust kneecaps. Alex hoped that, regardless of weapons, he and the 120 stocky brown men in the cell could somehow break out.
Havildar-Major Lalbahadur Thapa leaned against the wall beside him. "In Gurkhali," he offered helpfully, "you might try one pubic hair."
Alex laughed. "Now that's the stupidest insult Ah've heard in years."
"Stupider, Sergeant Major, than calling someone a Campbell—whatever that is?"
Without warning a section of seemingly solid stone in one wall slid open, and Sten was suddenly leaning nonchalantly against the far wall. "Sergeant-Major, I could hear your big mouth all the way down the corridor. Now if you'd knock off the slanging and follow me.
"The arms room," Sten continued, as the Gurkhas recovered from their astonishment and bustled into the low tunnel Sten had emerged from, "is three levels up and one corridor across."
"Ah'm thinkit Ah owe y' a pint," Alex managed, as he forced his bulk after the Gurkhas. Sten looked very knowing as he palmed the rock wall shut.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Years later, Sten and Alex would have a favorite pondering point. They could understand why the Emperor built Arundel. They could also understand why a man who believed in romance required a castle to have secret passages.
The problem was the why for some of those passages. Both men thought it very logical that a backstairs went from the Imperial chambers to feed into the various bedchambers. Sten could even understand why the Emperor wanted a tunnel that provided secret egress from cells in the dungeon far below.
They were never able to explain to everyone's satisfaction why a few of the tunnels opened into a main passageway.
Some of the former Praetorians involved in the revolt might have wondered, too, if they had survived. Most did not.
A Praetorian paced down a seemingly doorless corridor then a panel swung noiselessly open and a small grinning man swung a large knife that looked to be a cross between a machete and a small cutlass.
There were only a little over a thousand Praetorians, facing 120 wall-slinking Gurkhas. The battle was completely one-sided.
The reoccupation of the palace went quickly, silently, and very, very bloodily, as Sten deployed his troops in a slow circle, closing on the Imperial chambers, the communication center, and that one room with the com-link to the Emperor.
The armored door to the com center was sealed, which offered no potential problem to the Gurkha squad deployed around it. The lance-naik already had his bunker-buster loaded and the rocket aimed at the door's hinges when Sten kicked him aside. "Yak-pubes," he snarled in Gurkhali, "do you know what would happen if you discharged that rocket in this passageway?"
The lance-naik didn't seem worried. Kilgour was already slapping together a shaped charge from the demo-pack he'd secured from the armory.
"Best w' be all hangin't on th' sides ae the corridor," he muttered, and yanked the detonator. Sten had barely time to follow the suggestion before the charge blew the door in. The Gurkhas, kukris ready, leaped in the wreckage but could find nothing to savage. The Praetorians inside had been reduced to a thin paste plastered across the room's far wall. Kukri in hand, Sten ran past them, leapt, and his foot snapped into the thin door leading to the com room itself. He recovered and rolled in, low, to find himself looking at a shambles of crushed circuitry, looped power cables, and spaghetti-strung wires.
And Kai Hakone, standing in an alcove away from the doorway, mini-willygun leveled at Sten.
"You're somewhat late, Captain." Hakone motioned with his free hand, eyes and gun never moving away from Sten.
"You have the palace, but we have the Emperor. The com-link is destroyed. Before it can be rebuilt…" and Hakone gestured theatrically. His eyes flickered away as he scanned for Sten's accomplices—enough time for Sten to grab the end of a severed power cable and throw it into Hakone's face.
Hakone fried, and in his convulsions the willygun went off, its projectile whining away harmlessly as his flesh blackened then sizzled before the circuit-breakers popped and the body collapsed, leaving Sten in the ruins of the com room.
" 'Twould appear th' only hope our Emp hae is us bairns doin't o'er th' hills't' far away."
Sten nodded agreement, and then he and Alex were moving, headed for the palace's command center.
Chapter Forty-Nine
"… and lastly, the Aggrieved Party solemnly petitions His Imperial Majesty to publicly display his historic sense of justice, and deep feelings for individual tragedy, by recognizing the heroic and tragic death of Godfrey Alain. Alain was a man respected by…"
Admiral Ledoh droned on and on, reviewing once again the demands of the Tahn. His audience consisted of two very bored men: the Eternal Emperor and Tanz Sullamora. Sullamora was fighting to stay awake, and doing his best to remain attentive. He kept watching the Emperor for a signal of his feelings. It was an impossible task. The Eternal Emperor's face was a complete stone.
"… and, by an agreed time, the Emperor will read, or have read, an agreed-upon message to his subjects, whose basic points should consist of—"
"Enough," the Emperor said. "Clotting enough. I got their point. Now, the question is, what is our response?"
Admiral Ledoh raised an eyebrow. "I was about to suggest that if we agree that we are completely familiar with their demands, we should have them analyzed by the diplomatic computer."
The Emperor laughed. "Relax, Ledoh. You're starting to sound like the damned Tahn." He picked up a pot of tea and refilled three cups. "As for the diplomatic computer, forget it. I can run it down faster and more accurately. I've been doing this kind of thing for more centuries than I've got stars."
Sullamora nodded. "I was waiting for you to say just that, sir. And I hope that you don't think me immodest to point out that I have had many years of experience with these people."
"That's why I brought you along. They trust you about as much as they can trust any non-Tahn."
Sullamora smiled. "It isn't trust, sir. On their part it is pure greed. After all, I am the only person you have sanctioned to trade with them."
"That's why you're my ace in the hole," the Emperor said. "Because you are gonna be my well-baited hook."
Sullamora hadn't the faintest idea what the Emperor meant, but he recognized praise when he heard it, and smiled back grac
iously.
"Now," the Emperor said, "let's translate some of this into plain talk. They have five basic demands, and I believe all of them are negotiable.
"Starting with number one: They want my Imperial contract to administer the Fringe Worlds. Translation: They want a gift of all those systems."
"You'll say no, of course, sir," Sullamora puffed.
"Sort of, but not quite."
Sullamora started to protest, but the Emperor held up a hand. The Emperor barely noticed that Ledoh had been strangely noncommittal.
"Let me boil the rest down, and then I'll tell you how we probably ought to play it.
"Second demand: Open immigration. My objection: They can pack the system with their own people. That's a double giveaway.
"Third: unconditional amnesty for Godfrey Alain's people. No problem. Granted. I can always round up the real hard-core types later, on the quiet.
"Fourth—and here's another sticking point—They want to set up a free port in the Fringe Worlds."
"That has a lot of commercial possibilities," Sullamora said.
"Sure. But it also means I'm supposed to increase their AM2 quota. Which means they can stockpile even more and give me much bloody grief down the line.
"Last of all, they want me to publicly apologize for Godfrey Alain's death."
Ledoh raised his head and gave the Emperor a thin smile. "You never apologize, do you, sir?" he said bitterly. No one noticed his tone.
"Clotting right. Once I start apologizing I might as well start looking around for someone to take my place.
"Last time I admitted I was wrong, it cost me half my treasury."
"A firm no, sir," Sullamora advised. "Frankly, I don't see a single point we can give on. My vote is to send them packing."
"On the surface, I would agree with you, Tanz. But let me run back what I propose. Then see what you think."
Sullamora was suddenly very interested. He could sniff a profit.
"To start with, I flip their last point to my first."
"You mean the apology?" Sullamora was aghast.
"Sure. Except I do it this way. I propose that we build a memorial to Godfrey Alain. To commemorate his death and the many deaths on both sides of this whole mess.
"Instead of an apology, I put it to them that all peace-loving peoples are responsible for this ongoing tragedy.
"For frosting on the cake, I fund the whole clotting shebang. I build a memorial city on the Tahn capital world. A sort of Imperial trade center."
Sullamora grinned wolfishly.
"In other words, you get to put a garrison on their home planet."
The Eternal Emperor laughed loudly. "Good man! Not only that, but I guaran-clotting-tee you that every man and woman will be from my elite troops."
"Excellent! And if I know my Tahn, they'll swallow the whole thing," Sullamora said.
"Next: Instead of letting them administer the Fringe Worlds, I propose a peacekeeping force. Manned fifty-fifty."
Sullamora shook his head.
"Not so fast, Tanz. I let them appoint the commander."
Sullamora considered. "But that would be the same as handing it over to them."
"It would appear that way. Except, since I provide the ships, and those ships would be commanded by my people, their top guy would be helpless when it came to any action.
"And to copper my bet, I double the basic pay of my troops."
Sullamora especially liked this. "Meaning, compared to the Tahn, they'd be relatively rich. Also meaning, you'd be undermining the morale of the common Tahn soldiers."
He made a mental note to try this tactic in some of the more difficult trading posts under his corporate command.
The Eternal Emperor continued. "Open immigration, fine.
"Now, for the free port concept. I'll agree. With the proviso that I get to appoint the man in charge."
"They'd have to go for that," Sullamora said. "After you let them pick the chief of the peacekeeping force. But who would you propose?"
"You," the Emperor said.
That rocked Sullamora back. The profits he had been sniffing were soaring to the sky.
"Why me?"
"You understand them, but your loyalties are to me. Therefore, I keep complete control of the AM2 supply. Through you, of course."
"Of course." Sullamora knew better than to cook his books as far as energy supplies were concerned.
"Finally," the Emperor said, "I have a magnanimous proposal. It'll really sound that way when the diplomatic fools get through flowering it up.
"The Tahn's main problem, besides being plain fascist clots, is they're under heavy population pressure. That's why we're knocking heads in the Fringe Worlds."
Sullamora nodded.
"Therefore, to take the pressure off, I agree to fund an exploration force. I will bankroll the entire thing and provide the ships and crews."
Even the silent chamberlain came forward for that one. "But what advantage—"
"The ships will be ordered to explore away from the Fringe Worlds. If we find anything…"
If there was to be any further expansion, the Tahn would be moving the other way. With luck, that pioneer rush to other systems would bleed some of the tension out of their military culture.
"Well?" The Eternal Emperor leaned back in his seat, looking for comments from his two key men.
"It seems fine to me," the chamberlain said quickly.
Sullamora, however, thought for a very long time. Then he slowly nodded. "It should work."
"I sure as clot hope so," the Eternal Emperor said "Because if it doesn't—"
The light next to the hatchway blinked on-off-on.
Ledoh frowned annoyance and touched the annunciator key.
"Communication officer, sir."
"This conference was not to be—"
"Admiral," the Emperor interrupted. "This may be what I'm expecting."
Ledoh palmed the door to open.
The watch comofficer didn't know whether to salute or bow to the Emperor, so he compromised ridiculously.
The Emperor didn't notice—he was hoping that the signal was from Sten, announcing that he had the conspirators nailed, on toast, and ready for delivery to the Tahn.
"Uh… sir," the officer said, finding it easier to deliver his message to Admiral Ledoh. "This signal isn't from the source we expected. It's a distress signal. Standard sweep-band broadcast. Our satellite just happened to pick it up."
"Clot," Ledoh swore, and took the printout. "We didn't need this. No response."
"Hang on. Let me look at it." Ledoh passed the sheet to the Emperor. According to the burst-broadcast signal, the merchant ship Montebello was in a desperate situation, number of light-years, estimated, off the radio pulsar NG 467H. Fuel explosion on-board ship, all officers injured, most crewmembers severely burned, request immediate assistance from any receiving ship.
"Jerks!" the Emperor said. "Cheapjack shippers, trying some kind of econo slingshot orbit, and they're not capable of finding their way out of a closet with a torch."
"Your Highness," Sullamora said. "Admiral Ledoh is correct. There are far more important things happening than a few dozen burnt spacebums."
The Emperor would probably have made the same decision. But, characteristically, Sullamora put it wrong, and the Emperor flashed back more than a thousand years to when he himself hadn't been much more than a space-bum.
"Lieutenant," he said to the com officer. "Transfer this message to the ComDesRon. Order him to dispatch one destroyer immediately."
The officer only saluted this time, then scurried out of the Imperial presence.
The Emperor turned back to business. "Now, Admiral, would you please put all of our common-sense into the appropriate diplomatic drakh, so Lord Kirghiz won't think that we've gone insane?"
Chapter Fifty
"Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. I have the con."
The hell I do, Commander Lavonne considered as his deck officer saluted and ste
pped back. That lousy game machine we're using to keep us off the BUCs is telling me what to do.
He rechecked the computer-prob screen that was giving him his course. "Nav-point zeroed?"
"Zeroed, sir," his executive officer said.
"From zero… course left thirty-five degrees, down fourteen degrees."
"Course left thirty-five, down fourteen."
"Secondary drive… quarter-speed."
"Secondary drive at quarter-speed."
Lavonne mentally crossed his fingers and hoped the next few seconds didn't produce anything unusual, such as an intersection orbit with another destroyer. "Engage drive."
"Drive engaged." The Imperial Destroyer San Jacinto hummed slightly as the ship's gyro clutched in, turning the ship into the correct direction, and Yukawa drive shoved the San Jacinto away from the thronged fleet.
Lavonne let thirty seconds elapse. "Increase secondary drive to half-speed."
"Secondary drive at half-speed," came the toneless echo from his quartermaster.
"Mr. Collins… from the count… now! Five minutes to main drive."
"Five minutes until main drive, Captain, and counting."
Five minutes gave the skipper of the San Jacinto brooding time. He considered slumping into his command chair, then brought himself up. We are all getting a little sloppy out here, he reminded himself. He then concentrated on his brooding.
Under normal circumstances Commander Lavonne would have been biting handrails in half when he'd gotten his assignment. He had spent entirely too many years pulling tramp steamers' tubes out of cracks to enjoy another rescue. As far as he was concerned all merchant fleets should be under military control. Lavonne was not at all a fascist—he'd just seen too many freighters permitted to offplanet with out-of-date or nonexistent safety sections, red-lined emergency gear, and officers who weren't competent to command a gravsled.
But the new assignment would give the commander and the men and women of the San Jacinto something to do.
Basically Commander Lavonne was ticked. Originally he and his ship had been pulled from their DesRon and ordered to rendezvous and escort a liner to its destination.