Читать книгу Vortex (Sten #7) - Allan Cole - Страница 15

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE AMBASSADOR AND the warrior lay entwined in bed asleep. Naked limbs had curled around each other until the two bodies resembled an ancient Chinese puzzle knot, of the erotic variety.

The ambassador’s groin was covered with the warrior’s barracks cap.

Through the thick insulated walls of the ambassador’s suite the distant sounds of a shift change could be heard. Somewhere in the bowels of the Victory a pump shuddered into life and began filtering the fluids in the hydroponic tanks.

The blond curls of the warrior stirred first. Long lashes fluttered open. The warrior peered into the face of the sleeping ambassador. The warrior’s eyes roamed downward to the barracks cap, then lit with mischief. Little teeth flashed in a crooked grin.

Cind carefully untied her portion of the knot. Sliding her lovely limbs out of Sten’s embrace, she knelt on the Eternal Emperor’s yawning bed. There was room for a whole division of lovers on its silky smoothness. But for what Cind had in mind, the vast playing field was a waste.

She gently lifted the cap away. Her slender fingers reached for their target. Blond head and soft lips dipped downward.

Sten was dreaming about Smallbridge. He had been roaming the snowfields that spread from the forest to his cabin by the lake. For some reason he had been dressed in battle harness — tight battle harness. Odder still, the harness was cinched over his naked flesh. It wasn’t uncomfortable or anything. Just odd.

Suddenly, he was inside his cabin, lying by a crackling fire. The harness was gone. But he was still naked — and something wonderful was going on. Then he realized he was asleep. And dreaming. Well, it wasn’t all a dream. Not the naked part. Or the wonderful goings on. Then the fire crackled louder.

“Ambassador, your presence is requested on the bridge!” The fire was talking.

“What?” This a murmur.

“Ambassador! Do you hear me?”

“Go away, fire. I’m busy.”

“Ambassador Sten. This is Admiral Mason. If you please, I need you on the bridge.”

The wonderfulness abruptly stopped. Sten opened his eyes, suddenly in a sour mood. His mood curdled more when he saw Cind’s rounded curves and disappointed face. Her lips formed the word “Sorry.” She shrugged.

Sten palmed the switch of the com unit on the built-in bedside stand. “Okay, Mason,” he said, doing his best not to snarl, with little success. “Be right there.”

Cind started laughing. Sten’s frown deepened. Clottin’ Mason.

“Give me the order,” Cind said, “and I’ll trot out a firing squad and have him shot.”

Sten finally saw the humor and joined her laughter. “Do I get to torture him first?” he snarled. “I know just where I want to start.” He clambered off the bed and started to get dressed.

“I’m off shift for another two hours,” Cind said. “So if you’re back before I have to shower . . .” She let the rest trail off suggestively.

“I’ll hurry,” Sten said.

* * * *

Two hours later, he checked the clock, thought wistfully of Cind, and turned back to Mason.

“Maybe we’re drowning our own sensors,” Sten suggested tentatively. “The Victory is pretty new. Not much time on the engines. Leaky baffles, perhaps?”

The scar on Mason’s face purpled. He had personally checked the scans on every flex nut and seam. No way would he allow some slipup to embarrass him in front of this son of a Xypaca. He would rather eat drakh for rations.

“I had it happen on my first tacship,” Sten lied smoothly, knowing what Mason was thinking. He wasn’t needling the man. After all, Mason was in charge. Sten just wanted the problem solved. “It was brand new and barely broken in when Mr. Kilgour and I got it.”

Sten indicated his heavyworld friend, whose technical knowledge had been commandeered by Mason’s com officer. The two were conferring, hands flying over the com center panel. Buzzwords thickened the air.

“The designer hadn’t factored the effect broken-in engines would have on the baffling,” Sten said. “Blew clot out of our reception. Transmissions, too.”

Mason’s scar returned to normal color. “Good thought,” he said. “I’ll check it.” He gave orders to his chief engineer, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of it first.

A few minutes later word came back. “That was no good,” Mason said. He was too professional to gloat. The admiral wanted the problem solved, too. “You were right about the leakage. But it’s minor. Not enough to foul things up.”

Sten nodded. He had only been hoping. He looked over at Kilgour and the com officer, wanting to ask how they were doing. But he kept his lips buttoned. Not his place.

“Anything to report?” Sten heard Mason ask his com officer.

The com officer and Kilgour exchanged looks. “He’d better tell you, sir,” the officer said.

“Ah wae puzzlin’t i’ it twere th’ bafflin’ myself, sir,” Kilgour said. “But thae’d on’y mess wi’ transmission. The talkin’. Nae the hearin’.”

“Except for some stray old radio echoes, sir,” the com officer told Mason, “there’s not one thing being broadcast on the whole planet. Jochi is silent, sir. Not even any livie feed. And you know how broad those bands are? I’ve tried every kind of transmission I could think of to rouse someone, sir. Sr. Kilgour threw in a few ideas of his own. I double-identified the Victory. I even pointed out that his majesty’s personal emissary was on board.” He gave Sten a worried nod. “Still no answer.”

“Anything from the other worlds in the system?” Mason asked. “Negative, sir. As silent as Jochi. But the funny thing is . . .” His voice faded. “Yes? Speak up, man.”

The com officer looked at Kilgour and licked his lips. Kilgour gave him a reassuring nod.

“It’s real spooky, if you don’t mind, sir. There are no broadcasts, as I said. But every scanner we’ve got going is just showing a flicker of life. As if everybody on Jochi was tuned in at the same time. Listening. But not talking.”

“Th’ silence hae a wee echo t’ it, sir,” Alex said. “Like a specter m’ ol’ gran conjured t’ frighten us bairns wi’.”

Mason gave Alex a withering look, then turned to his com officer. “Keep transmitting,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

The com officer keyed the mike. “This is His Imperial Majesty’s battleship Victory calling. All receiving stations are requested to respond.”

Keyed off. Waited. Got silence. Tried again. “This is His Imperial . . .” Mason motioned to Sten and strolled to a quiet comer of the bridge.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Mason said. “I’ve carpet bombed half a planet, and even out of the smoking ruins some poor bassid managed to get on the air. Spotty transmission, yes. Silence, never.”

“There’s only one way that I can think of to answer the question,” Sten said. “You mean, land anyway?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“But the Emperor wanted a big show. Honor guard. Me in dress whites, you in tux and tails, and the whole band playing to idolizing crowds as you and the Khaqan greeted one another.”

“I’ll arrange something later,” Sten said. “The Emperor is worried about this place. I’d rather forget the show and find out what’s happening.” He shook his head for effect. “Can’t imagine what he’d say if I came back and said, Sorry, sir. Mission abandoned. Seems the inhabitants of Jochi got the throat plague, or something.”

“I’ll land,” Mason said. “But I’m going to full alert. And clear for action.”

“I am in your capable hands, Admiral,” Sten said.

Mason snorted and went back to the com center. Sten slipped quietly off the bridge.

* * * *

“Some ghost, Kilgour,” Sten said. He wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled his collar up to protect his neck from the fierce Jochi sun.

“Mayhap’ th’ wee specter hae a bomb aboot him,” Alex said.

Sten took another look around the Rurik spaceport. Except for his party, there wasn’t a being in sight. No one living, anyway. He thought he saw a charred stump lying in the rubble about a large bomb crater. Or maybe it was just an optical trick of the heat and the lung-drowning humidity.

There were similar craters all over the spaceport, as well as the fire-blackened outlines of what must once have been a few parked tacships and a lot of combat cars.

There was a sudden howl of air, and a small whirlwind touched down, sucking up bits of rubble as it cut across the ground. In the odd behavior of cyclones, large and small, it ran around the edge of the immense crater in the center of the field. Another bomb hole. A big clottin’ bomb. The hole was where the control tower had once stood.

The twister lifted off and was gone.

“Now we know the answer to why no one was talking,” Sten said. “Everybody’s too scared. Didn’t want to be noticed.”

“But they’re all a listenin’, though,” Alex said.

Sten nodded. “They’re waiting to hear who wins.”

Heat lightning flashed. Then there was a heavy roll of thunder.

His Gurkkhas suddenly lifted their willyguns. Something — or someone — was coming. Sten could make out a small figure edging around the ruins of the control tower. Cind and her scouts? No. They had reconned off in the other direction.

“Still on’y one ae them,” Kilgour said. “Maybe it’s the band,” Sten said dryly.

Gradually the small figure got larger. Sten could make out a squat, barrel-chested human, sweating copiously in the heat. Picking distastefully at his sodden clothing, the man tromped steadily onward. In his left hand he was tiredly waving a kerchief-size white flag.

“Let him past,” Sten told the Gurkkhas.

They parted ranks, and the man lumbered gratefully to a halt in front of Sten. He took off a pair of antique spectacles. Blew on the lenses. Wiped with the flag. Put them back on. Looked at Sten with his oddly magnified brown eyes.

“I hope you’re Ambassador Sten,” he said. “And if you are, I’m real sorry about the lousy reception.”

He looked around at the bomb craters. “Ouch. I guess they really went at it.”

The man turned back. “You are Ambassador Sten, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

Sten waited.

“Oh. Forgive me. The heat’s getting to my old Tork head. I’m Menynder. About the only one you’ll find around here to speak for my people.”

He wiped a sweaty hand on damp clothing and with a grimace held out his hand.

Sten shook. Then he pointed around at the signs of destruction. “What happened?”

Menynder sighed. “I hate to be the one to break the news, but . . . the Khaqan is dead.”

Sten had to yank fast into his diplomatic bag of tricks to turn the gape that was growing onto his face into professional surprise.

“Clottin’ what?” Kilgour said. “An’ who kill’t ‘th’ ol’-”

“Natural causes,” Menynder assured them. He eased his collar away from his neck. “I was there myself. Saw the whole thing.

“It was a terrible experience. We were all just about to sit down to . . . dinner, and the Khaqan keeled over on the table. Dead. Just like that.” He snapped his lingers.

“There was an autopsy?” Sten asked coolly.

“Lord, did we have an autopsy,” Menynder said. “Nobody wanted to . . . I mean, under the circumstances, we thought it wise. Two teams worked on him. And we really pored over those reports. Just to make double clottin’ sure.” He fingered the collar again. “It was natural causes all right.”

“When is the funeral?” Sten asked. This had torn the whole thing. The Emperor would not be pleased.

“Uh . . . kind of hard to say. You see, we all agreed to agree until the final coroner’s report. Things sort of fell apart before we got to talking about a funeral.” Menynder indicated the bomb craters. “If you see what I mean.”

Sten did.

“I don’t want to point fingers,” Menynder said, “but the Jochians started it. Squabbling among themselves over who was to be the new Khaqan. The rest of us weren’t consulted. Although we told them plainly, before the shooting, that we had some ideas of our own.”

“Naturally,” Sten said.

“Anyway, when the Jochians ran out of hot words, they started fighting. We all hunkered down. Then a stray shell landed right in the middle of a Tork neighborhood. It was . . . pretty bad. My home world thought it best to send a militia.”

“Oh?” Sten said.

“Just to protect my people. Not to get into anything with the Jochians.”

“How did that work out?”

“Not well.” Menynder sighed. “I didn’t think it would. There have been some . . . ahem . . . sharp exchanges, if you know what I mean.”

Sten could see just fine.

“Of course, once our militia showed up, well the Bogazi and the Suzdal militias decided their folks needed protecting, too.”

“I figured that,” Sten said. It was getting worse and worse.

“Okay, you’ve got the picture. Now, I’ve got some real bad news for you,” Menynder said, checking his timepiece and looking nervously around the spaceport.

“Och, so thae’s th’ braw news, i’ it?” Kilgour growled, liking it even less than Sten, if that was possible.

“See, everyone’s been glued to the emergency bands, praying for the cavalry to show up. We all heard your broadcasts. Folks probably overloaded the Jane’s fiche, checking out the Victory.” He pointed at the sleek craft behind Sten that was the Emperor’s ship. “Personally, I already knew. Pride myself in keeping up at my old trade. But I had only vaguely heard of you.” He nodded at Sten.

Sten cursed under his breath, remembering the com officer saying he had tried everything.

“So . . . I’m the cavalry,” Sten said.

“You got it, Ambassador,” Menynder said. “I checked the Imperial Who’s Who. Pretty impressive. Hero soldier. Hero diplomat. The Eternal Emperor’s main man. At least, that’s how it’s playing on Jochi.”

Sten could imagine. This was not good. Definitely not how he had planned this miserable day.

“Everybody’s on the way now,” Menynder said. “I hustled like clot to beat them. And they’re going to want your ear. They’ll kick reptile snot out of each other trying to rip it off your corpse, if they have to.”

Menynder let this sink in a second before going on. “See, whoever has you, is top dog.” He winced. “Gotta watch myself. Some of my best friends are Suzdals.”

“I assume you had some sort of a plan,” Sten said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“I sure did,” Menynder said. “Although I might have trouble convincing you of my good intentions.”

“Ah. I see,” Sten said. “You were thinking we could go have a nice quiet word in some safe Tork neighborhood. Am I right?”

Menynder grinned. “What the clot? It was worth a try. If not, maybe you better get out of here. Fast.”

Sten ignored this. Thinking. He got a glimmer.

“How far to the embassy?” Neutral turf. No one would dare fire on or even near the Emperor’s embassy.

“Clear across town,” Menynder said. “You’d never make it.”

There was a grind and heavy clank of tracks. Sten jolted up to see an armored ground vehicle push its way through rubble. A small flag flew from a standard next to the tank’s chain guns. Sten didn’t have to ask. It was Jochian.

There was a cry from the other side of the field. Sten turned to see Cind running like the wind, her Bhor scouts right behind her. She was yelling some kind of warning and gesturing at a low building behind her.

Mortar dust suddenly sprayed out from the building. The entire front collapsed. Another track emerged under a rain of metal and brickwork. The track was also armored. It had chain guns and flew a flag — Jochian, as well.

Cind panted up to Sten. “And that’s not all,” she said, pointing at the track. “There’s more of them. Plus soldiers. And from the sound of things, a great big mob on its way.”

The tracks’ main gun turrets suddenly swung around. They had spotted each other. Simultaneously, their guns opened up, hurling spent uranium AP shells.

Admiral Mason’s voice crackled over the Victory’s outside speakers. “I suggest we leave, Ambassador,” he said.

Sten agreed. He turned to Menynder. “You better make yourself scarce,” he said. “Good luck.”

“We’re going to need a lot more than luck,” Menynder said.

And he puffed away for cover. Sten and his group sprinted to the ship and thundered up the ramp.

Behind them, first one track exploded, then the other. A mortar round slammed in. More tracks appeared. Guns blazing.

Braced against the gees exerted by the Victory’s fast takeoff, Sten watched the battle scene shrink away from him on the bridge’s main screen.

Some welcome, he thought. Now, how the clot was he going to unravel this muck-up?

* * * *

Sten huddled with Mason in the admiral’s cabin, trying to figure out what to do next. As they worried over several possibilities — ranging from poor to plain stupid — the reports kept flooding in. Jochi was no longer silent.

Sten’s eyes swept over a sheaf of transcriptions the com officer had handed to him. “They’ve gone mad,” he summarized. “Everybody’s calling everybody else all kinds of obscenities. Prodding the other guy to come out and fight like beings.” He read on, then gave a low whistle and lifted his eyes. “Which they are doing.” He tapped one report. “A Jochi militia caught some Torks in a building. They wouldn’t come out to be slaughtered. So the Jochians burned it around their ears.”

“Wonderful,” Mason said. “Plus we have so many riots going on that the algo computer has scorched its wires running progs on how fast this thing can spread.” He snorted. “So much for diplomacy. Proves my own private theories on the behavior of the average citizen. The only thing any of them understand is a good shot up alongside the head.”

“I don’t think that would work here,” Sten said dryly. “The Emperor wants their hearts and minds. Their scalps won’t do him a clottin’ bit of good.”

“Still . . .” Mason said.

“I know,” Sten said. “With these folks it’s damned tempting. Unfortunately, what’s happening right now was triggered by our arrival.”

“I’m not taking the blame for this,” Mason said, a little hotly.

Sten sighed. “No one’s asking you to, Admiral. It’s my ass the Emperor will want on toast. Although, if it gets much worse, he may not be satisfied with just mine.”

Mason opened his mouth to retort. Sten raised his hand, silencing him. He’d had a sudden thought. “My father used to tell me about this beast,” Sten said. “A mule, I think he called it. It was a sport. A mean and stubborn sport. Said the only way to get its attention was to hit it with a board, first.”

“I already suggested something along those lines,” Mason said.

“Yeah. I know. But for these beings, a hit on the head may be too subtle . . . Okay. Try this idea on for size . . .”

Mason leaned closer as Sten sketched in the broad outlines of his plan.

* * * *

The Jochi mob was pressing close on the Bogazi barricade, showering rocks, debris, and taunts on the small group of neighborhood defenders. The shops on either side of the broad main street of Rurik were blank eyes of shattered glass. Many of them were gouting flames.

Overhead, the midday sky was black with threatening storms. Heavy clouds jostled one another, triggering thick blue arcs of electrical fire.

A tall Jochian rushed the heap of furniture and scrap timber that made up the barricade. He hurled a grenade, turned, and ran for safety.

A burst of fire cut him down. At the same instant, the grenade went off. The explosion shrapneled through the Bogazi. There were screams of pain and anger.

A big female Bogazi hurtled through the gap cut by the grenade. Spurs jutting out from her forearms, she snagged two Jochians. She brought the big hammer beak down once. Twice. Skulls cracked like pollution-thinned eggshells.

She dropped the corpses on the ground and turned for another victim. A heavy bar swung against her throat. The Bogazi flopped beside the two corpses.

More Bogazi came pouring out. In a moment, the main street’s storm drains would be awash in blood.

There was a sudden banshee howl from overhead. A heavy wind blasted along the street, battering the crowd with dust and small debris. The mob stopped in midriot — and gaped upward.

The gleaming white body of the Victory swept down the boulevard toward them. Not high in the sky, but just below the roofs of the high-rise buildings that lined the street, a looming bulk never meant for the heart of a city.

Close to the barricades the howl grew louder, and the warship went into a hover on McLean Drive, close enough for the mob to get a good long look at the Imperial emblem on its sides.

This was the Imperial presence — mailed fist and looming overlord in one. “My God, would you look at that,” a Jochi chemical worker breathed. “Maybe now, justice we get,” a Bogazi said.

“Wait up! What’s he doing?” another awe-stricken Jochian said, absently tugging at a Bogazi’s sleeve.

The Victory settled still closer, until it was no more than twenty meters overhead. The crowd huddled under the dark cloud of its body. Engines stirred, then the ship slowly began to move forward, straight down the broad avenue.

The two sides of the conflict gaped after it for a moment or two. Then they turned to stare at one another. Makeshift weapons tumbled to the ground from hands and grasping limbs.

Above them, the black sky was suddenly bright blue. Sun painted lacy clouds a multitude of colors. The air was fresh and tasted of spring.

“We’ve been saved,” a Jochian said.

“I knew the Emperor wouldn’t abandon us,” said another.

Someone shouted from a rooftop: “The ship’s heading for the Imperial embassy.”

The spell broke and the mob, laughing and shouting in relief, rushed after the ship.

The Victory sailed slowly along just above the pavement. Below it, the street was suddenly jammed from side to side with a sea of beings. Bogazi and Jochians and Suzdal and Torks, all mingled together, joking and slapping one another on the back.

Thousands of other beings leaned from the windows of the tall buildings, cheering the Victory and its majestic flight.

All over Jochi — in fact, all over the entire cluster — beings stopped what they were doing and rushed to witness the arrival of the Emperor’s man.

By the time the ship reached the Imperial embassy, there were literally millions of beings surrounding its broad, gated grounds. And there were billions more watching on their livies.

All hostilities had ceased.

Inside the Victory, Sten quick-brushed his clothes. Cind ran her fingers through his hair, pushing strands into place.

Alex looked at a livie screen and the enormous crowd waiting outside. “You’re a bleedin’ Pied Piper, young Sten,” he said.

“Don’t say that,” Sten said. “He got paid off in rats. Or house apes, and I don’t know which is worse.”

A crew member tickled the port controls. The port swung open. Sten felt the fresh breeze on his face. He heard the thump of the ramp settling to the ground.

“Okay,” he said. “Now let the bastards come to me.” He stepped out into a torrent of cheers.

BOOK TWO

CAT’S CLAW