Читать книгу Vortex (Sten #7) - Allan Cole - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

STEN STEPPED ONTO the security grid. At the Internal Security officer’s signal he offered his palm to the identification beam. The grid hummed into life, and Sten was bathed in a glow of colors. Somewhere in the bowels of Arundel a whole host of facts was collected: Sten was being analyzed by the most sophisticated snooping equipment in the Empire.

The first level was ID. As soon as Sten’s palm print was checked and rechecked, his bio was being scanned for any potential animosity to the Emperor. That information was checked a third time against the latest Mercury Corps records, up to date within the past twenty-four hours.

The second was organic. His system was analyzed for any possible bacterial or viral threat to Sten’s boss. It had been possible for a long time to build a living germ warfare bomb.

The final level was for weapons, from the obvious hide-out gun or blade, to the not so obvious surgically implanted explosive. Or, in Sten’s case, the knife in his arm. He knew that when the scanners caught it, his authorization for bearing such a weapon in the Emperor’s presence would override any alarm.

Sten got the okay, stepped off the grid, and headed along the corridor for the Emperor’s quarters. He was feeling edgy about the upcoming conference with his boss. It had been a long time since the two of them had had a face-to-face. Something extra-important must be up.

But that wasn’t what was bothering him. It was the supertight security that made him nervous — an odd thought from the man who had once headed up the Emperor’s personal bodyguard. Then he had fretted at any lapse, worried at the Emperor’s tendency to plunge off into crowds, or sneak away for a private adventure.

Sten didn’t blame the Eternal Emperor for clamping down hard after what had happened. But now that he had gained a great deal of experience as a public man himself, Sten also knew it was dangerous for any being in authority to adopt a bunker mentality. The tighter the screen, the harder the job of the villain, admittedly. But it also could make it tough for the guys in the white hats.

And as for the Internal Security beings he had seen so far, Sten had picked up a bit of a skin crawl. Why, he couldn’t say. The closer he got to the Emperor’s presence, the more the IS personnel bothered him. They were all so . . . vaguely familiar.

When he saw the tall, fair young man at the door, Sten got it. The man was a twin of the Emperor — as were all the men he had seen since he had entered the Emperor’s private apartments. The main physical difference was that they were taller.

He grudgingly admitted that this arrangement made good sense. Individually, the IS guards resembled the Emperor enough to draw any assassin’s fire. And in a group around him, they were a living shield.

The IS officer clicked his boot heels together as Sten approached. “You are expected, Ambassador Sten,” he said in soothing tones that were in odd contrast to his stone face.

Suspicious eyes measured Sten. Compared. Sten was a little hurt to see the suspicion replaced with self-satisfaction. The clot thought he could take Sten with ease.

“You can go right in,” the IS officer said.

Sten’s muscles and reflexes tingled with memory, as he played his own measuring game. The man’s eyes narrowed. He knew what was going on.

Sten laughed. “Thanks,” was all he said.

The door whisked open and he entered. He saw the startled look on the man’s face as he realized his worth had been found sadly lacking. Sten could take him with ease. Sure, he was a little slower. Out of practice. But it would be no problem at all.

* * * *

The stregg hit the Black Velvet, thought about making trouble, and then was seduced by all that smoothness. Sten felt his belly warm to a cheery glow.

The Eternal Emperor beamed at him, then refilled the shot glasses with the fiery drink the Bhor had named after an ancient enemy. “As our old Irish friend Ian Mahoney says, ‘This one’s just to let the Good Lord know we’re serious.’” The Emperor downed another shot.

Sten followed his lead. If the boss wanted the meeting to be boozy, then Sten had little choice but to participate — with feeling. Besides, the Eternal Emperor had been right. As usual. Sten really had needed a drink.

“Now, let’s see about that dinner I promised you,” the Emperor said. “Until further notice, Ambassador, you are in charge of keeping the glasses full.”

He began bustling about that marvel of low-tech goodness married to high-tech speed he called his kitchen.

“A difficult duty, sir,” Sten said, “but I will do my very best.”

He laughed, refilled their glasses, and carried them to the counter. He took his usual position perched on one of the tall stools.

Sten sniffed the air appreciatively. It was a mixture of vaguely familiar smells but with a tantalizing mystery to them. The Eternal Emperor could give a master chef lessons. Even Marr and Senn, the greatest banqueters in the Empire, grudged this.

The Emperor favored re-creating the recipes of ancient Earth.

Though from the Emperor’s perspective, the recipes weren’t so ancient, Sten thought. He had ruled for three thousand years.

Sten sniffed the air again. “Asian?” he guessed. He was no mean cook himself. He had picked up the hobby — inspired by his boss, perhaps — whiling away long hours at dreary military posts where the food was even duller than the company.

“You’re only thinking that because it’s complex,” the Emperor said. “Although there are some influences, I guess. But the other way around. The Chinese were the best cooks. These folks, however, gave them a run for the money. Some people say they were even better. I go back and forth.”

He palmed a spot at the counter’s edge and a refrigerated shelf slid out, revealing an array of jars and pots of good stuff. He stacked them on the counter.

“The theme tonight is India,” the Eternal Emperor said. “Sort of goes along with the job I’ve got in mind for you.”

He smiled. Sten had seen his boss in friendly moods before, but never quite so downright jolly. Uh-oh. Another impossible task. Sten was only mildly bothered. The potential difficulty intrigued him. But he couldn’t fold up too easily.

“Not to be contrary, sir,” Sten said, sipping at his stregg, “but I was hoping for a little leave time.” He saw a flicker of irritation on his boss’s face. Good.

“Don’t push it,” the Eternal Emperor snapped. Sten was alarmed to see the irritation building to quick fury. “I’m sick and tired of negatives. Don’t you people get it? I’m holding this thing together with spit and baling wire and . . .” The Emperor’s voice trailed off.

Sten watched him bring the anger under control. It was a definite fight. The Emperor shook his head and gave Sten a sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” he said. “Pressures of the job and all. Sometimes it makes me forget who my old friends are. My real friends.” He toasted Sten and sipped his stregg.

“It was my fault, sir,” Sten said. His instincts told him it was important to take the blame. “The smell of all that good food got to the lazy side of me.”

The Emperor liked that. He gave a sharp, too-right nod, and went back to work — and the subject.

“My current pain in the ass,” the Emperor said, “resembles the place this food comes from. Within the borders of India there were more people of more different opinions than just about any place on Earth. It was one mass of hate groups who had been at each other’s throats so long they had forgotten about what pissed them off in the first place. I take that back. Actually, they remembered all too well.

“A Hindu or a Sikh could tell you to the day and the color of the sky what atrocity the other guy’s great great-grandfather had committed.”

He slid over a bowl filled with a greenish-looking mass. “It’s dhal,” the Emperor said. “A kind of a bean — or in this case, pea — dish. It’s deliberately bland. To give balance to the rest. Clear the palate every bite or so. I made it up yesterday. All we have to do is reheat.”

“About this problem child,” Sten prodded.

“Right.” The Emperor took a hit off his stregg. “I could have used another example besides India. But their food was mostly potatoes — and pig when they could get it. They made a helluva sausage, though. Dipped in flour and fried. But I didn’t feel like sausage.”

Sten sniffed the ingredients the Emperor was assembling into some kind of order. “India will do just fine, sir,” he said.

“The place I’m sending you is the Altaic Cluster,” the Emperor said.

Sten frowned. He was only slightly familiar with the cluster. “The Jochians, among others, right? But, I thought they were among the best allies we have on board.”

“They are,” the Emperor said firmly. “And I want them to stay that way. Trouble is, the Khaqan — which is what the fellow who runs the joint calls himself — is up to his ass in alligators.”

The Emperor held up a mound of cubed meat. About two pounds worth, Sten noted. “This is goat,” the Emperor said. “I had a field constructed for him and his brothers and sisters. Had the field planted with the same stuff his ancestors ate in India — mint, wild onion, you name it.” He plunked the mass into an ovenproof casserole.

“The Khaqan is getting old and a little past it,” the Emperor went on in his typical veer back and forth between subjects. Except that over the years Sten had noted there really was no veer at all: Each topic always had something to do with the other. Just as the meals he cooked always related to the main issue at hand.

“Anyway,” the Emperor continued, “the trouble is mostly his fault . . . Still, I can’t afford to lose him.”

Sten nodded agreement. Whoever this Khaqan was, the Altaic Cluster was an important ally. Worse: It was damned close to Prime.

“What’s threatening him, sir?”

“Just about everything and everybody,” the Emperor said.

He started shaking out spices over the goat. “A little ginger,” he said, shifting to the recipe again. “Ground cloves, cardamom, chili, cumin . . . heavier than the others . . . couple of squeezes of garlic, and ye olde salt and pepper.”

The Emperor dumped in some yogurt and lemon juice, and stirred up the whole mess, then set it to the side. He started frying onions in peanut oil.

“There are three separate species in the Altaics,” he said. “Split four ways. And all of them are sons of bitches. First, there’s the Jochians. Human. The majority race. The Khaqan is a Jochian, natch.”

“Right,” Sten said. That was the way things usually worked under one-being rule. Present company excepted. There were far fewer humans than other species in the Empire.

“Their top world is Jochi, which is where the Khaqan hangs his head. It’s the center of the cluster. Anyway . . . to the other villains in this piece . . .”

He dumped half the fried onions on the meat and mixed it up. He pulled the rice off the range. The water had been boiling for about five minutes. He drained the rice, stirred it up with the onions, and spread it out over the goat.

“A little butter drizzled on the top,” the Emperor said, “and . . . voila! I call this Bombay Birani, but basically it’s an old goat stew.” He slammed on a tight-fitting lid, popped the casserole into the oven, and set it for bake.

“Now, I’m going to cheat,” the Emperor said. “The way this is supposed to go is, you set it at 380 degrees. Bake one hour. Then cut it to 325 and go for an hour more.”

Sten tucked those figures away, along with the rest of the recipe.

“But Marr and Senn, bless their souls, have come up with a new oven. Cuts real time half or more. And I can’t tell the difference.”

“About those other villains, sir?”

“Oh, right. Okay, we’ve got the Jochians. Human, as I said. Besides being the majority race, they’ve got one of my old trading charters. I gave it to them maybe five hundred years ago. It was a wild and wooly frontier area then.

“Which brings me to the Tork. Human, as well. Old boom-town types.” Sten didn’t know exactly what the Emperor meant, but he got the drift.

“The Torks hit the cluster earlier when Imperium X was discovered in the region,” the Emperor went on. “Miners. Ship jumpers. Storekeeps. Joyboys and joygirls. That sort. Except, when the Imperium X played out, they stayed on instead of drifting to the next glory hole.”

Imperium X was the only element that could shield the Anti-Matter Two particle. AM2 was the fuel that had built the Empire. And it was under the rigid control of the Eternal Emperor. So much so, that when the privy council had assassinated him, all AM2 supplies had automatically stopped. For six years the privy council had searched fruitlessly for its source. In the meantime, the Empire had plunged toward ruin — a state Sten was currently engaged in helping to turn around. Although sometimes he wasn’t sure he would see it happen in his lifetime.

“Of course, the Torks objected when the Jochians showed up. These merchant adventurers smacked some heads together, showed them my charter — and that was that.

“Time passed, and the Jochians fell apart a little. Turned into not much more than separate worlds — city-states. The current Khaqan’s father pulled things back together a couple three hundred years ago.”

Sten made no comment. It was frontier justice. He had used a little of those old ways to bring the privy council to bay.

“What about the other two species? Natives of the cluster, I assume?” he asked.

“Correct. They break down into the Suzdal and the Bogazi. Don’t know much about them. They probably have the same touchy points as any other beings. Apparently when the Torks arrived, they were just climbing off their own home worlds and had discovered one another.

“They had pitiful spaceships. But they were doing a good job of knocking each other off when the Torks came along. Didn’t have to do too much ass kicking. Star drive has a way of putting any backward being in awe.”

Sten could imagine the shock. Here you had just managed to struggle up the tech ladder from stone to space. You look around at the waiting stars, feeling pretty good about yourself. You’re standing at the top of your history, right? No one who has ever gone before has accomplished as much.

Then, wham! Aliens — in this case, human — show up with all their fancy gadgets, plus weapons, all of which can blow you back to flaking stone chips. Plus, marvel of all marvels, they can jump from one star to the next, from system to system. Even cruise the galaxies with ease. AM2 drive. The greatest achievement in history.

For the first time, Sten imagined what it must have been like when the Emperor arrived on scene so many centuries before with AM2 under his arm. It would have rocked any civilization that existed, put them on their knees begging to see the light.

The Eternal Emperor was musing over some half-remembered ingredient. “Cilantro,” he said. “That’s the ticket.” He crumbled some leaves into a dish of chopped up cucumber and yogurt.

Yes, Sten thought. AM2 plus the secret to eternal life . . . It must have really been something.

* * * *

It was an incredible dinner. Unforgettable. As usual.

There were mounds of food all over the table. Dhal and cucumber cooler. Three kinds of chutney: green mango, Bengal, and hot lime. Real hot lime. Little dishes of extra hot sauces and tiny red peppers. And fresh griddled flat bread — chapattis, the Emperor called it. Plus the Bombay Birani. Fragrant steam rose from the casserole.

“Dig in,” the Emperor said. Sten dug.

For long minutes they just ate, savoring each bite and washing it down with what the Emperor swore was Thai beer.

When starvation was no longer threatening, the Emperor speared a hunk of goat with his fork and held it up to examine it.

“About my old buddy, the Khaqan,” he said. He popped the goat into his mouth and chewed. “He’s a tyrant of the first order. And I won’t deny it. Trouble with being a tyrant is you can never lose your moves. You can’t let the lid up a little to allow the steam to escape. If you do, your enemies take it as a sign of weakness. And you’ve got trouble.

“You also can’t get sloppy. Or senile. The Khaqan, I’m afraid, is getting sloppy. He may even be getting senile, for all I know. I do know he has every life-support system available close by. Constant blood and organ purging, hormone implants, that sort of thing. With luck, he can live long enough for me to take the time to figure out what happens next. Right now, I’m too busy.”

Sten nodded. He could only begin to imagine just how busy the Emperor was. Sten wasn’t privy to the big picture. But from his assignments — diplomatic brushfires all — and his circle of knowledgeable friends, he had a hazy idea.

The Empire had been crumbling when the Emperor returned. Whole regions had been without any AM2 for a long time. With the cheap power gone, industries collapsed. Rebellions erupted. Beings were forced to fend for themselves in all sorts of ways.

The Eternal Emperor had been scrambling ever since, plugging up leaks where he could. Abandoning some areas entirely. Pulling in his sphere and clamping on rigid economic and military controls. And there were many new faces among his allies. Beings with whom he had no past history. Questioning beings. Frightened beings who looked at their miserable populations and shored themselves up against constant conspiracies and coups.

“I’ve given the Khaqan a lot more AM2 than he deserves,” the Emperor said. “But he’s been squandering it. Putting it to building big monuments to himself, instead of using it to feed his people. They’re getting sick of it.

“I even warned him about his behavior. A year or so ago our ambassador to the Altaics rotated out. It was routine. What wasn’t routine is that I haven’t named a replacement yet.”

That was a fairly heavy duty gig against the Khaqan, Sten thought. “I’m surprised he didn’t wake up,” he said.

“So am I. Like I said, he’s old. Set in his ways. But if he goes under, all the doubting Thomases among my allies will get the jitters. Demand more AM2. Which would blow the clot out of the economy.”

Sten understood. All money was pegged to the value of the basic power unit of the Empire. Produce more, inflate the money. Produce less, and it deflates. Here there was a double whammy: since there was less power, fewer goods would show up at market. So all prices would shoot up, leading to more scarcity. Black markets. And finally, restive populations. The Emperor was walking a helluva tightwire.

“Who’s the Khaqan’s likely successor?” Sten asked.

The Emperor sighed. “No one. He has no living heirs. And he’s also a micromanager. Decides on every detail, from how much water there should be in the main palace pool to the rates the gravcabs can charge. He discourages any initiative. As a capitalist, the Khaqan is so-so. As a CEO, he stinks.”

The Emperor swilled more beer. “However, he’s getting pretty desperate, now. He’s been begging me for some sign of support. Show his people I’m in his camp. Along with the AM2, of course.”

“And you want me to be that support?” Sten said.

“Right. Put on a big show for him. You’re one of my top heroes. Medals. Honors. Victories. In the field of battle and the halls of diplomacy and all that hogwash. I’ll have my media people make a big deal of it. Not that you’ll need much of a buildup.”

He looked at Sten. But instead of smiling, he looked thoughtful. Sten decided he didn’t want to know what his boss was thinking.

The Emperor broke off and grinned. “Take anybody you want — your pals the Bhor, some crack troops, your usual crew of experts, whatever. Just make sure everybody sparkles. And to make this a real show-the-flag exercise, I want you to take my personal ship. The Victory.”

Now that brought a grin to Sten’s face.

The Emperor laughed when he saw it. “I thought you’d like that.”

The Victory was purportedly a dream ship. A new class battle-wagon/tacship carrier built to the Emperor’s specifications. Regal as all clot. To impress the natives, he said. Everything about it was ultraluxury, from private crew quarters to the Emperor’s personal suite.

“This is what I call a great job description,” Sten said, toasting his boss. “Now. If you want kisses and hugs for the Khaqan in public, what’s my attitude when we’re alone?”

“Chilly politeness,” the Emperor said. “Real reserved. Scary as you can make it. I want him to see my eyes in yours. Tell him I’ve promised to put in a new ambassador right away. However . . . I also want some progress on who his successor is going to be when he kicks. That way, I can start some private discussions with that fellow. See if we can’t make life a little more pleasant — and stable — in the Altaics when the old boy is gone.”

Sten nodded that he understood the drill. He also realized that the Emperor would be wanting his opinion on who that successor ought to be.

“One more thing,” the Emperor said. “Tell him I’m putting him on my personal invitation list. The short list. I’ll expect his visit in a year or so.”

“He’ll like that,” Sten said. “More propaganda for the home folks.”

“Yeah, he will,” the Eternal Emperor said. “But he’s not going to like what I have to say. In private.”

And he speared the last hunk of goat. He snipped it from the fork with sharp white teeth.

Sten didn’t feel sorry for the Khaqan a bit. He sounded — in Kilgour’s words — like a “right bastard.”